In the mean time, the evening had been much enjoyed by the b

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Wendy Bertsch and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at www.pgdp.net.

A COUNTRY DOCTOR

by Sarah Orne Jewett

Published 1884

* * * * *

CONTENTS

I. THE LAST MILE

II. THE FARM-HOUSE KITCHEN

III. AT JAKE AND MARTIN'S

IV. LIFE AND DEATH

V. A SUNDAY VISIT

VI. IN SUMMER WEATHER

VII. FOR THE YEARS TO COME

VIII. A GREAT CHANGE

IX. AT DR. LESLIE'S

X. ACROSS THE STREET

XI. NEW OUTLOOKS

XII. AGAINST THE WIND

XIII. A STRAIGHT COURSE

XIV. MISS PRINCE OF DUNPORT

XV. HOSTESS AND GUEST

XVI. A JUNE SUNDAY

XVII. BY THE RIVER

XVIII. A SERIOUS TEA-DRINKING

XIX. FRIEND AND LOVER

XX. ASHORE AND AFLOAT

XXI. AT HOME AGAIN

* * * * *

I

THE LAST MILE

It had been one of the warm and almost sultry days which sometimes

come in November; a maligned month, which is really an epitome of the

other eleven, or a sort of index to the whole year's changes of storm

and sunshine. The afternoon was like spring, the air was soft and

damp, and the buds of the willows had been beguiled into swelling a

little, so that there was a bloom over them, and the grass looked as

if it had been growing green of late instead of fading steadily. It

seemed like a reprieve from the doom of winter, or from even November

itself.

The dense and early darkness which usually follows such unseasonable

mildness had already begun to cut short the pleasures of this

spring-like day, when a young woman, who carried a child in her arms,

turned from a main road of Oldfields into a foot-path which led

southward across the fields and pastures. She seemed sure of her way,

and kept the path without difficulty, though a stranger might easily

have lost it here and there, where it led among the patches of

sweet-fern or bayberry bushes, or through shadowy tracts of small

white-pines. She stopped sometimes to rest, and walked more and more

wearily, with increasing effort; but she kept on her way desperately,

as if it would not do to arrive much later at the place which she was

seeking. The child seemed to be asleep; it looked too heavy for so

slight a woman to carry.

The path led after a while to a more open country, there was a low

hill to be climbed, and at its top the slender figure stopped and

seemed to be panting for breath. A follower might have noticed that it

bent its head over the child's for a moment as it stood, dark against

the darkening sky. There had formerly been a defense against the

Indians on this hill, which in the daytime commanded a fine view of

the surrounding country, and the low earthworks or foundations of the

garrison were still plainly to be seen. The woman seated herself on

the sunken wall in spite of the dampness and increasing chill, still

holding the child, and rocking to and fro like one in despair. The

child waked and began to whine and cry a little in that strange,

lonely place, and after a few minutes, perhaps to quiet it, they went

on their way. Near the foot of the hill was a brook, swollen by the

autumn rains; it made a loud noise in the quiet pasture, as if it were

crying out against a wrong or some sad memory. The woman went toward

it at first, following a slight ridge which was all that remained of a

covered path which had led down from the garrison to the spring below

at the brookside. If she had meant to quench her thirst here, she

changed her mind, and suddenly turned to the right, following the

brook a short distance, and then going straight toward the river

itself and the high uplands, which by daylight were smooth pastures

with here and there a tangled apple-tree or the grassy cellar of a

long vanished farm-house.

It was night now; it was too late in the year for the chirp of any

insects; the moving air, which could hardly be called wind, swept over

in slow waves, and a few dry leaves rustled on an old hawthorn tree

which grew beside the hollow where a house had been, and a low sound

came from the river. The whole country side seemed asleep in the

darkness, but the lonely woman felt no lack of companionship; it was

well suited to her own mood that the world slept and said nothing to

her,--it seemed as if she were the only creature alive.

A little this side of the river shore there was an old burial place, a

primitive spot enough, where the graves were only marked by rough

stones, and the short, sheep-cropped grass was spread over departed

generations of the farmers and their wives and children. By day it was

in sight of the pine woods and the moving water, and nothing hid it

from the great sky overhead, but now it was like a prison walled about

by the barriers of night. However eagerly the woman had hurried to

this place, and with what purpose she may have sought the river bank,

when she recognized her surroundings she stopped for a moment, swaying

and irresolute. "No, no!" sighed the child plaintively, and she

shuddered, and started forward; then, as her feet stumbled among the

graves, she turned and fled. It no longer seemed solitary, but as if a

legion of ghosts which had been wandering under cover of the dark had

discovered this intruder, and were chasing her and flocking around her

and oppressing her from every side. And as she caught sight of a light

in a far-away farmhouse window, a light which had been shining after

her all the way down to the river, she tried to hurry toward it. The

unnatural strength of terror urged her on; she retraced her steps like

some pursued animal; she remembered, one after another, the fearful

stories she had known of that ancient neighborhood; the child cried,

but she could not answer it. She fell again and again, and at last all

her strength seemed to fail her, her feet refused to carry her farther

and she crept painfully, a few yards at a time, slowly along the

ground. The fear of her superhuman enemies had forsaken her, and her

only desire was to reach the light that shone from the looming shadow

of the house.

At last she was close to it; at last she gave one great sigh, and the

child fell from her grasp; at last she clutched the edge of the worn

doorstep with both hands, and lay still.

II

THE FARM-HOUSE KITCHEN

Indoors there was a cheerful company; the mildness of the evening had

enticed two neighbors of Mrs. Thacher, the mistress of the house, into

taking their walks abroad, and so, with their heads well protected by

large gingham handkerchiefs, they had stepped along the road and up

the lane to spend a social hour or two. John Thacher, their old

neighbor's son, was known to be away serving on a jury in the county

town, and they thought it likely that his mother would enjoy company.

Their own houses stood side by side. Mrs. Jacob Dyer and Mrs. Martin

Dyer were their names, and excellent women they were. Their husbands

were twin-brothers, curiously alike and amazingly fond of each other,

though either would have scorned to make any special outward

demonstration of it. They were spending the evening together in

brother Martin's house, and were talking over the purchase of a bit

of woodland, and the profit of clearing it, when their wives had left

them without any apology to visit Mrs. Thacher, as we have already

seen.

This was the nearest house and only a quarter of a mile away, and when

they opened the door they had found Mrs. Thacher spinning.

"I must own up, I am glad to see you more'n common," she said. "I

don't feel scary at being left sole alone; it ain't that, but I have

been getting through with a lonesome spell of another kind. John, he

does as well as a man can, but here I be,--here I be,"--and the good

woman could say no more, while her guests understood readily enough

the sorrow that had found no words.

"I suppose you haven't got no news from Ad'line?" asked Mrs. Martin

bluntly. "We was speaking of her as we come along, and saying it

seemed to be a pity she should'nt feel it was best to come back this

winter and help you through; only one daughter, and left alone as you

be, with the bad spells you are liable to in winter time--but there,

it ain't her way--her ambitions ain't what they should be, that's all

I can say."

"If she'd got a gift for anything special, now," continued Mrs. Jake,

"we should feel it was different and want her to have a chance, but

she's just like other folks for all she felt so much above farming. I

don't see as she can do better than come back to the old place, or

leastways to the village, and fetch up the little gal to be some use.

She might dressmake or do millinery work; she always had a pretty

taste, and 't would be better than roving. I 'spose 't would hurt her

pride,"--but Mrs. Thacher flushed at this, and Mrs. Martin came to the

rescue.

"You'll think we're reg'lar Job's comforters," cried the good soul

hastily, "but there, Mis' Thacher, you know we feel as if she was our

own. There ain't nothing I wouldn't do for Ad'line, sick or well, and

I declare I believe she'll pull through yet and make a piece of luck

that'll set us all to work praising of her. She's like to marry again

for all I can see, with her good looks. Folks always has their joys

and calamities as they go through the world."

Mrs. Thacher shook her head two or three times with a dismal

expression, and made no answer. She had pushed back the droning

wool-wheel which she had been using, and had taken her knitting from

the shelf by the clock and seated herself contentedly, while Mrs. Jake

and Mrs. Martin had each produced a blue yarn stocking from a

capacious pocket, and the shining steel needles were presently all

clicking together. One knitter after another would sheathe the spare

needle under her apron strings, while they asked each other's advice

from time to time about the propriety of "narrerin'" or whether it

were not best to "widden" according to the progress their respective

stockings had made. Mrs. Thacher had lighted an extra candle, and

replenished the fire, for the air was chillier since the sun went

down. They were all sure of a coming change of weather, and counted

various signs, Mrs. Thacher's lowness of spirits among the number,

while all three described various minor maladies from which they had

suffered during the day, and of which the unseasonable weather was

guilty.

"I can't get over the feeling that we are watchin' with somebody,"

said Mrs. Martin after a while, moved by some strange impulse and

looking over her shoulder, at which remark Mrs. Thacher glanced up

anxiously. "Something has been hanging over me all day," said she

simply, and at this the needles clicked faster than ever.

"We've been taking rather a low range," suggested Mrs. Jake. "We

shall get to telling over ghost stories if we don't look out, and I

for one shall be sca't to go home. By the way, I suppose you have

heard about old Billy Dow's experience night afore last, Mis'

Thacher?"

"John being away, I ain't had nobody to fetch me the news these few

days past," said the hostess. "Why what's happened to Billy now?"

The two women looked at each other: "He was getting himself home as

best he could,--he owned up to having made a lively evenin' of

it,--and I expect he was wandering all over the road and didn't know

nothin' except that he was p'inted towards home, an' he stepped off

from the high bank this side o' Dunnell's, and rolled down, over and

over; and when he come to there was a great white creatur' a-standin'

over him, and he thought 't was a ghost. 'T was higher up on the bank

than him, and it kind of moved along down's if 't was coming right on

to him, and he got on to his knees and begun to say his Ten

Commandments fast's he could rattle 'em out. He got 'em mixed up, and

when the boys heard his teeth a-chattering, they began to laugh and he

up an' cleared. Dunnell's boys had been down the road a piece and was

just coming home, an' 't was their old white hoss that had got out of

the barn, it bein' such a mild night, an' was wandering off. They said

to Billy that't wa'n't everybody could lay a ghost so quick as he

could, and they didn't 'spose he had the means so handy."

The three friends laughed, but Mrs. Thacher's face quickly lost its

smile and took back its worried look. She evidently was in no mood for

joking. "Poor Billy!" said she, "he was called the smartest boy in

school; I rec'lect that one of the teachers urged his folks to let him

go to college; but 't wa'n't no use; they hadn't the money and

couldn't get it, and 't wa'n't in him to work his way as some do. He's

got a master head for figur's. Folks used to get him to post books

you know,--but he's past that now. Good-natured creatur' as ever

stept; but he always was afeard of the dark,--'seems 's if I could see

him there a-repentin' and the old white hoss shakin' his head,"--and

she laughed again, but quickly stopped herself and looked over her

shoulder at the window.

"Would ye like the curtain drawed?" asked Mrs. Jake. But Mrs. Thacher

shook her head silently, while the gray cat climbed up into her lap

and laid down in a round ball to sleep.

"She's a proper cosset, ain't she?" inquired Mrs. Martin approvingly,

while Mrs. Jake asked about the candles, which gave a clear light. "Be

they the last you run?" she inquired, but was answered to the

contrary, and a brisk conversation followed upon the proper

proportions of tallow and bayberry wax, and the dangers of the

new-fangled oils which the village shop-keepers were attempting to

introduce. Sperm oil was growing more and more dear in price and

worthless in quality, and the old-fashioned lamps were reported to be

past their usefulness.

"I must own I set most by good candle light," said Mrs. Martin. "'T is

no expense to speak of where you raise the taller, and it's cheerful

and bright in winter time. In old times when the houses were draftier

they was troublesome about flickering, candles was; but land! think

how comfortable we live now to what we used to! Stoves is such a

convenience; the fire's so much handier. Housekeepin' don't begin to

be the trial it was once."

"I must say I like old-fashioned cookin' better than oven cookin',"

observed Mrs. Jake. "Seems to me's if the taste of things was all

drawed up chimbly. Be you going to do much for Thanksgivin', Mis'

Thacher? I 'spose not;" and moved by a sudden kind impulse, she added,

"Why can't you and John jine with our folks? 't wouldn't put us out,

and 'twill be lonesome for ye."

"'T won't be no lonesomer than last year was, nor the year before,"

and Mrs. Thacher's face quivered a little as she rose and took one of

the candles, and opened the trap door that covered the cellar stairs.

"Now don't ye go to makin' yourself work," cried the guests. "No,

don't! we ain't needin' nothin'; we was late about supper." But their

hostess stepped carefully down and disappeared for a few minutes,

while the cat hovered anxiously at the edge of the black pit.

"I forgot to ask ye if ye'd have some cider?" a sepulchral voice asked

presently; "but I don't know now's I can get at it. I told John I

shouldn't want any whilst he was away, and so he ain't got the spiggit

in yet," to which Mrs. Jake and Mrs. Martin both replied that they

were no hands for that drink, unless 't was a drop right from the

press, or a taste o' good hard cider towards the spring of the year;

and Mrs. Thacher soon returned with some slices of cake in a plate and

some apples held in her apron. One of her neighbors took the candle as

she reached up to put it on the floor, and when the trap door was

closed again all three drew up to the table and had a little feast.

The cake was of a kind peculiar to its maker, who prided herself upon

never being without it; and there was some trick of her hand or a

secret ingredient which was withheld when she responded with apparent

cheerfulness to requests for its recipe. As for the apples, they were

grown upon an old tree, one of whose limbs had been grafted with some

unknown variety of fruit so long ago that the history was forgotten;

only that an English gardener, many years before, had brought some

cuttings from the old country, and one of them had somehow come into

the possession of John Thacher's grandfather when grafted fruit was a

thing to be treasured and jealously guarded. It had been told that

when the elder Thacher had given away cuttings he had always stolen to

the orchards in the night afterward and ruined them. However, when the

family had grown more generous in later years it had seemed to be

without avail, for, on their neighbors' trees or their own, the

English apples had proved worthless. Whether it were some favoring

quality in that spot of soil or in the sturdy old native tree itself,

the rich golden apples had grown there, year after year, in

perfection, but nowhere else.

"There ain't no such apples as these, to my mind," said Mrs. Martin,

as she polished a large one with her apron and held it up to the

light, and Mrs. Jake murmured assent, having already taken a

sufficient first bite.

"There's only one little bough that bears any great," said Mrs.

Thacher, "but it's come to that once before, and another branch has

shot up and been likely as if it was a young tree."

The good souls sat comfortably in their splint-bottomed,

straight-backed chairs, and enjoyed this mild attempt at a festival.

Mrs. Thacher even grew cheerful and responsive, for her guests seemed

so light-hearted and free from care that the sunshine of their

presence warmed her own chilled and fearful heart. They embarked upon

a wide sea of neighborhood gossip and parish opinions, and at last

some one happened to speak again of Thanksgiving, which at once turned

the tide of conversation, and it seemed to ebb suddenly, while the

gray, dreary look once more overspread Mrs. Thacher's face.

"I don't see why you won't keep with our folks this year; you and

John," once more suggested Mrs. Martin. "'T ain't wuth while to be

making yourselves dismal here to home; the day'll be lonesome for you

at best, and you shall have whatever we've got and welcome."

"'T won't be lonesomer this year than it was last, nor the year

before that, and we've stood it somehow or 'nother," answered Mrs.

Thacher for the second time, while she rose to put more wood in the

stove. "Seems to me 't is growing cold; I felt a draught acrost my

shoulders. These nights is dreadful chill; you feel the damp right

through your bones. I never saw it darker than 't was last evenin'. I

thought it seemed kind o' stived up here in the kitchen, and I opened

the door and looked out, and I declare I couldn't see my hand before

me."

"It always kind of scares me these black nights," said Mrs. Jake Dyer.

"I expect something to clutch at me every minute, and I feel as if

some sort of a creatur' was travelin' right behind me when I am out

door in the dark. It makes it bad havin' a wanin' moon just now when

the fogs hangs so low. It al'ays seems to me as if 't was darker when

she rises late towards mornin' than when she's gone altogether. I do'

know why't is."

"I rec'lect once," Mrs. Thacher resumed, "when Ad'line was a baby and

John was just turned four year old, their father had gone down river

in the packet, and I was expectin' on him home at supper time, but he

didn't come; 't was late in the fall, and a black night as I ever see.

Ad'line was taken with something like croup, and I had an end o'

candle in the candlestick that I lighted, and 't wa'n't long afore it

was burnt down, and I went down cellar to the box where I kep' 'em,

and if you will believe it, the rats had got to it, and there wasn't a

week o' one left. I was near out anyway. We didn't have this

cook-stove then, and I cal'lated I could make up a good lively blaze,

so I come up full o' scold as I could be, and then I found I'd burnt

up all my dry wood. You see, I thought certain he'd be home and I was

tendin' to the child'n, but I started to go out o' the door and found

it had come on to rain hard, and I said to myself I wouldn't go out to

the woodpile and get my clothes all damp, 'count o' Ad'line, and the

candle end would last a spell longer, and he'd be home by that time. I

hadn't a least o' suspicion but what he was dallying round up to the

Corners, 'long o' the rest o' the men, bein' 't was Saturday night,

and I was some put out about it, for he knew the baby was sick, and I

hadn't nobody with me. I set down and waited, but he never come, and

it rained hard as I ever see it, and I left his supper standin' right

in the floor, and then I begun to be distressed for fear somethin' had

happened to Dan'l, and I set to work and cried, and the candle end

give a flare and went out, and by 'n' by the fire begun to get low and

I took the child'n and went to bed to keep warm; 't was an awful cold

night, considerin' 't was such a heavy rain, and there I laid awake

and thought I heard things steppin' about the room, and it seemed to

me as if 't was a week long before mornin' come, and as if I'd got to

be an old woman. I did go through with everything that night. 'T was

that time Dan'l broke his leg, you know; they was takin' a deck load

of oak knees down by the packet, and one on 'em rolled down from the

top of the pile and struck him just below the knee. He was poling, for

there wan't a breath o' wind, and he always felt certain there was

somethin' mysterious about it. He'd had a good deal worse knocks than

that seemed to be, as only left a black and blue spot, and he said he

never see a deck load o' timber piled securer. He had some queer

notions about the doin's o' sperits, Dan'l had; his old Aunt Parser

was to blame for it. She lived with his father's folks, and used to

fill him and the rest o' the child'n with all sorts o' ghost stories

and stuff. I used to tell him she'd a' be'n hung for a witch if she'd

lived in them old Salem days. He always used to be tellin' what

everything was the sign of, when we was first married, till I laughed

him out of it. It made me kind of notional. There's too much now we

can't make sense of without addin' to it out o' our own heads."

Mrs. Jake and Mrs. Martin were quite familiar with the story of the

night when there were no candles and Mr. Thacher had broken his leg,

having been present themselves early in the morning afterward, but

they had listened with none the less interest. These country neighbors

knew their friends' affairs as well as they did their own, but such an

audience is never impatient. The repetitions of the best stories are

signal events, for ordinary circumstances do not inspire them. Affairs

must rise to a certain level before a narration of some great crisis

is suggested, and exactly as a city audience is well contented with

hearing the plays of Shakespeare over and over again, so each man and

woman of experience is permitted to deploy their well-known but always

interesting stories upon the rustic stage.

"I must say I can't a-bear to hear anything about ghosts after

sundown," observed Mrs. Jake, who was at times somewhat troubled by

what she and her friends designated as "narves." "Day-times I don't

believe in 'em 'less it's something creepy more'n common, but after

dark it scares me to pieces. I do' know but I shall be afeared to go

home," and she laughed uneasily. "There! when I get through with this

needle I believe I won't knit no more. The back o' my neck is all

numb."

"Don't talk o' goin' home yet awhile," said the hostess, looking up

quickly as if she hated the thought of being left alone again. "'T is

just on the edge of the evenin'; the nights is so long now we think

it's bedtime half an hour after we've got lit up. 'T was a good lift

havin' you step over to-night. I was really a-dreadin' to set here by

myself," and for some minutes nobody spoke and the needles clicked

faster than ever. Suddenly there was a strange sound outside the door,

and they stared at each other in terror and held their breath, but

nobody stirred. This was no familiar footstep; presently they heard a

strange little cry, and still they feared to look, or to know what was

waiting outside. Then Mrs. Thacher took a candle in her hand, and,

still hesitating, asked once, "Who is there?" and, hearing no answer,

slowly opened the door.

III

AT JAKE AND MARTIN'S

In the mean time, the evening had been much enjoyed by the brothers

who were spending it together in Martin Dyer's kitchen. The houses

stood side by side, but Mr. Jacob Dyer's youngest daughter, the only

one now left at home, was receiving a visit from her lover, or, as the

family expressed it, the young man who was keeping company with her,

and her father, mindful of his own youth, had kindly withdrawn.

Martin's children were already established in homes of their own, with

the exception of one daughter who was at work in one of the cotton

factories at Lowell in company with several of her acquaintances. It

has already been said that Jake and Martin liked nobody's company so

well as their own. Their wives had a time-honored joke about being

comparatively unnecessary to their respective partners, and indeed the

two men had a curiously dependent feeling toward each other. It was

the close sympathy which twins sometimes have each to each, and had

become a byword among all their acquaintances. They were seldom

individualized in any way, and neither was able to distinguish

himself, apparently, for one always heard of the family as Jake and

Martin's folks, and of their possessions, from least to greatest, as

belonging to both brothers. The only time they had ever been separated

was once in their early youth, when Jake had been fired with a desire

to go to sea; but he deserted the coastwise schooner in the first port

and came home, because he could not bear it any longer without his

brother. Martin had no turn for seafaring, so Jake remained ashore and

patiently made a farmer of himself for love's sake, and in spite of a

great thirst for adventure that had never ceased to fever his blood.

It was astonishing how much they found to say to each other when one

considers that their experiences were almost constantly the same; but

nothing contented them better than an uninterrupted evening spent in

each other's society, and as they hoed corn or dug potatoes, or mowed,

or as they drove to the Corners, sitting stiffly upright in the

old-fashioned thorough-braced wagon, they were always to be seen

talking as if it were the first meeting after a long separation. But,

having taken these quiet times for the discussion of all possible and

impossible problems, they were men of fixed opinions, and were ready

at a moment's warning to render exact decisions. They were not fond of

society as a rule; they found little occasion for much talk with their

neighbors, but used as few words as possible. Nobody was more

respected than the brothers. It was often said of them that their word

was their bond, and as they passed from youth to middle age, and in

these days were growing to look like elderly men, they were free from

shame or reproach, though not from much good-natured joking and

friendly fun. Their farm had been owned in the family since the

settlement of the country, and the house which Martin occupied was

very old. Jake's had been built for him when he was married, from

timber cut in their own woodlands, and after thirty years of wear it

looked scarcely newer than its companion. And when it is explained

that they had married sisters, because, as people said, they even went

courting together, it will be easy to see that they had found life

more harmonious than most people do. Sometimes the wife of one brother

would complain that her sister enjoyed undue advantages and profits

from the estate, but there was rarely any disagreement, and Mrs. Jake

was mistress of the turkeys and Mrs. Martin held sway over the hens,

while they divided the spoils amiably at Thanksgiving time when the

geese were sold. If it were a bad year for turkeys, and the tender

young were chilled in the wet grass, while the hens flourished

steadily the season through, Mrs. Jake's spirits drooped and she

became envious of the good fortune which flaunted itself before her

eyes, but on the whole, they suffered and enjoyed together, and found

no fault with their destinies. The two wives, though the affection

between them was of an ordinary sort, were apt to form a league

against the brothers, and this prevented a more troublesome rivalry

which might have existed between the households.

Jake and Martin were particularly enjoying the evening. Some accident

had befallen the cooking-stove, which the brothers had never more than

half approved, it being one of the early patterns, and a poor exchange

for the ancient methods of cookery in the wide fireplace. "The women"

had had a natural desire to be equal with their neighbors, and knew

better than their husbands did the difference this useful invention

had made in their every-day work. However, this one night the

conservative brothers could take a mild revenge; and when their wives

were well on their way to Mrs. Thacher's they had assured each other

that, if the plaguey thing were to be carried to the Corners in the

morning to be exchanged or repaired, it would be as well to have it in

readiness, and had quickly taken down its pipes and lifted it as if it

were a feather to the neighboring woodshed. Then they hastily pried

away a fireboard which closed the great fireplace, and looked

smilingly upon the crane and its pothooks and the familiar iron dogs

which had been imprisoned there in darkness for many months. They

brought in the materials for an old-fashioned fire, backlog,

forestick, and crowsticks, and presently seated themselves before a

crackling blaze. Martin brought a tall, brown pitcher of cider from

the cellar and set two mugs beside it on the small table, and for some

little time they enjoyed themselves in silence, after which Jake

remarked that he didn't know but they'd got full enough of a fire for

such a mild night, but he wished his own stove and the new one too

could be dropped into the river for good and all.

They put the jug of cider between the andirons, and then, moved by a

common impulse, drew their chairs a little farther from the mounting

flames, before they quenched their thirst from the mugs.

"I call that pretty cider," said Martin; "'tis young yet, but it has

got some weight a'ready, and 'tis smooth. There's a sight o'

difference between good upland fruit and the sposhy apples that grows

in wet ground. An' I take it that the bar'l has an influence: some

bar'ls kind of wilt cider and some smarten it up, and keep it hearty.

Lord! what stuff some folks are willin' to set before ye! 'tain't wuth

the name o' cider, nor no better than the rensin's of a vinegar cask."

"And then there's weather too," agreed Mr. Jacob Dyer, "had ought to

be took into consideration. Git your apples just in the right

time--not too early to taste o' the tree, nor too late to taste o' the

ground, and just in the snap o' time as to ripeness', on a good sharp

day with the sun a-shining; have 'em into the press and what comes out

is _cider_. I think if we've had any fault in years past, 't was

puttin' off makin' a little too late. But I don't see as this could be

beat. I don't know's you feel like a pipe, but I believe I'll light

up," and thereupon a good portion of black-looking tobacco was cut and

made fine in each of the hard left hands, and presently the clay pipes

were touched off with a live coal, and great clouds of smoke might

have been seen to disappear under the edge of the fire-place, drawn

quickly up the chimney by the draft of the blazing fire.

Jacob pushed back his chair another foot or two, and Martin soon

followed, mentioning that it was getting hot, but it was well to keep

out the damp.

"What set the women out to go traipsin' up to Thacher's folks?"

inquired Jacob, holding his cider mug with one hand and drumming it

with the finger ends of the other.

"I had an idee that they wanted to find out if anything had been heard

about Ad'line's getting home for Thanksgiving," answered Martin,

turning to look shrewdly at his brother. "Women folks does suffer if

there's anything goin' on they can't find out about. 'Liza said she

was going to invite Mis' Thacher and John to eat a piece o' our big

turkey, but she didn't s'pose they'd want to leave. Curi's about

Ad'line, ain't it? I expected when her husband died she'd be right

back here with what she'd got; at any rate, till she'd raised the

child to some size. There'd be no expense here to what she'd have

elsewhere, and here's her ma'am beginnin' to age. She can't do what

she used to, John was tellin' of me; and I don't doubt 't 'as worn

upon her more'n folks thinks."

"I don't lay no great belief that John'll get home from court," said

Jacob Dyer. "They say that court's goin' to set till Christmas maybe;

there's an awful string o' cases on the docket. Oh, 't was you told

me, wa'n't it? Most like they'll let up for a couple o' days for

Thanksgivin', but John mightn't think't was wuth his while to travel

here and back again 'less he had something to do before winter shets

down. Perhaps they'll prevail upon the old lady, I wish they would,

I'm sure; but an only daughter forsakin' her so, 'twas most too bad of

Ad'line. She al'ays had dreadful high notions when she wa'n't no

more'n a baby; and, good conscience, how she liked to rig up when she

first used to come back from Lowell! Better ha' put her money out to

interest."

"I believe in young folks makin' all they can o' theirselves,"

announced Martin, puffing hard at his pipe and drawing a little

farther still from the fireplace, because the scorching red coals had

begun to drop beneath the forestick. "I've give my child'n the best

push forrard I could, an' you've done the same. Ad'line had a dreadful

cravin' to be somethin' more'n common; but it don't look as if she was

goin' to make out any great. 'Twas unfortunate her losin' of her

husband, but I s'pose you've heard hints that they wa'n't none too

equal-minded. She'd a done better to have worked on a while to Lowell

and got forehanded, and then married some likely young fellow and

settled down here, or to the Corners if she didn't want to farm it.

There was Jim Hall used to be hanging round, and she'd been full as

well off to-day if she'd took him, too. 'T ain't no use for folks to

marry one that's of another kind and belongs different. It's like two

fiddles that plays different tunes,--you can't make nothin' on't, no

matter if both on em's trying their best, 'less one on 'em beats the

other down entirely and has all the say, and ginerally 't is the worst

one does it. Ad'line's husband wa'n't nothin' to boast of from all we

can gather, but they didn't think alike about nothin'. She could 'a'

done well with him if there'd been more of _her_. I don't marvel his

folks felt bad: Ad'line didn't act right by 'em."

"Nor they by her," said the twin brother. "I tell ye Ad'line would

have done 'em credit if she'd been let. I seem to think how't was with

her; when she was there to work in the shop she thought 't would be

smart to marry him and then she'd be a lady for good and all. And all

there was of it, she found his folks felt put out and hurt, and

instead of pleasing 'em up and doing the best she could, she didn't

know no better than to aggravate 'em. She was wrong there, but I hold

to it that if they'd pleased her up a little and done well by her,

she'd ha' bloomed out, and fell right in with their ways. She's got

outward ambitions enough, but I view it she was all a part of his

foolishness to them; I dare say they give her the blame o' the whole

on't. Ad'line ought to had the sense to see they had some right on

their side. Folks say he was the smartest fellow in his class to

college."

"Good King Agrippy! how hot it does git," said Jake rising

indignantly, as if the fire alone were to blame. "I must shove back

the cider again or 't will bile over, spite of everything. But 't is

called unwholesome to get a house full o' damp in the fall o' the

year; 't will freeze an' thaw in the walls all winter. I must git me a

new pipe if we go to the Corners to-morrow. I s'pose I've told ye of a

pipe a man had aboard the schooner that time I went to sea?"

Martin gave a little grumble of assent.

"'Twas made o' some sort o' whitish stuff like clay, but 'twa'n't

shaped like none else I ever see and it had a silver trimmin' round

it; 'twas very light to handle and it drawed most excellent. I al'ays

kind o' expected he may have stole it; he was a hard lookin' customer,

a Dutchman or from some o' them parts o' the earth. I wish while I was

about it I'd gone one trip more."

"Was it you was tellin' me that Ad'line was to work again in Lowell? I

shouldn't think her husband's folks would want the child to be fetched

up there in them boardin' houses"--

"Belike they don't," responded Jacob, "but when they get Ad'line to

come round to their ways o' thinkin' now, after what's been and gone,

they'll have cause to thank themselves. She's just like her gre't

grandsir Thacher; you can see she's made out o' the same stuff. You

might ha' burnt him to the stake, and he'd stick to it he liked it

better'n hanging and al'ays meant to die that way. There's an awful

bad streak in them Thachers, an' you know it as well as I do. I expect

there'll be bad and good Thachers to the end o' time. I'm glad for the

old lady's sake that John ain't one o' the drinkin' ones. Ad'line'll

give no favors to her husband's folks, nor take none. There's plenty

o' wrongs to both sides, but as I view it, the longer he'd lived the

worse 't would been for him. She was a well made, pretty lookin' girl,

but I tell ye 't was like setting a laylock bush to grow beside an

ellum tree, and expecting of 'em to keep together. They wa'n't mates.

He'd had a different fetchin' up, and he _was_ different, and I wa'n't

surprised when I come to see how things had turned out,--I believe I

shall have to set the door open a half a minute, 't is gettin'

dreadful"--but there was a sudden flurry outside, and the sound of

heavy footsteps, the bark of the startled cur, who was growing very

old and a little deaf, and Mrs. Martin burst into the room and sank

into the nearest chair, to gather a little breath before she could

tell her errand. "For God's sake what's happened?" cried the men.

They presented a picture of mingled comfort and misery at which Mrs.

Martin would have first laughed and then scolded at any other time.

The two honest red faces were well back toward the farther side of the

room from the fire, which still held its own; it was growing toward

low tide in the cider jug and its attendant mugs, and the pipes were

lying idle. The mistress of the old farm-house did not fail to notice

that high treason had been committed during her short absence, but she

made no comment upon the fireplace nor on anything else, and gasped as

soon as she could that one of the men must go right up to the Corners

for the doctor and hurry back with him, for't was a case of life and

death.

"Mis' Thacher?" "Was it a shock?" asked the brothers in sorrowful

haste, while Mrs. Martin told the sad little story of Adeline's having

come from nobody knew where, wet and forlorn, carrying her child in

her arms. She looked as if she were in the last stages of a decline.

She had fallen just at the doorstep and they had brought her in,

believing that she was dead. "But while there's life, there's hope,"

said Mrs. Martin, "and I'll go back with you if you'll harness up.

Jacob must stop to look after this gre't fire or 'twill burn the

house down," and this was the punishment which befell Jacob, since

nothing else would have kept him from also journeying toward the

Thacher house.

A little later the bewildered horse had been fully wakened and

harnessed; Jacob's daughter and her lover had come eagerly out to hear

what had happened; Mrs. Martin had somehow found a chance amidst all

the confusion to ascend to her garret in quest of some useful remedies

in the shape of herbs, and then she and her husband set forth on their

benevolent errands. Martin was very apt to look on the dark side of

things, and it was a curious fact that while the two sisters were like

the brothers, one being inclined to despondency and one to enthusiasm,

the balance was well kept by each of the men having chosen his

opposite in temperament. Accordingly, while Martin heaved a great sigh

from time to time and groaned softly, "Pore gal--pore gal!" his

partner was brimful of zealous eagerness to return to the scene of

distress and sorrow which she had lately left. Next to the doctor

himself, she was the authority on all medical subjects for that

neighborhood, and it was some time since her skill had been needed.

"Does the young one seem likely?" asked Martin with solemn curiosity.

"Fur's I could see," answered his wife promptly, "but nobody took no

great notice of it. Pore Ad'line catched hold of it with such a grip

as she was comin' to that we couldn't git it away from her and had to

fetch'em in both to once. Come urge the beast along, Martin, I'll give

ye the partic'lars to-morrow, I do' know's Ad'line's livin' now. We

got her right to bed's I told you, and I set right off considerin'

that I could git over the ground fastest of any. Mis' Thacher of

course wouldn't leave and Jane's heavier than I be." Martin's smile

was happily concealed by the darkness; his wife and her sister had

both grown stout steadily as they grew older, but each insisted upon

the other's greater magnitude and consequent incapacity for quick

movement. A casual observer would not have been persuaded that there

was a pound's weight of difference between them.

Martin Dyer meekly suggested that perhaps he'd better go in a minute

to see if there was anything Mis' Thacher needed, but Eliza, his wife,

promptly said that she didn't want anything but the doctor as quick as

she could get him, and disappeared up the short lane while the wagon

rattled away up the road. The white mist from the river clung close to

the earth, and it was impossible to see even the fences near at hand,

though overhead there were a few dim stars. The air had grown somewhat

softer, yet there was a sharp chill in it, and the ground was wet and

sticky under foot. There were lights in the bedroom and in the kitchen

of the Thacher house, but suddenly the bedroom candle flickered away

and the window was darkened. Mrs. Martin's heart gave a quick throb,

perhaps Adeline had already died. It might have been a short-sighted

piece of business that she had gone home for her husband.

IV

LIFE AND DEATH

The sick woman had refused to stay in the bedroom after she had come

to her senses. She had insisted that she could not breathe, and that

she was cold and must go back to the kitchen. Her mother and Mrs. Jake

had wrapped her in blankets and drawn the high-backed wooden rocking

chair close to the stove, and here she was just established when Mrs.

Martin opened the outer door. Any one of less reliable nerves would

have betrayed the shock which the sight of such desperate illness must

have given. The pallor, the suffering, the desperate agony of the

eyes, were far worse than the calmness of death, but Mrs. Martin spoke

cheerfully, and even when her sister whispered that their patient had

been attacked by a hæmorrhage, she manifested no concern.

"How long has this be'n a-goin' on, Ad'line? Why didn't you come home

before and get doctored up? You're all run down." Mrs. Thacher looked

frightened when this questioning began, but turned her face toward her

daughter, eager to hear the answer.

"I've been sick off and on all summer," said the young woman, as if it

were almost impossible to make the effort of speaking. "See if the

baby's covered up warm, will you, Aunt 'Liza?"

"Yes, dear," said the kind-hearted woman, the tears starting to her

eyes at the sound of the familiar affectionate fashion of speech which

Adeline had used in her childhood. "Don't you worry one mite; we're

going to take care of you and the little gal too;" and then nobody

spoke, while the only sound was the difficult breathing of the poor

creature by the fire. She seemed like one dying, there was so little

life left in her after her piteous homeward journey. The mother

watched her eagerly with a mingled feeling of despair and comfort; it

was terrible to have a child return in such sad plight, but it was a

blessing to have her safe at home, and to be able to minister to her

wants while life lasted.

They all listened eagerly for the sound of wheels, but it seemed a

long time before Martin Dyer returned with the doctor. He had been

met just as he was coming in from the other direction, and the two men

had only paused while the tired horse was made comfortable, and a

sleepy boy dispatched with the medicine for which he had long been

waiting. The doctor's housekeeper had besought him to wait long enough

to eat the supper which she had kept waiting, but he laughed at her

and shook his head gravely, as if he already understood that there

should be no delay. When he was fairly inside the Thacher kitchen, the

benefaction of his presence was felt by every one. It was most

touching to see the patient's face lose its worried look, and grow

quiet and comfortable as if here were some one on whom she could

entirely depend. The doctor's greeting was an every-day cheerful

response to the women's welcome, and he stood for a minute warming his

hands at the fire as if he had come upon a commonplace errand. There

was something singularly self-reliant and composed about him; one felt

that he was the wielder of great powers over the enemies, disease and

pain, and that his brave hazel eyes showed a rare thoughtfulness and

foresight. The rough driving coat which he had thrown off revealed a

slender figure with the bowed shoulders of an untiring scholar. His

head was finely set and scholarly, and there was that about him which

gave certainty, not only of his sagacity and skill, but of his true

manhood, his mastery of himself. Not only in this farm-house kitchen,

but wherever one might place him, he instinctively took command, while

from his great knowledge of human nature he could understand and help

many of his patients whose ailments were not wholly physical. He

seemed to read at a glance the shame and sorrow of the young woman who

had fled to the home of her childhood, dying and worse than defeated,

from the battle-field of life. And in this first moment he recognized

with dismay the effects of that passion for strong drink which had

been the curse of more than one of her ancestors. Even the pallor and

the purifying influence of her mortal illness could not disguise these

unmistakable signs.

"You can't do me any good, doctor," she whispered. "I shouldn't have

let you come if it had been only that. I don't care how soon I am out

of this world. But I want you should look after my little girl," and

the poor soul watched the physician's face with keen anxiety as if

she feared to see a shadow of unwillingness, but none came.

"I will do the best I can," and he still held her wrist, apparently

thinking more of the fluttering pulse than of what poor Adeline was

saying.

"That was what made me willing to come back," she continued, "you

don't know how close I came to not doing it either. John will be good

to her, but she will need somebody that knows the world better by and

by. I wonder if you couldn't show me how to make out a paper giving

you the right over her till she is of age? She must stay here with

mother, long as she wants her. 'Tis what I wish I had kept sense

enough to do; life hasn't been all play to me;" and the tears began to

roll quickly down the poor creature's thin cheeks. "The only thing I

care about is leaving the baby well placed, and I want her to have a

good chance to grow up a useful woman. And most of all to keep her out

of _their_ hands, I mean her father's folks. I hate 'em, and he cared

more for 'em than he did for me, long at the last of it.... I could

tell you stories!"--

"But not to-night, Addy," said the doctor gravely, as if he were

speaking to a child. "We must put you to bed and to sleep, and you can

talk about all these troublesome things in the morning. You shall see

about the papers too, if you think best. Be a good girl now, and let

your mother help you to bed." For the resolute spirit had summoned the

few poor fragments of vitality that were left, and the sick woman was

growing more and more excited. "You may have all the pillows you wish

for, and sit up in bed if you like, but you mustn't stay here any

longer," and he gathered her in his arms and quickly carried her to

the next room. She made no resistance, and took the medicine which

Mrs. Martin brought, without a word. There was a blazing fire now in

the bedroom fire-place, and, as she lay still, her face took on a

satisfied, rested look. Her mother sat beside her, tearful, and yet

contented and glad to have her near, and the others whispered together

in the kitchen. It might have been the last night of a long illness

instead of the sudden, startling entrance of sorrow in human shape.

"No," said the doctor, "she cannot last much longer with such a cough

as that, Mrs. Dyer. She has almost reached the end of it. I only hope

that she will go quickly."