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THE STORY OF WAITSTILL BAXTER

by KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

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THE STORY OF WAITSTILL BAXTER

by KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

CONTENTS

SPRING

I. SACO WATER

II. THE SISTERS

III. DEACON BAXTER'S WIVES

IV. SOMETHING OF A HERO

V. PATIENCE AND IMPATIENCE

VI. A KISS

VII. WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

SUMMER

VIII. THE JOINER'S SHOP

IX. CEPHAS SPEAKS

X. ON TORY HILL

XI. A JUNE SUNDAY

XII. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER

XIII. HAYING TIME

XIV. UNCLE BART DISCOURSES

XV. IVORY'S MOTHER

XVI. LOCKED OUT

AUTUMN

XVII. A BRACE OF LOVERS

XVIII. A STATE O' MAINE PROPHET

XIX. AT THE BRICK STORE

XX. THE ROD THAT BLOSSOMED

XXI. LOIS BURIES HER DEAD

XXII. HARVEST-TIME

XXIII. AUNT ABBY'S WINDOW

XXIV. PHOEBE TRIUMPHS

XXV. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

WINTER

XXVI. A WEDDING-RING

XXVII. THE CONFESSIONAL

XXVIII.PATTY IS SHOWN THE DOOR

XXIX. WAITSTILL SPEAKS HER MIND

XXX. A CLASH OF WILLS

XXXI. SENTRY DUTY

XXXII. THE HOUSE OF AARON

XXXIII.AARON'S ROD

XXXIV. THE DEACON'S WATERLOO

XXXV. TWO HEAVENS

THE STORY OF WAITSTILL BAXTER

SPRING

THE STORY OF WAITSTILL BAXTER

I

SACO WATER

FAR, far up, in the bosom of New Hampshire's granite hills, the

Saco has its birth. As the mountain rill gathers strength it

takes

"Through Bartlett's vales its tuneful way,

Or hides in Conway's fragrant brakes,

Retreating from the glare of day."

Now it leaves the mountains and flows through "green Fryeburg's

woods and farms." In the course of its frequent turns and twists

and bends, it meets with many another stream, and sends it,

fuller and stronger, along its rejoicing way. When it has

journeyed more than a hundred miles and is nearing the ocean, it

greets the Great Ossipee River and accepts its crystal tribute.

Then, in its turn, the Little Ossipee joins forces, and the

river, now a splendid stream, flows onward to Bonny Eagle, to

Moderation and to Salmon Falls, where it dashes over the dam like

a young Niagara and hurtles, in a foamy torrent, through the

ragged defile cut between lofty banks of solid rock.

Widening out placidly for a moment's rest in the sunny reaches

near Pleasant Point, it gathers itself for a new plunge at Union

Falls, after which it speedily merges itself in the bay and is

fresh water no more.

At one of the falls on the Saco, the two little hamlets of

Edgewood and Riverboro nestle together at the bridge and make one

village. The stream is a wonder of beauty just here; a mirror of

placid loveliness above the dam, a tawny, roaring wonder at the

fall, and a mad, white-flecked torrent as it dashes on its way to

the ocean.

The river has seen strange sights in its time, though the history

of these two tiny villages is quite unknown to the great world

outside. They have been born, waxed strong, and fallen almost to

decay while Saco Water has tumbled over the rocks and spent

itself in its impetuous journey to the sea.

It remembers the yellow-moccasined Sokokis as they issued from

the Indian Cellar and carried their birchen canoes along the

wooded shore. It was in those years that the silver-skinned

salmon leaped in its crystal depths; the otter and the beaver

crept with sleek wet skins upon its shore; and the brown deer

came down to quench his thirst at its brink while at twilight the

stealthy forms of bear and panther and wolf were mirrored in its

glassy surface.

Time sped; men chained the river's turbulent forces and ordered

it to grind at the mill. Then houses and barns appeared along its

banks, bridges were built, orchards planted, forests changed into

farms, white-painted meetinghouses gleamed through the trees and

distant bells rang from their steeples on quiet Sunday mornings.

All at once myriads of great hewn logs vexed its downward course,

slender logs linked together in long rafts, and huge logs

drifting down singly or in pairs. Men appeared, running hither

and thither like ants, and going through mysterious operations

the reason for which the river could never guess: but the

mill-wheels turned, the great saws buzzed, the smoke from tavern

chimneys rose in the air, and the rattle and clatter of

stage-coaches resounded along the road.

Now children paddled with bare feet in the river's sandy coves

and shallows, and lovers sat on its alder-shaded banks and

exchanged their vows just where the shuffling bear was wont to

come down and drink.

The Saco could remember the "cold year," when there was a black

frost every month of the twelve, and though almost all the corn

along its shores shrivelled on the stalk, there were two farms

where the vapor from the river saved the crops, and all the seed

for the next season came from the favored spot, to be known as

"Egypt" from that day henceforward.

Strange, complex things now began to happen, and the river played

its own part in some of these, for there were disastrous

freshets, the sudden breaking-up of great jams of logs, and the

drowning of men who were engulfed in the dark whirlpool below the

rapids.

Caravans, with menageries of wild beasts, crossed the bridge now

every year. An infuriated elephant lifted the side of the old

Edgewood Tavern barn, and the wild laughter of the roistering

rum-drinkers who were tantalizing the animals floated down to the

river's edge. The roar of a lion, tearing and chewing the arm of

one of the bystanders, and the cheers of the throng when a plucky

captain of the local militia thrust a stake down the beast's

throat,--these sounds displaced the former war-whoop of the

Indians and the ring of the axe in the virgin forests along the

shores.

There were days, and moonlight nights, too, when strange sights

and sounds of quite another nature could have been noted by the

river as it flowed under the bridge that united the two little

villages.

Issuing from the door of the Riverboro Town House, and winding

down the hill, through the long row of teams and carriages that

lined the roadside, came a procession of singing men and singing

women. Convinced of sin, but entranced with promised pardon;

spiritually intoxicated by the glowing eloquence of the

latter-day prophet they were worshipping, the band of

"Cochranites "marched down the dusty road and across the bridge,

dancing, swaying, waving handkerchiefs, and shouting hosannas.

God watched, and listened, knowing that there would be other

prophets, true and false, in the days to come, and other

processions following them; and the river watched and listened

too, as it hurried on towards the sea with its story of the

present that was sometime to be the history of the past.

When Jacob Cochrane was leading his overwrought, ecstatic band

across the river, Waitstill Baxter, then a child, was watching

the strange, noisy company from the window of a little brick

dwelling on the top of the Town-House Hill.

Her stepmother stood beside her with a young baby in her arms,

but when she saw what held the gaze of the child she drew her

away, saying: "We mustn't look, Waitstill; your father don't like

it! "

"Who was the big man at the head, mother? "

"His name is Jacob Cochrane, but you mustn't think or talk about

him; he is very wicked."

"He doesn't look any wickeder than the others," said the child.

"Who was the man that fell down in the road, mother, and the

woman that knelt and prayed over him? Why did he fall, and why

did she pray, mother?"

"That was Master Aaron Boynton, the schoolmaster, and his wife.

He only made believe to fall down, as the Cochranites do; the way

they carry on is a disgrace to the village, and that's the reason

your father won't let us look at them."

"I played with a nice boy over to Boynton's," mused the child.

"That was Ivory, their only child. He is a good little fellow,

but his mother and father will spoil him with their crazy ways."

"I hope nothing will happen to him, for I love him," said the

child gravely. "He showed me a humming-bird's nest, the first

ever I saw, and the littlest!"

"Don't talk about loving him," chided the woman. "If your father

should hear you, he'd send you to bed without your porridge."

"Father couldn't hear me, for I never speak when he's at home,"

said grave little Waitstill. "And I'm used to going to bed

without my porridge."

II

THE SISTERS

THE river was still running under the bridge, but the current of

time had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight, though not out of

mind, for he had left here and there a disciple to preach his

strange and uncertain doctrine. Waitstill, the child who never

spoke in her father's presence, was a young woman now, the

mistress of the house; the stepmother was dead, and the baby a

girl of seventeen.

The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only a little

shabbier. Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him

every morning at seven o'clock and, without any such cheerful

conventions as good-byes to his girls, walked down to the bridge

to open his store.

The day, properly speaking, had opened when Waitstill and

Patience had left their beds at dawn, built the fire, fed the

hens and turkeys, and prepared the breakfast, while the Deacon

was graining the horse and milking the cows. Such minor "chores"

as carrying water from the well, splitting kindling, chopping

pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen, were left to Waitstill,

who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had never been unwise

enough to mention the fact in her father's presence. The almanac

day, however, which opened with sunrise, had nothing to do with

the real human day, which always began when Mr. Baxter slammed

the door behind him, and reached its high noon of delight when he

disappeared from view.

"He's opening the store shutters!" chanted Patience from the

heights of a kitchen chair by the window. "Now he's taken his

cane and beaten off the Boynton puppy that was sitting on the

steps as usual,--I don't mean Ivory's dog" (here the girl gave a

quick glance at her sister)," but Rodman's little yellow cur.

Rodman must have come down to the bridge on some errand for

Ivory. Isn't it odd, when that dog has all the other store steps

to sit upon, he should choose father's, when every bone in his

body must tell him how father hates him and the whole Boynton

family."

"Father has no real cause that I ever heard of; but some dogs

never know when they've had enough beating, nor some people

either." said Waitstill, speaking from the pantry.

"Don't be gloomy when it's my birthday, Sis!--Now he's opened the

door and kicked the cat! All is ready for business at the Baxter

store."

"I wish you weren't quite so free with your tongue, Patty."

"Somebody must talk," retorted the girl, jumping down from the

chair and shaking back her mop of red-gold curls. "I'll put this

hateful, childish, round comb in and out just once more, then it

will disappear forever. This very after-noon up goes my hair!"

"You know it will be of no use unless you braid it very plainly

and neatly. Father will take notice and make you smooth it down."

"Father hasn't looked me square in the face for years; besides,

my hair won't braid, and nothing can make it quite plain and

neat, thank goodness! Let us be thankful for small mercies, as

Jed Morrill said when the lightning struck his mother-in-law and

skipped his wife."

"Patty, I will not permit you to repeat those tavern stories;

they are not seemly on the lips of a girl!" And Waitstill came

out of the pantry with a shadow of disapproval in her eyes and in

her voice.

Patty flung her arms round her sister tempestuously, and pulled

out the waves of her hair so that it softened her face.--"I'll be

good," she said, "and oh, Waity! let's invent some sort of cheap

happiness for to-day! I shall never be seventeen again and we

have so many troubles!

Let's put one of the cows in the horse's stall and see what will

happen! Or let's spread up our beds with the head at the foot and

put the chest of drawers on the other side of the room, or let's

make candy! Do you think father would miss the molasses if we

only use a cupful? Couldn't we strain the milk, but leave the

churning and the dishes for an hour or two, just once? If you say

'yes' I can think of something wonderful to do!"

"What is it?" asked Waitstill, relenting at the sight of the

girl's eager, roguish face.

"PIERCE MY EARS!" cried Patty. "Say you will!"

"Oh! Patty, Patty, I am afraid you are given over to vanity! I

daren't let you wear eardrops without father's permission."

"Why not? Lots of church members wear them, so it can't be a

mortal sin. Father is against all adornments, but that's because

he doesn't want to buy them. You've always said I should have

your mother's coral pendants when I was old enough. Here I am,

seventeen today, and Dr. Perry says I am already a well-favored

young woman. I can pull my hair over my ears for a few days and

when the holes are all made and healed, even father cannot make

me fill them up again. Besides, I'll never wear the earrings at

home!"

"Oh! my dear, my dear!" sighed Waitstill, with a half-sob in her

voice. "If only I was wise enough to know how we could keep from

these little deceits, yet have any liberty or comfort in life!"

"We can't! The Lord couldn't expect us to bear all that we bear,"

exclaimed Patty, "without our trying once in a while to have a

good time in our own way. We never do a thing that we are ashamed

of, or that other girls don't do every day in the week; only our

pleasures always have to be taken behind father's back. It's only

me that's ever wrong, anyway, for you are always an angel. It's a

burning shame and you only twenty-one yourself. I'll pierce your

ears if you say so, and let you wear your own coral drops!"

"No, Patty; I've outgrown those longings years ago. When your

mother died and left father and you and the house to me, my

girlhood died, too, though I was only thirteen."

"It was only your inside girlhood that died," insisted Patty

stoutly, "The outside is as fresh as the paint on Uncle Barty's

new ell. You've got the loveliest eyes and hair in Riverboro, and

you know it; besides, Ivory Boynton would tell you so if you

didn't. Come and bore my ears, there's a darling!"

"Ivory Boynton never speaks a word of my looks, nor a word that

father and all the world mightn't hear." And Waitstill flushed.

"Then it's because he's shy and silent and has so many troubles

of his own that he doesn't dare say anything. When my hair is

once up and the coral pendants are swinging in my ears, I shall

expect to hear something about MY looks, I can tell you. Waity,

after all, though we never have what we want to eat, and never a

decent dress to our backs, nor a young man to cross the

threshold, I wouldn't change places with Ivory Boynton, would

you?" Here Patty swept the hearth vigorously with a turkey wing

and added a few corncobs to the fire.

Waitstill paused a moment in her task of bread-kneading. "Well,"

she answered critically, "at least we know where our father is."

"We do, indeed! We also know that he is thoroughly alive!"

"And though people do talk about him, they can't say the things

they say of Master Aaron Boynton. I don't believe father would

ever run away and desert us."

"I fear not," said Patty. "I wish the angels would put the idea

into his head, though, of course, it wouldn't be the angels;

they'd be above it. It would have to be the 'Old Driver,' as Jed

Morrill calls the Evil One; but whoever did it, the result would

be the same: we should be deserted, and live happily ever after.

Oh! to be deserted, and left with you alone on this hilltop, what

joy it would be!"

Waitstill frowned, but did not interfere further with Patty's

intemperate speech. She knew that she was simply serving as an

escape-valve, and that after the steam was "let off" she would be

more rational.

"Of course, we are motherless," continued Patty wistfully, "but

poor Ivory is worse than motherless."

"No, not worse, Patty," said Waitstill, taking the bread-board

and moving towards the closet. "Ivory loves his mother and she

loves him, with all the mind she has left! She has the best blood

of New England flowing in her veins, and I suppose it was a great

come down for her to marry Aaron Boynton, clever and gifted

though he was. Now Ivory has to protect her, poor, daft, innocent

creature, and hide her away from the gossip of the village. He is

surely the best of sons, Ivory Boynton!"

"She is a terrible care for him, and like to spoil his life,"

said Patty.

"There are cares that swell the heart and make it bigger and

warmer, Patty, just as there are cares that shrivel it and leave

it tired and cold.

Love lightens Ivory's afflictions but that is something you and I

have to do without, so it seems."

"I suppose little Rodman is some comfort to the Boyntons, even if

he is only ten." Patty suggested.

"No doubt. He's a good little fellow, and though it's rather hard

for Ivory to be burdened for these last five years with the

support of a child who's no nearer kin than a cousin, still he's

of use, minding Mrs. Boynton and the house when Ivory's away.

The school-teacher says he is wonderful at his books and likely

to be a great credit to the Boyntons some day or other."

"You've forgot to name our one great blessing, Waity, and I

believe, anyway, you're talking to keep my mind off the

earrings!"

"You mean we've each other? No, Patty, I never forget that, day

or night. 'Tis that makes me willing to bear any burden father

chooses to put upon us.--Now the bread is set, but I don't

believe I have the courage to put a needle into your tender

flesh, Patty; I really don't."

"Nonsense! I've got the waxed silk all ready and chosen the

right-sized needle and I'll promise not to jump or screech more

than I can help. We'll make a tiny lead-pencil dot right in the

middle of the lobe, then you place the needle on it, shut your

eyes, and JAB HARD! I expect to faint, but when I 'come to,' we

can decide which of us will pull the needle through to the other

side. Probably it will be you, I'm such a coward. If it hurts

dreadfully, I'll have only one pierced to-day and take the other

to-morrow; and if it hurts very dreadfully, perhaps I'll go

through life with one ear-ring. Aunt Abby Cole will say it's just

odd enough to suit me!"

"You'll never go through life with one tongue at the rate you use

it now," chided Waitstill, "for it will never last you. Come,

we'll take the work-basket and go out in the barn where no one

will see or hear us."

"Goody, goody! Come along!" and Patty clapped her hands in

triumph. "Have you got the pencil and the needle and the waxed

silk? Then bring the camphor bottle to revive me, and the coral

pendants, too, just to give me courage. Hurry up! It's ten

o'clock. I was born at sun-rise, so I'm 'going on' eighteen and

can't waste any time!"

III

DEACON BAXTER'S WIVES

FOXWELL BAXTER was ordinarily called "Old Foxy" by the boys of

the district, and also, it is to be feared, by the men gathered

for evening conference at the various taverns, or at one of the

rival village stores.

He had a small farm of fifteen or twenty acres, with a pasture, a

wood lot, and a hay-field, but the principal source of his income

came from trading. His sign bore the usual legend: "WEST INDIA

GOODS AND GROCERIES," and probably the most profitable articles

in his stock were rum, molasses, sugar, and tobacco; but there

were chests of rice, tea, coffee, and spices, barrels of pork in

brine, as well as piles of cotton and woolen cloth on the shelves

above the counters. His shop window, seldom dusted or set in

order, held a few clay pipes, some glass jars of peppermint or

sassafras lozenges, black licorice, stick-candy, and sugar

gooseberries. These dainties were seldom renewed, for it was only

a very bold child, or one with an ungovernable appetite for

sweets, who would have spent his penny at Foxy Baxter's store.

He was thought a sharp and shrewd trader, but his honesty was

never questioned; indeed, the only trait in his character that

ever came up for general discussion was his extraordinary,

unbelievable, colossal meanness. This so eclipsed every other

passion in the man, and loomed so bulkily and insistently in the

foreground, that had he cherished a second vice no one would have

observed it, and if he really did possess a casual virtue, it

could scarcely have reared its head in such ugly company.

It might be said, to defend the fair name of the Church, that Mr.

Baxter's deaconhood did not include very active service in the

courts of the Lord. He had "experienced religion" at fifteen and

made profession of his faith, but all well-brought-up boys and

girls did the same in those days; their parents saw to that! If

change of conviction or backsliding occurred later on, that was

not their business! At the ripe age of twenty-five he was

selected to fill a vacancy and became a deacon, thinking it might

be good for trade, as it was, for some years. He was very active

at the time of the "Cochrane craze," since any defence of the

creed that included lively detective work and incessant spying on

his neighbors was particularly in his line; but for many years

now, though he had been regular in attendance at church, he had

never officiated at communion, and his diaconal services had

gradually lapsed into the passing of the contribution-box, a task

of which he never wearied; it was such a keen pleasure to make

other people yield their pennies for a good cause, without adding

any of his own!

Deacon Baxter had now been a widower for some years and the

community had almost relinquished the idea of his seeking a

fourth wife. This was a matter of some regret, for there was a

general feeling that it would be a good thing for the Baxter

girls to have some one to help with the housework and act as a

buffer between them and their grim and irascible parent. As for

the women of the village, they were mortified that the Deacon had

been able to secure three wives, and refused to believe that the

universe held anywhere a creature benighted enough to become his

fourth.

The first, be it said, was a mere ignorant girl, and he a

beardless youth of twenty, who may not have shown his true

qualities so early in life. She bore him two sons, and it was a

matter of comment at the time that she called them, respectively,

Job and Moses, hoping that the endurance and meekness connected

with these names might somehow help them in their future

relations with their father. Pneumonia, coupled with profound

discouragement, carried her off in a few years to make room for

the second wife, Waitstill's mother, who was of different fibre

and greatly his superior. She was a fine, handsome girl, the

orphan daughter of up-country gentle-folks, who had died when she

was eighteen, leaving her alone in the world and penniless.

Baxter, after a few days' acquaintance, drove into the dooryard

of the house where she was a visitor and, showing her his two

curly-headed boys, suddenly asked her to come and be their

stepmother. She assented, partly because she had nothing else to

do with her existence, so far as she could see, and also because

she fell in love with the children at first sight and forgot, as

girls will, that it was their father whom she was marrying.

She was as plucky and clever and spirited as she was handsome,

and she made a brave fight of it with Foxy; long enough to bring

a daughter into the world, to name her Waitstill, and start her a

little way on her life journey,--then she, too, gave up the

struggle and died. Typhoid fever it was, combined with complete

loss of illusions, and a kind of despairing rage at having made

so complete a failure of her existence.

The next year, Mr. Baxter, being unusually busy, offered a man a

good young heifer if he would jog about the country a little and

pick him up a housekeeper; a likely woman who would, if she

proved energetic, economical, and amiable, be eventually raised

to the proud position of his wife. If she was young, healthy,

smart, tidy, capable, and a good manager, able to milk the cows,

harness the horse, and make good butter, he would give a dollar

and a half a week. The woman was found, and, incredible as it may

seem, she said "yes" when the Deacon (whose ardor was kindled at

having paid three months' wages) proposed a speedy marriage. The

two boys by this time had reached the age of discretion, and one

of them evinced the fact by promptly running away to parts

unknown, never to be heard from afterwards; while the other, a

reckless and unhappy lad, was drowned while running on the logs

in the river. Old Foxy showed little outward sign of his loss,

though he had brought the boys into the world solely with the

view of having one of them work on the farm and the other in the

store.

His third wife, the one originally secured for a housekeeper,

bore him a girl, very much to his disgust, a girl named Patience,

and great was Waitstill's delight at this addition to the dull

household. The mother was a timid, colorless, docile creature,

but Patience nevertheless was a sparkling, bright-eyed baby, who

speedily became the very centre of the universe to the older

child. So the months and years wore on, drearily enough, until,

when Patience was nine, the third Mrs. Baxter succumbed after the

manner of her predecessors, and slipped away from a life that had

grown intolerable. The trouble was diagnosed as "liver

complaint," but scarcity of proper food, no new frocks or kind

words, hard work, and continual bullying may possibly have been

contributory causes. Dr. Perry thought so, for he had witnessed

three most contented deaths in the Baxter house. The ladies were

all members of the church and had presumably made their peace

with God, but the good doctor fancied that their pleasure in

joining the angels was mild compared with their relief at parting

with the Deacon.

"I know I hadn't ought to put the care on you, Waitstill, and you

only thirteen," poor Mrs. Baxter sighed, as the young girl was

watching with her one night when the end seemed drawing near.

"I've made out to live till now when Patience is old enough to

dress herself and help round, but I'm all beat out and can't try

any more."

"Do you mean I'm to take your place, be a mother to Patience, and

keep house, and everything?" asked Waitstill quaveringly.

"I don't see but you'll have to, unless your father marries

again. He'll never hire help, you know that!"

"I won't have another mother in this house," flashed the girl.

"There's been three here and that's enough! If he brings anybody

home, I'll take Patience and run away, as Job did; or if he

leaves me alone, I'll wash and iron and scrub and cook till

Patience grows up, and then we'll go off together and hide

somewhere. I'm fourteen; oh, mother, how soon could I be married

and take Patience to live with me? Do you think anybody will ever

want me?"

"Don't marry for a home, Waitstill! Your own mother did that, and

so did I, and we were both punished for it! You've been a great

help and I've had a sight of comfort out of the baby, but I

wouldn't go through it again, not even for her! You're real smart

and capable for your age and you've done your full share of the

work every day, even when you were at school. You can get along

all right."

"I don't know how I'm going to do everything alone," said the

girl, forcing back her tears. "You've always made the brown

bread, and mine will never suit father. I suppose I can wash, but

don't know how to iron starched clothes, nor make pickles, and

oh! I can never kill a rooster, mother, it's no use to ask me to!

I'm not big enough to be the head of the family."

Mrs. Baxter turned her pale, tired face away from Waitstill's

appealing eyes.

"I know," she said faintly. "I hate to leave you to bear the

brunt alone, but I must! . . . Take good care of Patience and

don't let her get into trouble. . . . You won't, will you?"

"I'll be careful," promised Waitstill, sobbing quietly; "I'll do

my best."

"You've got more courage than ever I had; don't you s'pose you

can stiffen up and defend yourself a little mite? . . . Your

father'd ought to be opposed, for his own good . . . but I've

never seen anybody that dared do it." Then, after a pause, she

said with a flash of spirit,--"Anyhow, Waitstill, he's your

father after all. He's no blood relation of mine, and I can't

stand him another day; that's the reason I'm willing to die."

IV

SOMETHING OF A HERO

IVORY BOYNTON lifted the bars that divided his land from the

highroad and walked slowly toward the house. It was April, but

there were still patches of snow here and there, fast melting

under a drizzling rain. It was a gray world, a bleak,

black-and-brown world, above and below. The sky was leaden; the

road and the footpath were deep in a muddy ooze flecked with

white. The tree-trunks, black, with bare branches, were lined

against the gray sky; nevertheless, spring had been on the way

for a week, and a few sunny days would bring the yearly miracle

for which all hearts were longing.

Ivory was season-wise and his quick eye had caught many a sign as

he walked through the woods from his schoolhouse. A new and

different color haunted the tree-tops, and one had only to look

closely at the elm buds to see that they were beginning to swell.

Some fat robins had been sunning about in the school-yard at

noon, and sparrows had been chirping and twittering on the

fence-rails. Yes, the winter was over, and Ivory was glad, for it

had meant no coasting and -skating and sleighing for him, but

long walks in deep snow or slush; long evenings, good for study,

but short days, and greater loneliness for his mother. He could

see her now as he neared the house, standing in the open doorway,

her hand shading her eyes, watching, always watching, for some

one who never came.

"Spring is on the way, mother, but it isn't here yet, so don't

stand there in the rain," he called. "Look at the nosegay I

gathered for you as I came through the woods. Here are pussy

willows and red maple blossoms and Mayflowers, would you believe

it?"

Lois Boynton took the handful of budding things and sniffed their

fragrance.

"You're late to-night, Ivory," she said. "Rod wanted his supper

early so that he could go off to singing-school, but I kept

something warm for you, and I'll make you a fresh cup of tea."

Ivory went into the little shed room off the kitchen, changed his

muddy boots for slippers, and made himself generally tidy; then

he came back to the living-room bringing a pine knot which he

flung on the fire, waking it to a brilliant flame.

"We can be as lavish as we like with the stumps now, mother, for

spring is coming," he said, as he sat down to his meal.

"I've been looking out more than usual this afternoon," she

replied. "There's hardly any snow left, and though the walking is

so bad I've been rather expecting your father before night. You

remember he said, when he went away in January, that he should be

back before the Mayflowers bloomed?"

It did not do any good to say: "Yes, mother, but the Mayflowers

have bloomed ten times since father went away." He had tried

that, gently and persistently when first her mind began to be

confused from long grief and hurt love, stricken pride and sick

suspense.

Instead of that, Ivory turned the subject cheerily, saying,

"Well, we're sure of a good season, I think. There's been a grand

snow-fall, and that, they say, is the poor man's manure. Rod and

I will put in more corn and potatoes this year. I shan't have to

work single-handed very long, for he is growing to be quite a

farmer."

"Your father was very fond of green corn, but he never cared for

potatoes," Mrs. Boynton said, vaguely, taking up her knitting. "I

always had great pride in my cooking, but I could never get your

father to relish my potatoes."

"Well, his son does, anyway," Ivory replied, helping himself

plentifully from a dish that held one of his mother's best

concoctions, potatoes minced fine and put together into the

spider with thin bits of pork and all browned together.

"I saw the Baxter girls to-day, mother," he continued, not

because he hoped she would give any heed to what he said, but

from the sheer longing for companionship. "The Deacon drove off

with Lawyer Wilson, who wanted him to give testimony in some case

or other down in Milltown. The minute Patty saw him going up Saco

Hill, she harnessed the old starved Baxter mare and the girls

started over to the Lower Corner to see some friends. It seems

it's Patty's birthday and they were celebrating. I met them just

as they were coming back and helped them lift the rickety wagon

out of the mud; they were stuck in it up to the hubs of the

wheels. I advised them to walk up the Town-House Hill if they

ever expected to get the horse home."

Town-House Hill!" said Ivory's mother, dropping her knitting.

"That was where we had such wonderful meetings! Truly the Lord

was present in our midst, and oh, Ivory! the visions we saw in

that place when Jacob Cochrane first unfolded his gospel to us.

Was ever such a man!"

"Probably not, mother," remarked Ivory dryly.

"You were speaking of the Baxters. I remember their home, and the

little girl who used to stand in the gateway and watch when we

came out of meeting. There was a baby, too; isn't there a Baxter

baby, Ivory?"

"She didn't stay a baby; she is seventeen years old to-day,

mother."

"You surprise me, but children do grow very fast. She had a

strange name, but I cannot recall it."

"Her name is Patience, but nobody but her father calls her

anything but Patty, which suits her much better."

"No, the name wasn't Patience, not the one I mean."

"The older sister is Waitstill, perhaps you mean her?"-and Ivory

sat down by the fire with his book and his pipe.

"Waitstill! Waitstill! that is it! Such a beautiful name!"

"She's a beautiful girl."

"Waitstill! 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' 'Wait, I

say, on the Lord and He will give thee the desires of thy

heart.'--Those were wonderful days, when we were caught up out of

the body and mingled freely in the spirit world." Mrs. Boynton

was now fully started on the topic that absorbed her mind and

Ivory could do nothing but let her tell the story that she had

told him a hundred times.

"I remember when first we heard Jacob Cochrane speak." (This was

her usual way of beginning.) "Your father was a preacher, as you

know, Ivory, but you will never know what a wonderful preacher he

was. My grandfather, being a fine gentleman, and a governor,

would not give his consent to my marriage, but I never regretted

it, never! Your father saw Elder Cochrane at a revival meeting of

the Free Will Baptists in Scarboro', and was much impressed with

him. A few days later we went to the funeral of a child in the

same neighborhood. No one who was there could ever forget it. The

minister had made his long prayer when a man suddenly entered the

room, came towards the coffin, and placed his hand on the child's

forehead. The room, in an instant, was as still as the death that

had called us together. The stranger was tall and of commanding

presence; his eyes pierced our very hearts, and his marvellous

voice penetrated to depths in our souls that had never been

reached before."

"Was he a better speaker than my father?" asked Ivory, who

dreaded his mother's hours of complete silence even more than her

periods of reminiscence.

"He spoke as if the Lord of Hosts had given him inspiration; as

if the angels were pouring words into his mouth just for him to

utter," replied Mrs. Boynton. "Your father was spell-bound, and I

only less so. When he ceased speaking, the child's mother crossed

the room, and swaying to and fro, fell at his feet, sobbing and

wailing and imploring God to forgive her sins.

They carried her upstairs, and when we looked about after the

confusion and excitement the stranger had vanished. But we found

him again! As Elder Cochrane said: 'The prophet of the Lord can

never be hid; no darkness is thick enough to cover him!' There

was a six weeks' revival meeting in North Saco where three

hundred souls were converted, and your father and I were among

them. We had fancied ourselves true believers for years, but

Jacob Cochrane unstopped our ears so that we could hear the

truths revealed to him by the Almighty!-It was all so simple and

easy at the beginning, but it grew hard and grievous afterward;

hard to keep the path, I mean. I never quite knew whether God was

angry with me for backsliding at the end, but I could not always

accept the revelations that Elder Cochrane and your father had!"

Lois Boynton's hands were now quietly folded over the knitting

that lay forgotten in her lap, but her low, thrilling voice had a

note in it that did not belong wholly to earth.

There was a long silence; one of many long silences at the

Boynton fireside, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the

purring of the cat, and the clicking of Mrs. Boynton's needles,

as, her paroxysm of reminiscence over, she knitted ceaselessly,

with her eyes on the window or the door.

"It's about time for Rod to be coming back, isn't it? " asked

Ivory.

"He ought to be here soon, but perhaps he is gone for good; it

may be that he thinks he has made us a long enough visit. I don't

know whether your father will like the boy when he comes home. He

never did fancy company in the house."

Ivory looked up in astonishment from his Greek grammar. This was

an entirely new turn of his mother's mind. Often when she was

more than usually confused he would try to clear the cobwebs from

her brain by gently questioning her until she brought herself

back to a clearer understanding of her own thought. Thus far her

vagaries had never made her unjust to any human creature; she was

uniformly sweet and gentle in speech and demeanor.

"Why do you talk of Rod's visiting us when he is one of the

family?" Ivory asked quietly.

"Is he one of the family? I didn't know it," replied his mother

absently.

"Look at me, mother, straight in the eye; that's right: now

listen, dear, to what I say."

Mrs. Boynton's hair that had been in her youth like an aureole of

corn-silk was now a strange yellow-white, and her blue eyes

looked out from her pale face with a helpless appeal.

"You and I were living alone here after father went away," Ivory

began. "I was a little boy, you know. You and father had saved

something, there was the farm, you worked like a slave, I helped,

and we lived, somehow, do you remember?"

"I do, indeed! It was cold and the neighbors were cruel. Jacob

Cochrane had gone away and his disciples were not always true to

him. When the magnetism of his presence was withdrawn, they could

not follow all his revelations, and they forgot how he had

awakened their spiritual life at the first of his preaching. Your

father was always a stanch believer, but when he started on his

mission and went to Parsonsfield to help Elder Cochrane in his

meetings, the neighbors began to criticize him. They doubted him.

You were too young to realize it, but I did, and it almost broke

my heart."

"I was nearly twelve years old; do you think I escaped all the

gossip, mother?"

"You never spoke of it to me, Ivory."

"No, there is much that I never spoke of to you, mother, but

sometime when you grow stronger and your memory is better we will

talk together.--Do you remember the winter, long after father

went away, that Parson Lane sent me to Fairfield Academy to get

enough Greek and Latin to make me a schoolmaster?"

"Yes," she answered uncertainly.

"Don't you remember I got a free ride down-river one Friday and

came home for Sunday, just to surprise you? And when I got here I

found you ill in bed, with Mrs. Mason and Dr. Perry taking care

of you. You could not speak, you were so ill, but they told me

you had been up in New Hampshire to see your sister, that she had

died, and that you had brought back her boy, who was only four

years old. That was Rod. I took him into bed with me that night,

poor, homesick little fellow, and, as you know, mother, he's

never left us since."

"I didn't remember I had a sister. Is she dead, Ivory? " asked

Mrs. Boynton vaguely.

"If she were not dead, do you suppose you would have kept Rodman

with us when we hadn't bread enough for our own two mouths,

mother?" questioned Ivory patiently.

"No, of course not. I can't think how I can be so forgetful. It's

worse sometimes than others. It 's worse to-day because I knew

the Mayflowers were blooming and that reminded me it was time for

your father to come home; you must forgive me, dear, and will you

excuse me if I sit in the kitchen awhile? The window by the side

door looks out towards the road, and if I put a candle on the

sill it shines quite a distance. The lane is such a long one, and

your father was always a sad stumbler in the dark! I shouldn't

like him to think I wasn't looking for him when he's been gone

since January."

Ivory's pipe went out, and his book slipped from his knee

unnoticed.

His mother was more confused than usual, but she always was when

spring came to remind her of her husband's promise. Somehow, well

used as he was to her mental wanderings, they made him uneasy

to-night. His father had left home on a fancied mission, a duty

he believed to be a revelation given by God through Jacob

Cochrane. The farm did not miss him much at first, Ivory

reflected bitterly, for since his fanatical espousal of

Cochranism his father's interest in such mundane matters as

household expenses had diminished month by month until they had

no meaning for him at all. Letters to wife and boy had come at

first, but after six months--during which he had written from

many places, continually deferring the date of his return-they

had ceased altogether. The rest was silence. Rumors of his

presence here or there came from time to time, but though Parson

Lane and Dr. Perry did their best, none of them were ever

substantiated.

Where had those years of wandering been passed, and had they all

been given even to an imaginary and fantastic service of God? Was

his father dead? If he were alive, what could keep him from

writing? Nothing but a very strong reason, or a very wrong one,

so his son thought, at times.

Since Ivory had grown to man's estate, he understood that in the

later days of Cochrane's preaching, his "visions,"

"inspirations," and "revelations" concerning the marriage bond

were a trifle startling from the old-fashioned, orthodox point of

view. His most advanced disciples were to hold themselves in

readiness to renounce their former vows and seek "spiritual

consorts," sometimes according to his advice, sometimes as their

inclinations prompted.

Had Aaron Boynton forsaken, willingly, the wife of his youth, the

mother of his boy? If so, he must have realized to what straits

he was subjecting them. Ivory had not forgotten those first few

years of grinding poverty, anxiety, and suspense. His mother's

mind had stood the strain bravely, but it gave way at last; not,

however, until that fatal winter journey to New Hampshire, when

cold, exposure, and fatigue did their worst for her weak body.

Religious enthusiast, exalted and impressionable, a natural

mystic, she had probably always been, far more so in temperament,

indeed, than her husband; but although she left home on that

journey a frail and heartsick woman, she returned a different

creature altogether, blurred and confused in mind, with clouded

memory and irrational fancies.

She must have given up hope, just then, Ivory thought, and her

love was so deep that when it was uprooted the soil came with it.

Now hope had returned because the cruel memory had faded

altogether. She sat by the kitchen window in gentle expectation,

watching, always watching.

And this is the way many of Ivory Boynton's evenings were spent,

while the heart of him, the five-and-twenty-year-old heart of

him, was longing to feel the beat of another heart, a girl's

heart only a mile or more away. The ice in Saco Water had broken

up and the white blocks sailed majestically down towards the sea;

sap was mounting and the elm trees were budding; the trailing

arbutus was blossoming in the woods; the robins had

come;-everything was announcing the spring, yet Ivory saw no

changing seasons in his future; nothing but winter, eternal

winter there!

V

PATIENCE AND IMPATIENCE

PATTY had been searching for eggs in the barn chamber, and coming

down the ladder from the haymow spied her father washing the

wagon by the well-side near the shed door. Cephas Cole kept store

for him at meal hours and whenever trade was unusually brisk, and

the Baxter yard was so happily situated that Old Foxy could watch

both house and store.

There never was a good time to ask Deacon Baxter a favor,

therefore this moment would serve as well as any other, so,

approaching him near enough to be heard through the rubbing and

splashing, but no nearer than was necessary Patty said:--

"Father, can I go up to Ellen Wilson's this afternoon and stay to

tea? I won't start till I've done a good day's work and I'll come

home early. "

"What do you want to go gallivantin' to the neighbors for? I

never saw anything like the girls nowadays; highty-tighty,

flauntin', traipsin', triflin' trollops, ev'ry one of 'em, that's

what they are, and Ellen Wilson's one of the triflin'est.

You're old enough now to stay to home where you belong and make

an effort to earn your board and clothes, which you can't, even

if you try."

Spunk, real, Simon-pure spunk, started some-where in Patty and

coursed through her blood like wine.

"If a girl's old enough to stay at home and work, I should think

she was old enough to go out and play once in a while." Patty was

still too timid to make this remark more than a courteous

suggestion, so far as its tone was concerned.

"Don't answer me back; you're full of new tricks, and you've got

to stop 'em, right where you are, or there'll be trouble. You

were whistlin' just now up in the barn chamber; that's one of the

things I won't have round my premises,--a whistlin' girl."

"'T was a Sabbath-School hymn that I was whistling!" This with a

creditable imitation of defiance.

"That don't make it any better. Sing your hymns if you must make

a noise while you're workin'."

"It's the same mouth that makes the whistle and sings the song,

so I don't see why one's any wickeder than the other."

"You don't have to see," replied the Deacon grimly; "all you have

to do is to mind when you're spoken to. Now run 'long 'bout your

work."

"Can't I go up to Ellen's, then?"

"What's goin' on up there?"

"Just a frolic. There's always a good time at Ellen's, and I

would so like the sight of a big, rich house now and then!"

"'Just a frolic.' Land o' Goshen, hear the girl! 'Sight of a big,

rich house,' indeed!--Will there be any boys at the party?"

"I s'pose so, or 't wouldn't be a frolic," said Patty with awful

daring; "but there won't be many; only a few of Mark's friends."

"Well, there ain't goin' to be no more argyfyin'! I won't have

any girl o' mine frolickin' with boys, so that's the end of it.

You're kind o' crazy lately, riggin' yourself out with a ribbon

here and a flower there, and pullin' your hair down over your

ears. Why do you want to cover your ears up? What are they for?"

"To hear you with, father," Patty replied, with honey-sweet voice

and eyes that blazed.

"Well, I hope they'll never hear anything worse," replied her

father, flinging a bucket of water over the last of the wagon

wheels.

"THEY COULDN'T!" These words were never spoken aloud, but oh! how

Patty longed to shout them with a clarion voice as she walked

away in perfect silence, her majestic gait showing, she hoped,

how she resented the outcome of the interview.

I've stood up to father!" she exclaimed triumphantly as she

entered the kitchen and set down her yellow bowl of eggs on the

table. "I stood up to him, and answered him back three times!"

Waitstill was busy with her Saturday morning cooking, but she

turned in alarm.

"Patty, what have you said and done? Tell me quickly!"

"I 'argyfied,' but it didn't do any good; he won't let me go to

Ellen's party."

Waitstill wiped her floury hands and put them on her sister's

shoulders.

"Hear what I say, Patty: you must not argue with father, whatever

he says. We don't love him and so there isn't the right respect

in our hearts, but at least there can be respect in our manners."

"I don't believe I can go on for years, holding in, Waitstill!"

Patty whimpered.

"Yes, you can. I have!"

"You're different, Waitstill."

"I wasn't so different at sixteen, but that's five years ago, and

I've got control of my tongue and my temper since then. Sometime,

perhaps, when I have a grievance too great to be rightly borne,

sometime when you are away from here in a home of your own, I

shall speak out to father; just empty my heart of all the

disappointment and bitterness and rebellion. Somebody ought to

tell him the truth, and perhaps it will be me!"

"I wish it could be me," exclaimed Patty vindictively, and with

an equal disregard of grammar.

"You would speak in temper, I'm afraid, Patty, and that would

spoil all. I'm sorry you can't go up to Ellen's," she sighed,

turning back to her work; "you don't have pleasure enough for one

of your age; still, don't fret; something may happen to change

things, and anyhow the weather is growing warmer, and you and I

have so many more outings in summer-time. Smooth down your hair,

child; there are straws in it, and it's all rough with the wind.

I don't like flying hair about a kitchen."

"I wish my hair was flying somewhere a thousand miles from here;

or at least I should wish it if it did not mean leaving you; for

oh. I'm so miserable and disappointed and unhappy!"

Waitstill bent over the girl as she flung herself down beside the

table and smoothed her shoulder gently.

"There, there, dear; it isn't like my gay little sister to cry.

What is the matter with you to-day, Patty?"

"I suppose it's the spring," she said, wiping her eyes with her

apron and smiling through her tears. "Perhaps I need a dose of

sulphur and molasses."

"Don't you feel well as common?"

"Well? I feel too well! I feel as if I was a young colt shut up

in an attic. I want to kick up my heels, batter the door down,

and get out into the pasture. It's no use talking, Waity;--I

can't go on living without a bit of pleasure and I can't go on

being patient even for your sake. If it weren't for you, I'd run

away as Job did; and I never believed Moses slipped on the logs;

I'm sure he threw himself into the river, and so should I if I

had the courage!"

"Stop, Patty, stop, dear! You shall have your bit of pasture, at

least. I'll do some of your indoor tasks for you, and you shall

put on your sunbonnet and go out and dig the dandelion greens for

dinner. Take the broken knife and a milkpan and don't bring in so

much earth with them as you did last time. Dry your eyes and look

at the green things growing. Remember how young you are and how

many years are ahead of you! Go along, dear!"

Waitstill went about her work with rather a heavy heart. Was life

going to be more rather than less difficult, now that Patty was

growing up? Would she he able to do her duty both by father and

sister and keep peace in the household, as she had vowed, in her

secret heart, always to do? She paused every now and then to look

out of the window and wave an encouraging hand to Patty. The

girl's bonnet was off, and her uncovered head blazed like red

gold in the sunlight. The short young grass was dotted with

dandelion blooms, some of them already grown to huge disks of

yellow, and Patty moved hither and thither, selecting the younger

weeds, deftly putting the broken knife under their roots and

popping them into the tin pan. Presently, for Deacon Baxter had

finished the wagon and gone down the hill to relieve Cephas Cole

at the counter, Patty's shrill young whistle floated into the

kitchen, but with a mischievous glance at the open window she

broke off suddenly and began to sing the words of the hymn with

rather more emphasis and gusto than strict piety warranted.

"There'll be SOMEthing in heav-en for chil-dren to do,

None are idle in that bless-ed land:

There'll be WORK for the heart. There'll be WORK for the mind,

And emPLOYment for EACH little hand.

"There'll be SOME-thing to do,

There'll be SOME-thing to do,

There'll be SOME-thing for CHIL-dren to do!

On that bright blessed shore where there's joy evermore,

There'll be SOME-thing for CHIL-DREN to do."

Patty's young existence being full to the brim of labor, this

view of heaven never in the least appealed to her and she

rendered the hymn with little sympathy. The main part of the

verse was strongly accented by jabs at the unoffending dandelion

roots, but when the chorus came she brought out the emphatic

syllables by a beat of the broken knife on the milkpan.

This rendition of a Sabbath-School classic did not meet

Waitstill's ideas of perfect propriety, but she smiled and let it

pass, planning some sort of recreation for a stolen half-hour of

the afternoon. It would have to be a walk through the pasture

into the woods to see what had grown since they went there a

fortnight ago. Patty loved people better than Nature, but failing

the one she could put up with the other, for she had a sense of

beauty and a pagan love of color. There would be pale-hued

innocence and blue and white violets in the moist places, thought

Waitstill, and they would have them in a china cup on the

supper-table. No, that would never do, for last time father had

knocked them over when he was reaching for the bread, and in a

silent protest against such foolishness got up from the table and

emptied theirs into the kitchen sink.

"There's a place for everything," he said when he came back, "and

the place for flowers is outdoors."

Then in the pine woods there would be, she was sure, Star of

Bethlehem, Solomon's Seal, the white spray of groundnuts and

bunchberries. Perhaps they could make a bouquet and Patty would

take it across the fields to Mrs. Boynton's door. She need not go

in, and thus they would not be disobeying their father's command

not to visit that "crazy Boynton woman."

Here Patty came in with a pan full of greens and the sisters sat

down in the sunny window to get them ready for the pot.

"I'm calmer," the little rebel allowed." That's generally the way

it turns out with me. I get into a rage, but I can generally sing

it off!"

"You certainly must have got rid of a good deal of temper this

morning, by the way your voice sounded."

"Nobody can hear us in this out-of-the-way place. It's easy

enough to see that the women weren't asked to say anything when

the men settled where the houses should be built! The men weren't

content to stick them on the top of a high hill, or half a mile

from the stores, but put them back to the main road, taking due

care to cut the sink-window where their wives couldn't see

anything even when they were washing dishes."

"I don't know that I ever thought about it in that way"; and

Waitstill looked out of the window in a brown study while her

hands worked with the dandelion greens. "I've noticed it, but I

never supposed the men did it intentionally."

"No, you wouldn't," said Patty with the pessimism of a woman of

ninety, as she stole an admiring glance at her sister. Patty's

own face, irregular, piquant, tantalizing, had its peculiar

charm, and her brilliant skin and hair so dazzled the masculine

beholder that he took note of no small defects; but Waitstill was

beautiful; beautiful even in her working dress of purple calico.

Her single braid of hair, the Foxwell hair, that in her was

bronze and in Patty pale auburn, was wound once around her fine

head and made to stand a little as it went across the front. It

was a simple, easy, unconscious fashion of her own, quite

different from anything done by other women in her time and

place, and it just suited her dignity and serenity. It looked

like a coronet, but it was the way she carried her head that gave

you the fancy, there was such spirit and pride in the poise of it

on the long graceful neck. Her eyes were as clear as mountain

pools shaded by rushes, and the strength of the face was softened

by the sweetness of the mouth.

Patty never let the conversation die out for many seconds at a

time and now she began again. "My sudden rages don't match my

name very well, but, of course, mother didn't know how I was

going to turn out when she called me Patience, for I was nothing

but a squirming little bald, red baby; but my name really is too

ridiculous when you think about it."

Waitstill laughed as she said: "It didn't take you long to change

it! Perhaps Patience was a hard word for a baby to say, but the

moment you could talk you said, 'Patty wants this' and 'Patty

wants that."'

"Did Patty ever get it? She never has since, that's certain! And

look at your name: it's 'Waitstill,' yet you never stop a moment.

When you're not in the shed or barn, or chicken-house, or kitchen

or attic, or garden-patch, you are working in the Sunday School

or the choir."

It seemed as if Waitstill did not intend to answer this

arraignment of her activities. She rose and crossed the room to

put the pan of greens in the sink, preparing to wash them.

Taking the long-handled dipper from the nail, she paused a moment

before plunging it into the water pail; paused, and leaning her

elbow on a corner of the shelf over the sink, looked steadfastly

out into the orchard.

Patty watched her curiously and was just going to offer a penny

for her thoughts when Waitstill suddenly broke the brief silence

by saying: "Yes, I am always busy; it's better so, but all the

same, Patty, I'm waiting,--inside! I don't know for what, but I

always feel that I am waiting!"

VI

A KISS

"SHALL we have our walk in the woods on the Edgewood side of the

river, just for a change, Patty?" suggested her sister. "The

water is so high this year that the river will be splendid. We

can gather our flowers in the hill pasture and then you'll be

quite near Mrs. Boynton's and can carry the nosegay there while I

come home ahead of you and get supper. I'll take to-day's eggs to

father's store on the way and ask him if he minds our having a

little walk. I've an errand at Aunt Abby's that would take me

down to the bridge anyway."

"Very well," said Patty, somewhat apathetically. "I always like a

walk with you, but I don't care what becomes of me this afternoon

if I can't go to Ellen's party."

The excursion took place according to Waitstill's plan, and at

four o'clock she sped back to her night work and preparations for

supper, leaving Patty with a great bunch of early wildflowers for

Ivory's mother. Patty had left them at the Boyntons' door with

Rodman, who was

picking up chips and volunteered to take the nosegay into the

house at once.

"Won't you step inside? " the boy asked shyly, wishing to be

polite, but conscious that visitors, from the village very seldom

crossed the threshold.

"I'd like to, but I can't this afternoon, thank you. I must run

all the way down the hill now, or I shan't be in time to supper."

"Do you eat meals together over to your house?" asked the boy.

"We're all three at the table if that means together."

"We never are. Ivory goes off early and takes lunch in a pail. So

do I when I go to school. Aunt Boynton never sits down to eat;

she just stands at the window and takes a bite of something now

'and then. You haven't got any mother, have you?"

"No, Rodman."

"Neither have I, nor any father, nor any relations but Aunt

Boynton and Ivory. Ivory is very good to me, and when he's at

home I'm never lonesome."

"I wish you could come over and eat with sister and me," said

Patty gently." Perhaps sometime, when my father is away buying

goods and we are left alone, you could join us in the woods, and

we would have a picnic? We would bring enough for you; all sorts

of good things; hard-boiled eggs, doughnuts, apple-turnovers, and

bread spread with jelly."

"I'd like it fine!" exclaimed Rodman, his big dark eyes sparkling

with anticipation. "I don't have many boys to play with, and I

never went to a picnic Aunt Boynton watches for uncle 'most all

the time; she doesn't know he has been away for years and years.

When she doesn't watch, she prays. Sometimes she wants me to pray

with her, but praying don't come easy to me."

"Neither does it to me," said Patty.

"I'm good at marbles and checkers and back-gammon and

jack-straws, though."

"So am I," said Patty, laughing, "so we should be good friends.

I'll try to get a chance to see you soon again, but perhaps I

can't; I'm a good deal tied at home."

"Your father doesn't like you to go any-wheres, I guess,"

interposed Rodman. "I've heard Ivory tell Aunt Boynton things,

but I wouldn't repeat them. Ivory's trained me years and years

not to tell anything, so I don't."

"That's a good boy!" approved Patty. Then as she regarded him

more closely, she continued, "I'm sorry you're lonesome, Rodman,

I'd like to see you look brighter."

"You think I've been crying," the boy said shrewdly." So I have,

but not because I've been punished. The reason my eyes are so

swollen up is because I killed our old toad by mistake this

morning. I was trying to see if I could swing the scythe so's to

help Ivory in haying-time. I've only 'raked after' and I want to

begin on mowing soon's I can. Then somehow or other the old toad

came out from under the steps; I didn't see him, and the scythe

hit him square. I cried for an hour, that's what I did, and I

don't care who knows it except I wouldn't like the boys at school

to hector me. I've buried the toad out behind the barn, and I

hope Ivory'll let me keep the news from Aunt Boynton. She cries

enough now without my telling her there's been a death in the

family. She set great store by the old toad, and so did all of

us."

"It's too bad; I'm sorry, but after all you couldn't help it."

"No, but we should always look round every-wheres when we're

cutting; that's what Ivory says. He says folks shouldn't use

edged tools till they're old enough not to fool with 'em."

And Rodman looked so wise and old-fashioned for his years that

Patty did not know whether to kiss him or cry over him, as she

said: "Ivory's always right, and now good-bye; I must go this

very minute. Don't forget the picnic."

"I won't!" cried the boy, gazing after her, wholly entranced with

her bright beauty and her kindness. "Say, I'll bring something,

too,--white-oak acorns, if you like 'em; I've got a big bagful up

attic!"

Patty sped down the long lane, crept under the bars, and flew

like a lapwing over the high-road.

"If father was only like any one else, things might be so

different!" she sighed, her thoughts running along with her feet.

"Nobody to make a home for that poor lonesome little boy and that

poor lonesome big Ivory. . . . I am sure that he is in love with

Waitstill. He doesn't know it; she doesn't know it; nobody does

but me, but I'm clever at guessing. I was the only one that

surmised Jed Morrill was going to marry again. . . . I should

almost like Ivory for myself, he is so tall and handsome, but of

course he can never marry anybody; he is too poor and has his

mother to look after. I wouldn't want to take him from Waity,

though, and then perhaps I couldn't get him, anyway. . . . If I

couldn't, he'd be the only one! I've never tried yet, but I feel

in my bones, somehow, that I could have any boy in Edgewood or

Riverboro, by just crooking my forefinger and beckoning to him. .

. . I wish--I wish--they were different! They don't make me want

to beckon to them! My forefinger just stays straight and doesn't

feel like crooking! . . . There's Cephas Cole, but he's as stupid

as an owl. I don't want a husband that keeps his mouth wide open

whenever I'm talking, no matter whether it's sense or nonsense.

There's Phil Perry, but he likes Ellen, and besides he's too

serious for me; and there's Mark Wilson; he's the best dressed,

and the only one that's been to college. He looks at me all the

time in meeting, and asked me if I wouldn't take a walk some

Sunday afternoon. I know he planned Ellen's party hoping I'd be

there!--Goodness gracious, I do believe that is his horse coming

behind me! There's no other in the village that goes at such a

gait!"

It was, indeed, Mark Wilson, who always drove, according to Aunt

Abby Cole, "as if he was goin' for a doctor." He caught up with

Patty almost in the twinkling of an eye, but she was ready for

him. She had taken off her sunbonnet just to twirl it by the

string, she was so warm with walking, and in a jiffy she had

lifted the clustering curls from her ears, tucked them back with

a single expert movement, and disclosed two coral pendants just

the color of her ear-tips and her glowing cheeks.

"Hello, Patty!" the young man called, in brusque country fashion,

as he reined up beside her. "What are you doing over here? Why

aren't you on your way to the party? I've been over to Limington

and am breaking my neck to get home in time myself."

"I am not going; there are no parties for me!" said Patty

plaintively.

"Not going! Oh! I say, what's the matter? It won't be a bit of

fun without you! Ellen and I made it up expressly for you,

thinking your father couldn't object to a candy-pull!"

"I can't help it; I did the best I could. Wait-still always asks

father for me, but I wouldn't take any chances to-day, and I

spoke to him myself; indeed I almost coaxed him!"

"He's a regular old skinflint!" cried Mark, getting out of the

wagon and walking beside her.

"You mustn't call him names," Patty interposed with some dignity.

"I call him a good many myself, but I'm his daughter."

"You don't look it," said Mark admiringly. " Come and have a

little ride, Won't you?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly, thank you. Some one would be sure to

see us, and father's so strict."

"There isn't a building for half a mile! Just jump in and have a

spin till we come to the first house; then I'll let you out and

you can walk the rest of the way home. Come, do, and make up to

me a little for my disappointment. I'll skip the candy-pull if

you say the word."

It was an incredibly brief drive, at Mark's rate of speed; and as

exciting and blissful as it was brief and dangerous, Patty

thought. Did she imagine it, or did Mark help her into the wagon

differently from--old Dr. Perry, for instance?

The fresh breeze lifted the gold thread of her curls and gave her

cheeks a brighter color, while her breath came fast through her

parted lips and her eyes sparkled at the unexpected, unaccustomed

pleasure. She felt so grown up, so conscious of a new power as

she sat enthroned on the little wagon seat (Mark Wilson always

liked his buggies "courtin' size" so the neighbors said), that

she was almost courageous enough to agree to make a royal

progress through the village; almost, but not quite.

"Come on, let's shake the old tabbies up and start 'em talking,

shall we?" Mark suggested." I'll give you the reins and let Nero

have a flick of the whip."

"No, I'd rather not drive," she said. "I'd be afraid of this

horse, and, anyway, I must get out this very minute; yes, I

really must. If you hold Nero I can just slip down between the

wheels; you needn't help me."

Mark alighted notwithstanding her objections, saying gallantly,

"I don't miss this pleasure, not by a jugful! Come along! Jump!"

Patty stretched out her hands to be helped, but Mark forestalled

her by putting his arms around her and lifting her down. A second

of time only was involved, but in that second he held; her close

and kissed her warm cheek, her cheek that had never felt the

touch of any lips but those of Waitstill. She pulled her

sunbonnet over her flaming face, while Mark, with a gay smile of

farewell, sprang into the wagon and gave his horse a free rein.

Patty never looked up from the road, but walked faster and

faster, her heart beating at breakneck speed. It was a changed

world that spun past her; fright, triumph, shame, delight, a

gratified vanity swam over her in turn.

A few minutes later she heard once more the rumble of wheels on

the road. It was Cephas Cole driving towards her over the brow of

Saco Hill. "He'll have seen Mark," she thought, "but he can't

know I've talked and driven with him. Ugh! how stupid and common

he looks!"

"I heard your father blowin' the supper-horn jest as I come over

the bridge," remarked Cephas, drawing up in the road. " He stood

in the door-yard blowin' like Bedlam. I guess you 're late to

supper."

"I'll be home in a few minutes," said Patty, "I got delayed and

am a little behindhand."

"I'11 turn right round if you'11 git in and lemme take you

back-along a piece; it'll save you a good five minutes," begged

Cephas, abjectly.

"All right; much obliged; but it's against the rules and you must

drop me at the foot of our hill and let me walk up."

"Certain; I know the Deacon 'n' I ain't huntin' for trouble any

more'n you be; though I 'd take it quick enough if you jest give

me leave! I ain't no coward an' I could tackle the Deacon

to-morrow if so be I had anything to ask him."

This seemed to Patty a line of conversation distinctly to be

discouraged under all the circumstances, and she tried to keep

Cephas on the subject of his daily tasks and his mother's

rheumatism until she could escape from his over-appreciative

society.

"How do you like my last job?" he inquired as they passed his

father's house. "Some think I've got the ell a little dite too

yaller. Folks that ain't never handled a brush allers think they

can mix paint better 'n them that knows their trade."

"If your object was to have everybody see the ell a mile away,

you've succeeded," said Patty cruelly. She never flung the poor

boy a civil word for fear of getting something warmer than

civility in return.

"It'll tone down," Cephas responded, rather crestfallen. "I

wanted a good bright lastin' shade. 'T won't look so yaller when

father lets me paint the house to match, but that won't be till

next year. He makes fun of the yaller color same as you; says a

home's something you want to forget when you're away from it.

Mother says the two rooms of the ell are big enough for somebody

to set up housekeepin' in. What do you think?"

"I never think," returned Patty with a tantalizing laugh.

"Good-night, Cephas; thank you for giving me a lift!"

VII

"WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

SUPPER was over and the work done at last; the dishes washed, the

beans put in soak, the hens shut up for the night, the milk

strained and carried down cellar. Patty went up to her little

room with the one window and the slanting walls and Waitstill

followed and said good-night. Her father put out the lights,

locked the doors, and came up the creaking stairs. There was

never any talk between the sisters before going to bed, save on

nights when their father was late at the store, usually on

Saturdays only, for the good talkers of the village, as well as

the gossips and loafers, preferred any other place to swap

stories than the bleak atmosphere provided by old Foxy at his

place of business.

Patty could think in the dark; her healthy young body lying not

uncomfortably on the bed of corn husks, and the patchwork

comforter drawn up under her chin. She could think, but for the

first time she could not tell her thoughts to Waitstill. She had

a secret; a dazzling secret, just like Ellen Wilson and some of

the other girls who were several years older. Her afternoon's

experience loomed as large in her innocent mind as if it had been

an elopement.

"I hope I'm not engaged to be married to him, EVEN IF HE DID--"

The sentence was too tremendous to be finished, even in thought.

"I don't think I can be; men must surely say something, and not

take it for granted you are in love with them and want to marry

them. It is what they say when they ask that I should like much

better than being married, when I'm only just past seventeen. I

wish Mark was a little different; I don't like his careless ways!

He admires me, I can tell one; that by the way he looks, but he

admires himself just as much, and expects me to do the same;

still, I suppose none of them are perfect, and girls have to

forgive lots of little things when they are engaged. Mother must

have forgiven a good many things when she took father. Anyway,

Mark is going away for a month on business, so I shan't have to

make up my mind just yet!" Here sleep descended upon the slightly

puzzled, but on the whole delightfully complacent, little

creature, bringing her most alluring and untrustworthy dreams.

The dear innocent had, indeed, no need of haste! Young Mr.

Marquis de Lafayette Wilson, Mark for short, was not in the least

a gay deceiver

or ruthless breaker of hearts, and, so far as known, no scalps of

village beauties were hung to his belt. He was a likable,

light-weight young chap, as indolent and pleasure-loving as the

strict customs of the community would permit; and a kiss, in his

mind, most certainly never would lead to the altar, else he had

already been many times a bridegroom. Miss Patience Baxter's

maiden meditations and uncertainties and perplexities, therefore,

were decidedly premature. She was a natural-born, unconsciously

artistic, highly expert, and finished coquette. She was all this

at seventeen, and Mark at twenty-four was by no means a match for

her in this field of effort, yet!--but sometimes, in getting her

victim into the net, the coquette loses her balance and falls in

herself. There wasn't a bit of harm in Marquis de Lafayette, but

he was extremely agile in keeping out of nets!

Waitstill was restless, too, that night, although she could not

have told the reason. She opened her window at the back of the

house and leaned out. The evening was mild with a soft wind

blowing. She could hear the full brook dashing through the edge

of the wood-lot, and even the "ker-chug" of an occasional

bull-frog. There were great misty stars in the sky, but no moon.

There was no light in Aunt Abby Cole's kitchen, but a faint

glimmer shone through the windows of Uncle Bart's joiner's shop,

showing that the old man was either having an hour of peaceful

contemplation with no companion but his pipe, or that there might

be a little group of privileged visitors, headed by Jed Morrill,

busily discussing the affairs of the nation.

Waitstill felt troubled and anxious to-night; bruised by the

little daily torments that lessened her courage but never wholly

destroyed it. Any one who believed implicitly in heredity might

have been puzzled, perhaps, to account for her. He might

fantastically picture her as making herself out of her ancestors,

using a free hand, picking and choosing what she liked best, with

due care for the effect of combinations; selecting here and there

and modifying, if advisable, a trait of Grandpa or Grandma

Foxwell, of Great-Uncle or Great-Aunt Baxter; borrowing qualities

lavishly from her own gently born and gently bred mother, and

carefully avoiding her respected father's Stock, except, perhaps,

to take a dash of his pluck and an ounce of his persistence. Jed

Morrill remarked of Deacon Baxter once: "When Old Foxy wants

anything he'11 wait till hell freezes over afore he'll give up."

Waitstill had her father's firm chin, but there the likeness

ended. The proud curve of her nostrils, the clear well-opened eye

with its deep fringe of lashes, the earnest mouth, all these came

from the mother who was little more than a dim memory.

Waitstill disdained any vague, dreary, colorless theory of life

and its meaning. She had joined the church at fifteen, more or

less because other girls did and the parson had persuaded her;

but out of her hard life she had somehow framed a courageous

philosophy that kept her erect and uncrushed, no matter how great

her difficulties. She had no idea of bringing a poor, weak,

draggled soul to her Maker at the last day, saying "Here is all I

have managed to save out of what you gave me!" That would be

something, she allowed, immeasurably something; but pitiful

compared with what she might do if she could keep a brave,

vigorous spirit and march to the last tribunal strengthened by

battles, struggles, defeats, victories; by the defense of weaker

human creatures, above all, warmed and vitalized by the pouring

out and gathering in of love.

Patty slept sweetly on the other side of the partition, the

contemplation of her twopenny triumphs bringing a smile to her

childish lips: but even so a good heart was there (still perhaps

in the process of making), a quick wit, ready sympathy, natural

charm; plenty, indeed, for the stronger sister to cherish,

protect, and hold precious, as she did, with all her mind and

soul.

There had always been a passionate loyalty in Waitstill's

affection, wherever it had been bestowed. Uncle Bart delighted in

telling an instance of it that occurred when she was a child of

five. Maine had just separated amicably from her mother,

Massachusetts, and become an independent state. It was in the

middle of March, but there was no snow on the ground and the

village boys had built a bonfire on a plot of land near Uncle

Bart's joiner's shop. There was a large gathering in celebration

of the historic event and Waitstill crept down the hill with her

homemade rag doll in her arms. She stood on the outskirts of the

crowd, a silent, absorbed little figure clad in a shabby woollen

coat, with a blue knit hood framing her rosy face. Deborah, her

beloved, her only doll, was tightly clasped in her arms, for

Debby, like her parent, had few pleasures and must not be denied

so great a one as this. Suddenly, one of the thoughtless young

scamps in the group, wishing to create a new sensation and add to

the general excitement, caught the doll from the child's arms,

and running forward with a loud war-whoop, flung it into the

flames. Waitstill did not lose an instant. She gave a scream Of

anguish, and without giving any warning of her intentions,

probably without realizing them herself, she dashed through the

little crowd into the bonfire and snatched her cherished

offspring from the burning pile. The whole thing was over in the

twinkling of an eye, for Uncle Bart was as quick as the child and

dragged her out of the imminent danger with no worse harm done

than a good scorching.

He led the little creature up the hill to explain matters and

protect her from a scolding. She still held the doll against her

heaving breast, saying, between her sobs: " I couldn't let my

Debby burn up! I couldn't, Uncle Bart; she's got nobody but me!

Is my dress scorched so much I can't wear it? You'11 tell father

how it was, Uncle Bart, won't you?"

Debby bore the marks of her adventure longer than her owner, for

she had been longer in the fire, but, stained and defaced as she

was, she was never replaced, and remained the only doll of

Waitstill's childhood. At this very moment she lay softly and

safely in a bureau drawer ready to be lifted out, sometime,

Waitstill fancied, and shown tenderly to Patty's children. Of her

own possible children she never thought. There was but one man in

the world who could ever be the father of them and she was

separated from him by every obstacle that could divide two human

beings.

SUMMER

VIII

THE JOINER'S SHOP

VILLAGE "Aunts" and "Uncles" were elected to that relationship by

the common consent of the community; their fitness being

established by great age, by decided individuality or

eccentricity of character, by uncommon lovableness, or by the

possession of an abundant wit and humor. There was no formality

about the thing; certain women were always called "Aunt Sukie,"

or "Aunt Hitty," or what not, while certain men were

distinguished as "Uncle Rish," or "Uncle Pel," without previous

arrangement, or the consent of the high contracting parties.

Such a couple were Cephas Cole's father and mother, Aunt Abby and

Uncle Bart. Bartholomew Cole's trade was that of a joiner; as for

Aunt Abby's, it can only be said that she made all trades her own

by sovereign right of investigation, and what she did not know

about her neighbor's occupations was unlikely to he discovered on

this side of Jordan. One of the villagers declared that Aunt Abby

and her neighbor, Mrs. Abel Day, had argued for an hour before

they could make a bargain about the method of disseminating a

certain important piece of news, theirs by exclusive right of

discovery and prior possession. Mrs. Day offered to give Mrs.

Cole the privilege of Saco Hill and Aunt Betty-Jack's, she

herself to take Guide-Board and Town-House Hills. Aunt Abby

quickly proved the injustice of this decision, saying that there

were twice as many families living in Mrs. Day's chosen territory

as there were in that allotted to her, so the river road to

Milliken's Mills was grudgingly awarded to Aunt Abby by way of

compromise, and the ladies started on what was a tour of mercy in

those days, the furnishing of a subject of discussion for long,

quiet evenings.

Uncle Bart's joiner's shop was at the foot of Guide-Board Hill on

the Riverboro side of the bridge, and it was the pleasantest spot

in the whole village. The shop itself had a cheery look, with its

weather-stained shingles, its small square windows, and its

hospitable door, half as big as the front side of the building.

The step was an old millstone too worn for active service, and

the piles of chips and shavings on each side of it had been there

for so many years that sweet-williams, clove pinks, and purple

phlox were growing in among them in the most irresponsible

fashion; while a morning-glory vine had crept up and curled

around a long-handled rake that had been standing against the

front of the house since early spring. There was an air of cosy

and amiable disorder about the place that would have invited

friendly confabulation even had not Uncle Bart's white head,

honest, ruddy face, and smiling welcome coaxed you in before you

were aware. A fine Nodhead apple tree shaded the side windows,

and underneath it reposed all summer a bright blue sleigh, for

Uncle Bart always described himself as being "plagued for shed

room" and kept things as he liked at the shop, having a "p'ison

neat " wife who did exactly the opposite at his house.

The seat of the sleigh was all white now with scattered fruit

blossoms, and one of Waitstill's earliest remembrances was of

going downhill with Patty toddling at her side; of Uncle Bart's

lifting them into the sleigh and permitting them to sit there and

eat the ripe red apples that had fallen from the tree. Uncle

Bart's son, Cephas (Patty's secret adorer), was a painter by

trade, and kept his pots and cans and brushes in a little

outhouse at the back, while Uncle Bart himself stood every day

behind his long joiner's bench almost knee-deep in shavings. How

the children loved to play with the white, satiny rings, making

them into necklaces, hanging them to their ears and weaving them

into wreaths.

Wonderful houses could always be built in the corner of the shop,

out of the little odds and ends and "nubbins" of white pine, and

Uncle Bart was ever ready to cut or saw a special piece needed

for some great purpose.

The sound of the plane was sweet music in the old joiner's ears.

"I don't hardly know how I'd a made out if I'd had to work in a

mill," he said confidentially to Cephas. "The noise of a saw

goin' all day, coupled with your mother's tongue mornin's an'

evenin's, would 'a' been too much for my weak head. I'm a quiet

man, Cephas, a man that needs a peaceful shop where he can get

away from the comforts of home now and then, without shirkin' his

duty nor causin' gossip. If you should ever marry, Cephas,--which

don't look to me likely without you pick out a dif'rent girl,--I

'd advise you not to keep your stock o' paints in the barn or the

shed, for it's altogether too handy to the house and the

women-folks. Take my advice and have a place to yourself, even if

it's a small one. A shop or a barn has saved many a man's life

and reason Cephas, for it's ag'in' a woman's nature to have you

underfoot in the house without hectorin' you. Choose a girl

same's you would a horse that you want to hitch up into a span;

't ain't every two that'll stan' together without kickin'. When

you get the right girl, keep out of her way consid'able an'

there'll be less wear an' tear."

It was June and the countryside was so beautiful it seemed as if

no one could be unhappy, however great the cause. That was what

Waitstill Baxter thought as she sat down on the millstone step

for a word with the old joiner, her best and most understanding

friend in all the village.

"I've come to do my mending here with you," she said brightly, as

she took out her well-filled basket and threaded her needle.

"Isn't it a wonderful morning? Nobody could look the world in the

face and do a wrong thing on such a day, could they, Uncle Bart?"

The meadows were a waving mass of golden buttercups; the shallow

water at the river's edge just below the shop was blue with

spikes of arrow- weed; a bunch of fragrant water-lilies, gathered

from the mill-pond's upper levels, lay beside Waitstill's

mending-basket, and every foot of roadside and field within sight

was swaying with long-stemmed white and gold daisies. The June

grass, the friendly, humble, companionable grass, that no one

ever praises as they do the flowers, was a rich emerald green, a

velvet carpet fit for the feet of the angels themselves. And the

elms and maples! Was there ever such a year for richness of

foliage? And the sky, was it ever so blue or so clear, so far

away, or so completely like heaven, as you looked at its

reflection in the glassy surface of the river?

"Yes, it's a pretty good day," allowed Uncle Bart judicially as

he took a squint at his T-square. "I don' know's I should want to

start out an' try to beat it! The Lord can make a good many kinds

o' weather in the course of a year, but when He puts his mind on

to it, an' kind o' gives Himself a free hand, He can turn out a

June morning that must make the Devil sick to his stomach with

envy! All the same, Waity, my cow ain't behavin' herself any

better'n usual. She's been rampagin' since sun-up. I've seen

mother chasin' her out o' Mis' Day's garden-patch twice

a'ready!--It seems real good an' homey to see you settin' there

sewin' while I'm workin' at the bench. Cephas is down to the

store, so I s'pose your father's off somewheres?"

Perhaps the June grass was a little greener, the buttercups

yellower, the foliage more lacey, the sky bluer, because Deacon

Baxter had taken his luncheon in a pail under the wagon seat, and

departed on an unwilling journey to Moderation, his object being

to press the collection of some accounts too long overdue. There

was something tragic in the fact, Waitstill thought, that

whenever her father left the village for a whole day, life at

once grew brighter, easier, more hopeful. One could breathe

freely, speak one's heart out, believe in the future, when father

was away.

The girls had harbored many delightful plans at early breakfast.

As it was Saturday, Patty could catch little Rod Boynton, if he

came to the bridge on errands as usual; and if Ivory could spare

him for an hour at noon they would take their luncheon and eat it

together on the river-bank as Patty had promised him. At the last

moment, however, Deacon Baxter had turned around in the wagon and

said: "Patience, you go down to the store and have a regular

house-cleanin' in the stock-room. Git Cephas to lift what you

can't lift yourself, move everything in the place, sweep and dust

it, scrub the floor, wash the winder, and make room for the new

stuff that they'11 bring up from Mill-town 'bout noon. If you

have any time left over, put new papers on the shelves out front,

and clean up and fix the show winder. Don't stand round gabbin'

with Cephas, and see't he don't waste time that's paid for by me.

Tell him he might clean up the terbaccer stains round the stove,

black it, and cover it up for the summer if he ain't too busy

servin' cust'mers."

"The whole day spoiled!" wailed Patty, flinging herself down in

the kitchen rocker. "Father's powers of invention beat anything I

ever saw!

That stock-room could have been cleaned any time this month and

it's too heavy work for me anyway; it spoils my hands, grubbing

around those nasty, sticky, splintery boxes and barrels. Instead

of being out of doors, I've got to be shut up in that smelly,

rummy, tobacco-y, salt-fishy, pepperminty place with Cephas Cole!

He won't have a pleasant morning, I can tell you! I shall snap

his head off every time he speaks to me."

"So I would!" Waitstill answered composedly. "Everything is so

clearly his fault that I certainly would work off my temper on

Cephas! Still, I can think of a way to make matters come out

right. I've got a great basket of mending that must be done, and

you remember there's a choir rehearsal for the new anthem this

afternoon, but anyway I can help a little on the cleaning. Then

you can make Rodman do a few of the odd jobs, it will be a

novelty to him; and Cephas will work his fingers to the bone for

you, as you well know, if you treat him like a human being."

"All right!" cried Patty joyously, her mood changing in an

instant. "There's Rod coming over the bridge now! Toss me my

gingham apron and the scrubbing-brush, and the pail, and the tin

of soft soap, and the cleaning cloths; let's see, the broom's

down there, so I've got everything. If I wave a towel from the

store, pack up luncheon for three. You come down and bring your

mending; then, when you see how I'm getting on, we can consult.

I'm going to take the ten cents I've saved and spend it in

raisins. I can get a good many if Cephas gives me wholesale

price, with family discount substracted from that. Cephas would

treat me to candy in a minute, but if I let him we'd have to ask

him to the picnic! Good-bye!" And the volatile creature darted

down the hill singing, "There'll be something in heaven for

children to do," at the top of her healthy young lungs.

IX

CEPHAS SPEAKS

THE waving signal, a little later on, showed that Rodman could go

to the picnic, the fact being that he was having a holiday from

eleven o'clock until two, and Ivory was going to drive to the

bridge at noon, anyway, so his permission could then be asked.

Patty's mind might have been thought entirely on her ugly task as

she swept and dusted and scrubbed that morning, but the reverse

was true. Mark Wilson had gone away without saying good-bye to

her. This was not surprising, perhaps, as she was about as much

sequestered in her hilltop prison as a Turkish beauty in a harem;

neither was it astonishing that Mark did not write to her. He

never had written to her, and as her father always brought home

the very infrequent letters that came to the family, Mark knew

that any sentimental correspondence would be fraught with danger.

No, everything was probably just as it should be, and yet,--well,

Patty had expected during the last three weeks that something

would happen to break up the monotony of her former existence.

She hardly knew what it would be, but the kiss dropped so lightly

on her cheek by Mark Wilson still burned in remembrance, and made

her sure that it would have a sequel, or an explanation.

Mark's sister Ellen and Phil Perry were in the midst of some form

of lover's quarrel, and during its progress Phil was paying

considerable attention to Patty at Sabbath School and

prayer-meeting, occasions, it must be confessed, only provocative

of very indirect and long-distance advances. Cephas Cole, to the

amazement of every one but his (constitutionally) exasperated

mother, was "toning down" the ell of the family mansion,

mitigating the lively yellow, and putting another fresh coat of

paint on it, for no conceivable reason save that of pleasing the

eye of a certain capricious, ungrateful young hussy, who would

probably say, when her verdict was asked, that she didn't see any

particular difference in it, one way or another.

Trade was not especially brisk at the Deacon's emporium this

sunny June Saturday morning. Cephas may have possibly lost a

customer or two by leaving the store vacant while he toiled and

sweated for Miss Patience Baxter in the stockroom at the back,

overhanging the river, but no man alive could see his employer's

lovely daughter tugging at a keg of shingle nails without trying

to save her from a broken back, although Cephas could have

watched his mother move the house and barn without feeling the

slightest anxiety in her behalf. If he could ever get the "heft"

of the "doggoned" cleaning out of the way so that Patty's mind

could be free to entertain his proposition; could ever secure one

precious moment of silence when she was not slatting and banging,

pushing and pulling things about, her head and ears out of sight

under a shelf, and an irritating air of absorption about her

whole demeanor; if that moment of silence could ever, under

Providence, be simultaneous with the absence of customers in the

front shop, Cephas intended to offer himself to Patience Baxter

that very morning.

Once, during a temporary lull in the rear, he started to meet his

fate when Rodman Boynton followed him into the back room, and the

boy was at once set to work by Patty, who was the most consummate

slave-driver in the State of Maine. After half an hour there was

another Heavensent chance, when Rodman went up to Uncle Bart's

shop with a message for Waitstill, but, just then, in came Bill

Morrill, a boy of twelve, with a request for a gallon of

molasses; and would Cephas lend him a stone jug over Sunday, for

his mother had hers soakin' out in soap-suds 'cause 't wa'n't

smellin' jest right. Bill's message given, he hurried up the road

on another errand, promising to call for the molasses later.

Cephas put the gallon measure under the spigot of the molasses

hogshead and turned on the tap. The task was going to be a long

one and he grew impatient, for the stream was only a slender

trickle, scarcely more than the slow dripping of drops, so the

molasses must be very never low, and with his mind full of

weightier affairs he must make a note to tell the Deacon to

broach a new hogshead. Cephas feared that he could never make

out a full gallon, in which case Mrs. Morrill would be vexed, for

she kept mill boarders and baked quantities of brown bread and

gingerbread and molasses cookies for over Sunday. He did wish

trade would languish altogether on this particular morning. The

minutes dragged by and again there was perfect quiet in the

stock-room. As the door opened, Cephas, taking his last chance,

went forward to meet Patty, who was turning down the skirt of her

dress, taking the cloth off her head, smoothing her hair, and

tying on a clean white ruffed apron, in which she looked as

pretty as a pink.

"Patty! "stammered Cephas, seizing his golden opportunity,

"Patty, keep your mind on me for a minute. I've put a new coat o'

paint on the ell just to please you; won't you get married and

settle down with me? I love you so I can't eat nor drink nor

'tend store nor nothin'!"

"Oh, I--I--couldn't, Cephas, thank you; I just couldn't,--don't

ask me," cried Patty, as nervous as Cephas himself now that her

first offer had really come; "I'm only seventeen and I don't feel

like settling down, Cephas, and father wouldn't think of letting

me get married."

"Don't play tricks on me, Patty, and keep shovin' me off so, an'

givin' wrong reasons," pleaded Cephas. "What's the trouble with

me? I know mother's temper's onsartain, but we never need go into

the main house daytimes and father'd allers stand up ag'in' her

if she didn't treat you right. I've got a good trade and father

has a hundred dollars o' my savin's that I can draw out to-morrer

if you'll have me."

"I can't, Cephas; don't move; stay where you are; no, don't come

any nearer; I'm not fond of you that way, and, besides,--and,

besides-"

Her blush and her evident embarrassment gave Cephas a new fear.

"You ain't promised a'ready, be you?" he asked anxiously; "when

there ain't a feller anywheres around that's ever stepped foot

over your father's doorsill but jest me?"

"I haven't promised anything or anybody,"

Patty answered sedately, gaining her self-control by degrees,

"but I won't deny that I'm considering; that's true!"

"Considerin' who?" asked Cephas, turning pale.

"Oh,--SEVERAL, if you must know the truth"; and Patty's tone was

cruel in its jauntiness.

"SEVERAL!" The word did not sound like ordinary work-a-day

Riverboro English in Cephas's ears. He knew that "several" meant

more than one, but he was too stunned to define the term properly

in its present strange connection.

"Whoever 't is wouldn't do any better by you'n I would. I'd take

a lickin' for you any day," Cephas exclaimed abjectly, after a

long pause.

"That wouldn't make any difference, Cephas," said Patty firmly,

moving towards the front door as if to end the interview. "If I

don't love you UNlicked, I couldn't love you any better licked,

now, could I?--Goodness gracious, what am I stepping in? Cephas,

quick! Something has been running all over the floor. My feet are

sticking to it."

"Good Gosh! It's Mis' Morrill's molasses!" cried Cephas, brought

to his senses suddenly.

It was too true! Whatever had been the small obstruction in the

tap, it had disappeared. The gallon measure had been filled to

the brim ten minutes before, and ever since, the treacly liquid

had been overflowing the top and spreading in a brown flood,

unnoticed, over the floor. Patty's feet were glued to it, her

buff calico skirts lifted high to escape harm.

"I can't move," she cried. "Oh! You stupid, stupid Cephas, how

could you leave the molasses spigot turned on? See what you've

done! You've wasted quarts and quarts! What will father say, and

how will you ever clean up such a mess? You never can get the

floor to look so that he won't notice it, and he is sure to miss

the molasses. You've ruined my shoes, and I simply can't bear the

sight of you!"

At this Cephas all but blubbered in the agony of his soul. It was

bad enough to be told by Patty that she was "considering

several," but his first romance had ended in such complete

disaster that he saw in a vision his life blasted; changed in one

brief moment from that of a prosperous young painter to that of a

blighted and despised bungler, whose week's wages were likely to

be expended in molasses to make good the Deacon's loss.

"Find those cleaning-cloths I left in the hack room," ordered

Patty with a flashing eye. "Get some blocks, or bits of board, or

stones, for me to walk on, so that I can get out of your nasty

mess. Fill Bill Morrill's jug, quick, and set it out on the steps

for him to pick up. I don't know what you'd do without me to plan

for you! Lock the front door and hang father's sign that he's

gone to dinner on the doorknob. Scoop up all the molasses you can

with one of those new trowels on the counter. Scoop, and scrape,

and scoop, and scrape; then put a cloth on your oldest broom,

pour lots of water on, pail after pail, and swab! When you've

swabbed till it won't do any more good, then scrub! After that, I

shouldn't wonder if you had to fan the floor with a newspaper or

it'll never get dry before father comes home. I'll sit on the

flour barrel a little while and advise, but I can't stay long

because I'm going to a picnic. Hurry up and don't look as if you

were going to die any minute! It's no use crying over spilt

molasses. You don't suppose I'm going to tell any tales after

you've made me an offer of marriage, do you? I'm not so mean as

all that, though I may have my faults."

It was nearly two o'clock before the card announcing Deacon

Baxter's absence at dinner was removed from the front doorknob,

and when the store was finally reopened for business it was a

most dejected clerk who dealt out groceries to the public. The

worst feature of the affair was that every one in the two

villages suddenly and contemporaneously wanted molasses, so that

Cephas spent the afternoon reviewing his misery by continually

turning the tap and drawing off the fatal liquid. Then, too,

every inquisitive boy in the neighborhood came to the back of the

store to view the operation, exclaiming: "What makes the floor so

wet? Hain't been spillin' molasses, have yer? Bet yer have! Good

joke on Old Foxy!"

X

ON TORY HILL

It had been a heavenly picnic the little trio all agreed as to

that; and when Ivory saw the Baxter girls coming up the shady

path that led along the river from the Indian Cellar to the

bridge, it was a merry group and a transfigured Rodman that

caught his eye. The boy, trailing on behind with the baskets and

laden with tin dippers and wildflowers, seemed another creature

from the big-eyed, quiet little lad he saw every day. He had

chattered like a magpie, eaten like a bear, is torn his jacket

getting wild columbines for Patty, been nicely darned by

Waitstill, and was in a state of hilarity that rendered him quite

unrecognizable.

"We've had a lovely picnic!" called Patty; "I wish you had been

with us!"

"You didn't ask me!" smiled Ivory, picking up Waitstill's

mending-basket from the nook in the trees where she had hidden it

for safe-keeping.

"We've played games, Ivory," cried the boy. 'Patty made them up

herself. First we had the 'Landing of the Pilgrims,' and

Waitstill made believe be the figurehead of the Mayflower. She

stood on a great boulder and sang:--

'The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast'--

and, oh! she was splendid! Then Patty was Pocahontas and I was

Cap'n John Smith, and look, we are all dressed up for the Indian

wedding!"

Waitstill had on a crown of white birch bark and her braid of

hair, twined with running ever-green, fell to her waist. Patty

was wreathed with columbines and decked with some turkey feathers

that she had put in her basket as too pretty to throw away.

Waitstill looked rather conscious in her unusual finery, but

Patty sported it with the reckless ease and innocent vanity that

characterized her.

"I shall have to run into father's store to put myself tidy,"

Waitstill said, "so good-bye, Rodman, we'll have another picnic

some day. Patty, you must do the chores this afternoon, you know,

so that I can go to choir rehearsal,"

Rodman and Patty started up the hill gayly with their burdens,

and Ivory walked by Waitstill's side as she pulled off her

birch-bark crown and twisted her braid around her head with a

heightened color at being watched.

"I'11 say good-bye now, Ivory, but I'11 see you at the

meeting-house," she said, as she neared the store. "I'll go in

here and brush the pine needles off, wash my hands, and rest a

little before rehearsal. That's a puzzling anthem we have for

to-morrow."

"I have my horse here; let me drive you up to the church."

"I can't, Ivory, thank you. Father's orders are against my

driving out with any one, you know."

"Very well, the road is free, at any rate. I'll hitch my horse

down here in the woods somewhere and when you start to walk I

shall follow and catch up with you. There's luckily only one way

to reach the church from here, and your father can't blame us if

we both take it!"

And so it fell out that Ivory and Waitstill walked together in

the cool of the afternoon to the meeting-house on Tory Hill.

Waitstill kept the beaten path on one side and Ivory that on the

other, so that the width of the country road, deep in dust, was

between them, yet their nearness seemed so tangible a thing that

each could feel the heart beating in the other's side.

Their talk was only that of tried friends, a talk interrupted by

long beautiful silences; silences that come only to a man and

woman whose understanding of each other is beyond question and

answer. Not a sound broke the stillness, yet the very air, it

seemed to them, was shedding meanings: the flowers were exhaling

a love secret with their fragrances, the birds were singing it

boldly from the tree-tops, yet no word passed the man's lips or

the girl's. Patty would have hung out all sorts of signals and

lures to draw the truth from Ivory and break through the walls of

his self-control, but Waitstill, never; and Ivory Boynton was

made of stuff so strong that he would not speak a syllable of

love to a woman unless he could say all. He was only

five-and-twenty, but he had been reared in a rigorous school, and

had learned in its poverty, lon