Page 4 of Wayside Courtships

  A STOP-OVER AT TYRE.

  I.

  Albert Lohr was studying the motion of the ropes and lamps, andlistening to the rumble of the wheels and the roar of the ferocious windagainst the pane of glass that his head touched. It was the midnighttrain from Marion rushing toward Warsaw like some savage thingunchained, creaking, shrieking, and clattering through the wild stormwhich possessed the whole Mississippi Valley.

  Albert lost sight of the lamps at last, and began to wonder what hisfuture would be. "First I must go through the university at Madison;then I'll study law, go into politics, and perhaps some time I may go toWashington."

  In imagination he saw that wonderful city. As a Western boy, Boston tohim was historic, New York was the great metropolis, but Washington wasthe great American city, and political greatness the only fame.

  The car was nearly empty: save here and there the wide-awake Westerndrummer, and a woman with four fretful children, the train was asdeserted as it was frightfully cold. The engine shrieked warningly atintervals, the train rumbled hollowly over short bridges and acrosspikes, swung round the hills, and plunged with wild warnings past littletowns hid in the snow, with only here and there a light shining dimly.

  One of the drummers now and then rose up from his cramped bed on theseats, and swore dreadfully at the railway company for not heating thecars. The woman with the children inquired for the tenth time, "Is thenext station Lodi?"

  "Yes, ma'am, it is," snarled the drummer, as he jerked viciously at thestrap on his valise; "and darned glad I am, too, I can tell yeh! I'll bestiff as a car-pin if I stay in this infernal ice chest another hour. Iwonder what the company think----"

  At Lodi several people got on, among them a fat man and his prettydaughter abnormally wide awake considering the time of night. She sawAlbert for the same reason that he saw her--they were both young andgood-looking.

  He began his musings again, modified by this girl's face. He had leftout the feminine element; obviously he must recapitulate. He'd studylaw, yes; but that would not prevent going to sociables and churchfairs. And at these fairs the chances were good for a meeting with agirl. Her father must be influential--country judge or districtattorney; this would open new avenues.

  He was roused by the sound of his own name.

  "Is Albert Lohr in this car?" shouted the brakeman, coming in, envelopedin a cloud of fine snow.

  "Yes, here!" shouted Albert.

  "Here's a telegram for you."

  Albert snatched the envelope with a sudden fear of disaster at home; butit was dated "Tyre":

  "Get off at Tyre. I'll be there. "Hartley."

  "Well, now, that's fun!" said Albert, looking at the brakeman. "When dowe reach there?"

  "About 2.20."

  "Well, by thunder! A pretty time o' night!"

  The brakeman grinned sympathetically. "Any answer?" he asked at length.

  "No; that is, none that 'u'd do the matter justice," Albert said,studying the telegram.

  "Hartley friend o' yours?"

  "Yes; know him?"

  "Yes; he boarded where I did in Warsaw."

  When he came back again, the brakeman said to Albert, in a hesitatingway:

  "Ain't going t' stop off long, I s'pose?"

  "May an' may not; depends on Hartley. Why?"

  "Well, I've got an aunt there that keeps boarders, and I kind o' like t'send her one when I can. If you should happen to stay a few days, go an'see her. She sets up first-class grub, an' it wouldn't kill anybody,anyhow, if you went up an' called."

  "Course not. If I stay long enough to make it pay I'll look her up sure.I ain't no Vanderbilt to stop at two-dollar-a-day hotels."

  The brakeman sat down opposite Albert, encouraged by his smile.

  "Y' see, my division ends at Warsaw, and I run back and forth here everyother day, but I don't get much chance to see them, and I ain't worth acuss f'r letter-writin'. Y'see, she's only aunt by marriage, but I likeher; an' I guess she's got about all she can stand up under, an' so Ilike t' help her a little when I can. The old man died owning nothingbut the house, an' that left the old lady t' rustle f'r her livin'.Dummed if she ain't sandy as old Sand. They're gitt'n' along purty----"

  The whistle blew for brakes, and, seizing his lantern, the brakemanslammed out on the platform.

  "Tough night for twisting brakes," suggested Albert, when he came inagain.

  "Yes--on the freight."

  "Good heavens! I should say so. They don't run freight such nights asthis?"

  "Don't they? Well, I guess they don't stop for a storm like this ifthey's any money to be made by sending her through. Many's the nightI've broke all night on top of the old wooden cars, when the wind cutlike a razor. Shear the hair off a cast-iron mule--_woo-o-o_! There'swhere you need grit, old man," he ended, dropping into familiar speech.

  "Yes; or need a job awful bad."

  The brakeman was struck with this idea. "There's where you're right. Afellow don't take that kind of a job for the fun of it. Not much! Hetakes it because he's got to. That's as sure's you're a foot high. Itell you, a feller's got t' rustle these days if he gits any kind of ajob----"

  "_Toot, too-o-o-o-t, toot!_"

  The station passed, the brakeman did not return, perhaps because hefound some other listener, perhaps because he was afraid of boring thispleasant young fellow. Albert shuddered with a sympathetic pain as hethought of the men on the tops of the icy cars, with hands straining atthe brake, and the wind cutting their faces like a sand-blast. His mindwent out to the thousands of freight trains shuttling to and fro acrossthe vast web of gleaming iron spread out on the mighty breast of theWestern plains. Oh, those tireless hands at the wheel and throttle!

  He looked at his watch; it was two o'clock; the next station was Tyre.As he began to get his things together, the brakeman came in.

  "Oh, I forgot to say that the old lady's name is Welsh--Mrs. RobertWelsh. Say I sent yeh, and it'll be all right."

  "Sure! I'll try her in the morning--that is, if I find out I'm going tostay."

  "Tyre! _Tyre!_" yelled the brakeman, as with clanging bell and whizz ofsteam the train slowed down and the wheels began to cry out in the snow.

  Albert got his things together, and pulled his cap firmly down on hishead.

  "Here goes!" he muttered.

  "Hold y'r breath!" shouted the brakeman. Albert swung himself to theplatform before the station--a platform of planks along which the snowwas streaming like water.

  "Good night!" called the brakeman.

  "_Good_ night!"

  "All-l abo-o-o-ard!" called the conductor somewhere in the storm; thebrakeman swung his lantern, and the train drew off into the blindingwhirl, and the lights were soon lost in the clouds of snow.

  No more desolate place could well be imagined. A level plain, apparentlybare of houses, swept by a ferocious wind; a dingy little den called astation--no other shelter in sight; no sign of life save the dull glareof two windows to the left, alternately lost and found in the storm.

  Albert's heart contracted with a sudden fear; the outlook was appalling.

  "Where's the town?" he yelled savagely at a dimly seen figure with alantern--a man evidently locking the station door, his only refuge.

  "Over there," was the surly reply.

  "How far?"

  "'Bout a mile."

  "A mile!"

  "That's what I said--a mile."

  "Well, I'll be blanked!"

  "Well, y'better be doing something besides standing here, 'r y' 'llfreeze t' death. I'd go over to the Arteeshun House an' go t' bed if Iwas in your fix."

  "Oh, y' would!"

  "I would."

  "Well, where _is_ the Artesian House?"

  "See them lights?"

  "I see them lights."

  "Well, they're it."

  "Oh, wouldn't your grammar make Old Grammati-cuss curl up, though!"

  "What say?" queried the man, bending his head toward Albert, his formbeing almos
t lost in the snow that streamed against them both.

  "I said I guessed I'd try it," grinned the youth invisibly.

  "Well, I would if I was in your fix. Keep right close after me; they'ssome ditches here, and the foot-bridges are none too wide."

  "The Artesian is owned by the railway, eh?"

  "Yup."

  "And you're the clerk?"

  "Yup; nice little scheme, ain't it?"

  "Well, it'll do," replied Albert.

  The man laughed without looking around.

  "Keep your longest cuss words till morning; you'll need 'em, take myword for it."

  In the little barroom, lighted by a vilely smelling kerosene lamp, theclerk, hitherto a shadow and a voice, came to light as a middle-aged manwith a sullen face slightly belied by a sly twinkle in his eyes.

  "This beats all the winters I ever _did_ see. It don't do nawthin' butblow, _blow_. Want to go to bed, I s'pose. Well, come along."

  He took up one of the absurd little lamps and tried to get more lightout of it.

  "Dummed if a white bean wouldn't be better."

  "Spit on it!" suggested Albert.

  "I'd throw the whole business out o' the window for a cent," growled theman.

  "Here's y'r cent," said the boy.

  "You're mighty frisky f'r a feller gitt'n' off'n a midnight train,"replied the man, tramping along a narrow hallway, and talking in a voiceloud enough to awaken every sleeper in the house.

  "Have t' be, or there'd be a pair of us."

  "You'll laugh out o' the other side o' y'r mouth when you saw away onone o' the bell-collar steaks this house puts up," ended the clerk ashe put the lamp down.

  "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" called Albert afterhim, and then plunged into the icy bed.

  He was awakened the next morning by the cooks pounding steak down in thekitchen and wrangling over some division of duty. It was a vile place atany time, but on a morning like this it was appalling. The water wasfrozen, the floor like ice, the seven-by-nine glass frosted so that hecouldn't see to comb his hair.

  "All that got me out of bed," said Albert to the clerk, "was the thoughtof leaving."

  "Got y'r teeth filed?" said the day clerk, with a wink. "Old Collins'sbeef will try 'em."

  The breakfast was incredibly bad--so much worse than he expected thatAlbert was forced to admit he had never seen its like. He fled from theplace without a glance behind, and took passage in an omnibus for thetown, a mile away. It was terribly cold, the thermometer twenty belowzero; but the sun was very brilliant, and the air still.

  The driver pulled up before a very ambitious wooden hotel entitled "TheEldorado," and Albert dashed in at the door and up to the stove, withboth hands covering his ears.

  As he stood there, frantic with pain, kicking his toes and rubbing hisears, he heard a chuckle--a slow, sly, insulting chuckle--turned, andsaw Hartley standing in the doorway, visibly exulting over his misery.

  "Hello, Bert! that you?"

  "What's left of me. Say, you're a good one, you are? Why didn't youtelegraph me at Marion? A deuce of a night I've had of it!"

  "Do ye good," laughed Hartley, a tall, alert, handsome fellow nearlythirty years of age.

  After a short and vigorous "blowing up," Albert said: "Well, now, what'sthe meaning of all this, anyhow? Why this change from Racine?"

  "Well, you see, I got wind of another fellow going to work this countyfor a 'Life of Logan,' and thinks I, 'By jinks! I'd better drop in aheadof him with Blaine's "Twenty Years."' I telegraphed f'r territory, gotit, and telegraphed to stop you."

  "You did it. When did you come down?"

  "Last night, six o'clock."

  Albert was getting warmer and better-natured.

  "Well, I'm here; what ye going t'do with me?"

  "I'll use you some way; can't tell. First thing is to find a boardingplace where we can work in a couple o' books on the bill."

  "Well, I don't know about that, but I'm going to look up a place abrakeman gave me a pointer on."

  "All right; here goes!"

  Scarcely any one was stirring on the streets. The wind was pitilesslycold, though not strong. The snow under the feet cried out with a notelike glass and steel. The windows of the stores were thick with frost,and Albert gave a shudder of fear, almost as if he were homeless. He hadnever experienced anything like it before.

  Entering one of the stores, they found a group of men sitting about thestove, smoking, chatting, and spitting aimlessly into a huge spittoonmade of boards and filled with sawdust. Each man suspended smoking andtalking as the strangers entered.

  "Can any of you gentlemen tell us where Mrs. Welsh lives?"

  There was a silence; then the clerk behind the counter said:

  "I guess so. Two blocks north and three west, next to last house onleft-hand side."

  "Clear as a bell!" laughed Hartley, and they pushed out into the coldagain, drawing their mufflers up to their eyes.

  "I don't want much of this," muttered Bert through his scarf.

  The house was a large frame house standing on the edge of a bank, and asthe young men waited they could look down on the meadow land, where theriver lay blue and still and as hard as iron.

  A pale little girl ten, or twelve years of age, let them in.

  "Is this where Mrs. Welsh lives?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Will you ask her to come here a moment?"

  "Yes, sir," piped the little one. "Won't you sit down by the fire?" sheadded, with a quaint air of hospitality.

  The room was the usual village sitting room: a cylinder heater full ofwood at one side of it; a rag carpet, much faded, on the floor; acabinet organ; a doleful pair of crayon portraits on the wall, onesupposedly a baby--a figure dressed like a child of six months, but witha face old and cynical enough to be forty-five. The paper on the wallwas of the hideous striped sort, and the chairs were nondescript; buteverything was clean--so clean it looked worn more with brushing thanwith use.

  A slim woman of fifty, with hollow eyes and a patient smile, came in,wiping her hands on her apron.

  "How d'ye do? Did you want to see me?"

  "Yes," said Hartley, smiling. "The fact is, we're book agents, andlooking for a place to board."

  "Well--a--I--yes, I keep boarders."

  "I was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express," put in Bert.

  "Oh, Tom," said the woman, her face clearing. "Tom's always sending uspeople. Why, yes; I've got room for you, I guess--this room here." Shepushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor.

  "You can have this."

  "And the price?"

  "Four dollars."

  "Eight dollars f'r the two of us. All right; we'll be with you a week ortwo if we have luck."

  The woman smiled and shut the door. Bert thought how much she lookedlike his mother in the back--the same tired droop in the shoulders, thesame colorless dress, once blue or brown, now a peculiar drab,characterless with much washing.

  "Excuse me, won't you? I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves athome."

  "Now, Jim," said Bert, "I'm going t' stay right here while you go andorder our trunks around--just t' pay you off f'r last night."

  "All right," said Hartley, cheerily going out. After getting warm, Bertsat down at the organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the Moody andSankey hymnal. He was in the midst of the chorus of "Let your lowerlights," etc., when a young woman entered the room. She had awhisk-broom in her hand, and stood a picture of gentle surprise. Bertwheeled about on his stool.

  "I thought it was Stella," she began.

  "I'm a book agent," said Bert, rising with his best grace; "I might aswell out with it. I'm here to board."

  "Oh!" said the girl, with some relief. She was very fair and veryslight, almost frail. Her eyes were of the sunniest blue, her face paleand somewhat thin, but her lips showed scarlet, and her teeth werefine. Bert liked her and smiled.

  "A book agent is the next thing to a burglar,
I know; but still----"

  "Oh, I didn't mean that, but I _was_ surprised. When did you come?"

  "Just a few moments ago. Am I in your way?" he inquired, with elaboratesolicitude.

  "Oh, no! Please go on; you play very well, I think. It is so seldomyoung men play."

  "I had to at college; the other fellows all wanted to sing. You play, ofcourse."

  "When I have time." She sighed. There was a weary droop in her voice;she seemed aware of it, and said more brightly:

  "You mean Marion, I suppose?"

  "Yes; I'm in my second year."

  "I went there two years. Then I had to quit and come home to helpmother."

  "Did you? That's why I'm out here on this infernal book business--to getmoney."

  She looked at him with interest now, noticing his fine eyes and wavingbrown hair.

  "It's dreadful, isn't it? But you've got a hope to go back. I haven't.At first I didn't think I could live; but I did." She ended with a sigh,a far-off expression in her eyes.

  There was a pause again. Bert felt that she was no ordinary girl, andshe was quite as strongly drawn to him.

  "It almost killed me to give it up. I don't s'pose I'd know any of thescholars you know. Even the teachers are not the same. Oh, yes--SarahShaw; I think she's back for the normal course."

  "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Bert, "I know Sarah. We boarded on the same street;used t' go home together after class. An awful nice girl, too."

  "She's a worker. She teaches school. I can't do that, for mother needsme at home." There was another pause, broken by the little girl, whocalled:

  "Maud, mamma wants you."

  Maud rose and went out, with a tired smile on her face that emphasizedher resemblance to her mother. Bert couldn't forget that smile, and hewas still thinking about the girl, and what her life must be, whenHartley came in.

  "By jinks! It's _snifty_, as dad used to say. You can't draw a longbreath through your nostrils; freeze y'r nose solid as a bottle," heannounced, throwing off his coat with an air which seemed to make him anold resident of the room.

  "By the way, I've just found out why you was so anxious to get into thishouse, hey?" he said, slapping Bert's knee. "Another case o' girl."

  Bert blushed; he couldn't help it, notwithstanding his innocence in thiscase. Hartley went on.

  "Oh, I know you! A girl in the house; might 'a' known it," Hartleycontinued, in a hoarse whisper.

  "I didn't know it myself till about ten minutes ago," protested Bert.

  Hartley winked prodigiously.

  "Don't tell me! Is she pretty?"

  "No--that is, _you_ wouldn't call her so."

  "Oh, the deuce I wouldn't! Don't you _wish_ I wouldn't? I'd like to seethe girl I wouldn't call pretty, right to her face, too."

  The girl returned at this moment with an armful of wood.

  "Let _me_ put it in," cried Hartley, springing up. "Excuse me. My nameis Hartley, book agent: Blaine's 'Twenty Years,' plain cloth, sprinklededges, three dollars; half calf, three fifty. This is my friend Mr.Lohr, of Marion; German extraction, soph at the university."

  The girl bowed and smiled, and pushed by him toward the door of theparlor. Hartley followed her in, and Bert could hear them rattling awayat the stove.

  "Won't you sit down and play for us?" asked Hartley, after they returnedto the sitting room, with the persuasive music of the book agent in hisfine voice.

  "Oh, no! It's nearly dinner time, and I must help about the table."

  "Now make yourselves at home," said Mrs. Welsh, appearing at the doorleading to the kitchen; "if you want anything, just let me know."

  "All right. We will; don't worry. We'll be trouble enough.--Nicepeople," said Hartley, as he shut the door of their room and sat down."But the girl _ain't_ what I call pretty."

  By the time the dinner bell rang they were feeling at home in their newquarters. At the table they met the other boarders: the Brann brothers,newsdealers; old man Troutt, who kept the livery stable (and smelled ofit); and a small, dark, and wizened woman who kept the millinery store.The others, who came in late, were clerks.

  Maud served the dinner, while Stella and her mother waited upon thetable. Albert was accustomed to this, and made little account of theservice. He did notice the hands of the girl, however, so white andgraceful; no amount of work could quite remove their essentialshapeliness.

  Hartley struck up a conversation with the newsdealers and left Bert freeto observe Maud. She was not more than twenty, he decided, but shelooked older, so careworn and sad was her face.

  "They's one thing ag'in' yeh," Troutt, the liveryman, was bawling toHartley: "they's jest been worked one o' the goldingedest schemes you_ever_ see! 'Bout six munce ago s'm' fellers come all through hereclaimin' t' be after information about the county and the leadin'citizens; wanted t' write a history, an' wanted all the pitchers of theleading men, old settlers, an' so on. You paid ten dollars, an' you hada book an' your pitcher in it."

  "I know the scheme," grinned Hartley.

  "Wal, sir, I s'pose them fellers roped in every man in this town. Idon't s'pose they got out with a cent less'n one thousand dollars. An'when the book come--wal!" Here he stopped to roar. "I don't s'pose youever see a madder lot o' men in your life. In the first place, they gotthe names and the pitchers mixed so that I was Judge Ricker, an' JudgeRicker was ol' man Daggett. Didn't the judge swear--oh, it was awful!"

  "I should say so."

  "An' the pitchers that wa'n't mixed was so goldinged _black_ youcouldn't tell 'em from niggers. You know how kind o' lily-livered LawyerRansom is? Wal, he looked like ol' black Joe; he was the maddest man ofthe hull b'ilin'. He throwed the book in the fire, and tromped aroundlike a blind bull."

  "It wasn't a success, I take it, then. Why, I should 'a' thought they'd'a' nabbed the fellows."

  "Not much! They was too keen for that. They didn't deliver the bookstheirselves; they hired Dick Bascom to do it f'r them. Course Dickwa'n't t' blame."

  "No; I never tried it before," Albert was saying to Maud, at their endof the table. "Hartley offered me a good thing to come, and as I neededmoney, I came. I don't know what he's going to do with me, now I'mhere."

  Albert did not go out after dinner with Hartley; it was too cold.Hartley let nothing stand in the way of business, however. He had beenat school with Albert during his first year, but had gone back to workin preference to study.

  Albert had brought his books with him, planning to keep up with hisclass, if possible, and was deep in a study of Caesar when he heard atimid knock on the door.

  "Come!" he called, student fashion.

  Maud entered, her face aglow.

  "How natural that sounds!" she said.

  Albert sprang up to help her put down the wood in her arms. "I wishyou'd let me bring the wood," he said pleadingly, as she refused hisaid.

  "I wasn't sure you were in. Were you reading?"

  "Caesar," he replied, holding up the book. "I am conditioned on Latin.I'm going over the 'Commentaries' again."

  "I thought I knew the book," she laughed.

  "You read Latin?"

  "Yes, a little--Vergil."

  "Maybe you can help me out on these _oratia obliqua_. They bother meyet. I hate these 'Caesar saids.' I like Vergil better."

  She stood at his shoulder while he pointed out the knotty passage. Sheread it easily, and he thanked her. It was amazing how well acquaintedthey felt after this; they were as fellow-students.

  The wind roared outside in the bare maples, and the fire boomed in itspent place within. The young people forgot the time and place. The girlsank into a chair almost unconsciously as they talked of Madison--agreat city to them--of the Capitol building, of the splendid campus, ofthe lakes and the gay sailing there in summer and ice-boating in winter,of the struggles of "rooming."

  "Oh, it makes me homesick!" cried the girl, with a deep sigh. "It wasthe happiest, sunniest time of all my life. Oh, those walks and talks!Those recitations in the dear, chalky old rooms! Oh, _how_ I
would liketo go back over that hollow doorstone again!"

  She broke off, with tears in her eyes. He was obliged to cough two orthree times before he could break the silence.

  "I know just how you feel. I know, the first spring when I went back onthe farm, it seemed as if I couldn't stand it. I thought I'd go crazy.The days seemed forty-eight hours long. It was so lonesome, and sodreary on rainy days! But of course I expected to go back; that's whatkept me up. I don't think I could have stood it if I hadn't had hope."

  "I've given it up now," she said plaintively; "it's no use hoping."

  "Why don't you teach?" asked Albert, deeply affected by her voice andmanner.

  "I did teach here for a year, but I couldn't endure the noise; I'm notvery strong, and the boys were so rude. If I could teach in aseminary--teach Latin and English--I should be happy, I think. But Ican't leave mother now."

  She began to appear a different girl in the boy's eyes; the cheap dress,the check apron, could not hide her pure intellectual spirit. Her largeblue eyes were deep with thought, and the pale face, lighted by the glowof the fire, was as lovely as a rose. Almost before he knew it, he wastelling her of his life.

  "I don't see how I endured it as long as I did," he went on. "It wasnothing but work, work, and mud the whole year round; it's just so onall farms."

  "Yes, I guess it is," said she. "Father was a carpenter, and I've alwayslived here; but we have people who are farmers, and I know how it iswith them."

  "Why, when I think of it now it makes me crawl! To think of getting upin the morning before daylight, and going out to the barn to do chores,to get ready to go into the field to work! Working, wasting y'r life ondirt. Goin' round and round in a circle, and never getting out."

  "It's just the same for us women," she corroborated. "Think of us goingaround the house day after day, and doing just the same things over an'over, year after year! That's the whole of most women's lives.Dish-washing almost drives me crazy."

  "I know it," said Albert; "but a fellow has t' do it. If his folks areworkin' hard, why, of course he can't lay around and study. They're notto blame. I don't know that anybody's to blame."

  "No, I don't; but it makes me sad to see mother going around as shedoes, day after day. She won't let me do as much as I would." The girllooked at her slender hands. "You see, I'm not very strong. It makes myheart ache to see her going around in that quiet, patient way; she's sogood."

  "I know, I know! I've felt just like that about my mother and father,too."

  There was a long pause, full of deep feeling, and then the girlcontinued in a low, hesitating voice:

  "Mother's had an awful hard time since father died. We had to go tokeeping boarders, which was hard--very hard for mother." The boy felt asympathetic lump in his throat as the girl went on again: "But shedoesn't complain, and she didn't want me to come home from school; butof course I couldn't do anything else."

  It didn't occur to either of them that any other course was open, northat there was any heroism or self-sacrifice in the act; it was simply_right_.

  "Well, I'm not going to drudge all my life," said the boy at last. "Iknow it's kind o' selfish, but I can't live on a farm; it 'u'd kill mein a year. I've made up my mind to study law and enter the bar. Lawyersmanage to get hold of enough to live on decently, and that's more thanyou can say of the farmers. And they live in town, where something isgoing on once in a while, anyway."

  In the pause which followed, footsteps were heard on the walk outside,and the girl sprang up with a beautiful blush.

  "My stars! I didn't think--I forgot--I must go."

  Hartley burst into the room shortly after she left it, in his usualbreeze.

  "Hul-_lo_! Still at the Latin, hey?"

  "Yes," said Bert, with ease. "How goes it?"

  "Oh, I'm whooping 'er up! I'm getting started in great shape. Been up tothe courthouse and roped in three of the county officials. In thesesmall towns the big man is the politician or the clergyman. I've nailedthe politicians through the ear; now you must go for the ministers tohead the list--that's your lay-out."

  "How'm I t' do it?" said Bert, in an anxious tone. "I can't sell booksif they don't want 'em."

  "Yes, yeh can. That's the trade. Offer a big discount. Say full calf,two fifty; morocco, two ninety. Regular discount to the clergy, yeknow. Oh, they're on to that little racket--no trouble. If you can get afew of these leaders of the flock, the rest will follow like lambs tothe slaughter. Tra-la-la--who-o-o-_ish_, whish!"

  Albert laughed at Hartley as he plunged his face into the ice-coldwater, puffing and wheezing.

  "Jeemimy Crickets! but ain't that water cold! I worked Rock River thisway last month, and made a boomin' success. If you take hold here inthe----"

  "Oh, I'm all ready to do anything that is needed, short of being kickedout."

  "No danger of that if you're a real book agent. It's the snide that getskicked. You've got t' have some savvy in this, just like any otherbusiness." He stopped in his dressing to say, "We've struck a greatboarding place, hey?"

  "Looks like it."

  "I begin t' cotton to the old lady a'ready. Good 'eal like mother usedt' be 'fore she broke down. Didn't the old lady have a time of itraisin' me? Phewee! Patient! Job wasn't a patchin'. But the test isgoin' t' come on the biscuit; if her biscuit comes up t' mother's I'mhern till death."

  He broke off to comb his hair, a very nice bit of work in his case.

  II.

  There was no discernible reason why the little town should have beencalled Tyre, and yet its name was as characteristically American as itsarchitecture. It had the usual main street lined with low brick orwooden stores--a street which developed into a road running back up awide, sandy valley away from the river. Being a county town, it had acourthouse in a yard near the center of the town, and a big summerhotel. The valley was peculiarly picturesque. Curiously shaped and oddlydistributed hills rose out of the valley sand abruptly, forming a sortof amphitheater in which the village lay. These square-topped hills roseto a common level, showing that they were not the result of an upheaval,but were the remains of the original stratification left standing afterthe vast scooping action of the post-glacial floods.

  The abrupt cliffs and lone huge pillars and peaks rising out of tamarackswamps here and there showed the original layers of rock unmoved. Theylooked like ruined walls of castles ancient as hills, on whose massivetops time had sown sturdy oaks and cedars. They lent a distinct air ofromance to the valley at all times; but when in summer vines clamberedover their rugged sides and underbrush softened their broken lines, itwas not at all difficult to imagine them the remains of an unrecorded,very warlike people.

  Even now, in winter, with yellow-brown and green cedars standing starklyupon their summits, the hickories and small ashes blue-black with theirmasses of fine bare limbs meshed against the snow, these towers had adistinct charm. The weather was glorious winter, and in the earlymorning when the trees glistened with frost, or at evening when thewhite light of the sun was softened and violet shadows lay along thesnow, the whole valley was a delight to the eye, full of distinct andlasting charm, part of the beautiful and strange Mississippi Riverscenery.

  In the campaign which Hartley began Albert did his best, and his bestwas done unconsciously, for the charm of his manner (all unknown tohimself) was the most potent factor in securing consideration.

  "I'm not a book agent," he said to one of the clergymen to whom he firstappealed; "I'm a student trying to sell a good book and make a littlemoney to help me to complete my course at the university."

  He did not go to the back door, but walked up to the front, asked to seethe minister, and placed his case at once before him with a smilingcandor and a leisurely utterance quite the opposites of the brazentimidity and rapid, parrot-like tone of the professional. He securedthree clergymen of the place to head his list, much to the delight andadmiration of Hartley.

  "Good! Now corral the alumni of the place. Work the fraternal racket tothe bitter end. O
h, say! there's a sociable to-morrow night; I guesswe'd better go, hadn't we?"

  "Go alone?"

  "Alone? No! Take some girls. I'm going to take neighbor Picket'sdaughter; she's homely as a hedge fence, but I'll take her--greatscheme!"

  "Hartley, you're an infernal fraud!"

  "Nothing of the kind--I'm business," ended Hartley, with a laugh.

  After supper the following day, as Albert was still lingering at thetable with the girls and Mrs. Welsh, he thought of the sociable, andsaid on the impulse:

  "Are you going to the sociable?"

  "No; I guess not."

  "Would you go if I asked you?"

  "Try me and see!" answered the girl, with a laugh, her color rising.

  "All right. Miss Welsh, will you attend the festivity of the eveningunder my guidance and protection?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I'll be ready before you are."

  "No doubt; I've got to wash the dishes."

  "I'll wash the dishes; you go get ready," said the self-regardlessmother.

  Albert felt that he had one of the loveliest girls in the room as he ledMaud down the floor of the vestry of the church, filled with laughingyoung people moving about or seated at the long tables. Maud's cheekswere full of delicate color and her eyes shone with maidenly delight asthey took seats at the table to sip a little coffee and nibble a bit ofcake.

  "I suppose they _must_ have my fifteen cents some way," said Albert, ina low voice, "and I guess we'd better sit down."

  Maud introduced him to a number of young people who had been students atthe university. They received him cordially, and in a very short time hewas enjoying himself very well indeed. He was reminded ratherdisagreeably of his office, however, by seeing Hartley surrounded by alaughing crowd of the more frolicsome young people. He winked at Albert,as much as to say, "Good stroke of business."

  The evening passed away with songs, games, and recitations, and it wasnearly eleven o'clock when the young people began to wander off towardhome in pairs. Albert and Maud were among the first of the young folksto bid the rest good night.

  The night was clear and cold, but perfectly still, and the young people,arm in arm, walked slowly homeward under the bare maples, in deliciouscompanionship. Albert held her arm close to his side.

  "Are you cold?" he asked in a low voice.

  "No, thank you; the night is lovely," she replied; then added with asigh, "I don't like sociables so well as I used to--they tire me out."

  "We stayed too long."

  "It wasn't that; I'm getting so they seem kind o' silly."

  "Well, I feel a little that way myself," he confessed.

  "But there is so little to see here in Tyre at any time--no music, notheaters. I like theaters, don't you?"

  "I can't go half enough."

  "But nothing worth seeing ever comes into these little towns--and thenwe're all so poor, anyway."

  The lamp, turned low, was emitting a terrible odor as they entered thesitting room.

  "My goodness! it's almost twelve o'clock. Good night." She held out herhand.

  "Good night," he said, taking it, and giving it a cordial pressure whichshe remembered long.

  "Good night," she repeated softly, going up the stairs.

  Hartley came in a few moments later, and found Bert sitting thoughtfullyby the fire, with his coat and shoes off, evidently in deep abstraction.

  "Well, I got away at last--much as ever. Great scheme, that sociable,eh? I saw your little girl introducing you right and left."

  "Say, Hartley, I wish you'd leave her out of this thing; I don't likethe way you speak of her when----"

  "Phew! You don't? Oh, all right! I'm mum as an oyster--only keep it up!Get in all the church sociables, and all that; there's nothing like it."

  Hartley soon had canvassers out along the country roads, and was workingevery house in town. The campaign promised to lengthen into a month,perhaps longer. Albert especially became a great favorite. Every onedeclared there had never been such book agents in the town: suchgentlemanly fellows, they didn't press anybody to buy; they didn't rushabout and "poke their noses where they were not wanted." They were morelike merchants with books to sell. The only person who failed to see theattraction in them was Ed Brann, who was popularly supposed to beengaged to Maud. He grew daily more sullen and repellent, toward Albertnoticeably so.

  One evening about six, after coming in from a long walk about town,Albert entered his room without lighting his lamp, lay down on the bed,and fell asleep. He had been out late the night before with Maud at aparty, and slumber came almost instantly.

  Maud came in shortly, hearing no response to her knock, and afterhanging some towels on the rack went out without seeing the sleeper. Inthe sitting room she met Ed Brann. He was a stalwart young man withcurling black hair, and a heavy face at its best, but set and sullennow. His first words held a menace:

  "Say, Maud, I want t' talk to you."

  "Very well; what is it, Ed?" replied the girl quietly.

  "I want to know how often you're going to be out till twelve o'clockwith this book agent?"

  Perhaps it was the derisive inflection on "book agent" that woke Albert.Brann's tone was brutal--more brutal even than his words, and the girlturned pale and her breath quickened.

  "Why, Ed, what's the matter?"

  "Matter is just this: you ain't got any business goin' around with thatfeller with my ring on your finger, that's all." He ended with anunmistakable threat in his voice.

  "Very well," said the girl, after a pause, curiously quiet; "then Iwon't; here's your ring."

  The man's bluster disappeared instantly. Bert could tell by the changein his voice, which was incredibly great, as he pleaded:

  "Oh, don't do that, Maud; I didn't mean to say that; I was mad--I'msorry."

  "I'm _glad_ you did it _now_, so I can know you. Take your ring, Ed; Inever'll wear it again."

  Albert had heard all this, but he did not know how the girl looked asshe faced the man. In the silence which followed she looked him in theface, and scornfully passed him and went out into the kitchen. He didnot return at supper.

  Young people of this sort are not self-analysts, and Maud did notexamine closely into causes. She was astonished to find herself moreindignant than grieved. She broke into an angry wail as she went to hermother's bosom:

  "Mother! mother!"

  "Why, what's the matter, Maudie? Tell me. There, there! don't cry, pet!Who's been hurtin' my poor little bird?"

  "Ed has; he said--he said----"

  "There, there! poor child! Have you been quarreling? Never mind; it'llcome out all right."

  "No, it won't--not the way you mean," the girl cried, lifting her head;"I've given him back his ring, and I'll never wear it again."

  The mother could not understand with what wounding brutality the man'stone had fallen upon the girl's spirit, and Maud felt in some way as ifshe could not explain sufficiently to justify herself. Mrs. Welshconsoled herself with the idea that it was only a lovers' quarrel--oneof the little jars sure to come when two natures are settlingtogether--and that all would be mended in a day or two.

  But there was a peculiar set look on the girl's face that promisedlittle for Brann. Albert, being no more of a self-analyst than Maud,simply said, "Served him right," and dwelt no more upon it for the time.

  At supper, however, he was extravagantly gay, and to himselfunaccountably so. He joked Troutt till Maud begged him to stop, andafter the rest had gone he remained seated at the table, enjoying theindignant color in her face and the flash of her infrequent smile, whichit was such a pleasure to provoke. He volunteered to help wash thedishes.

  "Thank you, but I'm afraid you'd be more bother than help," she replied.

  "Thank _you_, but you don't know me. I ain't so green as I look, by nomanner o' means. I've been doing my own housekeeping for four terms."

  "I know all about that," laughed the girl. "You young men rooming doprecious little cooking and no dish-washing a
t all."

  "That's a base calumny! I made it a point to wash every dish in thehouse, except the spider, once a week; had a regular cleaning-up day."

  "And about the spider?"

  "I wiped that out nicely with a newspaper every time I wanted to useit."

  "Oh, horrors!--Mother, listen to that!"

  "Why, what more could you ask? You wouldn't have me wipe it _six_ timesa day, would you?"

  "I wonder it didn't poison you," commented Mrs. Welsh.

  "Takes more'n that to poison a student," laughed Albert, as he went out.

  The next afternoon he came bursting into the kitchen, where Maud stoodwith her sleeves rolled up, deep in the dish pan, while Stella stoodwiping the dishes handed to her.

  "Don't you want a sleigh ride?" he asked, boyishly eager.

  She looked up with shining eyes.

  "Oh, wouldn't I!--Can you get along, mother?"

  "Certainly, child; the air'll do you good."

  "W'y, Maud!" said the little girl, "you said you didn't want to whenEd----"

  Mrs. Welsh silenced her, and said:

  "Run right along, dear; it's just the nicest time o' day. Are there manyteams out?"

  "They're just beginning t' come out," said Albert. "I'll have a cutteraround here in about two jiffies; be on hand, sure."

  Troutt was standing in the sunny doorway of his stable when the youngfellow dashed up to him.

  "Hullo, Uncle Troutt! Harness the fastest nag into your swellest outfitinstanter."

  "Aha! Goin' t' take y'r girl out, hey?"

  "Yes; and I want 'o do it in style."

  "I guess ol' Dan's the idee, if you can drive him; he's a ring-tailedsnorter."

  "Fast?"

  "Nope; but safe. Gentle as a kitten and as knowin' as a fox. Drive himwith one hand--left hand," the old man chuckled.

  "Troutt, you're an insinuating old insinuator, and I'll----"

  Troutt laughed till his long faded beard flapped up and down andquivered with the stress of his enjoyment of his joke. He ended byhitching a vicious-looking sorrel to a gay, duck-bellied cutter, sayingas he gave up the reins:

  "Now, be keerful; Dan's foxy; he's all right when he sees you've got thereins, but don't drop 'em."

  "Don't you worry about me; I grew up with horses," said theover-confident youth, leaping into the sleigh and gathering up thelines. "Stand aside, my lord, and let the cortege pass. Hoop-la!"

  The brute gave a tearing lunge, and was out of the doorway like a shotbefore the old man could utter a word. Albert thrilled with pleasure ashe felt the reins stiffen in his hands, while the traces swung slackbeside the thills.

  "If he keeps this up he'll do," he thought.

  As he turned up at the gate Maud came gayly down the path, muffled tothe eyes.

  "Oh, what a nice cutter! But the horse--is he gentle?" she asked, as sheclimbed in.

  "As a cow," Albert replied.--"Git out o' this, Bones!"

  The main street was already full of teams, wood sleighs, bob-sleighsfilled with children, and here and there a man in a light cutter alone,out for a race. Laughter was on the air, and the jingle-jangle of bells.The sun was dazzling in its brightness, and the gay wraps and scarfslighted up the street with flecks of color. Loafers on the sidewalksfired a fusillade of words at the teams as they passed:

  "Go it, Bones!"

  "'Let 'er _go_, Gallagher!'"

  "Ain't she a daisy!"

  But what cared the drivers? If the shouts were insolent they laid themto envy, and if they were pleasant they smiled in reply.

  Albert and Maud had made two easy turns up and down the street, when aman driving a span of large black-hawk horses dashed up a side streetand whirled in just before them. The man was a superb driver, and satwith the reins held carelessly but securely in his left hand, guidingthe team more by his voice than by the bit. He sat leaning forward withhis head held down in a peculiar and sinister fashion.

  "_Hel_-lo!" cried Bert; "that looks like Brann."

  "It is," said Maud.

  "Cracky! that's a fine team--Black Hawks, both of them. I wonder if ol'sorrel can pass 'em?"

  "Oh, please don't try," pleaded the girl.

  "Why not?"

  "Because--because I'm afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "Afraid something'll happen."

  "Something _is_ goin' t' happen; I'm goin' t' pass him if old Bones hasgot any _git_ to him."

  "It'll make him mad."

  "Who mad? Brann?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, s'pose it does, who cares?"

  The teams moved along at an easy pace. Some one called to Brann:

  "They're on y'r trail, Ed."

  There was something peculiar in the tone, and Brann looked behind forthe first time, and saw them. He swore through his teeth, and turnedabout. He looked dogged and sullen, with his bent shoulders and his chinthrust down.

  There were a dozen similar rigs moving up or down the street, andgreetings passed from sleigh to sleigh. Everybody except Brann welcomedAlbert with sincere pleasure, and exchanged rustic jokes with him. Asthey slowed up at the upper end of the street and began to turn, a manon the sidewalk said confidentially:

  "Say, cap', if you handle that old rack-o'-bones just right, he'lldistance anything on this road. When you want him to do his best let himhave the rein; don't pull a pound. I used to own 'im--I know 'im."

  The old sorrel came round "gauming," his ugly head thrown up, his greatred mouth open, his ears back. Brann and the young doctor of the placewere turning together a little farther up the street. The blacks,superbly obedient to their driver, came down with flying hoofs, theirgreat glossy breasts flecked with foam from their champing jaws.

  "Come on, fellers!" yelled Brann, insultingly, as he came down past thedoctor, and seemed about to pass Albert and Maud. There was hate in theglare of his eyes.

  But he did not pass. The old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to thespectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of Brann'soff black.

  "See them blacks trot!" shouted Albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm.

  "See that old sorrel shake himself!" yelled the loafers.

  The doctor came tearing down with a spirited bay, a magnificent stepper.As he drew along so that Bert could catch a glimpse of the mare's neck,he thrilled with delight. There was the thoroughbred's lacing of veins;the proud fling of her knees and the swell of her neck showed that shewas far from doing her best. There was a wild light in her eyes.

  These were the fast teams of the town. All interest was centered inthem.

  "Clear the track!" yelled the loafers.

  "The doc's good f'r 'em."

  "If she don't break."

  Albert was pulling at the sorrel heavily, absorbed in seeing, as well ashe could for the flung snowballs, the doctor's mare draw slowly, footby foot, past the blacks. Suddenly Brann gave a shrill yell and stood upin his sleigh. The gallant little bay broke and fell behind; Brann gavea loud laugh; the blacks trotted on, their splendid pace unchanged.

  "Let the sorrel out!" yelled somebody.

  "Let him loose!" yelled Troutt on the corner, quivering with excitement."Let him go!"

  Albert remembered what the fellow had said; he let the reins loose. Theold sorrel's teeth came together with a snap; his head lowered and histail rose; he shot abreast of the blacks. Brann yelled:

  "Sam--Saul, _git_!"

  "See them trot!" shouted Bert, lost in admiration; but Maud, frightenedinto silence, had covered her head with the robe to escape the blindingcloud of flying snow. The sorrel drew steadily ahead; he was passingwhen Brann turned.

  "Durn y'r old horse!" he yelled through his shut teeth, and laid thewhip across the sorrel's hips. The blacks broke wildly, but, strange tosay, the old sorrel increased his speed. Again Brann struck at him, butmissed him, and the stroke fell on Bert's outstretched wrists. He turnedto see what Brann meant by it; he did not see that the blacks werecrowding him to the gutter; his hands felt numb.

&n
bsp; "Look _out_, there!"

  Before he could turn to look, the cutter seemed to be blown up by abomb, and he rose in the air like a vaulter; he saw the traces part, hefelt the reins slip through his hands, and that was all; he seemed tofall an immeasurable depth into a black abyss.... The next that he knewwas a curious soft murmur of voices, out of which a sweet, agonizedgirl-voice broke, familiar but unrecognized:

  "Oh, where's the doctor! He's dead--oh, he's dead! _Can't_ you hurry?"

  Next came a quick, authoritative voice, still far away, and a hushfollowed it; then an imperative order:

  "Stand out o' the way! What do you think you can do by crowding on topof him?"

  "Stand back! stand back!" other voices called.

  Then he felt something cold on his head: they were taking his cap offand putting snow on his head; then the doctor (he knew him now) said:

  "Let me take him!"

  "Oh, can't I do something?" said the sweet voice.

  "No--nothing."

  Then there came a strange fullness in his head. Shadows lighted by dullred flashes passed before his eyes; he wondered, in a slow, dull way, ifhe were dying. Then this changed: a dull, throbbing ache came into hishead, and as this grew the noise of voices grew more distinct and hecould hear sobbing. Then the dull, rhythmic red flashes passed slowlyaway from his eyes, and he opened his lids, but the glare of thesunlight struck them shut again; he saw only Maud's face, agonized,white, and wet with tears, looking down into his. He felt the doctor'shands winding bandages about his head, and he felt a crawling stream ofblood behind his ear, getting as cold as ice as it sank under hiscollar.

  They raised him a little more, and he opened his eyes on the circle ofhushed and excited men thronging about him. He saw Brann, with wild,scared face, standing in his cutter and peering over the heads of thecrowd.

  "How do you feel now?" asked the doctor.

  "Can you hear us? Albert, do you know me?" called the girl.

  His lips moved stiffly, but he smiled a little, and at length whisperedslowly, "Yes; I guess--I'm all--right."

  "Put him into my cutter; Maud, get in here, too," the doctor commanded,with all the authority of a physician in a small village. The crowdopened, and silenced its muttered comments as the doctor and Troutthelped the wounded man into the sleigh. The pain in his head grew worse,but Albert's perception of things grew in proportion; he closed his eyesto the sun, but in the shadow of Maud's breast opened them again andlooked up at her. He felt a vague, childlike pleasure in knowing she washolding him in her arms; he felt the sleigh moving; he thought of hismother, and how it would frighten her if she knew.

  The doctor was driving the horse and walking beside the sleigh, and thepeople were accosting him. Albert could catch their words now and then,and the reply:

  "No; he isn't killed, nor anything near it; he's stunned, that's all; heisn't bleeding now. No; he'll be all right in a day or two."

  "Hello!" said a breathless, hearty voice, "what the deuce y' been doingwith my pardner? Bert, old fellow, are you there?" Hartley asked,clinging to the edge of the moving cutter, and peering into his friend'sface. Albert smiled.

  "I'm here--what there is left of me," he replied faintly.

  "Glory! how'd it happen?" he asked of the girl.

  "I don't know--I couldn't see--we ran into a culvert," replied Maud.

  "Weren't you hurt?"

  "Not a bit. I stayed in the cutter."

  Albert felt a steady return of waves of pain, but did not know that theywere waves of returning life. He groaned, and tried to rise. The girlgently but firmly restrained him. Hartley was walking beside the doctor,talking loudly. "It was a devilish thing to do; the scoundrel ought 'obe jugged!"

  Albert groaned, and tried to rise again. "I'm bleeding yet; I'm soakingyou!"

  The girl shuddered, but remained firm.

  "No; we're 'most home."

  She felt no shame, but a certain exaltation, as she looked into thecurious faces she saw in groups on the sidewalk. The boys who ranalongside wore in their faces a look of awe, for they imaginedthemselves in the presence of death.

  Maud gazed unrecognizingly upon her nearest girl friends. They seemedsomething alien in that moment; and they, gazing upon her white face andunrecognizing eyes, spoke in awed whispers.

  At the gate the crowd gathered and waited with deepest interest, with asort of shuddering pleasure. It was all a strange, unusual, inthrallingromance to them. The dazzling sunshine added to the wonder of it all.

  "Ed Brann done it."

  "How?" asked several.

  "With the butt end of his whip."

  "That's a lie! His team ran into Lohr's rig."

  "Not much; Ed crowded him into the ditch."

  "What fer?"

  "'Cause Bert cut him out with Maud."

  "Come, get out of the way! Don't stand there gabbing," yelled Hartley,as he took Albert in his arms and, together with the doctor, lifted himout of the sleigh.

  "Goodness sakes alive! Ain't it terrible! How is he?" asked an oldlady, peering at him as he passed.

  On the porch stood Mrs. Welsh, supported by Ed Brann.

  "She's all right, I tell you. He ain't hurt much, either; just stunned alittle, that's all."

  "Maud! child!" cried the mother, as Maud appeared out of the crowd,followed by a bevy of girls.

  "Mother, _I'm_ all right!" she said as gayly as she could, running intothe trembling arms outstretched toward her; "but, oh, poor Albert!"

  After they disappeared into the house the crowd dispersed. Brann wentoff by way of the alley; he was not prepared to meet their questions;but he met his brother and several others in his store.

  "Now, what in ---- you been up to?" was the fraternal greeting.

  "Nothing."

  "Welting a man on the head with a whip-stock ain't anything, hey?"

  "I didn't touch him. We was racing, and he run into the culvert."

  "Hank says he saw you strike----"

  "He lies! I was strikin' the horse to make him break."

  "Oh, yeh was!" sneered the older man. "Well, I hope you understand thatthis'll ruin us in this town. If you didn't strike him, they'll say yourun him into the culvert, 'n' every man, woman, 'n' child'll be down onyou, and _me_ f'r bein' related to you. They all know how you feeltowards him for cuttin' you out with Maud Welsh."

  "Oh, don't bear down on him too hard, Joe. He didn't mean t' do anyharm," said Troutt, who had followed Ed down to the store. "I guess theyoung feller'll come out all right. Just go kind o' easy till we see howhe comes out. If he dies, why, it'll haf t' be looked into."

  Ed turned pale and swallowed hastily. "If he should die!" He would be amurderer; he knew that hate was in his heart. He shivered again as heremembered the man's white face with the bright red stream flowing downbehind his ear and over his cheek. It almost seemed to him that he _had_struck him, so close had the accident followed upon the fall of hiswhip.

  III.

  Albert sank into a feverish sleep that night, with a vague perception offour figures in the room--Maud, her mother, Hartley, and the youngdoctor. When he awoke fully in the morning his head felt prodigiouslyhot and heavy.

  It was early dawn, and the lamp was burning brightly. Outside, a man'sfeet could be heard on the squealing snow--a sound which told how stilland cold it was. A team passed with a jingle of bells.

  Albert raised his head and looked about. Hartley was lying on the sofa,rolled up in his overcoat and some extra quilts. He had lain down atlast, worn with watching. Albert felt a little weak, and fell back onhis pillow, thinking about the strange night he had passed--a night morefilled with strange happenings than the afternoon.

  His sleep had been broken by the most vivid and exciting dreams, andthrough these visions had moved the figures of Hartley, the doctor, andMaud and her mother. He had a confused idea of the night, but a veryclear idea of the afternoon. He could see the sidewalks lined withfaces, the sun shining on the snow, the old sorrel's side-flung head andopen mouth;
the sleigh rose under him again, and he felt the reins burnthrough his hands.

  As the light grew in the room his mind cleared, and he began to feelquite like himself again. He lifted his muscular arm and opened and shuthis hand, saying aloud in his old boyish manner:

  "I guess I'm all here."

  "What's that?" called Hartley, rolling out of bed. "Did you ask foranything?"

  "No--yes; gimme some water, Jim; my mouth is dry as a powder mill."

  "How yeh feelin', anyway, pardner?" said Hartley, as he brought thewater.

  "First rate, Jim; I guess I'll be all right."

  "Well, I guess you'd better keep quiet."

  Albert rose partly, assisted by his friend, and drank from the glass amoment; then fell back on his pillow.

  "I don't feel s' well when I sit up."

  "Well, don't, then; stay right there where you are. Oh-um!" gapedHartley, stretching himself; "it's about time f'r breakfast, I guess.Want y'r hands washed and y'r hair combed?"

  "I guess I ain't reduced to _that_ yet."

  "Well, I guess y' _be_, old man. Now keep _quiet_, or have I got t' makeyeh?" he asked in a threatening tone which made Albert smile. Hewondered if Hartley hadn't been sitting up most of the night; but if hehad, he showed little effect of it, for he began to sing a comic song ashe pulled on his boots.

  He threw on his coat next, and went out into the kitchen, returning soonwith some hot water, with which he began to bathe the wounded boy's faceand hands as tenderly as a woman.

  "There; now I guess you're in shape f'r grub--feel any like grub?--Comein," he called in answer to a knock on the door.

  Mrs. Welsh entered.

  "How is he?" she whispered anxiously.

  "Oh, I'm all right," cried Albert. "Bring me a plate of pancakes,quick!"

  Mrs. Welsh turned to Hartley with a startled expression, but Hartley'sgrin assured her.

  "I'm glad to find you so much better," she said, going to his bedside."I've hardly slep', I was so much worried about you."

  It was very sweet to feel her fingers in his hair, as his mother wouldhave caressed him.

  "I guess I hadn't better take off the bandages till the doctor comes, ifyou're comfortable.--Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Hartley, and I'llbring something for Albert."

  Another knock a few minutes later, and Maud entered with a platter,followed closely by her mother, who carried some tea and milk.

  Maud came forward timidly, but when he turned his eyes on her and saidin a cheery voice, "Good morning, Miss Welsh!" she flamed out in rosycolor and recoiled. She had expected to see him pale, dull-eyed, andwith a weak voice, but there was little to indicate invalidism in hisfirm greeting. She gave place to Mrs. Welsh, who prepared his breakfast.She was smitten dumb by this turn of affairs; she hardly dared look athim as he sat propped up in bed. The crimson trimming on his shirt-frontseemed like streams of blood; his head, swathed in bandages, made hershudder. But aside from these few suggestions of wounding, there waslittle of the horror of the previous day left. He did not look so paleand worn as the girl herself.

  However, though he was feeling absurdly well, there was a good deal ofbravado in his tone and manner, for he ate but little, and soon sankback on the bed.

  "I feel better when my head is low," he explained in a faint voice.

  "Can't I do something?" asked the girl, her courage reviving as she sawhow ill and faint he really was. His eyes were closed and he looked theinvalid now.

  "I guess you better write to his folks."

  "No; don't do that," he said, opening his eyes; "it will only do themharm an' me no good. I'll be all right in a few days. You needn't wasteyour time on me; Hartley'll wait on me."

  "Mr. Lohr, how can you say such cruel----"

  "Don't mind him now," said Mrs. Welsh. "I'm his mother now, and he'sgoin' to do just as I tell him to--ain't you, Albert?"

  He dropped his eyelids in assent, and went off in a doze. It was allvery pleasant to be thus treated. Hartley was devotion itself, and thedoctor removed his bandages with the care and deliberation of a man witha moderate practice; besides, he considered Albert a personal friend.

  Hartley, after the doctor had gone, said with some hesitation:

  "Well, now, pard, I _ought_ to go out and see a couple o' fellows Ipromised t' meet this morning."

  "All right, Jim; all right. You go right ahead on business; I'm goin't' sleep, anyway, and I'll be all right in a day or two."

  "Well, I will; but I'll run in every hour 'r two and see if you don'twant something. You're in good hands, anyway, when I'm gone."

  "Won't you read to me?" pleaded Albert in the afternoon, when Maud camein with her mother to brush up the room. "It's getting rather slowbusiness layin' here like this. Course I can't ask Jim to stay and readall the time, and he's a bad reader, anyway; won't you?"

  "Shall I, mother?"

  "Why, of course, Maud!"

  So Maud got a book, and sat down over by the stove, quite distant fromthe bed, and read to him from "The Lady of the Lake," while the mother,like a piece of tireless machinery, moved about the house at thenever-ending succession of petty drudgeries which wear the heart andsoul out of so many wives and mothers, making life to them a pilgrimagefrom stove to pantry, from pantry to cellar, and from cellar togarret--a life that deadens and destroys, coarsens and narrows, till theflesh and bones are warped to the expression of the wronged and cheatedsoul.

  Albert's selfishness was in a way excusable. He enjoyed beyond measurethe sound of the girl's soft voice and the sight of her graceful headbent over the page. He lay, looking and listening dreamily, till thevoice and the sunlit head were lost in his deep, sweet sleep.

  The girl sat with closed book, looking at his face as he slept. It was acurious study to her, a young man--_this_ young man, asleep. His brownlashes lay on his cheek; his facial lines were as placid as a child's.As she looked she gained courage to go over softly and peer down on him.How boyish he seemed! How little to be feared! How innocent, after all!

  As she studied him she thought of him the day before, with closed eyes,a ghastly stream of blood flowing down and soaking her dress. Sheshuddered. His hands, clean and strong and white, lay out on thecoverlet, loose and open, the fingers fallen into graceful lines.Abruptly, a boy outside gave a shout, and she leaped away with a suddenspring that left her pale and breathless. As she paused in the door andlooked back at the undisturbed sleeper, she smiled, and the pink cameback into her thin face.

  Albert's superb young blood began to assert itself, and on the afternoonof the second day he was able to sit in his rocking chair before thefire and read a little, though he professed that his eyes were notstrong, in order that Maud should read for him. This she did as often asshe could leave her other work, which was "not half often enough," theinvalid grumbled.

  "More than you deserve," she found courage to say.

  Hartley let nothing interfere with the book business, and the popularsympathy for Albert he coined into dollars remorselessly.

  "You take it easy," he kept saying to his partner; "don't youworry--your pay goes on just the same. You're doing well right where youare. By jinks! biggest piece o' luck," he went on, half in earnest."Why, I can't turn around without taking an order--fact! Turned in abook on the livery bill--that's all right. We'll make a clear hundreddollars out o' that little bump o' yours."

  "Little bump! Say, now, that's----"

  "Keep it up--put it on! Don't get up in a hurry. I don't need you tocanvass, and I guess you enjoy this 'bout as well." He ended with a slywink and cough.

  Yes; the convalescence was delicious; afterward it grew to be one of thesweetest weeks of his life. Maud reading to him, bringing his food, andsinging for him---- yes; all that marred it was the stream of people whocame to inquire how he was getting along. The sympathy was largelygenuine, as Hartley could attest, but it bored the invalid. He hadrather be left in quiet with Walter Scott and Maud, the drone of thelong descriptive passages being a sure soporific.


  He did not say, as an older person might, that she was not to be heldaccountable for what she did under the stress and tumult of that day;but he unconsciously did so regard her actions, led to do so by thechanged conditions. In the light of common day it was hurrying to be adream.

  At the end of a week he was quite himself again, though he still haddifficulty in wearing his hat. It was not till the second Sunday afterthe accident that he appeared in the dining room for the first time,with a large traveling cap concealing the suggestive bandages. He lookedpale and thin, but his eyes danced with joy.

  Maud's eyes dilated with instant solicitude. The rest sprang up insurprise, with shouts of delight, as hearty as brethren.

  "Ginger! I'm glad t' see yeh!" said Troutt, so sincerely that he lookedalmost winning to the boy. The rest crowded around, shaking hands.

  "Oh, I'm on deck again."

  Ed Brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was asignificant little pause--a pause which grew painful till Albert turnedand saw Brann, and called out:

  "Hello, Ed! How are you? Didn't know you were here."

  As he held out his hand, Brann, his face purple with shame andembarrassment, lumbered heavily across the room and took it, mutteringsome poor apology.

  "Hope y' don't blame me."

  "Of course not--fortunes o' war. Nobody to blame; just mycarelessness.--Yes; I'll take turkey," he said to Maud, as he sank intothe seat of honor at the head of the table.

  Then the rest laughed and took seats, but Brann remained standing nearAlbert's chair. He had not finished yet.

  "I'm mighty glad yeh don't lay it up against me, Lohr; an' I want 'o saythe doctor's bill is all right; you un'erstand, it's _all right_."

  Albert looked at him a moment in surprise. He knew this, coming from aman like Brann, meant more than a thousand prayers from a readyapologist; it was a terrible victory, and he made it as easy for hisrival as possible.

  "Oh, all right, Ed; only I'd calculated to cheat him out o' part ofit--that is, turn in a couple o' Blaine's 'Twenty Years' on the bill."

  Hartley roared, and the rest joined in, but not even Albert perceivedall that it meant. It meant that the young savage had surrendered hisclaim in favor of the man he had all but killed. The struggle had beenprodigious, but he had snatched victory out of defeat; his better naturehad conquered.

  No one ever gave him credit for it; and when he went West in the spring,people said his love for Maud had been superficial. In truth, he hadloved the girl as sincerely as he had hated his rival. That he couldrise out of the barbaric in his love and hate was heroic.

  When Albert went to ride again, it was on melting snow, with theslowest horse Troutt had. Maud was happier than she had been since sheleft school, and fuller of color and singing. She dared not let a goldenmoment pass now without hearing it ring full, and she did not dare tothink how short this day of happiness might be.

  IV.

  At the end of the fifth week there was a suspicion of spring in the windas it swept the southern exposure of the valley. February was drawing toa close, and there was more than a suggestion of spring in the rapidlymelting snow which still lay on the hills and under the cedars andtamaracks in the swamps. Patches of green grass, appearing on the sunnyside of the road where the snow had melted, led to predictions of springfrom the loafers beginning to sun themselves on the salt-barrels andshoe-boxes outside the stores.

  A group sitting about the blacksmith shop were talking it.

  "It's an early seedin'--now mark my words," said Troutt, as he threw hisknife into the soft ground at his feet. "The sun is crossing the lineearlier this spring than it did last."

  "Yes; an' I heard a crow to-day makin' that kind of a--a spring noisethat kind o'--I d' know what--kind o' goes all through a feller."

  "And there's Uncle Sweeney, an' that settles it; spring's comin' sure!"said Troutt, pointing at an old man much bent, hobbling down the streetlike a symbolic figure of the old year.

  "When _he_ gits out the frogs ain't fur behind."

  "We'll be gittin' on to the ground by next Monday," said Sam Dingley toa crowd who were seated on the newly painted harrows and seeders which"Svend & Johnson" had got out ready for the spring trade. "Svend &Johnson's Agricultural Implement Depot" was on the north side of thestreet, and on a spring day the yard was one of the pleasantest loafingplaces that could be imagined, especially if one wished company.

  Albert wished to be alone. Something in the touch and tone of thisspring afternoon made him restless and full of strange thoughts. He tookhis way out along the road which followed the river bank, and in theoutskirts of the village threw himself down on a bank of grass which thesnows had protected, and which had already a tinge of green because ofits wealth of sun.

  The willows had thrown out their tiny light green flags, though theirroots were under the ice, and some of the hard-wood twigs were tingedwith red. There was a faint, peculiar but powerful odor of uncoveredearth in the air, and the touch of the wind was like a caress from amoist magnetic hand.

  The boy absorbed the light and heat of the sun as some wild thingmight, his hat over his face, his hands folded on his breast; he lay asstill as a statue. He did not listen at first, he only felt; but atlength he rose on his elbow and listened. The ice cracked and fell alongthe bank with a long, hollow, booming crash; a crow cawed, and a jayanswered it from the willows below. A flight of sparrows passed,twittering innumerably. The boy shuddered with a strange, wistfullonging and a realization of the flight of time.

  He could have wept, he could have sung; he only shuddered and lay silentunder the stress of that strange, sweet passion that quickened hisheart, deepened his eyes, and made his breath come and go with aquivering sound. Across the dazzling blue arch of the sky the crowflapped, sending down his prophetic, jubilant note; the wind, as softand sweet as April, stirred in his hair; the hills, deep in their duskyblue, seemed miles away; and the voices of the care-free skaters on themelting ice of the river below came to the ear subdued to a unity withthe scene.

  Suddenly a fear seized upon the boy--a horror! Life, life was passing!Life that can be lived only once, and lost, is lost forever! Life, thatfatal gift of the Invisible Powers to man--a path, with youth and joyand hope at its eastern gate, and despair, regret, and death at its lowwestern portal!

  The boy caught a glimpse of his real significance--a gnat, a speck inthe sun: a boy facing the millions of great and wise and wealthy. Heleaped up, clasping his hands.

  "Oh, I _must_ work! I mustn't stay here; I must get back to my studies.Life is slipping by me, and I am doing nothing, being nothing!"

  His face, as pale as death, absolutely shone with his passionateresolution, and his hands were clinched in a silent, inarticulatedesire.

  But on his way back he met the jocund party of skaters going home fromthe river, and with the easy shift and change of youth joined in theirringing laughter. The weird power of the wind's voice was gone, and hewas the unthinking boy again; but the problem was only put off, notsolved.

  He had a suspicion of it one night when Hartley said: "Well, pardner,we're getting 'most ready to pull out. Some way I always get restlesswhen these warm days begin. Want 'o be moving some way."

  This was as sentimental as Hartley ever got; or, if he ever felt moresentiment, he concealed it carefully.

  "I s'pose it must 'a' been in spring that those old chaps, on theirsteeds and in their steel shirts, started out for the Holy Land or torescue some damsel, hey?" he ended, with a grin. "Now, that's the way Ifeel--just like striking out for, say, Oshkosh. This has been a bigstrike here, sure's you live; that little piece of lofty tumbling was abig boom, and no mistake. Why, your share o' this campaign will be ahundred and twenty dollars sure."

  "More'n I've earned," replied Bert.

  "No, it ain't. You've done your duty like a man. Done as much in yourway as I have. Now, if you want to try another county with me, say so.I'll make a thousand dollars this year out o' this thing."

  "I guess
I'll go back to school."

  "All right; don't blame you at all."

  "I guess, with what I can earn for father, I can pull through the year,I _must_ get back. I'm awfully obliged to you, Jim."

  "That'll do on that," said Hartley shortly; "you don't owe me anything.We'll finish delivery to-morrow, and be ready to pull out on Friday orSat."

  There was an acute pain in Albert's breast somewhere; he had notanalyzed his case at all, and did not now, but the idea of goingaffected him strongly. It had been so pleasant, that daily return to alovely girlish presence.

  "Yes, sir," Hartley was going on; "I'm going to just quietly leave abook on her center table. I don't know as it'll interest her much, butit'll show we appreciate the grub, and so on. By jinks! You don't seemto realize what a worker that woman is. Up five o'clock in themorning--By the way, you've been going around with the girl a gooddeal, and she's introduced you to some first-rate sales; now, if youwant 'o leave her a little something, make it a morocco copy, and chargeit to the firm."

  Albert knew that he meant well, but he couldn't, somehow, help sayingironically:

  "Thanks; but I guess _one_ copy of Blaine's 'Twenty Years' will beenough in the house, especially----"

  "Well, give her anything you please, and charge it up to the firm. Idon't insist on Blaine; only suggested that because----"

  "I guess I can stand the expense of my own."

  "I didn't say you couldn't, man! But _I_ want a hand in this thing.Don't be so turrible keen t' snap a feller up," said Hartley, turning onhim. "What the thunder is the matter of you anyway? I like the girl, andshe's been good to us all round; she tended you like an angel----"

  "There, there! That's enough o' that," put in Albert hastily. "F'r God'ssake don't whang away on that string forever, as if I didn't know it!"

  Hartley stared at him as he turned away.

  "Well, by jinks! What _is_ the matter o' you?"

  He was too busy to dwell upon it much, but concluded his partner washomesick.

  Albert was beginning to have a vague under-consciousness of his realfeeling toward the girl, but he fought off the acknowledgment of it aslong as possible. His mind moved in a circle, coming back to the onepoint ceaselessly--a dreary prospect, in which the slender girl-figurehad no place--and each time the prospect grew more intolerably blank,and the pain in his heart more acute and throbbing.

  When he faced her that night, after they had returned from a finalskating party down on the river, he was as far from a solution as ever.He had avoided all reference to their separation, and now he stood as aman might at the parting of two paths, saying: "I will not choose; I cannot choose. I will wait for some sign, some chance thing, to direct me."

  They stood opposite each other, each feeling that there was more to besaid; the girl tender, her eyes cast down, holding her hands to thefire; he shivering, but not with cold. He had a vague knowledge of thevast importance of the moment, and he hesitated to speak.

  "It's almost spring again, isn't it? And you've been here--" she pausedand looked up with a daring smile--"seems as if you'd been here always."

  It was about half past eight. Mrs. Welsh was setting her bread in thekitchen; they could hear her moving about. Hartley was downtownfinishing up his business.

  Albert's throat grew dry and his limbs trembled. His pause was ominous;the girl's smile died away as he took a seat without looking at her.

  "Well, Maud, I suppose--you know--we're going away to-morrow."

  "Oh, must you? But you'll come back?"

  "I don't expect to--I don't see how."

  "Oh, don't say that!" cried the girl, her face as white as silver, herclasped hands straining.

  "I must--I must!" he muttered, not looking at her, not daring to see herface.

  "Oh, what can I do--_we_ do, without you! I can't bear it!"

  She stopped and sank back into a chair, her breath coming heavily fromher twitching lips, the unnoticed tears falling from her staring,pitiful, wild, appealing eyes, her hands nervously twisting her gloves.

  There was a long silence. Each was undergoing a self-revelation; eachwas trying to face a future without the other.

  "I must go!" he repeated aimlessly, mechanically.

  The girl's heavy breathing deepened into a wild little moaning sound,inexpressibly pitiful, her hungry eyes fixed on his face. She gave wayfirst, and flung herself down upon her knees at his side, her handsseeking his neck.

  "Albert, I can't _live_ without you now! Take me with you! Don't leaveme!"

  He stooped suddenly and took her in his arms, raised her, and kissed herhair.

  "I didn't mean it, Maud; I'll never leave you--never! Don't cry!"

  She drew his face down to hers and kissed it, then turned her face tohis breast and laughed and cried. There was a silence; then joy andconfidence came back again.

  "I know now what you meant," the girl cried gayly, raising herself andlooking into his face; "you were trying to scare me, and make me showhow much I--cared for you--first!" There was a soft smile on her lipsand a tender light in her eyes. "But I don't mind it."

  "I guess I didn't know myself what I meant," he said, with a gravesmile.

  When Mrs. Welsh came in, they were sitting on the sofa, talking in lowvoices of their future. He was grave and subdued, while she was radiantwith love and hope. The future had no terrors for her. All plans weregood and successful now. But the boy unconsciously felt the gravity oflife somehow deepened by his love.

  "Why, Maud!" Mrs. Welsh exclaimed, "what is----"

  "O mother, I'm so happy--just as happy as a bird!" she cried, rushinginto her mother's arms.

  "Why, why!--what is it? You're crying, dear!"

  "No, I'm not; I'm laughing--see!"

  Mrs. Welsh turned her dim eyes on the girl, who shook the tears fromher lashes with the action of a bird shaking water from its wings. Sheseemed to shake off her trouble at the same moment. Mrs. Welshunderstood perfectly.

  "I'm very glad, too, dearie," she said simply, looking at the young manwith motherly love irradiating her worn face. Albert went to her, andshe kissed him, while the happy girl put her arms about them both in anecstatic hug.

  "_Now_ you've got a son, mother."

  "But I've lost a daughter--my first-born."

  "Oh, wait till you hear our plans!"

  "He's going to settle down here--aren't you, Albert?"

  Then they sat down, all three, and had a sweet, intimate talk of anhour, full of plans and hopes and confidences.

  At last he kissed the radiant girl good night and, going into his ownroom, sat down by the stove and, watching the flicker of the flamesthrough the chinks, pondered on the change that had come into his life.

  Already he sighed with the stress of care, the press of thought, whichcame upon him. The longing uneasiness of the boy had given place toanother unrest--the unrest of the man who must face the world in earnestnow, planning for food and shelter; and all plans included Maud.

  To go back to school was out of the question. To expect help from hisfather, overworked and burdened with debt, was impossible. He must goto work, and go to work to aid _her_. A living must be wrung from thistown. All the home and all the property Mrs. Welsh had were here, andwherever Maud went the mother must follow; she could not live withouther.

  He was in the midst of the turmoil when Hartley came in, humming the"Mulligan Guards."

  "In the dark, hey?"

  "Completely in the dark."

  "Well, light up, light up!"

  "I'm trying to."

  "What the deuce do you mean by that tone? What's been going on heresince my absence?"

  Albert did not reply, and Hartley shuffled about after a match, lightedthe lamp, threw his coat and hat in the corner, and then said:

  "Well, I've got everything straightened up. Been freezing out oldDaggett; the old skeesix has been promisin' f'r a week, and I just said,'Old man, I'll camp right down with you here till you fork over,' and hedid. By the way, everybody I talked wi
th to-day about leaving said,'What's Lohr going to do with that girl?' I told 'em I didn't know; doyou? It seems you've been thicker'n I supposed."

  "I'm going to marry her," said Albert calmly, but his voice soundedstrangely alien.

  "What's that?" yelled Hartley.

  "Sh! don't raise the neighbors. I'm going to marry her." He spokequietly, but there was a peculiar numbness creeping over him.

  "Well, by jinks! When? Say, looky here! Well, I swanny!" exclaimedHartley helplessly. "When?"

  "Right away; some time this summer--June, maybe."

  Hartley thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out hislegs, and stared at his friend in vast amaze.

  "You're givin' me guff!"

  "I'm in dead earnest."

  "I thought you was going through college all so fast?"

  "Well, I've made up my mind it ain't much use to try," replied Albertlistlessly.

  "What y' goin' t' do here, or are y' goin' t' take the girl away withyeh?"

  "She can't leave her mother. We'll run this boarding house for thepresent. I'll try for the principalship of the school here. Raff isgoing to resign, he says; if I can't get that, I'll get into a lawoffice here. Don't worry about me."

  "But why go into this so quick? Why not put it off fifteen or twentyyears?" asked Hartley, trying to get back to cheerful voice.

  "What would be the use? At the end of a year I'd be just about as pooras I am now."

  "Can't y'r father step in and help you?"

  "No. There are three boys and two girls, all younger than I, to belooked out for, and he has all he can carry. Besides, _she_ needs meright here and right now. Two delicate women struggling along; supposeone of 'em should fall sick? I tell you they need me, and if I can doanything to make life easy, or easier, I'm going t' do it. Besides," heended in a peculiar tone, "we don't feel as if we could live apart muchlonger."

  "But, great Scott! man, you can't----"

  "Now, hold on, Jim! I've thought this thing all over, and I've made upmy mind. It ain't any use to go on talking about it. What good would itdo me to go to school another year, come out without a dollar, and nomore fitted for earning a living for her than I am now? And, besides allthat, I couldn't draw a free breath thinking of her here workin' away tokeep things moving, liable at any minute to break down."

  Hartley gazed at him in despair, and with something like awe. It was atremendous transformation in the young, ambitious student. He felt in away responsible for the calamity, and that he ought to use every effortto bring the boy to his senses.

  Like most men in America, and especially Western men, he still clung tothe idea that a man was entirely responsible for his success or failurein life. He had not admitted that conditions of society might be soadverse that only men of most exceptional endowments, and willing andable to master many of the best and deepest and most sacred of theirinspirations and impulses, could succeed.

  Of the score of specially promising young fellows who had been with himat school, seventeen had dropped out and down. Most of them had marriedand gone back to farming, or to earn a precarious living in the small,dull towns where farmers trade and traders farm. Conditions were tooadverse; they simply weakened and slipped slowly back into dullness andan oxlike or else a fretful patience. Thinking of these men, andthinking their failure due to themselves alone, Hartley could not endurethe idea of his friend adding one more to the list of failures. Hesprang up at last.

  "Say, Bert, you might just as well hang y'rself, and done with it! Why,it's suicide! I can't allow it. I started in at college bravely, andfailed because I'd let it go too long. I couldn't study--couldn't getdown to it; but you--why, old man, I'd _bet_ on you!" He had a tremor inhis voice. "I hate like thunder to see you give up your plans. Say, youcan't afford to do this; it's too much to pay."

  "No, it ain't."

  "I say it is. What do you get, in----"

  "I think so much o' her that----"

  "Oh, nonsense! You'd get over this in a week."

  "Jim!" called Albert warningly, sharply.

  "All right," said Jim, in the tone of a man who felt that it was allwrong--"all right; but the time'll come when you'll wish I'd--You ain'tdoin' the girl enough good to make up for the harm you're doin'yourself." He broke off again, and said in a tone of peculiar meaning:"I'm done. I'm all through, and I c'n see you're through with JimHartley. Why, Bert, look here--No? All right!"

  "Darn curious," he muttered to himself, "that boy should get caught justat this time, and not with some one o' those girls in Marion. Well, it'snone o' my funeral," he ended, with a sigh; for it had stirred him tothe bottom of his sunny nature, after all. A dozen times, as he laythere beside his equally sleepless companion, he started to saysomething more in deprecation of the step, but each time stifled theopening word into a groan.

  It would not be true to say that love had come to Albert Lohr as arelaxing influence, but it had changed the direction of his energies soradically as to make his whole life seem weaker and lower. As long ashis love-dreams went out toward a vague and ideal woman, supposedlyhigher and grander than himself, he was spurred on to face the terriblesheer escarpment of social eminence; but when he met, by accident, theactual woman who was to inspire his future efforts, the difficulties hefaced took on solid reality.

  His aspirations fell to the earth, their wings clipped, and became,perforce, submissive beasts at the plow. The force that moved so muchof his thought was transformed into other energy. Whether it were a wisestep or not he did not know; he certainly knew it was right.

  The table was very gay at dinner next day. Maud was standing at thehighest point of her girlhood dreams. Her flushed face and shining eyesmade her seem almost a child, and Hartley wondered at her, and relenteda little in the face of such happiness. Her face was turned to Albert inan unconscious, beautiful way; she had nothing to conceal now.

  Mrs. Welsh was happy, too, but a little tearful in an unobtrusive way.Troutt had his jokes, of course, not very delicate, but of goodintention. In fact, they were as flags and trumpets to the young people.Mrs. Welsh had confided in him, telling him to be secret; but thefinesse of his joking could not fail to reveal everything he knew.

  But Maud cared little. She was filled with a sort of tender boldness;and Albert, in the delight of the hour, gave himself up wholly to atrust in the future and to the fragrance and music of love.

  "They're gay as larks now," thought Hartley to himself, as he joined inthe laughter; "but that won't help 'em any, ten years from now."

  He could hardly speak next day as he shook hands at the station with hisfriend.

  "Good-by, ol' man; I hope it'll come out all right, but I'm afraid--Butthere! I promised not to say anything about it. Good-by till we meet inCongress," he ended in a lamentable attempt at being funny.

  "Can't you come to the wedding, Jim? We've decided on June. You see,they need a man around the house, so we--You'll come, won't you, oldfellow? And don't mind my being a little crusty last night."

  "Oh, yes; I'll come," Jim said, in a tone which concealed a desire toutter one more protest.

  "It's no use; that ends him, sure's I'm a thief. He's jumped into a holeand pulled the hole in after him. A man can't marry a family like thatat his age, and pull out of it. He _may_, but I doubt it. Well, as Iremarked before, it's none o' my funeral so long as _he's_ satisfied."

  But he said it with a painful lump in his throat, and he could not bringhimself to feel that Albert's course was right, and felt himself to besomehow culpable in the case.