In Southwestern Missouri, in the White Oak district, there are many
beautiful glens and sheltered valleys, where a sturdy people have tamed
the wildness of nature and made it obedient to their will. The fields
lie fertile and fruitful on either bank of murmuring streams, clear
to the foot of the hills where the timber grows. Always a road winds
down the valley, generally skirting the forest, and the farmhouses are
nearly all built of logs, though more modern and finished dwellings
are fast taking the place of the primitive mansions. Every few miles,
one may see little school-houses, most often made of good lumber and
painted white, with heavy shutters and a high platform in front. For
the Ozark settler takes great pride in his school-house, which is also
a church and a political rallying point, and meeting-place for the
backwoods "Literary;" and though he may live in a rude log hovel
himself, his hall of education must be made of boards and carefully
painted.
To this romantic region Dick Falkner went to spend his vacation, during
the latter part of October, the loveliest season of the year in that
section of the country. Mr. Cushman, who was a successful farmer living
in the White Oak district, and an old friend of Uncle Bobbie's, gladly
welcomed the young man, of whom his old partner, Wicks, had written
so highly. When Dick left the train at Armourdale, a little village
in the lead and zinc field, he was greeted at once by his host, a
bluff, pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman, whom he liked at first sight,
and who was completely captivated by his guest before they had been
together half an hour.
Oak Springs Farm, which was to be Dick's home for the next month, took
in the whole of a beautiful little glen, and many acres of timber-land
on either side. Crane Creek had its source, or rather one of its
sources, within a hundred feet of the house, where a big spring bubbled
from beneath the roots of a giant oak, and the water went chattering
and laughing away to the south and east.
Three-quarters of a mile from Oak Springs, just over the ridge in
another hollow, another stream gushed bright and clear, from beneath
another ancient oak and went rushing away to join its fellow brook a
mile distant, where the little glens broadened into a large valley,
through which the creek hurried onward to the great river, miles away
in the heart of the wilderness.
It was all very beautiful and restful to the young man, wearied and
worn by the rush and whirl of the city, and stifled with the dust and
smoke from factory and furnace. The low hills, clothed with foliage,
richly stained by October's brush; the little valley lying warm in the
sunlight, was a welcome change to the dead monotony of the prairie,
where the sky shut down close to the dull brown earth, with no support
of leafy pillars. And the mother quail, with her full-grown family
scurrying to cover in the corner of the fence; the squirrel scolding
to his mate in the tree-tops, or leaping over the rustling leaves, and
all the rest of the forest life, was full of interest when compared
to the life of busy men or chattering sparrows in the bustling mining
town.
Though Mr. Cushman and his wife had raised a large family of boys and
girls, only one, a daughter, remained with them on the farm. The others
had, one by one, taken their flight from the home nest, to build home
nests of their own in different parts of the great world wilderness.
Kate was a hearty, robust, rosy-cheeked country lass of eighteen, the
youngest of the flock; her father's chum, with all his frank, open
ways; and her mother's companion, with all her loving thoughtfulness.
And, best of all, she possessed the charming freshness, innocence and
purity of one who had never come in touch with those who, taught by
the world she had never known, were content to sham her virtues as
they tried to imitate the color of her cheek.
Dick sank to rest that night with a long sigh of relief, after meeting
the mother and daughter and enjoying such a supper as one only finds
on a prosperous farm. And strangely enough, the last picture on his
mind before he fell asleep, was of a little school-house which he had
seen just at sunset, scarcely a quarter of a mile up the valley; and
he drowsily wondered who taught the children there; while a great owl,
perched in an old apple-tree back of the chicken house, echoed his
sleepy thoughts with its "Whoo! Whoo!"
With a whoop and hallo and whistle, the noisy troop of boys and girls
came tumbling out of the doorway of the White Oak School, their dinner
pails and baskets on their arms, homeward bound from the irksome duties
of the day. The young teacher, after standing a few moments in the
doorway, watching her charges down the road and out of sight in the
timber across the valley, turned wearily back, and seating herself at
a rude desk in the rear of the room, began her task of looking over
the copybooks left by the rollicking youngsters. Had she remained a
moment longer in the door-way she would have seen a tall, well-dressed
gentleman coming leisurely up the hill. It was Dick. He had been roaming
all the afternoon over the fields and through the brown woods.
He came slowly up the road, and crossing the yard, stood hesitating
at the threshold of the building. The teacher, bending low, did not
see him for a moment; but when she raised her head, she looked straight
into his eyes.
Dick would have been dull indeed had he failed to interpret that look;
and Amy would have been more than dull had she failed to see the love
that shone in his glance of astonishment and pleasure.
For an instant, neither spoke; then, "I have found you again," said
Dick, simply. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Goodrich; I assure you
the meeting is entirely by accident. I stopped for a drink of water."
"Please help yourself, Mr. Falkner," said the girl, with a little choke
in her voice. "There it is." And she pointed to a wooden pail and tin
dipper near the door.
"I am spending my vacation in the Ozarks; or rather, I came here to
rest." He paused awkwardly. "I--I did not dream of your being here,
or of course I should not have come, after your letter. Forgive me and
I will go away again."
He turned to leave the room, but with his foot on the threshold, paused,
and then walked back to the desk where the girl sat, leaning forward
with her face buried in her arms.
"There's just one thing though, that I must say before I go. Are you
in need of any help? If so, let me be of use to you; I am still your
friend."
The brown head was raised and two glistening eyes proudly pleading
looked at Dick.
Through a mist in his own eyes he saw two hands outstretched and heard
a voice say, "I do need your help. Don't go. That is--I mean--leave
me here now and to-morrow call, and I will tell you all. Only trust
me this once."
Dick took the outstretched hands in his and stood for a moment with
bowed head; then whispered softly, "Of course I will stay. Shall I
come at this hour to-morrow?" Amy nodded, and he passed out of the
building.
Had Dick looked back as he strode swiftly toward the timber, he would
have seen a girlish form in the door holding out her hands; and had
he listened as he climbed the fence, he might have heard a sweet voice
falter, "Oh Dick, I love you. I love you." And just as he vanished at
the edge of the woods, the girl who was more than all the world to
him, fell for the second time in her life, fainting on the floor.
All the forenoon of the next day, Dick wandered aimlessly about the
farm, but somehow he never got beyond sight of the little white
school-house. He spent an hour watching the colts that frolicked in
the upper pasture, beyond which lay the children's playground; then
going through the field, he climbed the little hill beyond and saw the
white building through the screen of leaves and branches. Once Amy
came to the door, but only for a moment, when she called the shouting
youngsters from their short recess. Then recrossing the valley half
a mile above, he walked slowly home to dinner along the road leading
past the building. How he envied the boys and girls whose droning
voices reached his ears through the open windows.
While Dick was chatting with his kind host after dinner, as they sat
on the porch facing the great oak, the latter talked about the spring
and the history of the place; how it used to be a favorite camping
ground for the Indians in winter; and pointed out the field below the
barn, where they had found arrowheads by the hundreds. Then he told
of the other spring just over the ridge, and how the two streams came
together and flowed on, larger and larger, to the river. And then with
a farmer's fondness for a harmless jest, he suggested that Dick might
find it worth his while to visit the other spring; "for," said he "the
school-marm lives there; and she's a right pretty girl. Sensible too,
I reckon, though she aint been here only since the first of September."
When the farmer had gone to his work, Dick walked down to the
spring-house, and sitting on the twisted roots of the old oak, looked
into the crystal water.
"And so Amy lives by a spring just like this," he thought, "and often
sits beneath that other oak, perhaps, looking into the water as I am
looking now."
A blue-jay, perched on a bough above, screamed in mocking laughter at
the dreamer beneath; an old drake, leading his family in a waddling
row to the open stream below the little house, solemnly quacked his
protest against such a willful waste of time; and a spotted calf thrust
its head through the barn-yard fence to gaze at him in mild reproach.
In his revery, Dick compared the little stream of water to his life,
running fretted and troubled, from the very edge of its birthplace;
and he followed it with his eye down through the pasture lot, until
it was lost in the distance; then looking into the blue vista of the
hills, he followed on, in his mind, where the stream grew deeper and
broader. Suddenly, he sprang to his feet and walked hastily away along
the bank of the creek. In a little while, he stood at the point of
land where the two valleys became one, and the two streams were united,
and with a long breath of relief, found that the course of the larger
stream, as far as he could see, was smooth and untroubled, while the
valley through which it flowed was broad and beautiful.
At the appointed time, Dick went to the school-house, and with Amy,
walked through the woods toward the farm where she lived, while she
told him of her life since last they met; of her father's visit and
his threats, and of her fear that he would force her to go home. The
farm had been sold the day after Adam was there, and how through her
friends, she had obtained her present position in the school. She told
of her pride and desire to wipe out alone, the disgrace, as alone she
had fallen. She longed to be of use in the world.
As she talked, Dick's face grew bright. "This is good news indeed,"
he said. "I'm so glad for your sake." Then, with a smile, "I see you
do not need my help now that you can be of so much help to others."
"But won't you help me plan for the future?" said Amy, trying to hide
the slight tremble in her voice. "Won't you tell me what is best to
do? I have thought and thought, but can get no farther than I am now."
"Let us say nothing about that for a time," replied Dick. "We will
talk that over later."
And so it came about that the farmer's advice, spoken in jest, was
received in earnest; and for four happy weeks the two lived,
unrestrained by false pride or foolish prejudice; walking home together
through the woods, or wandering beside the little brooks, talking of
the beauties they saw on every hand, or silently listening to the
voices of nature, But at last the time came when they must part, and
Dick gave his answer to her question.
"You must go home," he said.
"But you know what that means," answered Amy. "I will be forced to
give up my church work and be a useless butterfly again; and besides,
the conditions father insists upon--." She blushed and hesitated.
"Yes," said Dick, "I know what it means for me, your going home. But
you need not again be a useless butterfly as you say. Write your father
and tell him of your desire; that you cannot be content as a useless
woman of society. He will ask you to come home, I am sure. And when
your present term of school is finished, you can take your old place
in the world again. You will find many ways to be of use to others,
and I know that your father will learn to give you more liberty."
"And the past?" asked Amy, with a blush of shame.
"Is past," said Dick, emphatically. "No one in Boyd City knows your
story, nor need they ever know."
"One man there can tell them," answered the girl, with averted face.
"You are mistaken," said Dick, quietly. And then, as gently as he
could, he told her of Whitley's death. But of his connection with him
and the real cause of the fight in the cabin, he said nothing.
It was hard for Dick to advise Amy to go home, for as she was then,
they were equals. If she went back to Boyd City, all would be changed.
But he had fought over the question in his own mind and the right had
conquered.
Amy agreed with him that it was best, and added, "I have felt all along
that I ought to do this after a while, but I wished to see you again
first, and had you not happened to find me, I should have written to
you later."
And so it was settled. No word of love was spoken between them. Dick
would not permit himself to speak then, because he felt that she ought
not to be influenced by her present surroundings; and even had he
spoken, Amy would not have listened, because she felt her work could
only be complete when she had returned to her old position and had
proved herself by her life there.
And so they parted, with only a silent clasping of hands, as they stood
beside the brook that chattered on its way to join the other; though
there was a world of love in both the gray eyes and the brown; a love
none the less strong because unspoken.
Upon Dick's return to the city, he took up his work again with so light
a heart that his many friends declared that he had entirely recovered
his health, and their congratulations were numerous and hearty.
During the holidays, there was some gossip among the citizens when it
was announced in the Daily Whistler, that Miss Goodrich would soon
return to her home. The article stated that she had been living with
some friends in the east, finishing her education, and the public
accepted the polite lie with a nod and a wink.
Mrs. Goodrich, though her mother heart was glad at the return of her
child, received the girl with many tearful reproaches; and while Amy
was hungering for a parent's loving sympathy and encouragement, she
could not open her heart to the woman who mourned only the blow dealt
her family pride and social ambition.
Adam was formal, cold and uncompromising, while Frank paid no more
attention to his sister than if she were a hired servant in the house.
Only the girl's firm determination, awakened womanhood, patience and
Christian fortitude enabled her to accept her lot. But in spite of the
daily reproaches, stern coldness and studied contempt, she went steadily
forward in her purpose to regain the place she had lost; and somehow,
as the weeks went by, all noticed a change in Amy. Her father dared
not check her in her work, for something in the clear eyes, that looked
at him so sadly, but withal so fearlessly, made him hesitate. It was
as though she had spoken, "I have been through the fire and have come
out pure gold. It is not for you to question me." And though she
attended to her social duties, her influence was always for the good,
and no one dared to speak slightingly of religious things in her
presence; while the poor people at the Mission learned to love the
beautiful young woman who visited their homes and talked to them of
a better life, and never failed to greet them with a kindly word when
they met her on the street.
Of course Dick could not call at her home. He knew well that it would
only provoke a storm; nor did Amy ask him to. They met only at church
or at the Mission; and nothing but the common greetings passed between
them. No one ever dreamed that they were more than mere acquaintances.
But they each felt that the other understood, and so were happy; content
to wait until God, in his own way, should unite the streams of their
lives.