Kitty's Class Day And Other Stories
Louisa M. Alcott

Part 2 out of 5

poor Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic. Take a
day as a sample.

"The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness, mother quiet,
the boys out of the way, and May comfortable, so I'll indulge myself
in a blissful day after my own heart," Psyche said, as she shut
herself into her little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours of
hard study and happy day-dreams.

With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm going through all
manner of queer evolutions, she was placidly repeating, "Deltoides,
Biceps, Triceps, Pronator, Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpi

"Here's Flexis what-you-call-ums for you," interrupted a voice, which
began in a shrill falsetto and ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed,
dusty, long-legged boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obligingly
extended for inspection.

"Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself now? Split your
fingers with a cricket-ball again?" cried Psyche, as her arms went up
and her book went down.

"I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said father
was going to fail."

"O Harry, is he?"

"Of course he isn't! It's hard times for every one, but father will
pull through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can't
understand business; so you just tie me up, and don't worry," was the
characteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years her
junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension.

"What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven't
studied the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up," said
Psyche, examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude.

"Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can't
right up a little cut like that," squeaked the ungrateful hero.

"I'm not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to make
perfect hands and arms, not mend damaged ones," retorted Psyche, in a
dignified tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster on
her tongue.

"I should say a surgeon could improve _that_ perfect thing, if he
didn't die a-laughing before he began," growled Harry, pointing with
a scornful grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefully
developed in the wrong places.

"Don't sneer, Hal, for you don't know anything about it. Wait a few
years and see if you're not proud of me."

"Sculp away and do something, then I'll hurrah for your mud-pies
like a good one;" with which cheering promise the youth left, having
effectually disturbed his sister's peaceful mood.

Anxious thoughts of her father rendered "biceps, deltoids, and things"
uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The Old
Painters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just
reached the tender scene where,--

"Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being of
heaven rather than earth. 'My friend,' she cried, 'I read in thy
picture thy immortality!' As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom,
and it was several moments before Claude perceived that he supported a
lifeless form."

"How sweet!" said Psyche, with a romantic sigh.

"Faith, and swate it is, thin!" echoed Katy, whose red head had just
appeared round the half opened door. "It's gingy-bread I'm making the
day, miss, and will I be puttin' purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye

"Purlash, by all means," returned the girl, keeping her countenance,
fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of the
red-haired one rose more quickly than her bread.

As she departed with alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch
of whiting to her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and her
smile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on the deformed
arm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring at the door-bell, followed by
Biddy to announce callers, and add that as "the mistress was in her
bed, miss must go and take care of 'em." Whereat "miss" cast down her
tools in despair, threw her cap one way, her bib another, and went in
to her guests with anything but a rapturous welcome.

Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs with
trays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio,
ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went well
till, going in search of something, she found her little sister
sitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio door.

"I didn't mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boys
all gone, so I just came to be near you; it's so lonely everywhere,"
she said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that always

"The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are such
a mouse you won't disturb me. Wouldn't you like to play be a model and
let me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones and
muscles?" asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her just

May didn't look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her with
delight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool with
one arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew
busily, feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully

"Can't you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can't get it
right," she said, rather impatiently.

"No, it will tremble 'cause it's weak. I try hard, Sy, but there
doesn't seem to be much strongness in me lately."

"That's better; keep it so a few minutes and I'll be done," cried the
artist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages.

"My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,--can't you?"

"Yes, dear."

Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again there
was a blur before her eyes for a minute.

"I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get thinner every day
somehow, and pretty soon there won't be any of me left but my little
bones," said the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful

"Don't, my darling; don't say that," cried Psyche, dropping her work
with a sudden pang at her heart. "I'm a sinful, selfish girl to keep
you here! you're weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens,
and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys."

The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche's neck, and the tired
face brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with grateful

"Oh, I'd like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully; but everybody
is so busy all the time. I don't want to play, Sy; but just to lie on
the grass with my head in your lap while you tell stories and draw me
pretty things as you used to."

The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche sat in the
orchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert robins hopping by,
buttercups and mosses, elves and angels; while May lay contentedly
enjoying sun and air, sisterly care, and the "pretty things" she loved
so well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this time her
heart was in it, and if she needed any reward she surely found it; for
the little face on her knee lost its weary look, and the peace and
beauty of nature soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart,
and did her more good than hours of solitary study.

Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was teeming with
lovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet evening. But mother wanted a
bit of gossip, father must have his papers read to him, the boys had
lessons and rips and grievances to be attended to, May's lullaby could
not be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked after, lest burly
"cousins" should be hidden in the boiler, or lucifer matches among
the shavings. So Psyche's day ended, leaving her very tired, rather
discouraged, and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a coming sorrow.

All summer she did her best, but accomplished very little, as she
thought; yet this was the teaching she most needed, and in time she
came to see it. In the autumn May died, whispering, with her arms
about her sister's neck,--

"You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn't mind the pain if I could stay a
little longer. But if I can't, good-by, dear, good-by."

Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche, who felt then
with grateful tears that her summer had not been wasted; for the smile
upon the little dead face was more to her than any marble perfection
her hands could have carved.

In the solemn pause which death makes in every family, Psyche said,
with the sweet self-forgetfulness of a strong yet tender nature,--

"I must not think of myself, but try to comfort them;" and with this
resolution she gave herself heart and soul to duty, never thinking of

A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry said, "it was hard
times for every one." Mr. Dean grew gray with the weight of business
cares about which he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under the
delusion that an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family,
installed herself in the place the child's death left vacant, and the
boys needed much comforting, for the poor lads never knew how much
they loved "the baby" till the little chair stood empty. All turned to
Sy for help and consolation, and her strength seemed to increase with
the demand upon it. Patience and cheerfulness, courage and skill came
at her call like good fairies who had bided their time. Housekeeping
ceased to be hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen while
Mrs. Dean, shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann's Lesser Writings on her
sofa. Mr. Dean sometimes forgot his mills when a bright face came
to meet him, a gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxious
forehead, and a daughterly heart sympathized with all his cares. The
boys found home very pleasant with Sy always there ready to "lend a
hand," whether it was to make fancy ties, help conjugate "a confounded
verb," pull candy, or sing sweetly in the twilight when all thought of
little May and grew quiet.

The studio door remained locked till her brothers begged Psyche to
open it and make a bust of the child. A flush of joy swept over her
face at the request, and her patient eyes grew bright and eager, as
a thirsty traveller's might at the sight or sound of water. Then it
faded as she shook her head, saying with a regretful sigh, "I'm afraid
I've lost the little skill I ever had."

But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered that she
could work as she had never done before. She thought the newly found
power lay in her longing to see the little face again; for it grew
like magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory, sweet
thought, and devout hope she had ever cherished, seemed to lend their
aid. But when it was done and welcomed with tears and smiles, and
praise more precious than any the world could give, then Psyche said
within herself, like one who saw light at last,--

"He was right; doing one's duty _is_ the way to feed heart, soul, and
imagination; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can
work well."


"She broke her head and went home to come no more," was Giovanni's
somewhat startling answer when Paul asked about Psyche, finding that
he no longer met her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood what
the boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his work again,
saying, "I like that! If there is any power in her, she has taken the
right way to find it out, I suspect."

How she prospered he never asked; for, though he met her more
than once that year, the interviews were brief ones in street,
concert-room, or picture-gallery, and she carefully avoided speaking
of herself. But, possessing the gifted eyes which can look below the
surface of things, he detected in the girl's face something better
than beauty, though each time he saw it, it looked older and more
thoughtful, often anxious and sad.

"She is getting on," he said to himself with a cordial satisfaction
which gave his manner a friendliness as grateful to Psyche as his wise

Adam was finished at last, proved a genuine success, and Paul heartily
enjoyed the well-earned reward for years of honest work. One blithe
May morning, he slipped early into the art-gallery, where the statue
now stood, to look at his creation with paternal pride. He was quite
alone with the stately figure that shone white against the purple
draperies and seemed to offer him a voiceless welcome from its marble
lips. He gave it one loving look, and then forgot it, for at the feet
of his Adam lay a handful of wild violets, with the dew still on
them. A sudden smile broke over his face as he took them up, with the
thought, "She has been here and found my work good."

For several moments he stood thoughtfully turning the flowers to and
fro in his hands; then, as if deciding some question within himself,
he said, still smiling,--

"It is just a year since she went home; she must have accomplished
something in that time; I'll take the violets as a sign that I may go
and ask her what."

He knew she lived just out of the city, between the river and the
mills, and as he left the streets behind him, he found more violets
blooming all along the way like flowery guides to lead him right.
Greener grew the road, balmier blew the wind, and blither sang the
birds, as he went on, enjoying his holiday with the zest of a boy,
until he reached a most attractive little path winding away across the
fields. The gate swung invitingly open, and all the ground before it
was blue with violets. Still following their guidance he took the
narrow path, till, coming to a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat down
to listen to the blackbirds singing deliciously in the willows over
head. Close by the stone, half hidden in the grass lay a little book,
and, taking it up he found it was a pocket-diary. No name appeared on
the fly-leaf, and, turning the pages to find some clue to its owner,
he read here and there enough to give him glimpses into an innocent
and earnest heart which seemed to be learning some hard lesson
patiently. Only near the end did he find the clue in words of his own,
spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though longing intensely to know
more, he shut the little book and went on, showing by his altered face
that the simple record of a girl's life had touched him deeply.

Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside with the river
shining in the low green meadows just before it.

"She lives there," he said, with as much certainty as if the pansies
by the door-stone spelt her name, and, knocking, he asked for Psyche.

"She's gone to town, but I expect her home every minute. Ask the
gentleman to walk in and wait, Katy," cried a voice from above, where
the whisk of skirts was followed by the appearance of an inquiring eye
over the banisters.

The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked about him. The
room, though very simply furnished, had a good deal of beauty in it,
for the pictures were few and well chosen, the books such as never
grow old, the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which is
never out of fashion, and standing somewhat apart was one small statue
in a recess full of flowers. Lovely in its simple grace and truth was
the figure of a child looking upward as if watching the airy flight of
some butterfly which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis still
lying in the little hand.

Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when Mrs. Dean appeared
with his card in her hand, three shawls on her shoulders, and in her
face a somewhat startled expression, as if she expected some novel
demonstration from the man whose genius her daughter so much admired.

"I hope Miss Psyche is well," began Paul, with great discrimination if
not originality.

The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized Mrs. Dean at once,
and, taking off the upper shawl with a fussy gesture, she settled
herself for a chat.

"Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don't know what would become of us
if she wasn't. It has been a hard and sorrowful year for us with Mr.
Dean's business embarrassments, my feeble health, and May's death.
I don't know that you were aware of our loss, sir;" and unaffected
maternal grief gave sudden dignity to the faded, fretful face of the

Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now the pathetic words
on a certain tear-stained page of the little book still in his pocket.

"Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came very hard upon Sy,
for the child wasn't happy with any one else, and almost lived in
her arms," continued Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get her

"Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies this year, I
suppose?" said Paul, hoping to arrest the shower, natural as it was.

"How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping, her father and the
boys to attend to? No, she gave that up last spring, and though it was
a great disappointment to her at the time, she has got over it now, I
hope," added her mother, remembering as she spoke that Psyche even now
went about the house sometimes pale and silent, with a hungry look in
her eyes.

"I am glad to hear it," though a little shadow passed over his face
as Paul spoke, for he was too true an artist to believe that any work
could be as happy as that which he loved and lived for. "I thought
there was much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe that
time will prove me a true prophet," he said, with mingled regret and
hope in his voice, as he glanced about the room, which betrayed the
tastes still cherished by the girl.

"I'm afraid ambition isn't good for women; I mean the sort that makes
them known by coming before the public in any way. But Sy deserves
some reward, I'm sure, and I know she'll have it, for a better
daughter never lived."

Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of Psyche, or the
presence of a genial guest had touched Mrs. Dean's chilly nature with
a comfortable warmth.

Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche of boys which
came tumbling down the front stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shouted
in a sort of chorus,--

"Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!"

"Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off."

"Sy, I've split my jacket down the back; come sew me up, there's a

On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly lost their
voices, found their manners, and with nods and grins took themselves
away as quietly as could be expected of six clumping boots and an
unlimited quantity of animal spirits in a high state of effervescence.
As they trooped off, an unmistakable odor of burnt milk pervaded the
air, and the crash of china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs.
Dean to clap on her three shawls again and excuse herself in visible

Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober and said, "Poor
Psyche!" with a sympathetic sigh. He roamed about the room impatiently
till the sound of voices drew him to the window to behold the girl
coming up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one arm, the
other loaded with baskets and bundles, and her hands occupied by a
remarkably ugly turtle.

"Here we are!" cried a cheery voice, as they entered without observing
the new-comer. "I've done all my errands and had a lovely time. There
is Tom's gunpowder, Dick's fishhooks, and one of Professor Gazzy's
famous turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles, mother dear, and,
best of all, here's father home in time for a good rest before dinner.
I went to the mill and got him."

Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and so she had,
for though Mr. Dean's face usually was about as expressive as the
turtle's, it woke and warmed with the affection which his daughter had
fostered till no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big hand
patted her cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of fatherly love
and pride,--

"My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?"

"Good gracious me, my dear, there's such a mess in the kitchen! Katy's
burnt up the pudding, put castor-oil instead of olive in the salad,
smashed the best meat-dish, and here's Mr. Gage come to dinner," cried
Mrs. Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a fourth

"Oh, I'm so glad; I'll go in and see him a few minutes, and then I'll
come and attend to everything; so don't worry, mother."

"How did you find me out?" asked Psyche as she shook hands with her
guest and stood looking up at him with all the old confiding frankness
in her face and manner.

"The violets showed me the way."

She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and smiled.

"Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn't think you would guess. I
enjoyed your work for an hour to-day, and I have no words strong
enough to express my admiration."

"There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself: what have you been
doing all this year?" he asked, watching with genuine satisfaction the
serene and sunny face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadness
were no longer visible there.

"I've been working and waiting," she began.

"And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read," he
said, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it down
before her.

"My diary! I didn't know I had lost it. Where did you find it?"

"By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name I
shut it up. Forgive me, but I can't ask pardon for reading a few pages
of that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial."

She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the telltale book out of
sight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,--

"It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am just
beginning to find that my dream _is_ 'a noonday light and truth,' to

"Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay down your tools?" he
asked, with some eagerness.

"Never! I thought at first that I could not serve two masters, but
in trying to be faithful to one I find I am nearer and dearer to the
other. My cares and duties are growing lighter every day (or I have
learned to bear them better), and when my leisure does come I shall
know how to use it, for my head is full of ambitious plans, and I feel
that I can do something _now_."

All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense of power
betrayed itself in voice and gesture as she spoke.

"I believe it," he said heartily. "You have learned the secret, as
that proves."

Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to it, and into her
face there came a motherly expression that made it very sweet.

"That little sister was so dear to me I could not fail to make her
lovely, for I put my heart into my work. The year has gone, but I
don't regret it, though this is all I have done."

"You forget your three wishes; I think the year has granted them."

"What were they?"

"To possess beauty in yourself, the power of seeing it in all things,
and the art of reproducing it with truth."

She colored deeply under the glance which accompanied the threefold
compliment, and answered with grateful humility,--

"You are very kind to say so; I wish I could believe it." Then, as if
anxious to forget herself, she added rather abruptly,--

"I hear you think of giving your Adam a mate,--have you begun yet?"

"Yes, my design is finished, all but the face."

"I should think you could image Eve's beauty, since you have succeeded
so well with Adam's."

"The features perhaps, but not the expression. That is the charm of
feminine faces, a charm so subtile that few can catch and keep it. I
want a truly womanly face, one that shall be sweet and strong without
being either weak or hard. A hopeful, loving, earnest face with a
tender touch of motherliness in it, and perhaps the shadow of a grief
that has softened but not saddened it."

"It will be hard to find a face like that."

"I don't expect to find it in perfection; but one sometimes sees faces
which suggest all this, and in rare moments give glimpses of a lovely

"I sincerely hope you will find one then," said Psyche, thinking of
the dinner.

"Thank you; _I_ think I have."

Now, in order that every one may be suited, we will stop here, and
leave our readers to finish the story as they like. Those who prefer
the good old fashion may believe that the hero and heroine fell in
love, were married, and lived happily ever afterward. But those who
can conceive of a world outside of a wedding-ring may believe that the
friends remained faithful friends all their lives, while Paul won fame
and fortune, and Psyche grew beautiful with the beauty of a serene and
sunny nature, happy in duties which became pleasures, rich in the art
which made life lovely to herself and others, and brought rewards in


"A handful of good life is worth a bushel of learning."

"Dear Emily,--I have a brilliant idea, and at once hasten to share it
with you. Three weeks ago I came up here to the wilds of Vermont to
visit my old aunt, also to get a little quiet and distance in which
to survey certain new prospects which have opened before me, and to
decide whether I will marry a millionnaire and become a queen of
society, or remain 'the charming Miss Vaughan' and wait till the
conquering hero comes.

"Aunt Plumy begs me to stay over Christmas, and I have consented, as I
always dread the formal dinner with which my guardian celebrates the

"My brilliant idea is this. I'm going to make it a real old-fashioned
frolic, and won't you come and help me? You will enjoy it immensely I
am sure, for Aunt is a character. Cousin Saul worth seeing, and Ruth
a far prettier girl than any of the city rose-buds coming out this
season. Bring Leonard Randal along with you to take notes for his new
books; then it will be fresher and truer than the last, clever as it

"The air is delicious up here, society amusing, this old farmhouse
full of treasures, and your bosom friend pining to embrace you. Just
telegraph yes or no, and we will expect you on Tuesday.

"Ever yours,


"They will both come, for they are as tired of city life and as fond
of change as I am," said the writer of the above, as she folded her
letter and went to get it posted without delay.

Aunt Plumy was in the great kitchen making pies; a jolly old soul,
with a face as ruddy as a winter apple, a cheery voice, and the
kindest heart that ever beat under a gingham gown. Pretty Ruth was
chopping the mince, and singing so gaily as she worked that the
four-and-twenty immortal blackbirds could not have put more music into
a pie than she did. Saul was piling wood into the big oven, and Sophie
paused a moment on the threshold to look at him, for she always
enjoyed the sight of this stalwart cousin, whom she likened to a Norse
viking, with his fair hair and beard, keen blue eyes, and six feet of
manly height, with shoulders that looked broad and strong enough to
bear any burden.

His back was toward her, but he saw her first, and turned his flushed
face to meet her, with the sudden lighting up it always showed when
she approached.

"I've done it, Aunt; and now I want Saul to post the letter, so we can
get a speedy answer."

"Just as soon as I can hitch up, cousin;" and Saul pitched in his last
log, looking ready to put a girdle round the earth in less than forty

"Well, dear, I ain't the least mite of objection, as long as it
pleases you. I guess we can stan' it ef your city folks can. I presume
to say things will look kind of sing'lar to 'em, but I s'pose that's
what they come for. Idle folks do dreadful queer things to amuse 'em;"
and Aunt Plumy leaned on the rolling-pin to smile and nod with a
shrewd twinkle of her eye, as if she enjoyed the prospect as much as
Sophie did.

"I shall be afraid of 'em, but I'll try not to make you ashamed of
me," said Ruth, who loved her charming cousin even more than she
admired her.

"No fear of that, dear. They will be the awkward ones, and you must
set them at ease by just being your simple selves, and treating them
as if they were every-day people. Nell is very nice and jolly when she
drops her city ways, as she must here. She will enter into the spirit
of the fun at once, and I know you'll all like her. Mr. Randal is
rather the worse for too much praise and petting, as successful people
are apt to be, so a little plain talk and rough work will do him good.
He is a true gentleman in spite of his airs and elegance, and he will
take it all in good part, if you treat him like a man and not a lion."

"I'll see to him," said Saul, who had listened with great interest to
the latter part of Sophie's speech, evidently suspecting a lover, and
enjoying the idea of supplying him with a liberal amount of "plain
talk and rough work."

"I'll keep 'em busy if that's what they need, for there will be a
sight to do, and we can't get help easy up here. Our darters don't
hire out much. Work to home till they marry, and don't go gaddin'
'round gettin' their heads full of foolish notions, and forgettin' all
the useful things their mothers taught 'em."

Aunt Plumy glanced at Ruth as she spoke, and a sudden color in the
girl's cheeks proved that the words hit certain ambitious fancies of
this pretty daughter of the house of Basset.

"They shall do their parts and not be a trouble; I'll see to that,
for you certainly are the dearest aunt in the world to let me take
possession of you and yours in this way," cried Sophie, embracing the
old lady with warmth.

Saul wished the embrace could be returned by proxy, as his mother's
hands were too floury to do more than hover affectionately round the
delicate face that looked so fresh and young beside her wrinkled one.
As it could not be done, he fled temptation and "hitched up" without

The three women laid their heads together in his absence, and Sophie's
plan grew apace, for Ruth longed to see a real novelist and a fine
lady, and Aunt Plumy, having plans of her own to further, said "Yes,
dear," to every suggestion.

Great was the arranging and adorning that went on that day in the
old farmhouse, for Sophie wanted her friends to enjoy this taste of
country pleasures, and knew just what additions would be indispensable
to their comfort; what simple ornaments would be in keeping with the
rustic stage on which she meant to play the part of prima donna.

Next day a telegram arrived accepting the invitation, for both the
lady and the lion. They would arrive that afternoon, as little
preparation was needed for this impromptu journey, the novelty of
which was its chief charm to these _blase_ people.

Saul wanted to get out the double sleigh and span, for he prided
himself on his horses, and a fall of snow came most opportunely
to beautify the landscape and add a new pleasure to Christmas

But Sophie declared that the old yellow sleigh, with Punch, the
farm-horse, must be used, as she wished everything to be in keeping;
and Saul obeyed, thinking he had never seen anything prettier than his
cousin when she appeared in his mother's old-fashioned camlet cloak
and blue silk pumpkin hood. He looked remarkably well himself in his
fur coat, with hair and beard brushed till they shone like spun gold,
a fresh color in his cheek, and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes,
while excitement gave his usually grave face the animation it needed
to be handsome.

Away they jogged in the creaking old sleigh, leaving Ruth to make
herself pretty, with a fluttering heart, and Aunt Plumy to dish up a
late dinner fit to tempt the most fastidious appetite.

"She has not come for us, and there is not even a stage to take us up.
There must be some mistake," said Emily Herrick, as she looked about
the shabby little station where they were set down.

"That is the never-to-be-forgotten face of our fair friend, but the
bonnet of her grandmother, if my eyes do not deceive me," answered
Randal, turning to survey the couple approaching in the rear.

"Sophie Vaughan, what do you mean by making such a guy of yourself?"
exclaimed Emily, as she kissed the smiling face in the hood and stared
at the quaint cloak.

"I'm dressed for my part, and I intend to keep it up. This is our
host, my cousin, Saul Basset. Come to the sleigh at once, he will see
to your luggage," said Sophie, painfully conscious of the antiquity of
her array as her eyes rested on Emily's pretty hat and mantle, and the
masculine elegance of Randal's wraps.

They were hardly tucked in when Saul appeared with a valise in
one hand and a large trunk on his shoulder, swinging both on to a
wood-sled that stood near by as easily as if they had been hand-bags.

"That is your hero, is it? Well, he looks it, calm and comely,
taciturn and tall," said Emily, in a tone of approbation.

"He should have been named Samson or Goliath; though I believe it was
the small man who slung things about and turned out the hero in the
end," added Randal, surveying the performance with interest and a
touch of envy, for much pen work had made his own hands as delicate as
a woman's.

"Saul doesn't live in a glass house, so stones won't hurt him.
Remember sarcasm is forbidden and sincerity the order of the day. You
are country folks now, and it will do you good to try their simple,
honest ways for a few days."

Sophie had no time to say more, for Saul came up and drove off with
the brief remark that the baggage would "be along right away."

Being hungry, cold and tired, the guests were rather silent during the
short drive, but Aunt Plumy's hospitable welcome, and the savory fumes
of the dinner awaiting them, thawed the ice and won their hearts at

"Isn't it nice? Aren't you glad you came?" asked Sophie, as she led
her friends into the parlor, which she had redeemed from its primness
by putting bright chintz curtains to the windows, hemlock boughs
over the old portraits, a china bowl of flowers on the table, and a
splendid fire on the wide hearth.

"It is perfectly jolly, and this is the way I begin to enjoy myself,"
answered Emily, sitting down upon the home-made rug, whose red flannel
roses bloomed in a blue list basket.

"If I may add a little smoke to your glorious fire, it will be quite
perfect. Won't Samson join me?" asked Randal, waiting for permission,
cigar-case in hand.

"He has no small vices, but you may indulge yours," answered Sophie,
from the depths of a grandmotherly chair.

Emily glanced up at her friend as if she caught a new tone in her
voice, then turned to the fire again with a wise little nod, as if
confiding some secret to the reflection of herself in the bright brass

"His Delilah does not take this form. I wait with interest to discover
if he has one. What a daisy the sister is. Does she ever speak?" asked
Randal, trying to lounge on the haircloth sofa, where he was slipping
uncomfortably about.

"Oh yes, and sings like a bird. You shall hear her when she gets over
her shyness. But no trifling, mind you, for it is a jealously guarded
daisy and not to be picked by any idle hand," said Sophie warningly,
as she recalled Ruth's blushes and Randal's compliments at dinner.

"I should expect to be annihilated by the big brother if I attempted
any but the 'sincerest' admiration and respect. Have no fears on that
score, but tell us what is to follow this superb dinner. An apple bee,
spinning match, husking party, or primitive pastime of some sort, I
have no doubt."

"As you are new to our ways I am going to let you rest this evening.
We will sit about the fire and tell stories. Aunt is a master hand
at that, and Saul has reminiscences of the war that are well worth
hearing if we can only get him to tell them."

"Ah, he was there, was he?"

"Yes, all through it, and is Major Basset, though he likes his plain
name best. He fought splendidly and had several wounds, though only a
mere boy when he earned his scars and bars. I'm very proud of him for
that," and Sophie looked so as she glanced at the photograph of
a stripling in uniform set in the place of honor on the high

"We must stir him up and hear these martial memories. I want some new
incidents, and shall book all I can get, if I may."

Here Randal was interrupted by Saul himself, who came in with an
armful of wood for the fire.

"Anything more I can do for you, cousin?" he asked, surveying the
scene with a rather wistful look.

"Only come and sit with us and talk over war times with Mr. Randal."

"When I've foddered the cattle and done my chores I'd be pleased to.
What regiment were you in?" asked Saul, looking down from his lofty
height upon the slender gentleman, who answered briefly,--

"In none. I was abroad at the time."


"No, busy with a novel."

"Took four years to write it?"

"I was obliged to travel and study before I could finish it. These
things take more time to work up than outsiders would believe."

"Seems to me our war was a finer story than any you could find in
Europe, and the best way to study it would be to fight it out. If you
want heroes and heroines you'd have found plenty of 'em there."

"I have no doubt of it, and shall be glad to atone for my seeming
neglect of them by hearing about your own exploits. Major."

Randal hoped to turn the conversation gracefully, but Saul was not
to be caught, and left the room, saying, with a gleam of fun in his

"I can't stop now; heroes can wait, pigs can't."

The girls laughed at this sudden descent from the sublime to the
ridiculous, and Randal joined them, feeling his condescension had not
been unobserved.

As if drawn by the merry sound Aunt Plumy appeared, and being
established in the rocking-chair fell to talking as easily as if she
had known her guests for years.

"Laugh away, young folks, that's better for digestion than any of the
messes people use. Are you troubled with dyspepsy, dear? You didn't
seem to take your vittles very hearty, so I mistrusted you was
delicate," she said, looking at Emily, whose pale cheeks and weary
eyes told the story of late hours and a gay life.

"I haven't eaten so much for years, I assure you, Mrs. Basset; but
it was impossible to taste all your good things. I am not dyspeptic,
thank you, but a little seedy and tired, for I've been working rather
hard lately."

"Be you a teacher? or have you a 'perfessun,' as they call a trade
nowadays?" asked the old lady in a tone of kindly interest, which
prevented a laugh at the idea of Emily's being anything but a beauty
and a belle. The others kept their countenances with difficulty, and
she answered demurely,--

"I have no trade as yet, but I dare say I should be happier if I had."

"Not a doubt on't, my dear."

"What would you recommend, ma'am?"

"I should say dressmakin' was rather in your line, ain't it? Your
clothes is dreadful tasty, and do you credit if you made 'em
yourself." and Aunt Plumy surveyed with feminine interest the simple
elegance of the travelling dress which was the masterpiece of a French

"No, ma'am, I don't make my own things, I'm too lazy. It takes so much
time and trouble to select them that I have only strength left to wear

"Housekeepin' used to be the favorite perfessun in my day. It ain't
fashionable now, but it needs a sight of trainin' to be perfect in all
that's required, and I've an idee it would be a sight healthier and
usefuller than the paintin' and music and fancy work young women do

"But every one wants some beauty in their lives, and each one has a
different sphere to fill, if one can only find it."

"'Pears to me there's no call for so much art when nater is full of
beauty for them that can see and love it. As for 'spears' and so on,
I've a notion if each of us did up our own little chores smart and
thorough we needn't go wanderin' round to set the world to rights.
That's the Lord's job, and I presume to say He can do it without any
advice of ourn."

Something in the homely but true words seemed to rebuke the three
listeners for wasted lives, and for a moment there was no sound but
the crackle of the fire, the brisk click of the old lady's knitting
needles, and Ruth's voice singing overhead as she made ready to join
the party below.

"To judge by that sweet sound you have done one of your 'chores' very
beautifully, Mrs. Basset, and in spite of the follies of our day,
succeeded in keeping one girl healthy, happy and unspoiled," said
Emily, looking up into the peaceful old face with her own lovely one
full of respect and envy.

"I do hope so, for she's my ewe lamb, the last of four dear little
girls; all the rest are in the burying ground 'side of father. I don't
expect to keep her long, and don't ought to regret when I lose her,
for Saul is the best of sons; but daughters is more to mothers
somehow, and I always yearn over girls that is left without a broodin'
wing to keep 'em safe and warm in this world of tribulation."

Aunt Plumy laid her hand on Sophie's head as she spoke, with such a
motherly look that both girls drew nearer, and Randal resolved to put
her in a book without delay.

Presently Saul returned with little Ruth hanging on his arm and shyly
nestling near him as he took the three-cornered leathern chair in the
chimney nook, while she sat on a stool close by.

"Now the circle is complete and the picture perfect. Don't light the
lamps yet, please, but talk away and let me make a mental study
of you. I seldom find so charming a scene to paint," said Randal,
beginning to enjoy himself immensely, with a true artist's taste for
novelty and effect.

"Tell us about your book, for we have been reading it as it comes out
in the magazine, and are much exercised about how it's going to
end," began Saul, gallantly throwing himself into the breach, for a
momentary embarrassment fell upon the women at the idea of sitting for
their portraits before they were ready.

"Do you really read my poor serial up here, and do me the honor to
like it?" asked the novelist, both flattered and amused, for his work
was of the aesthetic sort, microscopic studies of character, and
careful pictures of modern life.

"Sakes alive, why shouldn't we?" cried Aunt Plumy. "We have some
eddication, though we ain't very genteel. We've got a town libry, kep
up by the women mostly, with fairs and tea parties and so on. We have
all the magazines reg'lar, and Saul reads out the pieces while Ruth
sews and I knit, my eyes bein' poor. Our winter is long and evenins
would be kinder lonesome if we didn't have novils and newspapers to
cheer 'em up."

"I am very glad I can help to beguile them for you. Now tell me what
you honestly think of my work? Criticism is always valuable, and I
should really like yours, Mrs. Basset," said Randal, wondering what
the good woman would make of the delicate analysis and worldly wisdom
on which he prided himself.

Short work, as Aunt Plumy soon showed him, for she rather enjoyed
freeing her mind at all times, and decidedly resented the insinuation
that country folk could not appreciate light literature as well as
city people.

"I ain't no great of a jedge about anything but nat'ralness of books,
and it really does seem as if some of your men and women was dreadful
uncomfortable creaters. 'Pears to me it ain't wise to be always
pickin' ourselves to pieces and pryin' into things that ought to
come gradual by way of experience and the visitations of Providence.
Flowers won't blow worth a cent ef you pull 'em open. Better wait and
see what they can do alone. I do relish the smart sayins, the odd ways
of furrin parts, and the sarcastic slaps at folkses weak spots. But
massy knows, we can't live on spice-cake and Charlotte Ruche, and I
do feel as if books was more sustainin' ef they was full of every-day
people and things, like good bread and butter. Them that goes to the
heart and ain't soon forgotten is the kind I hanker for. Mis Terry's
books now, and Mis Stowe's, and Dickens's Christmas pieces,--them is
real sweet and cheerin', to my mind."

As the blunt old lady paused it was evident she had produced a
sensation, for Saul smiled at the fire, Ruth looked dismayed at
this assault upon one of her idols, and the young ladies were both
astonished and amused at the keenness of the new critic who dared
express what they had often felt. Randal, however, was quite composed
and laughed good-naturedly, though secretly feeling as if a pail of
cold water had been poured over him.

"Many thanks, madam; you have discovered my weak point with surprising
accuracy. But you see I cannot help 'picking folks to pieces,' as you
have expressed it; that is my gift, and it has its attractions, as the
sale of my books will testify. People like the 'spice-bread,' and as
that is the only sort my oven will bake, I must keep on in order to
make my living."

"So rumsellers say, but it ain't a good trade to foller, and I'd chop
wood 'fore I'd earn my livin' harmin' my feller man. 'Pears to me I'd
let my oven cool a spell, and hunt up some homely, happy folks to
write about; folks that don't borrer trouble and go lookin' for holes
in their neighbors' coats, but take their lives brave and cheerful;
and rememberin' we are all human, have pity on the weak, and try to
be as full of mercy, patience and lovin' kindness as Him who made
us. That sort of a book would do a heap of good; be real warmin' and
strengthening and make them that read it love the man that wrote it,
and remember him when he was dead and gone."

"I wish I could!" and Randal meant what he said, for he was as tired
of his own style as a watch-maker might be of the magnifying glass
through which he strains his eyes all day. He knew that the heart was
left out of his work, and that both mind and soul were growing morbid
with dwelling on the faulty, absurd and metaphysical phases of life
and character. He often threw down his pen and vowed he would write no
more; but he loved ease and the books brought money readily; he was
accustomed to the stimulant of praise and missed it as the toper
misses his wine, so that which had once been a pleasure to himself and
others was fast becoming a burden and a disappointment.

The brief pause which followed his involuntary betrayal of discontent
was broken by Ruth, who exclaimed, with a girlish enthusiasm that
overpowered girlish bashfulness,--

"_I_ think all the novels are splendid! I hope you will write hundreds
more, and I shall live to read 'em."

"Bravo, my gentle champion! I promise that I will write one more at
least, and have a heroine in it whom your mother will both admire and
love," answered Randal, surprised to find how grateful he was for the
girl's approval, and how rapidly his trained fancy began to paint the
background on which he hoped to copy this fresh, human daisy.

Abashed by her involuntary outburst, Ruth tried to efface herself
behind Saul's broad shoulder, and he brought the conversation back to
its starting-point by saying in a tone of the most sincere interest,--

"Speaking of the serial, I am very anxious to know how your hero comes
out. He is a fine fellow, and I can't decide whether he is going to
spoil his life marrying that silly woman, or do something grand and
generous, and not be made a fool of."

"Upon my soul, I don't know myself. It is very hard to find new
finales. Can't you suggest something, Major? then I shall not be
obliged to leave my story without an end, as people complain I am
rather fond of doing."

"Well, no, I don't think I've anything to offer. Seems to me it isn't
the sensational exploits that show the hero best, but some great
sacrifice quietly made by a common sort of man who is noble without
knowing it. I saw a good many such during the war, and often wish I
could write them down, for it is surprising how much courage, goodness
and real piety is stowed away in common folks ready to show when the
right time comes."

"Tell us one of them, and I'll bless you for a hint. No one knows the
anguish of an author's spirit when he can't ring down the curtain on
an effective tableau," said Randal, with a glance at his friends to
ask their aid in eliciting an anecdote or reminiscence.

"Tell about the splendid fellow who held the bridge, like Horatius,
till help came up. That was a thrilling story, I assure you," answered
Sophie, with an inviting smile.

But Saul would not be his own hero, and said briefly:

"Any man can be brave when the battle-fever is on him, and it only
takes a little physical courage to dash ahead." He paused a moment,
with his eyes on the snowy landscape without, where twilight was
deepening; then, as if constrained by the memory that winter scene
evoked, he slowly continued,--

"One of the bravest things I ever knew was done by a poor fellow who
has been a hero to me ever since, though I only met him that night.
It was after one of the big battles of that last winter, and I was
knocked over with a broken leg and two or three bullets here and
there. Night was coming on, snow falling, and a sharp wind blew over
the field where a lot of us lay, dead and alive, waiting for the
ambulance to come and pick us up. There was skirmishing going on not
far off, and our prospects were rather poor between frost and fire. I
was calculating how I'd manage, when I found two poor chaps close by
who were worse off, so I braced up and did what I could for them. One
had an arm blown away, and kept up a dreadful groaning. The other
was shot bad, and bleeding to death for want of help, but never
complained. He was nearest, and I liked his pluck, for he spoke
cheerful and made me ashamed to growl. Such times make dreadful brutes
of men if they haven't something to hold on to, and all three of us
were most wild with pain and cold and hunger, for we'd fought all day
fasting, when we heard a rumble in the road below, and saw lanterns
bobbing round. That meant life to us, and we all tried to holler; two
of us were pretty faint, but I managed a good yell, and they heard it.

"'Room for one more. Hard luck, old boys, but we are full and must
save the worst wounded first. Take a drink, and hold on till we come
back,' says one of them with the stretcher.

"'Here's the one to go,' I says, pointin' out my man, for I saw by the
light that he was hard hit.

"'No, that one. He's got more chances than I, or this one; he's young
and got a mother; I'll wait,' said the good feller, touchin' my arm,
for he 'd heard me mutterin' to myself about this dear old lady. We
always want mother when we are down, you know."

Saul's eyes turned to the beloved face with a glance of tenderest
affection, and Aunt Plumy answered with a dismal groan at the
recollection of his need that night, and her absence.

"Well, to be short, the groaning chap was taken, and my man left. I
was mad, but there was no time for talk, and the selfish one went off
and left that poor feller to run his one chance. I had my rifle, and
guessed I could hobble up to use it if need be; so we settled back to
wait without much hope of help, everything being in a muddle. And wait
we did till morning, for that ambulance did not come back till next
day, when most of us were past needing it.

"I'll never forget that night. I dream it all over again as plain as
if it was real. Snow, cold, darkness, hunger, thirst, pain, and all
round us cries and cursing growing less and less, till at last only
the wind went moaning over that meadow. It was awful! so lonesome,
helpless, and seemingly God-forsaken. Hour after hour we lay there
side by side under one coat, waiting to be saved or die, for the wind
grew strong and we grew weak."

Saul drew a long breath, and held his hands to the fire as if he felt
again the sharp suffering of that night.

"And the man?" asked Emily, softly, as if reluctant to break the

"He _was_ a man! In times like that men talk like brothers and show
what they are. Lying there, slowly freezing, Joe Cummings told
me about his wife and babies, his old folks waiting for him, all
depending on him, yet all ready to give him up when he was needed. A
plain man, but honest and true, and loving as a woman; I soon saw that
as he went on talking, half to me and half to himself, for sometimes
he wandered a little toward the end. I've read books, heard sermons,
and seen good folks, but nothing ever came so close or did me so much
good as seeing this man die. He had one chance and gave it cheerfully.
He longed for those he loved, and let 'em go with a good-by they
couldn't hear. He suffered all the pains we most shrink from without a
murmur, and kept my heart warm while his own was growing cold. It's
no use trying to tell that part of it; but I heard prayers that night
that meant something, and I saw how faith could hold a soul up when
everything was gone but God."

Saul stopped there with a sudden huskiness in his deep voice, and when
he went on it was in the tone of one who speaks of a dear friend.

"Joe grew still by and by, and I thought he was asleep, for I felt his
breath when I tucked him up, and his hand held on to mine. The cold
sort of numbed me, and I dropped off, too weak and stupid to think or
feel. I never should have waked up if it hadn't been for Joe. When I
came to, it was morning, and I thought I was dead, for all I could see
was that great field of white mounds, like graves, and a splendid sky
above. Then I looked for Joe, remembering; but he had put my coat back
over me, and lay stiff and still under the snow that covered him like
a shroud, all except his face. A bit of my cape had blown over it, and
when I took it off and the sun shone on his dead face, I declare to
you it was so full of heavenly peace I felt as if that common man had
been glorified by God's light, and rewarded by God's 'Well done.'
That's all."

No one spoke for a moment, while the women wiped their eyes, and Saul
dropped his as if to hide something softer than tears.

"It was very noble, very touching. And you? how did you get off at
last?" asked Randal, with real admiration and respect in his usually
languid face.

"Crawled off," answered Saul, relapsing into his former brevity of

"Why not before, and save yourself all that misery?"

"Couldn't leave Joe."

"Ah, I see; there were two heroes that night."

"Dozens, I've no doubt. Those were times that made heroes of men, and
women, too."

"Tell us more;" begged Emily, looking up with an expression none of
her admirers ever brought to her face by their softest compliments or
wiliest gossip.

"I've done my part. It's Mr. Randal's turn now;" and Saul drew himself
out of the ruddy circle of firelight, as if ashamed of the prominent
part he was playing.

Sophie and her friend had often heard Randal talk, for he was an
accomplished _raconteur_, but that night he exerted himself, and was
unusually brilliant and entertaining, as if upon his mettle. The
Bassets were charmed. They sat late and were very merry, for
Aunt Plumy got up a little supper for them, and her cider was as
exhilarating as champagne. When they parted for the night and Sophie
kissed her aunt, Emily did the same, saying heartily,--

"It seems as if I'd known you all my life, and this is certainly the
most enchanting old place that ever was."

"Glad you like it, dear. But it ain't all fun, as you'll find out
to-morrow when you go to work, for Sophie says you must," answered
Mrs. Basset, as her guests trooped away, rashly promising to like

They found it difficult to keep their word when they were called at
half past six next morning. Their rooms were warm, however, and
they managed to scramble down in time for breakfast, guided by the
fragrance of coffee and Aunt Plumy's shrill voice singing the good old

"Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear
My voice ascending high."

An open fire blazed on the hearth, for the cooking was done in
the lean-to, and the spacious, sunny kitchen was kept in all its
old-fashioned perfection, with the wooden settle in a warm nook, the
tall clock behind the door, copper and pewter utensils shining on the
dresser, old china in the corner closet and a little spinning wheel
rescued from the garret by Sophie to adorn the deep window, full of
scarlet geraniums, Christmas roses, and white chrysanthemums.

The young lady, in a checked apron and mob-cap, greeted her friends
with a dish of buckwheats in one hand, and a pair of cheeks that
proved she had been learning to fry these delectable cakes.

"You do 'keep it up' in earnest, upon my word; and very becoming it
is, dear. But won't you ruin your complexion and roughen your hands if
you do so much of this new fancy-work?" asked Emily, much amazed at
this novel freak.

"I like it, and really believe I've found my proper sphere at last.
Domestic life seems so pleasant to me that I feel as if I'd better
keep it up for the rest of my life," answered Sophie, making a pretty
picture of herself as she cut great slices of brown bread, with the
early sunshine touching her happy face.

"The charming Miss Vaughan in the role of a farmer's wife. I find it
difficult to imagine, and shrink from the thought of the wide-spread
dismay such a fate will produce among her adorers," added Randal, as
he basked in the glow of the hospitable fire.

"She might do worse; but come to breakfast and do honor to my
handiwork," said Sophie, thinking of her worn-out millionnaire, and
rather nettled by the satiric smile on Randal's lips.

"What an appetite early rising gives one. I feel equal to almost
anything, so let me help wash cups," said Emily, with unusual energy,
when the hearty meal was over and Sophie began to pick up the dishes
as if it was her usual work.

Ruth went to the window to water the flowers, and Randal followed to
make himself agreeable, remembering her defence of him last night.
He was used to admiration from feminine eyes, and flattery from soft
lips, but found something new and charming in the innocent delight
which showed itself at his approach in blushes more eloquent than
words, and shy glances from eyes full of hero-worship.

"I hope you are going to spare me a posy for to-morrow night, since
I can be fine in no other way to do honor to the dance Miss Sophie
proposes for us," he said, leaning in the bay window to look down
on the little girl, with the devoted air he usually wore for pretty

"Anything you like! I should be so glad to have you wear my flowers.
There will be enough for all, and I've nothing else to give to people
who have made me as happy as cousin Sophie and you," answered Ruth,
half drowning her great calla as she spoke with grateful warmth.

"You must make her happy by accepting the invitation to go home with
her which I heard given last night. A peep at the world would do you
good, and be a pleasant change, I think."

"Oh, very pleasant! but would it do me good?" and Ruth looked up with
sudden seriousness in her blue eyes, as a child questions an elder,
eager, yet wistful.

"Why not?" asked Randal, wondering at the hesitation.

"I might grow discontented with things here if I saw splendid houses
and fine people. I am very happy now, and it would break my heart to
lose that happiness, or ever learn to be ashamed of home."

"But don't you long for more pleasure, new scenes and other friends
than these?" asked the man, touched by the little creature's loyalty
to the things she knew and loved.

"Very often, but mother says when I'm ready they will come, so I wait
and try not to be impatient." But Ruth's eyes looked out over the
green leaves as if the longing was very strong within her to see more
of the unknown world lying beyond the mountains that hemmed her in.

"It is natural for birds to hop out of the nest, so I shall expect to
see you over there before long, and ask you how you enjoy your first
flight," said Randal, in a paternal tone that had a curious effect on

To his surprise, she laughed, then blushed like one of her own roses,
and answered with a demure dignity that was very pretty to see.

"I intend to hop soon, but it won't be a very long flight or very far
from mother. She can't spare me, and nobody in the world can fill her
place to me."

"Bless the child, does she think I'm going to make love to her,"
thought Randal, much amused, but quite mistaken. Wiser women had
thought so when he assumed the caressing air with which he beguiled
them into the little revelations of character he liked to use, as the
south wind makes flowers open their hearts to give up their odor, then
leaves them to carry it elsewhere, the more welcome for the stolen

"Perhaps you are right. The maternal wing is a safe shelter for
confiding little souls like you, Miss Ruth. You will be as comfortable
here as your flowers in this sunny window," he said, carelessly
pinching geranium leaves, and ruffling the roses till the pink petals
of the largest fluttered to the floor.

As if she instinctively felt and resented something in the man which
his act symbolized, the girl answered quietly, as she went on with her
work, "Yes, if the frost does not touch me, or careless people spoil
me too soon."

Before Randal could reply Aunt Plumy approached like a maternal hen
who sees her chicken in danger.

"Saul is goin' to haul wood after he's done his chores, mebbe you'd
like to go along? The view is good, the roads well broke, and the day
uncommon fine."

"Thanks; it will be delightful, I dare say," politely responded the
lion, with a secret shudder at the idea of a rural promenade at 8 A.M.
in the winter.

"Come on, then; we'll feed the stock, and then I'll show you how to
yoke oxen," said Saul, with a twinkle in his eye as he led the way,
when his new aide had muffled himself up as if for a polar voyage.

"Now, that's too bad of Saul! He did it on purpose, just to please
you, Sophie," cried Ruth presently, and the girls ran to the window to
behold Randal bravely following his host with a pail of pigs' food in
each hand, and an expression of resigned disgust upon his aristocratic

"To what base uses may we come," quoted Emily, as they all nodded and
smiled upon the victim as he looked back from the barn-yard, where he
was clamorously welcomed by his new charges.

"It is rather a shock at first, but it will do him good, and Saul
won't be too hard upon him, I'm sure," said Sophie, going back to her
work, while Ruth turned her best buds to the sun that they might be
ready for a peace-offering to-morrow.

There was a merry clatter in the big kitchen for an hour; then Aunt
Plumy and her daughter shut themselves up in the pantry to perform
some culinary rites, and the young ladies went to inspect certain
antique costumes laid forth in Sophie's room.

"You see, Em, I thought it would be appropriate to the house and
season to have an old-fashioned dance. Aunt has quantities of ancient
finery stowed away, for great-grandfather Basset was a fine old
gentleman and his family lived in state. Take your choice of the
crimson, blue or silver-gray damask. Ruth is to wear the worked muslin
and quilted white satin skirt, with that coquettish hat."

"Being dark, I'll take the red and trim it up with this fine lace.
You must wear the blue and primrose, with the distracting high-heeled
shoes. Have you any suits for the men?" asked Emily, throwing herself
at once into the all-absorbing matter of costume.

"A claret velvet coat and vest, silk stockings, cocked hat and
snuff-box for Randal. Nothing large enough for Saul, so he must wear
his uniform. Won't Aunt Plumy be superb in this plum-colored satin and
immense cap?"

A delightful morning was spent in adapting the faded finery of the
past to the blooming beauty of the present, and time and tongues flew
till the toot of a horn called them down to dinner.

The girls were amazed to see Randal come whistling up the road with
his trousers tucked into his boots, blue mittens on his hands, and an
unusual amount of energy in his whole figure, as he drove the oxen,
while Saul laughed at his vain attempts to guide the bewildered

"It's immense! The view from the hill is well worth seeing, for the
snow glorifies the landscape and reminds one of Switzerland. I'm going
to make a sketch of it this afternoon; better come and enjoy the
delicious freshness, young ladies."

Randal was eating with such an appetite that he did not see the
glances the girls exchanged as they promised to go.

"Bring home some more winter-green, I want things to be real nice, and
we haven't enough for the kitchen," said Ruth, dimpling with girlish
delight as she imagined herself dancing under the green garlands in
her grandmother's wedding gown.

It was very lovely on the hill, for far as the eye could reach lay the
wintry landscape sparkling with the brief beauty of sunshine on virgin
snow. Pines sighed overhead, hardy birds flitted to and fro, and in
all the trodden spots rose the little spires of evergreen ready for
its Christmas duty. Deeper in the wood sounded the measured ring of
axes, the crash of falling trees, while the red shirts of the men
added color to the scene, and a fresh wind brought the aromatic breath
of newly cloven hemlock and pine.

"How beautiful it is! I never knew before what winter woods were like.
Did you, Sophie?" asked Emily, sitting on a stump to enjoy the novel
pleasure at her ease.

"I've found out lately; Saul lets me come as often as I like, and this
fine air seems to make a new creature of me," answered Sophie, looking
about her with sparkling eyes, as if this was a kingdom where she
reigned supreme.

"Something is making a new creature of you, that is very evident. I
haven't yet discovered whether it is the air or some magic herb among
that green stuff you are gathering so diligently;" and Emily laughed
to see the color deepen beautifully in her friend's half-averted face.

"Scarlet is the only wear just now, I find. If we are lost like babes
in the woods there are plenty of redbreasts to cover us with leaves,"
and Randal joined Emily's laugh, with a glance at Saul, who had just
pulled his coat off.

"You wanted to see this tree go down, so stand from under and I'll
show you how it's done," said the farmer, taking up his axe, not
unwilling to gratify his guests and display his manly accomplishments
at the same time.

It was a fine sight, the stalwart man swinging his axe with
magnificent strength and skill, each blow sending a thrill through the
stately tree, till its heart was reached and it tottered to its fall.
Never pausing for breath Saul shook his yellow mane out of his eyes,
and hewed away, while the drops stood on his forehead and his arm
ached, as bent on distinguishing himself as if he had been a knight
tilting against his rival for his lady's favor.

"I don't know which to admire most, the man or his muscle. One doesn't
often see such vigor, size and comeliness in these degenerate days,"
said Randal, mentally booking the fine figure in the red shirt.

"I think we have discovered a rough diamond. I only wonder if Sophie
is going to try and polish it," answered Emily, glancing at her
friend, who stood a little apart, watching the rise and fall of the
axe as intently as if her fate depended on it.

Down rushed the tree at last, and, leaving them to examine a crow's
nest in its branches, Saul went off to his men, as if he found the
praises of his prowess rather too much for him.

Randal fell to sketching, the girls to their garland-making, and for
a little while the sunny woodland nook was full of lively chat and
pleasant laughter, for the air exhilarated them all like wine.
Suddenly a man came running from the wood, pale and anxious, saying,
as he hastened by for help, "Blasted tree fell on him! Bleed to death
before the doctor comes!"

"Who? who?" cried the startled trio.

But the man ran on, with some breathless reply, in which only a name
was audible--"Basset."

"The deuce it is!" and Randal dropped his pencil, while the girls
sprang up in dismay. Then, with one impulse, they hastened to the
distant group, half visible behind the fallen trees and corded wood.

Sophie was there first, and forcing her way through the little crowd
of men, saw a red-shirted figure on the ground, crushed and bleeding,
and threw herself down beside it with a cry that pierced the hearts of
those who heard it.

In the act she saw it was not Saul, and covered her bewildered face as
if to hide its joy. A strong arm lifted her, and the familiar voice
said cheeringly,--

"I'm all right, dear. Poor Bruce is hurt, but we've sent for help.
Better go right home and forget all about it."

"Yes, I will, if I can do nothing;" and Sophie meekly returned to her
friends who stood outside the circle over which Saul's head towered,
assuring them of his safety.

Hoping they had not seen her agitation, she led Emily away, leaving
Randal to give what aid he could and bring them news of the poor
wood-chopper's state.

Aunt Plumy produced the "camphire" the moment she saw Sophie's pale
face, and made her lie down, while the brave old lady trudged briskly
off with bandages and brandy to the scene of action. On her return she
brought comfortable news of the man, so the little flurry blew over
and was forgotten by all but Sophie, who remained pale and quiet all
the evening, tying evergreen as if her life depended on it.

"A good night's sleep will set her up. She ain't used to such things,
dear child, and needs cossetin'," said Aunt Plumy, purring over her
until she was in her bed, with a hot stone at her feet and a bowl of
herb tea to quiet her nerves.

An hour later when Emily went up, she peeped in to see if Sophie was
sleeping nicely, and was surprised to find the invalid wrapped in a
dressing-gown writing busily.

"Last will and testament, or sudden inspiration, dear? How are you?
faint or feverish, delirious or in the dumps! Saul looks so anxious,
and Mrs. Basset hushes us all up so, I came to bed, leaving Randal to
entertain Ruth."

As she spoke Emily saw the papers disappear in a portfolio, and Sophie
rose with a yawn.

"I was writing letters, but I'm sleepy now. Quite over my foolish
fright, thank you. Go and get your beauty sleep that you may dazzle
the natives to-morrow."

"So glad, good night;" and Emily went away, saying to herself,
"Something is going on, and I must find out what it is before I leave.
Sophie can't blind _me_."

But Sophie did all the next day, being delightfully gay at the dinner,
and devoting herself to the young minister who was invited to meet
the distinguished novelist, and evidently being afraid of him, gladly
basked in the smiles of his charming neighbor. A dashing sleigh-ride
occupied the afternoon, and then great was the fun and excitement over
the costumes.

Aunt Plumy laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks as the girls
compressed her into the plum-colored gown with its short waist,
leg-of-mutton sleeves, and narrow skirt. But a worked scarf hid all
deficiencies, and the towering cap struck awe into the soul of the
most frivolous observer.

"Keep an eye on me, girls, for I shall certainly split somewheres or
lose my head-piece off when I'm trottin' round. What would my blessed
mother say if she could see me rigged out in her best things?" and
with a smile and a sigh the old lady departed to look after "the
boys," and see that the supper was all right.

Three prettier damsels never tripped down the wide staircase than the
brilliant brunette in crimson brocade, the pensive blonde in blue, or
the rosy little bride in old muslin and white satin.

A gallant court gentleman met them in the hall with a superb bow,
and escorted them to the parlor, where Grandma Basset's ghost was
discovered dancing with a modern major in full uniform.

Mutual admiration and many compliments followed, till other ancient
ladies and gentlemen arrived in all manner of queer costumes, and the
old house seemed to wake from its humdrum quietude to sudden music and
merriment, as if a past generation had returned to keep its Christmas

The village fiddler soon struck up the good old tunes, and then the
strangers saw dancing that filled them with mingled mirth and envy; it
was so droll, yet so hearty. The young men, unusually awkward in their
grandfathers' knee-breeches, flapping vests, and swallow-tail coats,
footed it bravely with the buxom girls who were the prettier for their
quaintness, and danced with such vigor that their high combs stood
awry, their furbelows waved wildly, and their cheeks were as red as
their breast-knots, or hose.

It was impossible to stand still, and one after the other the city
folk yielded to the spell, Randal leading off with Ruth, Sophie swept
away by Saul, and Emily being taken possession of by a young giant of
eighteen, who spun her around with a boyish impetuosity that took her
breath away. Even Aunt Plumy was discovered jigging it alone in the
pantry, as if the music was too much for her, and the plates and
glasses jingled gaily on the shelves in time to Money Musk and
Fishers' Hornpipe.

A pause came at last, however, and fans fluttered, heated brows were
wiped, jokes were made, lovers exchanged confidences, and every nook
and corner held a man and maid carrying on the sweet game which is
never out of fashion. There was a glitter of gold lace in the back
entry, and a train of blue and primrose shone in the dim light. There
was a richer crimson than that of the geraniums in the deep window,
and a dainty shoe tapped the bare floor impatiently as the brilliant
black eyes looked everywhere for the court gentleman, while their
owner listened to the gruff prattle of an enamored boy. But in the
upper hall walked a little white ghost as if waiting for some shadowy
companion, and when a dark form appeared ran to take its arm, saying,
in a tone of soft satisfaction,--

"I was so afraid you wouldn't come!"

"Why did you leave me, Ruth?" answered a manly voice in a tone of
surprise, though the small hand slipping from the velvet coat-sleeve
was replaced as if it was pleasant to feel it there.

A pause, and then the other voice answered demurely,--

"Because I was afraid my head would be turned by the fine things you
were saying."

"It is impossible to help saying what one feels to such an artless
little creature as you are. It does me good to admire anything so
fresh and sweet, and won't harm you."

"It might if--"

"If what, my daisy?"

"I believed it," and a laugh seemed to finish the broken sentence
better than the words.

"You may, Ruth, for I do sincerely admire the most genuine girl I have
seen for a long time. And walking here with you in your bridal white I
was just asking myself if I should not be a happier man with a home
of my own and a little wife hanging on my arm than drifting about the
world as I do now with only myself to care for."

"I know you would!" and Ruth spoke so earnestly that Randal was both
touched and startled, fearing he had ventured too far in a mood of
unwonted sentiment, born of the romance of the hour and the sweet
frankness of his companion.

"Then you don't think it would be rash for some sweet woman to take me
in hand and make me happy, since fame is a failure?"

"Oh, no; it would be easy work if she loved you. I know some one--if I
only dared to tell her name."

"Upon my soul, this is cool," and Randal looked down, wondering if the
audacious lady on his arm could be shy Ruth.

If he had seen the malicious merriment in her eyes he would have been
more humiliated still, but they were modestly averted, and the face
under the little hat was full of a soft agitation rather dangerous
even to a man of the world.

"She is a captivating little creature, but it is too soon for anything
but a mild flirtation. I must delay further innocent revelations or I
shall do something rash."

While making this excellent resolution Randal had been pressing the
hand upon his arm and gently pacing down the dimly lighted hall
with the sound of music in his ears, Ruth's sweetest roses in his
button-hole, and a loving little girl beside him, as he thought.

"You shall tell me by and by when we are in town. I am sure you will
come, and meanwhile don't forget me."

"I am going in the spring, but I shall not be with Sophie," answered
Ruth, in a whisper.

"With whom then? I shall long to see you."

"With my husband. I am to be married in May."

"The deuce you are!" escaped Randal, as he stopped short to stare at
his companion, sure she was not in earnest.

But she was, for as he looked the sound of steps coming up the back
stairs made her whole face flush and brighten with the unmistakable
glow of happy love, and she completed Randal's astonishment by running
into the arms of the young minister, saying with an irrepressible
laugh, "Oh, John, why didn't you come before?"

The court gentleman was all right in a moment, and the coolest of
the three as he offered his congratulations and gracefully retired,
leaving the lovers to enjoy the tryst he had delayed. But as he went
down stairs his brows were knit, and he slapped the broad railing
smartly with his cocked hat as if some irritation must find vent in a
more energetic way than merely saying, "Confound the little baggage!"
under his breath.

Such an amazing supper came from Aunt Plumy's big pantry that the city
guests could not eat for laughing at the queer dishes circulating
through the rooms, and copiously partaken of by the hearty young

Doughnuts and cheese, pie and pickles, cider and tea, baked beans and
custards, cake and cold turkey, bread and butter, plum pudding and
French bonbons, Sophie's contribution.

"May I offer you the native delicacies, and share your plate? Both
are very good, but the china has run short, and after such vigorous
exercise as you have had you must need refreshment. I'm sure I do!"
said Randal, bowing before Emily with a great blue platter laden with
two doughnuts, two wedges of pumpkin pie and two spoons.

The smile with which she welcomed him, the alacrity with which she
made room beside her and seemed to enjoy the supper he brought, was so
soothing to his ruffled spirit that he soon began to feel that there
is no friend like an old friend, that it would not be difficult to
name a sweet woman who would take him in hand and would make him happy
if he cared to ask her, and he began to think he would by and by, it
was so pleasant to sit in that green corner with waves of crimson
brocade flowing over his feet, and a fine face softening beautifully
under his eyes.

The supper was not romantic, but the situation was, and Emily found
that pie ambrosial food eaten with the man she loved, whose eyes
talked more eloquently than the tongue just then busy with a doughnut.
Ruth kept away, but glanced at them as she served her company, and her
own happy experience helped her to see that all was going well in that
quarter. Saul and Sophie emerged from the back entry with shining
countenances, but carefully avoided each other for the rest of the
evening. No one observed this but Aunt Plumy from the recesses of her
pantry, and she folded her hands as if well content, as she murmured
fervently over a pan full of crullers, "Bless the dears! Now I can die

Every one thought Sophie's old-fashioned dress immensely becoming, and
several of his former men said to Saul with blunt admiration, "Major,
you look to-night as you used to after we'd gained a big battle."

"I feel as if I had," answered the splendid Major, with eyes much
brighter than his buttons, and a heart under them infinitely prouder
than when he was promoted on the field of honor, for his Waterloo was

There was more dancing, followed by games, in which Aunt Plumy shone
pre-eminent, for the supper was off her mind and she could enjoy
herself. There were shouts of merriment as the blithe old lady twirled
the platter, hunted the squirrel, and went to Jerusalem like a girl of
sixteen; her cap in a ruinous condition, and every seam of the purple
dress straining like sails in a gale. It was great fun, but at
midnight it came to an end, and the young folks, still bubbling over
with innocent jollity, went jingling away along the snowy hills,
unanimously pronouncing Mrs. Basset's party the best of the season.

"Never had such a good time in my life!" exclaimed Sophie, as the
family stood together in the kitchen where the candles among the
wreaths were going out, and the floor was strewn with wrecks of past

"I'm proper glad, dear. Now you all go to bed and lay as late as you
like to-morrow. I'm so kinder worked up I couldn't sleep, so Saul and
me will put things to rights without a mite of noise to disturb you;"
and Aunt Plumy sent them off with a smile that was a benediction,
Sophie thought.

"The dear old soul speaks as if midnight was an unheard-of hour for
Christians to be up. What would she say if she knew how we seldom go
to bed till dawn in the ball season? I'm so wide awake I've half a
mind to pack a little. Randal must go at two, he says, and we shall
want his escort," said Emily, as the girls laid away their brocades in
the press in Sophie's room.

"I'm not going. Aunt can't spare me, and there is nothing to go for
yet," answered Sophie, beginning to take the white chrysanthemums out
of her pretty hair.

"My dear child, you will die of ennui up here. Very nice for a week
or so, but frightful for a winter. We are going to be very gay, and
cannot get on without you," cried Emily dismayed at the suggestion.

"You will have to, for I'm not coming. I am very happy here, and so
tired of the frivolous life I lead in town, that I have decided to
try a better one," and Sophie's mirror reflected a face full of the
sweetest content.

"Have you lost your mind? experienced religion? or any other dreadful
thing? You always were odd, but this last freak is the strangest of
all. What will your guardian say, and the world?" added Emily in the
awe-stricken tone of one who stood in fear of the omnipotent Mrs.

"Guardy will be glad to be rid of me, and I don't care that for the
world," cried Sophie, snapping her fingers with a joyful sort of
recklessness which completed Emily's bewilderment.

"But Mr. Hammond? Are you going to throw away millions, lose your
chance of making the best match in the city, and driving the girls of
our set out of their wits with envy?"

Sophie laughed at her friend's despairing cry, and turning round said

"I wrote to Mr. Hammond last night, and this evening received my
reward for being an honest girl. Saul and I are to be married in the
spring when Ruth is."

Emily fell prone upon the bed as if the announcement was too much
for her, but was up again in an instant to declare with prophetic

"I knew something was going on, but hoped to get you away before you
were lost. Sophie, you will repent. Be warned, and forget this sad

"Too late for that. The pang I suffered yesterday when I thought Saul
was dead showed me how well I loved him. To-night he asked me to stay,
and no power in the world can part us. Oh! Emily, it is all so sweet,
so beautiful, that _everything_ is possible, and I know I shall be
happy in this dear old home, full of love and peace and honest hearts.
I only hope you may find as true and tender a man to live for as my

Sophie's face was more eloquent than her fervent words, and Emily
beautifully illustrated the inconsistency of her sex by suddenly
embracing her friend, with the incoherent exclamation, "I think I
have, dear! Your brave Saul is worth a dozen old Hammonds, and I do
believe you are right."

It is unnecessary to tell how, as if drawn by the irresistible magic
of sympathy, Ruth and her mother crept in one by one to join the
midnight conference and add their smiles and tears, tender hopes and
proud delight to the joys of that memorable hour. Nor how Saul, unable
to sleep, mounted guard below, and meeting Randal prowling down to
soothe his nerves with a surreptitious cigar found it impossible to
help confiding to his attentive ear the happiness that would break
bounds and overflow in unusual eloquence.

Peace fell upon the old house at last, and all slept as if some magic
herb had touched their eyelids, bringing blissful dreams and a glad

"Can't we persuade you to come with us, Miss Sophie?" asked Randal
next day, as they made their adieux.

"I'm under orders now, and dare not disobey my superior officer,"
answered Sophie, handing her Major his driving gloves, with a look
which plainly showed that she had joined the great army of devoted
women who enlist for life and ask no pay but love.

"I shall depend on being invited to your wedding, then, and yours,
too, Miss Ruth," added Randal, shaking hands with "the little
baggage," as if he had quite forgiven her mockery and forgotten his
own brief lapse into sentiment.

Before she could reply Aunt Plumy said, in a tone of calm conviction,
that made them all laugh, and some of them look conscious,--

"Spring is a good time for weddin's, and I shouldn't wonder ef there
was quite a number."

"Nor I;" and Saul and Sophie smiled at one another as they saw how
carefully Randal arranged Emily's wraps.

Then with kisses, thanks and all the good wishes that happy hearts
could imagine, the guests drove away, to remember long and gratefully
that pleasant country Christmas.


"Better late than never."

"What air you thinkin' of, Phil?"

"My wife, Dick."

"So was I! Ain't it odd how fellers fall to thinkin' of thar little
women, when they get a quiet spell like this?"

"Fortunate for us that we do get it, and have such memories to keep
us brave and honest through the trials and temptations of a life like

October moonlight shone clearly on the solitary tree, draped with
gray moss, scarred by lightning and warped by wind, looking like a
venerable warrior, whose long campaign was nearly done; and underneath
was posted the guard of four. Behind them twinkled many camp-fires on
a distant plain, before them wound a road ploughed by the passage of
an army, strewn with the relics of a rout. On the right, a sluggish
river glided, like a serpent, stealthy, sinuous, and dark, into a
seemingly impervious jungle; on the left, a Southern swamp filled the
air with malarial damps, swarms of noisome life, and discordant sounds
that robbed the hour of its repose. The men were friends as well as
comrades, for though gathered from the four quarters of the Union,
and dissimilar in education, character, and tastes, the same spirit
animated all; the routine of camp-life threw them much together, and
mutual esteem soon grew into a bond of mutual good fellowship.

Thorn was a Massachusetts volunteer; a man who seemed too early old,
too early embittered by some cross, for, though grim of countenance,
rough of speech, cold of manner, a keen observer would have soon
discovered traces of a deeper, warmer nature hidden behind the
repellent front he turned upon the world. A true New Englander,
thoughtful, acute, reticent, and opinionated; yet earnest withal,
intensely patriotic, and often humorous, despite a touch of Puritan

Phil, the "romantic chap," as he was called, looked his character to
the life. Slender, swarthy, melancholy-eyed, and darkly-bearded; with
feminine features, mellow voice, and alternately languid or vivacious
manners. A child of the South in nature as in aspect, ardent and
proud; fitfully aspiring and despairing; without the native energy
which moulds character and ennobles life. Months of discipline and
devotion had done much for him, and some deep experience was fast
ripening the youth into a man.

Flint, the long-limbed lumberman, from the wilds of Maine, was a
conscript who, when government demanded his money or his life,
calculated the cost, and decided that the cash would be a dead loss
and the claim might be repeated, whereas the conscript would get both
pay and plunder out of government, while taking excellent care
that government got very little out of him. A shrewd, slow-spoken,
self-reliant specimen, was Flint; yet something of the fresh flavor of
the backwoods lingered in him still, as if Nature were loath to give
him up, and left the mark of her motherly hand upon him, as she leaves
it in a dry, pale lichen, on the bosom of the roughest stone.

Dick "hailed" from Illinois, and was a comely young fellow, full of
dash and daring; rough and rowdy, generous and jolly, overflowing with
spirits and ready for a free fight with all the world.

Silence followed the last words, while the friendly moon climbed up
the sky. Each man's eye followed it, and each man's heart was busy
with remembrances of other eyes and hearts that might be watching and
wishing as theirs watched and wished. In the silence, each shaped for
himself that vision of home that brightens so many camp-fires, haunts
so many dreamers under canvas roofs, and keeps so many turbulent
natures tender by memories which often are both solace and salvation.

Thorn paced to and fro, his rifle on his shoulder, vigilant and
soldierly, however soft his heart might be. Phil leaned against the
tree, one hand in the breast of his blue jacket, on the painted
presentment of the face his fancy was picturing in the golden circle
of the moon. Flint lounged on the sward, whistling softly as he
whittled at a fallen bough. Dick was flat on his back, heels in air,
cigar in mouth, and some hilarious notion in his mind, for suddenly he
broke into a laugh.

"What is it, lad?" asked Thorn, pausing in his tramp, as if willing to
be drawn from the disturbing thought that made his black brows lower
and his mouth look grim.

"Thinkin' of my wife, and wishin' she was here, bless her heart! set
me rememberin' how I see her fust, and so I roared, as I always do
when it comes into my head."

"How was it? Come, reel off a yarn, and let's hear houw yeou hitched
teams," said Flint, always glad to get information concerning his
neighbors, if it could be cheaply done.

"Tellin' how we found our wives wouldn't be a bad game, would it,

"I'm agreeable; but let's have your romance first."

"Devilish little of that about me or any of my doin's. I hate
sentimental bosh as much as you hate slang, and should have been a
bachelor to this day if I hadn't seen Kitty jest as I did. You see,
I'd been too busy larkin' round to get time for marryin', till a
couple of years ago, when I did up the job double-quick, as I'd like
to do this thunderin' slow one, hang it all!"

"Halt a minute till I give a look, for this picket isn't going to be
driven in or taken while I'm on guard."

Down his beat went Thorn, reconnoitring river, road, and swamp,
as thoroughly as one pair of keen eyes could do it, and came back
satisfied, but still growling like a faithful mastiff on the watch;
performances which he repeated at intervals till his own turn came.

"I didn't have to go out of my own State for a wife, you'd better
believe," began Dick, with a boast, as usual; "for we raise as fine a
crop of girls thar as any State in or out of the Union, and don't mind
raisin' Cain with any man who denies it. I was out on a gunnin' tramp
with Joe Partridge, a cousin of mine,--poor old chap! he fired his
last shot at Gettysburg, and died game in a way he didn't dream of the
day we popped off the birds together. It ain't right to joke that way;
I won't if I can help it; but a feller gets awfully kind of heathenish
these times, don't he?"

"Settle up them scores byme-by; fightin' Christians is scurse raound
here. Fire away, Dick."

"Well, we got as hungry as hounds half a dozen mile from home, and
when a farmhouse hove in sight, Joe said he 'd ask for a bite, and
leave some of the plunder for pay. I was visitin' Joe, didn't know
folks round, and backed out of the beggin' part of the job; so he went
ahead alone. We'd come out of the woods behind the house, and while
Joe was foragin', I took a reconnoissance. The view was fust-rate, for
the main part of it was a girl airin' beds on the roof of a stoop.
Now, jest about that time, havin' a leisure spell, I'd begun to think
of marryin', and took a look at all the girls I met, with an eye to
business. I s'pose every man has some sort of an idee or pattern of
the wife he wants; pretty and plucky, good and gay was mine, but I'd
never found it till I see Kitty; and as she didn't see me, I had the
advantage and took an extra long stare."

"What was her good p'ints, hey?"

"Oh, well, she had a wide-awake pair of eyes, a bright, jolly sort
of a face, lots of curly hair tumblin' out of her net, a trig little
figger, and a pair of the neatest feet and ankles that ever stepped.
'Pretty,' thinks I; 'so far so good.' The way she whacked the pillers,
shook the blankets, and pitched into the beds was a caution; specially
one blunderin' old feather-bed that wouldn't do nothin' but sag round
in a pigheaded sort of way, that would have made most girls get mad
and give up. Kitty didn't, but just wrastled with it like a good one,
till she got it turned, banged, and spread to suit her; then she
plumped down in the middle of it, with a sarcy little nod and chuckle
to herself, that tickled me mightily. 'Plucky,' thinks I, 'better
'n' better.' Jest then an old woman came flyin' out the back-door,
callin', 'Kitty! Kitty! Squire Partridge's son's here, 'long with a
friend; been gunnin', want luncheon, and I'm all in the suds; do come
down and see to 'em.'

"'Where are they?' says Kitty, scrambling up her hair and settlin' her
gown in a jiffy, as women have a knack of doin', you know.

"'Mr. Joe's in the front entry; the other man's somewheres round,
Billy says, waitin' till I send word whether they can stop. I darsn't
till I'd seen you, for I can't do nothin', I'm in such a mess,' says
the old lady.

"'So am I, for I can't get in except by the entry window, and he'll
see me,' says Kitty, gigglin' at the thoughts of Joe.

"'Come down the ladder, there's a dear. I'll pull it round and keep it
stiddy,' says the mother.

"'Oh, ma, don't ask me!' says Kitty, with a shiver. 'I'm dreadfully
scared of ladders since I broke my arm off this very one. It's so
high, it makes me dizzy jest to think of.'

"'Well, then, I'll do the best I can; but I wish them boys was to
Jericho!' says the old lady, with a groan, for she was fat and hot,
had her gown pinned up, and was in a fluster generally. She was goin'
off rather huffy, when Kitty called out,--

"'Stop, ma! I'll come down and help you, only ketch me if I tumble.'

"She looked scared but stiddy, and I'll bet it took as much grit for
her to do it as for one of us to face a battery. It don't seem much to
tell of, but I wish I may be hit if it wasn't a right down dutiful
and clever thing to see done. When the old lady took her off at the
bottom, with a good motherly hug, 'Good,' thinks I; 'what more do you

"A snug little property wouldn't a ben bad, I reckon," said Flint.

"Well, she had it, old skin-flint, though I didn't know or care about
it then. What a jolly row she'd make if she knew I was tellin' the
ladder part of the story! She always does when I get to it, and makes
believe cry, with her head in my breast-pocket, or any such handy
place, till I take it out and swear I'll never do so ag'in. Poor
little Kit, I wonder what she's doin' now. Thinkin' of me, I'll bet."

Dick paused, pulled his cap lower over his eyes, and smoked a minute
with more energy than enjoyment, for his cigar was out and he did not
perceive it.


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