If not yet a constitutional attorney, he was at least constitutionally

one. Falling helplessly in love with one girl simplifies matters. There

are no distracting pros and cons--nothing required but a concentration

of faculties to win the enslaver, and so achieve mastery. Marstern did

not appear amenable to the subtle influences which blind the eyes and

dethrone reason, inspiring in its place an overwhelming impulse to

capture a fortuitous girl because (to a heated imagination) she

surpasses all her sex. Indeed, he was level-headed enough to believe

that he would never capture any such girl; but he hoped to secure one

who promised to make as good a wife as he would try to be a husband,

and with a fair amount of self-esteem, he was conscious of

imperfections. Therefore, instead of fancying that any of his fair

acquaintances were angels, he had deliberately and, as some may think,

in a very cold-blooded fashion, endeavored to discover what they

actually were. He had observed that a good deal of prose followed the

poetry of wooing and the lunacy of the honeymoon; and he thought it

might be well to criticise a little before marriage as well as after it.

There were a number of charming girls in the social circle of his

native town; and he had, during later years, made himself quite

impartially agreeable to them. Indeed, without much effort on his part

he had become what is known as a general favorite. He had been too

diligent a student to become a society man, but was ready enough in

vacation periods to make the most of every country frolic, and even on

great occasions to rush up from the city and return at some unearthly

hour in the morning when his partners in the dance were not half

through their dreams. While on these occasions he had shared in the

prevailing hilarity, he nevertheless had the presentiment that some one

of the laughing, light-footed girls would one day pour his coffee and

send him to his office in either a good or a bad mood to grapple with

the problems awaiting him there. He had in a measure decided that when

he married it should be to a girl whom he had played with in childhood

and whom he knew a good deal about, and not to a chance acquaintance of

the world at large. So, beneath all his diversified gallantries he had

maintained a quiet little policy of observation, until his thoughts had

gradually gathered around two of his young associates who,

unconsciously to themselves, as we have said, put in stronger and

stronger claims every time he saw them. They asserted these claims in

the only way in which he would have recognized them--by being more

charming, agreeable, and, as he fancied, by being better than the

others. He had not made them aware, even by manner, of the distinction

accorded to them; and as yet he was merely a friend.

But the time had come, he believed, for definite action. While he

weighed and considered, some prompter fellows might take the case out

of his hands entirely; therefore he welcomed this vacation and the

opportunities it afforded.

The festivities began with what is termed in the country a "large

party"; and Carrie Mitchell and Lottie Waldo were both there,

resplendent in new gowns made for the occasion. Marstern thought them

both charming. They danced equally well and talked nonsense with much

the same ease and vivacity. He could not decide which was the prettier,

nor did the eyes and attentions of others afford him any aid. They were

general favorites, as well as himself, although it was evident that to

some they might become more, should they give encouragement. But they

were apparently in the heyday of their girlhood, and thus far had

preferred miscellaneous admiration to individual devotion. By the time

the evening was over Marstern felt that if life consisted of large

parties he might as well settle the question by the toss of a copper.

It must not be supposed that he was such a conceited prig as to imagine

that such a fortuitous proceeding, or his best efforts afterward, could

settle the question as it related to the girls. It would only decide

his own procedure. He was like an old marauding baron, in honest doubt

from which town he can carry off the richest booty--that is, in case he

can capture any one of them. His overtures for capitulation might be

met with the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" and he be sent

limping off the field. Nevertheless, no man regrets that he must take

the initiative, and he would be less than a man who would fear to do

so. When it came to this point in the affair, Marstern shrugged his

shoulders and thought, "I must take my chances like the rest." But he

wished to be sure that he had attained this point, and not lay siege to

one girl only to wish afterward it had been the other.

His course that evening proved that he not only had a legal cast of

mind but also a judicial one. He invited both Miss Mitchell and Miss

Waldo to take a sleigh-ride with him the following evening, fancying

that when sandwiched between them in the cutter he could impartially

note his impressions. His unsuspecting clients laughingly accepted,

utterly unaware of the momentous character of the trial scene before

them.

As Marstern smoked a cigar before retiring that night, he admitted to

himself that it was rather a remarkable court that was about to be

held. He was the only advocate for the claims of each, and finally he

proposed to take a seat on the bench and judge between them. Indeed,

before he slept he decided to take that august position at once, and

maintain a judicial impartiality while noting his impressions.

Christmas Eve happened to be a cold, clear, star-lit night; and when

Marstern drove to Miss Waldo's door, he asked himself, "Could a fellow

ask for anything daintier and finer" than the red-lipped, dark-eyed

girl revealed by the hall-lamp as she tripped lightly out, her anxious

mamma following her with words of unheeded caution about not taking

cold, and coming home early. He had not traversed the mile which

intervened between the residences of the two girls before he almost

wished he could continue the drive under the present auspices, and

that, as in the old times, he could take toll at every bridge, and

encircle his companion with his arm as they bounced over the "thank-'ee

mams." The frosty air appeared to give keenness and piquancy to Miss

Lottie's wit, and the chime of the bells was not merrier or more

musical than her voice. But when a little later he saw blue-eyed Carrie

Mitchell in her furs and hood silhouetted in the window, his old

dilemma became as perplexing as ever. Nevertheless, it was the most

delightful uncertainty that he had ever experienced; and he had a

presentiment that he had better make the most of it, since it could not

last much longer. Meanwhile, he was hedged about with blessings clearly

not in disguise, and he gave utterance to this truth as they drove away.

"Surely there never was so lucky a fellow. Here I am kept warm and

happy by the two finest girls in town."

"Yes," said Lottie; "and it's a shame you can't sit on both sides of

us."

"I assure you I wish it were possible. It would double my pleasure."

"I'm very well content," remarked Carrie, quietly, "as long as I can

keep on the right side of people--"

"Well, you are not on the right side to-night," interrupted Lottie.

"Good gracious!" thought Marstern, "she's next to my heart. I wonder if

that will give her unfair advantage;" but Carrie explained:

"Of course I was speaking metaphorically."

"In that aspect of the case it would be a shame to me if any side I

have is not right toward those who have so honored me," he hastened to

say.

"Oh, Carrie has all the advantage--she is next to your heart."

"Would you like to exchange places?" was the query flashed back by

Carrie.

"Oh, no, I'm quite as content as you are."

"Why, then, since I am more than content--exultant, indeed--it appears

that we all start from excellent premises to reach a happy conclusion

of our Christmas Eve," cried Marstern.

"Now you are talking shop, Mr. Lawyer--Premises and Conclusions,

indeed!" said Lottie; "since you are such a happy sandwich, you must be

a tongue sandwich, and be very entertaining."

He did his best, the two girls seconding his efforts so genially that

he found himself, after driving five miles, psychologically just where

he was physically--between them, as near to one in his thoughts and

preferences as to the other.

"Let us take the river road home," suggested Lottie.

"As long as you agree," he answered, "you both are sovereign

potentates. If you should express conflicting wishes, I should have to

stop here in the road till one abdicated in favor of the other, or we

all froze."

"But you, sitting so snugly between us, would not freeze," said Lottie.

"If we were obstinate we should have to assume our pleasantest

expressions, and then you could eventually take us home as bits of

sculpture. In fact, I'm getting cold already."

"Are you also, Miss Carrie?"

"Oh, I'll thaw out before summer. Don't mind me."

"Well, then, mind me," resumed Lottie. "See how white and smooth the

river looks. Why can't we drive home on the ice? It will save miles--I

mean it looks so inviting."

"Oh, dear!" cried Carrie, "I feel like protesting now. The longest way

round may be both the shortest and safest way home."

"You ladies shall decide. This morning I drove over the route we would

take to-night, and I should not fear to take a ton of coal over it."

"A comparison suggesting warmth and a grate-fire. I vote for the

river," said Lottie, promptly.

"Oh, well, Mr. Marstern, if you've been over the ice so recently--I

only wish to feel reasonably safe."

"I declare!" thought Marstern, "Lottie is the braver and more brilliant

girl; and the fact that she is not inclined to forego the comfort of

the home-fire for the pleasure of my company, reveals the difficulty

of, and therefore incentive to, the suit I may decide to enter upon

before New Year's."

Meanwhile, his heart on Carrie's side began to grow warm and alert, as

if recognizing an affinity to some object not far off. Granting that

she had not been so brilliant as Lottie, she had been eminently

companionable in a more quiet way. If there had not been such bursts of

enthusiasm at the beginning of the drive, her enjoyment appeared to

have more staying powers. He liked her none the less that her eyes were

often turned toward the stars or the dark silhouettes of the leafless

trees against the snow. She did not keep saying, "Ah, how lovely! What

a fine bit that is!" but he had only to follow her eyes to see

something worth looking at.

"A proof that Miss Carrie also is not so preoccupied with the pleasure

of my company that she has no thoughts for other things," cogitated

Marstern. "It's rather in her favor that she prefers Nature to a grate

fire. They're about even yet."

Meanwhile the horse was speeding along on the white, hard expanse of

the river, skirting the west shore. They now had only about a mile to

drive before striking land again; and the scene was so beautiful with

the great dim outlines of the mountains before them that both the girls

suggested that they should go leisurely for a time.

"We shouldn't hastily and carelessly pass such a picture as that, any

more than one would if a fine copy of it were hung in a gallery," said

Carrie. "The stars are so brilliant along the brow of that highland

yonder that they form a dia--oh, oh! what IS the matter?" and she clung

to Marstern's arm.

The horse was breaking through the ice.

"Whoa!" said Marstern, firmly. Even as he spoke, Lottie was out of the

sleigh and running back on the ice, crying and wringing her hands.

"We shall be drowned," she almost screamed hysterically.

"Mr. Marstern, what SHALL we do? Can't we turn around and go back the

way we came?"

"Miss Carrie, will you do what I ask? Will you believe me when I say

that I do not think you are in any danger?"

"Yes, I'll do my best," she replied, catching her breath. She grew calm

rapidly as he tried to reassure Lottie, telling her that water from the

rising of the tide had overflowed the main ice and that thin ice had

formed over it, also that the river at the most was only two or three

feet deep at that point. But all was of no avail; Lottie stood out upon

the ice in a panic, declaring that he never should have brought them

into such danger, and that he must turn around at once and go back as

they came.

"But, Miss Waldo, the tide is rising, and we may find wet places

returning. Besides, it would bring us home very late. Now, Miss Carrie

and I will drive slowly across this place and then return for you.

After we have been across it twice you surely won't fear."

"I won't be left alone; suppose you two should break through and

disappear, what would become of ME?"

"You would be better off than we," he replied, laughing.

"I think it's horrid of you to laugh. Oh, I'm so cold and frightened! I

feel as if the ice were giving way under my feet."

"Why, Miss Lottie, we just drove over that spot where you stand. Here,

Miss Carrie shall stay with you while I drive back and forth alone."

"Then if you were drowned we'd both be left alone to freeze to death."

"I pledge you my word you shall be by that grate-fire within less than

an hour if you will trust me five minutes."

"Oh, well, if you will risk your life and ours too; but Carrie must

stay with me."

"Will YOU trust me, Miss Carrie, and help me out of this scrape?"

Carrie was recovering from her panic, and replied, "I have given you my

promise."

He was out of the sleigh instantly, and the thin ice broke with him

also. "I must carry you a short distance," he said. "I cannot allow you

to get your feet wet. Put one arm around my neck, so; now please obey

as you promised."

She did so without a word, and he bore her beyond the water, inwardly

exulting and blessing that thin ice. His decision was coming with the

passing seconds; indeed, it had come. Returning to the sleigh he drove

slowly forward, his horse making a terrible crunching and splashing,

Lottie meanwhile keeping up a staccato accompaniment of little shrieks.

"Ah, my charming creature," he thought, "with you it was only, 'What

will become of ME?' I might not have found out until it was too late

the relative importance of 'me' in the universe had we not struck this

bad crossing; and one comes to plenty of bad places to cross in a

lifetime."

The area of thin ice was not very narrow, and he was becoming but a dim

and shadowy outline to the girls. Lottie was now screaming for his

return. Having crossed the overflowed space and absolutely assured

himself that there was no danger, he returned more rapidly and found

Carrie trying to calm her companion.

"Oh," sobbed Lottie, "my feet are wet and almost frozen. The ice

underneath may have borne you, but it won't bear all three of us. Oh,

dear, I wish I hadn't--I wish I was home; and I feel as if I'd never

get there."

"Miss Lottie, I assure you that the ice will hold a ton, but I'll tell

you what I'll do. I shall put you in the sleigh, and Miss Carrie will

drive you over. You two together do not weigh much more than I do. I'll

walk just behind you with my hands on the back of the sleigh, and if I

see the slightest danger I'll lift you out of the sleigh first and

carry you to safety."

This proposition promised so well that she hesitated, and he lifted her

in instantly before she could change her mind, then helped Carrie in

with a quiet pressure of the hand, as much as to say, "I shall depend

on you."

"But, Mr. Marstern, you'll get your feet wet," protested Carrie.

"That doesn't matter," he replied good-naturedly. "I shall be no worse

off than Miss Lottie, and I'm determined to convince her of safety. Now

go straight ahead as I direct."

Once the horse stumbled, and Lottie thought he was going down head

first. "Oh, lift me out, quick, quick!" she cried.

"Yes, indeed I will, Miss Lottie, as soon as we are opposite that grate

fire of yours."

They were soon safely over, and within a half-hour reached Lottie's

home. It was evident she was a little ashamed of her behavior, and she

made some effort to retrieve herself. But she was cold and miserable,

vexed with herself and still more vexed with Marstern. That a latent

sense of justice forbade the latter feeling only irritated her the

more. Individuals as well as communities must have scapegoats; and it

is not an unusual impulse on the part of some to blame and dislike

those before whom they have humiliated themselves.

She gave her companions a rather formal invitation to come in and get

warm before proceeding further; but Marstern said very politely that he

thought it was too late, unless Miss Carrie was cold. Carrie protested

that she was not so cold but that she could easily wait till she

reached her own fireside.

"Well, good-night, then," and the door was shut a trifle emphatically.

"Mr. Marstern," said Carrie, sympathetically, "your feet must be very

cold and wet after splashing through all that ice-water."

"They are," he replied; "but I don't mind it. Well, if I had tried for

years I could not have found such a test of character as we had

to-night."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, you two girls did not behave exactly alike. I liked the way

you behaved. You helped me out of a confounded scrape."

"Would you have tried for years to find a test?" she asked, concealing

the keenness of her query under a laugh.

"I should have been well rewarded if I had, by such a fine contrast,"

he replied.

Carrie's faculties had not so congealed but that his words set her

thinking. She had entertained at times the impression that she and

Lottie were his favorites. Had he taken them out that night together in

the hope of contrasts, of finding tests that would help his halting

decision? He had ventured where the intuitions of a girl like Carrie

Mitchell were almost equal to second-sight; and she was alert for what

would come next.

He accepted her invitation to come in and warm his feet at the glowing

fire in the grate, which Carrie's father had made before retiring. Mrs.

Mitchell, feeling that her daughter was with an old friend and

playmate, did not think the presence of a chaperon essential, and left

the young people alone. Carrie bustled about, brought cake, and made

hot lemonade, while Marstern stretched his feet to the grate with a

luxurious sense of comfort and complacency, thinking how homelike it

all was and how paradisiacal life would become if such a charming

little Hebe presided over his home. His lemonade became nectar offered

by such hands.

She saw the different expression in his eyes. It was now homage,

decided preference for one and not mere gallantry to two. Outwardly she

was demurely oblivious and maintained simply her wonted friendliness.

Marstern, however, was thawing in more senses than one, and he was

possessed by a strong impulse to begin an open siege at once.

"I haven't had a single suit of any kind yet, Carrie," he said,

dropping the prefix of "Miss," which had gradually been adopted as they

had grown up.

"Oh, well, that was the position of all the great lawyers once," she

replied, laughing. Marstern's father was wealthy, and all knew that he

could afford to be briefless for a time.

"I may never be great; but I shall work as hard as any of them," he

continued. "To tell you the honest truth, however, this would be the

happiest Christmas Eve of my life if I had a downright suit on my

hands. Why can't I be frank with you and say I'd like to begin the

chief suit of my life now and here--a suit for this little hand? I'd

plead for it as no lawyer ever pleaded before. I settled that much down

on the ice."

"And if I hadn't happened to behave on the ice in a manner agreeable to

your lordship, you would have pleaded with the other girl?" she

remarked, withdrawing her hand and looking him directly in the eyes.

"What makes you think so?" he asked somewhat confusedly.

"You do."

He sprang up and paced the room a few moments, then confronted her with

the words, "You shall have the whole truth. Any woman that I would ask

to be my wife is entitled to that," and he told her just what the

attitude of his mind had been from the first.

She laughed outright, then gave him her hand as she said, "Your honesty

insures that we can be very good friends; but I don't wish to hear

anything more about suits which are close of kin to lawsuits."

He looked very dejected, feeling that he had blundered fatally in his

precipitation.

"Come now, Hedley, be sensible," she resumed, half laughing, half

serious. "As you say, we can be frank with each other. Why, only the

other day we were boy and girl together coasting downhill on the same

sled. You are applying your legal jargon to a deep experience, to

something sacred--the result, to my mind, of a divine instinct. Neither

you nor I have ever felt for each other this instinctive preference,

this subtle gravitation of the heart. Don't you see? Your head has been

concerned about me, and only your head. By a kindred process you would

select one bale of merchandise in preference to another. Good gracious!

I've faults enough. You'll meet some other girl that will stand some

other test far better than I. I want a little of what you call silly

romance in my courtship. See; I can talk about this suit as coolly and

fluently as you can. We'd make a nice pair of lovers, about as frigid

as the ice-water you waded through so good-naturedly;" and the girl's

laugh rang out merrily, awakening echoes in the old house. Mr. and Mrs.

Mitchell might rest securely when their daughter could laugh like that.

It was the mirth of a genuine American girl whose self-protection was

better than the care of a thousand duennas.

He looked at her with honest admiration in his eyes, then rose quietly

and said, "That's fine, Carrie. Your head's worth two of mine, and

you'd make the better lawyer. You see through a case from top to

bottom. You were right--I wasn't in love with you; I don't know whether

I'm in love with you now, and you haven't an infinitesimal spark for

me. Nevertheless, I begin my suit here and now, and I shall never

withdraw it till you are engaged to another fellow. So there!"

Carrie looked rather blank at this result of her reductio ad absurdum

process; and he did not help her by adding, "A fellow isn't always in

love. There must be a beginning; and when I arrive at this beginning

under the guidance of reason, judgment, and observation, I don't see as

I'm any more absurd than the fellow who tumbles helplessly in love, he

doesn't know why. What becomes of all these people who have divine

gravitations? You and I both know of some who had satanic repulsions

afterward. They used their eyes and critical faculties after marriage

instead of before. The romance exhaled like a morning mist; and the

facts came out distinctly. They learned what kind of man and woman they

actually were, and two idealized creatures were sent to limbo. Because

I don't blunder upon the woman I wish to marry, but pick her out,

that's no reason I can't and won't love her. Your analysis and judgment

were correct only up to date. You have now to meet a suit honestly,

openly announced. This may be bad policy on my part; yet I have so much

faith in you and respect for you that I don't believe you will let my

precipitation create a prejudice. Give me a fair hearing; that's all I

ask."

"Well, well, I'll promise not to frown, even though some finer paragon

should throw me completely in the shade."

"You don't believe in my yet," he resumed, after a moment of thought.

"I felt that I had blundered awfully a while ago; but I doubt it. A

girl of your perceptions would soon have seen it all. I've not lost

anything by being frank from the start. Be just to me, however. It

wasn't policy that led me to speak, but this homelike scene, and you

appearing like the good genius of a home."

He pulled out his watch, and gave a low whistle as he held it toward

her. Then his manner suddenly became grave and gentle. "Carrie," he

said, "I wish you, not a merry Christmas, but a happy one, and many of

them. It seems to me it would be a great privilege for a man to make a

woman like you happy."

"Is this the beginning of the suit?" she asked with a laugh that was a

little forced.

"I don't know. Perhaps it is; but I spoke just as I felt. Good-night."

She would not admit of a trace of sentiment on her part. "Good-night,"

she said. "Merry Christmas! Go home and hang up your stocking."

"Bless me!" she thought, as she went slowly up the stairs, "I thought I

was going to be through with him for good and all, except as a friend;

but if he goes on this way--"

The next morning a basket of superb roses was left at her home. There

was no card, and mamma queried and surmised; but the girl knew. They

were not displeasing to her, and somehow, before the day was over, they

found their way to her room; but she shook her head decidedly as she

said, "He must be careful not to send me other gifts, for I will return

them instantly. Flowers, in moderation, never commit a girl."

But then came another gift--a book with pencillings here and there, not

against sentimental passages, but words that made her think. It was his

manner in society, however, that at once annoyed, perplexed, and

pleased her. On the first occasion they met in company with others, he

made it clear to every one that he was her suitor; yet he was not a

burr which she could not shake off. He rather seconded all her efforts

to have a good time with any and every one she chose. Nor did he,

wallflower fashion, mope in the meanwhile and look unutterable things.

He added to the pleasure of a score of others, and even conciliated

Lottie, yet at the same time surrounded the girl of his choice with an

atmosphere of unobtrusive devotion. She was congratulated on her

conquest--rather maliciously so by Lottie. Her air of courteous

indifference was well maintained; yet she was a woman, and could not

help being flattered. Certain generous traits in her nature were

touched also by a homage which yielded everything and exacted nothing.

The holidays soon passed, and he returned to his work. She learned

incidentally that he toiled faithfully, instead of mooning around. At

every coigne of vantage she found him, or some token of his ceaseless

effort. She was compelled to think of him, and to think well of him.

Though mamma and papa judiciously said little, it was evident that they

liked the style of lover into which he was developing.

Once during the summer she said: "I don't think it's right to let you

go on in this way any longer."

"Are my attentions so very annoying?"

"No, indeed. A girl never had a more agreeable or useful friend."

"Are you engaged to some other fellow?"

"Of course not. You know better."

"There is no 'of course not' about it. I couldn't and wouldn't lay a

straw in the way. You are not bound, but I."

"You bound?"

"Certainly. You remember what I said."

"Then I must accept the first man that asks me--"

"I ask you."

"No; some one else, so as to unloose your conscience and give you a

happy deliverance."

"You would leave me still bound and hopeless in that case. I love you

now, Carrie Mitchell."

"Oh, dear! you are incorrigible. It's just a lawyer's persistence in

winning a suit."

"You can still swear on the dictionary that you don't love me at all?"

"I might--on the dictionary. There, I won't talk about such things any

more," and she resolutely changed the subject.

But she couldn't swear, even on the dictionary. She didn't know where

she stood or how it would all end; but with increasing frequency the

words, "I love you now," haunted her waking and dreaming hours.

The holidays were near again, and then came a letter from Marstern,

asking her to take another sleigh-ride with him on Christmas Eve. His

concluding words were: "There is no other woman in the world that I

want on the other side of me." She kissed these words, then looked

around in a startled, shamefaced manner, blushing even in the solitude

of her room.

Christmas Eve came, but with it a wild storm of wind and sleet. She was

surprised at the depth of her disappointment. Would he even come to

call through such a tempest?

He did come, and come early; and she said demurely: "I did not expect

you on such a night as this."

He looked at her for a moment, half humorously, half seriously, and her

eyes drooped before his. "You will know better what to expect next

time," was his comment.

"When is next time?"

"Any and every time which gives me a chance to see you. Who should know

that better than you?"

"Are you never going to give up?" she asked with averted face.

"Not till you become engaged."

"Hush! They are all in the parlor."

"Well, they ought to know as much, by this time, also."

She thought it was astonishing how he made himself at home in the

family circle. In half an hour there was scarcely any restraint left

because a visitor was present. Yet, as if impelled by some mysterious

influence, one after another slipped out; and Carrie saw with strange

little thrills of dismay that she would soon be alone with that

indomitable lawyer. She signalled to her mother, but the old lady's

eyes were glued to her knitting.

At last they were alone, and she expected a prompt and powerful appeal

from the plaintiff; but Marstern drew his chair to the opposite side of

the hearth and chatted so easily, naturally, and kindly that her

trepidation passed utterly. It began to grow late, and a heavier gust

than usual shook the house. It appeared to waken him to the dire

necessity of breasting the gale, and he rose and said:

"I feel as if I could sit here forever, Carrie. It's just the

impression I had a year ago to-night. You, sitting there by the fire,

gave then, and give now to this place the irresistible charm of home. I

think I had then the decided beginning of the divine

gravitation--wasn't that what you called it?--which has been growing so

strong ever since. You thought then that the ice-water I waded was in

my veins. Do you think so now? If you do I shall have to take another

year to prove the contrary. Neither am I convinced of the absurdity of

my course, as you put it then. I studied you coolly and deliberately

before I began to love you, and reason and judgment have had no chance

to jeer at my love."

"But, Hedley," she began with a slight tremor in her tones, "you are

idealizing me as certainly as the blindest. I've plenty of faults."

"I haven't denied that; so have I plenty of faults. What right have I

to demand a perfection I can't offer? I have known people to marry who

imagined each other perfect, and then come to court for a separation on

the ground of incompatibility of temperament. They learned the meaning

of that long word too late, and were scarcely longer about it than the

word itself. Now, I'm satisfied that I could cordially agree with you

on some points and lovingly disagree with you on others. Chief of all

it's your instinct to make a home. You appear better at your own

fireside than when in full dress at a reception. You--"

"See here, Hedley, you've got to give up this suit at last. I'm

engaged," and she looked away as if she could not meet his eyes.

"Engaged?" he said slowly, looking at her with startled eyes.

"Well, about the same as engaged. My heart has certainly gone from me

beyond recall." He drew a long breath. "I was foolish enough to begin

to hope," he faltered.

"You must dismiss hope to-night, then," she said, her face still

averted.

He was silent and she slowly turned toward him. He had sunk into a

chair and buried his face in his hands, the picture of dejected defeat.

There was a sudden flash of mirth through tear-gemmed eyes, a glance at

the clock, then noiseless steps, and she was on her knees beside him,

her arm about his neck, her blushing face near his wondering eyes as

she breathed:

"Happy Christmas, Hedley! How do you like your first gift; and what

room is there now for hope?"

THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES

It was the day before Thanksgiving. The brief cloudy November afternoon

was fast merging into early twilight. The trees, now gaunt and bare,

creaked and groaned in the passing gale, clashing their icy branches

together with sounds sadly unlike the slumberous rustle of their

foliage in June. And that same foliage was now flying before the wind,

swept hither and thither, like exiles driven by disaster from the

moorings of home, at times finding a brief abiding-place, and then

carried forward to parts unknown by circumstances beyond control. The

street leading into the village was almost deserted; and the few who

came and went hastened on with fluttering garments, head bent down, and

a shivering sense of discomfort. The fields were bare and brown; and

the landscape on the uplands rising in the distance would have been

utterly sombre had not green fields of grain, like childlike faith in

wintry age, relieved the gloomy outlook and prophesied of the sunshine

and golden harvest of a new year and life.

But bleak November found no admittance in Mrs. Alford's cosey parlor.

Though, as usual, it was kept as the room for state occasions, it was

not a stately room. It was furnished with elegance and good taste; but

what was better, the genial home atmosphere from the rest of the house

had invaded it, and one did not feel, on entering it from the

free-and-easy sitting-room, as if passing from a sunny climate to the

icebergs of the Pole. Therefore I am sure my reader will follow me

gladly out of the biting, boisterous wind into the homelike apartment,

and as we stand in fancy before the glowing grate, we will make the

acquaintance of the May-day creature who is its sole occupant.

Elsie Alford, just turning seventeen, appeared younger than her years

warranted. Some girls carry the child far into their teens, and Head

the mirthful innocence of infancy with the richer, fuller life of

budding womanhood. This was true of Elsie. Hers was not the forced

exotic bloom of fashionable life; but rather one of the native blossoms

of her New England home, having all the delicacy and at the same time

hardiness of the windflower. She was also as shy and easily agitated,

and yet, like the flower she resembled, well rooted among the rocks of

principle and truth. She was the youngest and the pet of the household,

and yet the "petting" was not of that kind that develops selfishness

and wilfulness, but rather a genial sunlight of love falling upon her

as a focus from the entire family. They always spoke of her as "little

Sis," or the "child." And a child it seemed she would ever be, with her

kittenish ways, quick impulses, and swiftly alternating moods. As she

developed into womanly proportions, her grave, businesslike father

began to have misgivings. After one of her wild sallies at the table,

where she kept every one on the qui vive by her unrestrained chatter,

Mr. Alford said:

"Elsie, will you ever learn to be a woman?"

Looking mischievously at him through her curls, she replied, "Yes; I

might if I became as old as Mrs. Methuselah."

They finally concluded to leave Elsie's cure to care and trouble--two

certain elements of earthly life; and yet her experience of either

would be slight indeed, could their love shield her.

But it would not be exactly care or trouble that would sober Elsie into

a thoughtful woman, as our story will show.

Some of the November wind seemed in her curling hair upon this fateful

day; but her fresh young April face was a pleasant contrast to the

scene presented from the window, to which she kept flitting with

increasing frequency. It certainly was not the dismal and darkening

landscape that so intensely interested her. The light of a great and

coming pleasure was in her face, and her manner was one of restless,

eager expectancy. Little wonder. Her pet brother, the one next older

than herself, a promising young theologue, was coming home to spend

Thanksgiving. It was time he appeared. The shriek of the locomotive had

announced the arrival of the train; and her ardent little spirit could

scarcely endure the moments intervening before she would almost

concentrate herself into a rapturous kiss and embrace of welcome, for

the favorite brother had been absent several long months.

Her mother called her away for a few moments, for the good old lady was

busy indeed, knowing well that merely full hearts would not answer for

a New England Thanksgiving. But the moment Elsie was free she darted

back to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse, as she supposed,

of her brother's well-remembered dark-gray overcoat, as he was

ascending the front steps.

A tall, grave-looking young man, an utter stranger to the place and

family, had his hand upon the doorbell; but before he could ring it,

the door flew open, and a lovely young creature precipitated herself on

his neck, like a missile fired from heavenly battlements, and a kiss

was pressed upon his lips that he afterward admitted to have felt even

to the "toes of his boots."

But his startled manner caused her to lift her face from under his

side-whiskers; and though the dusk was deepening, she could see that

her arms were around an utter stranger. She recoiled from him with a

bound, and trembling like a windflower indeed, her large blue eyes

dilating at the intruder with a dismay beyond words. How the awkward

scene would have ended it were hard to tell had not the hearty voice of

one coming up the path called out:

"Hi, there, you witch! who is that you are kissing, and then standing

off to see the effect?"

There was no mistake this time; so, impelled by love, shame, and fear

of "that horrid man," she fled, half sobbing, to his arms.

"No, he isn't a 'horrid man,' either," whispered her brother, laughing.

"He is a classmate of mine. Why, Stanhope, how are you? I did not know

that you and my sister were so well acquainted," he added, half

banteringly and half curiously, for as yet he did not fully understand

the scene.

The hall-lamp, shining through the open door, had revealed the features

of the young man (whom we must now call Mr. Stanhope), so that his

classmate had recognized him. His first impulse had been to slip away

in the darkness, and so escape from his awkward predicament; but George

Alford's prompt address prevented this and brought him to bay. He was

painfully embarrassed, but managed to stammer: "I was taken for you, I

think. I never had the pleasure--honor of meeting your sister."

"Oh, ho! I see now. My wild little sister kissed before she looked.

Well, that was your good-fortune. I could keep two Thanksgiving days on

the strength of such a kiss as that," cried the light-hearted student,

shaking the diffident, shrinking Mr. Stanhope warmly by the hand. "You

will hardly need a formal introduction now. But, bless me, where is

she? Has the November wind blown her away?"

"I think your sist--the lady passed around to the side entrance. I fear

I have annoyed her sadly."

"Nonsense! A good joke--something to tease the little witch about. But

come in. I'm forgetting the sacred rites."

And before the bewildered Mr. Stanhope could help himself, he was half

dragged into the lighted hall, and the door shut between him and escape.

In the meantime, Elsie, like a whirlwind, had burst into the kitchen,

where Mrs. Alford was superintending some savory dishes.

"Oh, mother, George has come and has a horrid man with him, who nearly

devoured me."

And, with this rather feminine mode of stating the case, she darted

into the dusky, fire-lighted parlor, from whence, unseen, she could

reconnoitre the hall. Mr. Stanhope was just saying:

"Please let me go. I have stood between you and your welcome long

enough. I shall only be an intruder; and besides, as an utter stranger,

I have no right to stay." To all of which Elsie devoutly whispered to

herself, "Amen."

But Mrs. Alford now appeared, and after a warm, motherly greeting to

her son, turned in genial courtesy to welcome his friend, as she

supposed.

George was so happy that he wished every one else to be the same. The

comical episode attending Mr. Stanhope's unexpected appearance just hit

his frolicsome mood, and promised to be a source of endless merriment

if he could only keep his classmate over the coming holiday. Moreover,

he long had wished to become better acquainted with this young man,

whose manner at the seminary had deeply interested him. So he said:

"Mother, this is Mr. Stanhope, a classmate of mine. I wish you would

help me persuade him to stay."

"Why, certainly, I supposed you expected to stay with us, of course,"

said Mrs. Alford, heartily.

Mr. Stanhope looked ready to sink through the floor, his face crimson

with vexation.

"I do assure you, madam," he urged, "it is all a mistake. I am not an

invited guest. I was merely calling on a little matter of business,

when--" and there he stopped. George exploded into a hearty,

uncontrollable laugh; while Elsie, in the darkness, shook her little

fist at the stranger, who hastened to add, "Please let me bid you

good-evening, I have not the slightest claim on your hospitality."

"Where are you staying?" asked Mrs. Alford, a little mystified. "We

would like you to spend at least part of the time with us."

"I do not expect to be here very long. I have a room at the hotel."

"Now, look here, Stanhope," cried George, barring all egress by

planting his back against the door, "do you take me, a half-fledged

theologue, for a heathen? Do you suppose that I could be such a churl

as to let a classmate stay at our dingy, forlorn little tavern and eat

hash on Thanksgiving Day? I could never look you in the face at

recitation again. Have some consideration for my peace of mind, and I

am sure you will find our home quite as endurable as anything Mr.

Starks can provide."

"Oh! as to that, from even the slight glimpse that I have had, this

seems more like a home than anything I have known for many years; but I

cannot feel it right that I, an unexpected stranger--"

"Come, come! No more of that! You know what is written about

'entertaining strangers;' so that is your strongest claim. Moreover,

that text works both ways sometimes, and the stranger angel finds

himself among angels. My old mother here, if she does weigh well on

toward two hundred, is more like one than anything I have yet seen, and

Elsie, if not an angel, is at least part witch and part fairy. But you

need not fear ghostly entertainment from mother's larder. As you are a

Christian, and not a Pagan, no more of this reluctance. Indeed, nolens

volens, I shall not permit you to go out into this November storm

to-night;" and Elsie, to her dismay, saw the new-comer led up to the

"spare room" with a sort of hospitable violence.

With flaming cheeks and eyes half full of indignant tears, she now made

onslaught on her mother, who had returned to the kitchen, where she was

making preparations for a supper that might almost answer for the

dinner the next day.

"Mother, mother," she exclaimed, "how could you keep that disagreeable

stranger! He will spoil our Thanksgiving."

"Why, child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Alford, raising her eyes in

surprise to her daughter's face, that looked like a red moon through

the mist of savory vapors rising from the ample cooking-stove. "I don't

understand you. Why should not your brother's classmate add to the

pleasure of our Thanksgiving?"

"Well, perhaps if we had expected him, if he had come in some other

way, and we knew more about him--"

"Bless you, child, what a formalist you have become. You stand on a

fine point of etiquette, as if it were the broad foundation of

hospitality; while only last week you wanted a ragged tramp, who had

every appearance of being a thief, to stay all night. Your brother

thinks it a special providence that his friend should have turned up so

unexpectedly."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie. "If that is what the doctrine of special

providence means, I shall need a new confession of faith." Then, a

sudden thought occurring to her, she vanished, while her mother smiled,

saying:

"What a queer child she is, to be sure!"

A moment later Elsie gave a sharp knock at the spare room door, and in

a second was in the further end of the dark hall. George put his head

out.

"Come here," she whispered. "Are you sure it's you?" she added, holding

him off at arm's-length.

His response was such a tempest of kisses and embraces that in her

nervous state she was quite panic-stricken.

"George," she gasped, "have mercy on me!"

"I only wished to show you how he felt, so you would have some sympathy

for him."

"If you don't stop," said the almost desperate girl, "I will shut

myself up and not appear till he is gone. I will any way, if you don't

make me a solemn promise."

"Leave out the 'solemn.'"

"No, I won't. Upon your word and honor, promise never to tell what has

happened--my mistake, I mean."

"Oh, Elsie, it's too good to keep," laughed George.

"Now, George, if you tell," sobbed Elsie, "you'll spoil my holiday,

your visit, and everything."

"If you feel that way, you foolish child, of course I won't tell.

Indeed, I suppose I should not, for Stanhope seems half frightened out

of his wits also."

"Serves him right, though I doubt whether he has many to lose," said

Elsie, spitefully.

"Well, I will do my best to keep in," said George, soothingly, and

stroking her curls. "But you will let it all out; you see. The idea of

your keeping anything with your April face!"

Elsie acted upon the hint, and went to her room in order to remove all

traces of agitation before the supper-bell should summon her to meet

the dreaded stranger.

In the meantime, Mr. Alford and James, the second son, had come up from

the village, where they had a thriving business. They greeted George's

friend so cordially that it went some way toward putting the diffident

youth at his ease; but he dreaded meeting Elsie again quite as much as

she dreaded meeting him.

"Who is this Mr. Stanhope?" his parents asked, as they drew George

aside for a little private talk after his long absence.

"Well, he is a classmate with whom I have long wished to get better

acquainted; but he is so shy and retiring that I have made little

progress. He came from another seminary, and entered our class in this

the middle year. No one seems to know much about him; and indeed he has

shunned all intimacies and devotes himself wholly to his books. The

recitation-room is the one place where he appears well--for there he

speaks out, as if forgetting himself, or rather, losing himself in some

truth under contemplation. Sometimes he will ask a question that wakes

up both class and professor; but at other times it seems difficult to

pierce the shell of his reserve or diffidence. And yet, from little

things I have seen, I know that he has a good warm heart; and the

working of his mind in the recitation-room fascinates me. Further than

this I know little about him, but have just learned, from his

explanation as to his unexpected appearance at our door, that he is

very poor, and purposed to spend his holiday vacation as agent for a

new magazine that is offering liberal premiums. I think his poverty is

one of the reasons why he has so shrunk from companionship with the

other students. He thinks he ought to go out and continue his efforts

tonight."

"This stormy night!" ejaculated kind Mrs. Alford. "It would be

barbarous."

"Certainly it would, mother. We must not let him. But you must all be

considerate, for he seems excessively diffident and sensitive; and

besides--but no matter."

"No fear but that we will soon make him at home. And it's a pleasure to

entertain people who are not surfeited with attention. I don't

understand Elsie, however, for she seems to have formed a violent

prejudice against him. From the nature of her announcement of his

presence I gathered that he was a rather forward young man."

There was a twinkle in George's eye; but he merely said:

"Elsie is full of moods and tenses; but her kind little heart is always

the same, and that will bring her around all right."

They were soon after marshalled to the supper-room. Elsie slipped in

among the others, but was so stately and demure, and with her curls

brushed down so straight that you would scarcely have known her. Her

father caught his pet around the waist, and was about to introduce her,

when George hastened to say with the solemnity of an undertaker that

Elsie and Mr. Stanhope had met before.

Elsie repented the promise she had wrung from her brother, for any

amount of badinage would be better than this depressing formality. She

took her seat, not daring to look at the obnoxious guest; and the

family noticed with surprise that they had never seen the little maiden

so quenched and abashed before. But George good-naturedly tried to make

the conversation general, so as to give them time to recover themselves.

Elsie soon ventured to steal shy looks at Mr. Stanhope, and with her

usual quickness discovered that he was more in terror of her than she

of him, and she exulted in the fact.

"I'll punish him well, if I get a chance," she thought with a certain

phase of the feminine sense of justice. But the sadness of his face

quite disarmed her when her mother, in well-meant kindness, asked:

"Where is your home located, Mr. Stanhope?"

"In the seminary," he answered in rather a low tone.

"You don't mean to say that you have no better one than a forlorn cell

in Dogma Hall?" exclaimed George, earnestly.

Mr. Stanhope crimsoned, and then grew pale, but tried to say lightly,

"An orphan of my size and years is not a very moving object of

sympathy; but one might well find it difficult not to break the Tenth

Commandment while seeing how you are surrounded."

Elsie was vexed at her disposition to relent toward him; she so

hardened her face, however, that James rallied her:

"Why, Puss, what is the matter? Yours is the most unpromising

Thanksgiving phiz I have seen today. 'Count your marcies.'"

Elsie blushed so violently, and Mr. Stanhope looked so distressed that

James finished his supper in puzzled silence, thinking, however, "What

has come over the little witch? For a wonder, she seems to have met a

man that she is afraid of: but the joke is, he seems even more afraid

of her."

In the social parlor some of the stiffness wore off; but Elsie and Mr.

Stanhope kept on opposite sides of the room and had very little to say

to each other. Motherly Mrs. Alford drew the young man out

sufficiently, however, to become deeply interested in him.

By the next morning time for thought had led him to feel that he must

trespass on their hospitality no longer. Moreover, he plainly

recognized that his presence was an oppression and restraint upon

Elsie; and he was very sorry that he had stayed at all. But when he

made known his purpose the family would not listen to it.

"I should feel dreadfully hurt if you left us now," said Mrs. Alford,

so decidedly that he was in a dilemma, and stole a timid look toward

Elsie, who at once guessed his motive in going away. Her kind heart got

the better of her; and her face relented in a sudden reassuring smile.

Then she turned hastily away. Only George saw and understood the little

side scene and the reason Mr. Stanhope was induced to remain. Then

Elsie, in her quickly varying moods, was vexed at herself, and became

more cold and distant than ever. "He will regard me as only a pert,

forward miss, but I will teach him better," she thought; and she

astonished the family more and more by a stateliness utterly unlike

herself. Mr. Stanhope sincerely regretted that he had not broken away,

in spite of the others; but in order not to seem vacillating he

resolved to stay till the following morning, even though he departed

burdened with the thought that he had spoiled the day for one of the

family. Things had now gone so far that leaving might only lead to

explanations and more general annoyances, for George had intimated that

the little mistake of the previous evening should remain a secret.

And yet he sincerely wished she would relent toward him, for she could

not make her sweet little face repellent. The kiss she had given him

still seemed to tingle in his very soul, while her last smile was like

a ray of warmest sunshine. But her face, never designed to be severe,

was averted.

After having heard the affairs of the nation discussed in a sound,

scriptural manner, they all sat down to a dinner such as had never

blessed poor Mr. Stanhope's vision before. A married son and daughter

returned after church, and half a dozen grandchildren enlivened the

gathering. There was need of them, for Elsie, usually in a state of

wild effervescence upon such occasions, was now demure and

comparatively silent. The children, with whom she was accustomed to

romp like one of them, were perplexed indeed; and only the intense

excitement of a Thanksgiving dinner diverted their minds from Aunt

Elsie, so sadly changed. She was conscious that all were noting her

absent manner, and this embarrassed and vexed her more; and yet she

seemed under a miserable paralysis that she could neither explain nor

escape.

"If we had only laughed it off at first," she groaned to herself; "but

now the whole thing grows more absurd and disagreeable every moment."

"Why, Elsie," said her father, banteringly, "you doubted the other day

whether Mrs. Methuselah's age would ever sober you; and yet I think

that good old lady would have looked more genial on Thanksgiving Day.

What is the matter?"

"I was thinking of the sermon," she said.

Amid the comic elevation of eyebrows, George said slyly:

"Tell us the text."

Overwhelmed with confusion, she darted a reproachful glance at him and

muttered:

"I did not say anything about the text."

"Well, tell us about the sermon then," laughed James.

"No," said Elsie, sharply. "I'll quote you a text: 'Eat, drink, and be

merry,' and let me alone."

They saw that for some reason she could not bear teasing, and that such

badinage troubled Mr. Stanhope also. George came gallantly to the

rescue, and the dinner-party grew so merry that Elsie thawed

perceptibly and Stanhope was beguiled into several witty speeches. At

each one Elsie opened her eyes in wider and growing appreciation. At

last, when they rose from their coffee, she come to the surprising

conclusion--

"Why, he is not stupid and bad-looking after all."

George was bent on breaking the ice between them, and so proposed that

the younger members of the family party should go up a swollen stream

and see the fall. But Elsie flanked herself with a sister-in-law on one

side and a niece on the other, while Stanhope was so diffident that

nothing but downright encouragement would bring him to her side. So

George was almost in despair. Elsie's eyes had been conveying favorable

impressions to her reluctant mind throughout the walk. She sincerely

regretted that such an absurd barrier had grown up between her and

Stanhope, but could not for the life of her, especially before others,

do anything to break the awkward spell.

At last they were on their return, and were all grouped together on a

little bluff, watching the water pour foamingly through a narrow gorge.

"Oh, see," cried Elsie, suddenly pointing to the opposite bank, "what

beautiful moss that is over there! It is just the kind I have been

wanting. Oh, dear! there isn't a bridge within half a mile."

Stanhope glanced around a moment, and then said gallantly, "I will get

you the moss, Miss Alford." They saw that in some inconceivable way he

intended crossing where they stood. The gorge was much too wide for the

most vigorous leap, so Elsie exclaimed eagerly:

"Oh, please don't take any risk! What is a little moss?"

"I say, Stanhope," remonstrated George, seriously, "it would be no

laughing matter if you should fall in there."

But Stanhope only smiled, threw off his overcoat, and buttoned his

undercoat closely around him. George groaned to himself, "This will be

worse than the kissing scrape," and was about to lay a restraining

grasp upon his friend. But he slipped away, and lightly went up

hand-over-hand a tall, slender sapling on the edge of the bank, the

whole party gathering round in breathless expectation. Having reached

its slender, swaying top, he threw himself out on the land side. The

tree bent at once to the ground with his weight, but without snapping,

showing that it was tough and fibrous. Holding firmly to the top, he

gave a strong spring, which, with the spring of the bent sapling, sent

him well over the gorge on the firm ground beyond.

There was a round of applause from the little group he had just left,

in which Elsie joined heartily. Her eyes were glowing with admiration,

for when was not power and daring captivating to a woman? Then, in

sudden alarm and forgetfulness of her former coolness, she exclaimed:

"But how will you get back?"

"This is my bridge," he replied, smiling brightly across to her, and

holding on to the slender young tree. "You perceive that I was brought

up in the country."

So saying, he tied the sapling down to a root with a handkerchief, and

then proceeded to fill another with moss.

As George saw Elsie's face while she watched Stanhope gather the

coveted trifle, he chuckled to himself--

"The ice is broken between them now."

But Stanhope had insecurely fastened the sapling down. The strain upon

the knot was too severe, and suddenly the young tree flew up and stood

erect but quivering, with his handkerchief fluttering in its top as a

symbol of defeat. There was an exclamation of dismay and Elsie again

asked with real anxiety in her tone:

"How will you get back now?"

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders.

"I confess I am defeated, for there is no like sapling on this side;

but I have the moss, and can join you at the bridge below, if nothing

better offers."

"George," said Elsie, indignantly, "don't go away and leave Mr.

Stanhope's handkerchief in that tree."

"Bless you, child," cried George, mischievously, and leading the way

down the path, "I can't climb anymore than a pumpkin. You will have to

go back with him after it, or let it wave as a memento of his gallantry

on your behalf."

"If I can only manage to throw them together without any embarrassing

third parties present, the ridiculous restraint they are under will

soon vanish," he thought; and so he hastened his steps. The rest

trooped after him, while Stanhope made his way with difficulty on the

opposite bank, where there was no path. His progress therefore was

slow; and Elsie saw that if she did not linger he would be left behind.

Common politeness forbade this, and so she soon found herself alone,

carrying his overcoat on one bank, and he keeping pace with her on the

other. She comforted herself at first with the thought that with the

brawling, deafening stream between them, there would be no chance for

embarrassing conversation. But soon her sympathies became aroused, as

she saw him toilsomely making his way over the rocks and through the

tangled thickets: and as she could not speak to him, she smiled her

encouragement so often that she felt it would be impossible to go back

to her old reserve.

Stanhope now came to a little opening in the brush. The cleared ground

sloped evenly down to the stream, and its current was divided by a

large rock. He hailed the opportunity here offered with delight, for he

was very anxious to speak to her before they should join the others. So

he startled Elsie by walking out into the clearing, away from the

stream.

"Well, I declare; that's cool, to go and leave me alone without a

word," she thought.

But she was almost terror-stricken to see him turn and dart to the

torrent like an arrow. With a long flying leap, he landed on the rock

in the midst of the stream, and then, without a second's hesitation,

with the impetus already acquired, sprang for the solid ground where

she stood, struck it, wavered, and would have fallen backward into the

water had not she, quick as thought, stepped forward and given him her

hand.

"You have saved me from a ducking, if not worse," he said, giving the

little rescuing hand a warm pressure.

"Oh!" exclaimed she, panting, "please don't do any more dreadful

things. I shall be careful how I make any wishes in your hearing again."

"I am sorry to hear you say that," he replied. And then there was an

awkward silence.

Elsie could think of nothing better than to refer to the handkerchief

they had left behind.

"Will you wait for me till I run and get it?" he asked.

"I will go back with you, if you will permit me," she said timidly.

"Indeed, I could not ask so much of you as that."

"And yet you could about the same as risk your neck to gratify a whim

of mine," she said more gratefully than she intended.

"Please do not think," he replied earnestly, "that I have been

practicing cheap heroics. As I said, I was a country boy, and in my

early home thought nothing of doing such things." But even the brief

reference to that vanished home caused him to sigh deeply, and Elsie

gave him a wistful look of sympathy.

For a few moments they walked on in silence. Then Mr. Stanhope turned,

and with some hesitation said:

"Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after--after last evening. But

my better judgment was borne down by invitations so cordial that I

hardly knew how to resist them. At the same time I now realize that I

should have done so. Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a

course only make matters worse. And yet, after receiving so much

kindness from your family, more than has blessed me for many long

years--for since my dear mother died I have been quite alone in the

world--I feel I cannot go away without some assurance or proof that you

will forgive me for being such a kill-joy in your holiday."

Elsie's vexation with herself now knew no bounds. She stopped in the

path, determining that she would clear up matters, cost what it might.

"Mr. Stanhope," she said, "will you grant a request that will contain

such assurance, or rather, will show you that I am heartily ashamed of

my foolish course? Will you not spend next Thanksgiving with us, and

give me a chance to retrieve myself from first to last?"

His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, "I will only be too glad

to do so, if you truly wish it."

"I do wish it," she said earnestly. "What must you think of me?" (His

eyes then expressed much admiration; but hers were fixed on the ground

and half filled with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility

that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added:

"You have noticed at home that they call me 'child'--and indeed, I am

little more than one--and now see that I have behaved like a very silly

and naughty one toward you. I have trampled on every principle of

hospitality, kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with

myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do better. I--"

"Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly and

unjustly," interrupted Stanhope.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, "I'm so sorry for what happened last night.

We all might have had such a good time."

"Well, then," said Stanhope, demurely, "I suppose I ought to be also."

"And do you mean to say that you are not?" she asked, turning suddenly

upon him.

"Oh, well, certainly, for your sake," he said with rising color.

"But not for your own?" she asked with almost the naivete of a child.

He turned away with a perplexed laugh and replied: "Really, Miss

Alford, you are worse than the Catechism."

She looked at him with a half-amused, half-surprised expression, the

thought occurring to her for the first time that it might not have been

so disagreeable to him after all; and somehow this thought was quite a

relief to her. But she said: "I thought you would regard me as a hoyden

of the worst species."

"Because you kissed your brother? I have never for a moment forgotten

that it was only your misfortune that I was not he."

"I should have remembered that it was not your fault. But here is your

handkerchief, flying like a flag of truce; so let bygones be bygones.

My terms are that you come again another year, and give me a chance to

entertain my brother's friend as a sister ought."

"I am only too glad to submit to them," he eagerly replied, and then

added, so ardently as to deepen the roses already in her cheeks, "If

such are your punishments, Miss Alford, how delicious must be your

favors!"

By common consent the subject was dropped; and with tongues released

from awkward restraint, they chatted freely together, till in the early

twilight they reached her home. The moment they entered George

exultingly saw that the skies were serene.

But Elsie would never be the frolicsome child of the past again. As she

surprised the family at dinner, so now at supper they could scarcely

believe that the elegant, graceful young lady was the witch of

yesterday. She had resolved with all her soul to try to win some place

in Mr. Stanhope's respect before he departed, and never did a little

maiden succeed better.

In the evening they had music; and Mr. Stanhope pleased them all with

his fine tenor, while Elsie delighted him by her clear, birdlike voice.

So the hours fled away.

"You think better of the 'horrid man,' little Sis," said George, as he

kissed her good-night.

"I was the horrid one," said Elsie, penitently. "I can never forgive

myself my absurd conduct. But he has promised to come again next

Thanksgiving, and give me a chance to do better; so don't you fail to

bring him."

George gave a long, low whistle, and then said: "Oh! ah! Seems to me

you are coming on, for an innocent. Are we to get mixed up again in the

twilight?"

"Nonsense!" said Elsie, with a peony face, and she slammed her door

upon him.

The next morning the young man took his leave, and Elsie's last words

were:

"Mr. Stanhope, remember your promise."

And he did remember more than that, for this brief visit had enshrined

a sweet, girlish face within his heart of hearts, and he no longer felt

lonely and orphaned. He and George became the closest friends, and

messages from the New England home came to him with increasing

frequency, which he returned with prodigal interest. It also transpired

that he occasionally wrote for the papers, and Elsie insisted that

these should be sent to her; while he of course wrote much better with

the certainty that she would be his critic. Thus, though separated,

they daily became better acquainted, and during the year George found

it not very difficult to induce his friend to make several visits.

But it was with joy that seemed almost too rich for earthly experience

that he found himself walking up the village street with George the

ensuing Thanksgiving Eve. Elsie was at the door; and he pretended to be

disconsolate that his reception was not the same as on the previous

year. Indeed she had to endure not a little chaffing, for her mistake

was a family joke now.

It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day--one of the sun-lighted

heights of human happiness.

After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling stream, and

Stanhope and Elsie became separated from the rest, though not so

innocently as on the former occasion.

"See!" cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered sapling, which she

had often visited. "There fluttered our flag of truce last year."

Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly: "And here I again break the

truce, and renew the theme we dropped at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have

felt that kiss in the depths of my heart every hour since; and in that

it led to my knowing and loving you, it has made every day from that

time one of thanksgiving. If you could return my love, as I have dared

to hope, it would be a happiness beyond words. If I could venture to

take one more kiss, as a token that it is returned, I could keep

Thanksgiving forever."

Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn. Her blushing face was

turned away toward the brawling stream; but she saw not its foam, she

heard not its hoarse murmurs. A sweeter music was in her ears. She

seemed under a delicious spell, but soon became conscious that a pair

of dark eyes were looking down eagerly, anxiously for her answer. Shyly

raising hers, that now were like dewy violets, she said, with a little

of her old witchery:

"I suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving, to make things

even."

Stanhope needed no broader hint.

"I owe you a heavy grudge," said Mr. Alford, in the evening. "A year

ago you robbed me of my child, for little, kittenish Elsie became a

thoughtful woman from the day you were here; and now you are going to

take away the daughter of my old age."

"Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how my father felt," said Mrs.

Alford, at the same time wiping something from the corner of her eye.

"Bless me, are you here?" said the old gentleman, wheeling round to his

wife. "Mr. Stanhope, I have nothing more to say."

"I declare," exulted George, "that 'horrid man' will devour Elsie yet."

"Haw! haw! haw!" laughed big-voiced, big-hearted James. "The idea of

our little witch of an Elsie being a minister's wife!"

* * * * * * *

It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt, the fields bare and

brown, with dead leaves whirling across them; but a sweeter than June

sunshine seems filling the cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride,

is receiving her husband's first kiss almost on the moment that she

with her lips so unexpectedly kindled the sacred fire, three years

before.

SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS

Picnicking in December would be a dreary experience even if one could

command all the appliances of comfort which outdoor life permitted.

This would be especially true in the latitude of Boston and on the

bleak hills overlooking that city and its environing waters. Dreary

business indeed Ezekiel Watkins regarded it as he shivered over the

smoky camp-fire which he maintained with difficulty. The sun was

sinking into the southwest so early in the day that he remarked

irritably: "Durned if it was worth while for it to rise at all."

Ezekiel Watkins, or Zeke, as he was generally known among his comrades,

had ceased to be a resident on that rocky hillside from pleasure. His

heart was in a Connecticut valley in more senses than one; and there

was not a more homesick soldier in the army. It will be readily guessed

that the events of our story occurred more than a century ago. The

shots fired at Bunker Hill had echoed in every nook and corner of the

New England colonies, and the heart of Zeke Watkins, among thousands of

others, had been fired with military ardor. With companions in like

frame of mind he had trudged to Boston, breathing slaughter and

extermination against the red-coated instruments of English tyranny. To

Zeke the expedition had many of the elements of an extended bear-hunt,

much exalted. There was a spice of danger and a rich promise of novelty

and excitement. The march to the lines about Boston had been a

continuous ovation; grandsires came out from the wayside dwellings and

blessed the rustic soldiers; they were dined profusely by the

housewives, and if not wined, there had been slight stint in New

England rum and cider; the apple-cheeked daughters of the land gave

them the meed of heroes in advance, and abated somewhat of their ruddy

hues at the thought of the dangers to be incurred. Zeke was visibly

dilated by all this attention, incense, and military glory; and he

stepped forth from each village and hamlet as if the world were

scarcely large enough for the prowess of himself and companions. Even

on parade he was as stiff as his long-barrelled flintlock, looking as

if England could hope for no quarter at his hands; yet he permitted no

admiring glances from bright eyes to escape him. He had not traversed

half the distance between his native hamlet and Boston before he was

abundantly satisfied that pretty Susie Rolliffe had made no mistake in

honoring him among the recruits by marks of especial favor. He wore in

his squirrel-skin cap the bit of blue ribbon she had given him, and

with the mien of a Homeric hero had intimated darkly that it might be

crimson before she saw it again. She had clasped her hands, stifled a

little sob, and looked at him admiringly. He needed no stronger

assurance than her eyes conveyed at that moment. She had been shy and

rather unapproachable before, sought by others than himself, yet very

chary of her smiles and favors to all. Her ancestors had fought the

Indians, and had bequeathed to the demure little maiden much of their

own indomitable spirit. She had never worn her heart on her sleeve, and

was shy of her rustic admirers chiefly because none of them had

realized her ideals of manhood created by fireside stories of the past.

Zeke's chief competitor for Susie's favor had been Zebulon Jarvis; and

while he had received little encouragement, he laid his unostentatious

devotion at her feet unstintedly, and she knew it. Indeed, she was much

inclined to laugh at him, for he was singularly bashful, and a frown

from her overwhelmed him. Unsophisticated Susie reasoned that any one

who could be so afraid of HER could not be much of a man. She had never

heard of his doing anything bold and spirited. It might be said,

indeed, that the attempt to wring a livelihood for his widowed mother

and for his younger brothers and sisters from the stumpy, rocky farm

required courage of the highest order; but it was not of a kind that

appealed to the fancy of a romantic young girl. Nothing finer or

grander had Zebulon attempted before the recruiting officer came to

Opinquake, and when he came, poor Zeb appeared to hang back so

timorously that he lost what little place he had in Susie's thoughts.

She was ignorant of the struggle taking place in his loyal heart. More

intense even than his love for her was the patriotic fire which

smouldered in his breast; yet when other young men were giving in their

names and drilling on the village green, he was absent. To the war

appeals of those who sought him, he replied briefly. "Can't leave till

fall."

"But the fighting will be over long before that," it was urged.

"So much the better for others, then, if not for me."

Zeke Watkins made it his business that Susie should hear this reply in

the abbreviated form of, "So much the better, then."

She had smiled scornfully, and it must be added, a little bitterly. In

his devotion Zeb had been so helpless, so diffidently unable to take

his own part and make advances that she, from odd little spasms of

sympathy, had taken his part for him, and laughingly repeated to

herself in solitude all the fine speeches which she perceived he would

be glad to make. But, as has been intimated, it seemed to her droll

indeed that such a great stalwart fellow should appear panic-stricken

in her diminutive presence. In brief, he had been timidity embodied

under her demurely mischievous blue eyes; and now that the recruiting

officer had come and marched away with his squad without him, she felt

incensed that such a chicken-hearted fellow had dared to lift his eyes

to her.

"It would go hard with the Widow Jarvis and all those children if Zeb

'listed," Susie's mother had ventured in half-hearted defence, for did

she not look upon him as a promising suitor.

"The people of Opinquake wouldn't let the widow or the children

starve," replied Susie, indignantly. "If I was a big fellow like him,

my country would not call me twice. Think how grandfather left grandma

and all the children!"

"Well, I guess Zeb thinks he has his hands full wrastling with that

stony farm."

"He needn't come to see me any more, or steal glances at me 'tween

meetings on Sunday," said the girl, decisively. "He cuts a sorry figure

beside Zeke Watkins, who was the first to give in his name, and who

began to march like a soldier even before he left us."

"Yes," said Mrs. Rolliffe; "Zeke was very forward. If he holds out as

he began--Well, well, Zeke allus was a little forward, and able to

speak for himself. You are young yet, Susan, and may learn before you

reach my years that the race isn't allus to the swift. Don't be in

haste to promise yourself to any of the young men."

"Little danger of my promising myself to a man who is afraid even of

me! I want a husband like grandfather. He wasn't afraid to face

anything, and he honored his wife by acting as if she wasn't afraid

either."

Zeb gave Susie no chance to bestow the rebuffs she had premeditated. He

had been down to witness the departure of the Opinquake quota, and had

seen Susie's farewell to Zeke Watkins. How much it had meant he was not

sure--enough to leave no hope or chance for him, he had believed; but

he had already fought his first battle, and it had been a harder one

than Zeke Watkins or any of his comrades would ever engage in. He had

returned and worked on the stony farm until dark. From dawn until dark

he continued to work every secular day till September.

His bronzed face grew as stern as it was thin; and since he would no

longer look at her, Susie Rolliffe began to steal an occasional and

wondering glance at him "'tween meetings."

No one understood the young man or knew his plans except his patient,

sad-eyed mother, and she learned more by her intuitions than from his

spoken words. She idolized him, and he loved and revered her: but the

terrible Puritan restraint paralyzed manifestations of affection. She

was not taken by surprise when one evening he said quietly, "Mother, I

guess I'll start in a day or two."

She could not repress a sort of gasping sob however, but after a few

moments was able to say steadily, "I supposed you were preparing to

leave us."

"Yes, mother, I've been a-preparing. I've done my best to gather in

everything that would help keep you and the children and the stock

through the winter. The corn is all shocked, and the older children can

help you husk it, and gather in the pumpkins, the beans, and the rest.

As soon as I finish digging the potatoes I think I'll feel better to be

in the lines around Boston. I'd have liked to have gone at first, but

in order to fight as I ought I'd want to remember there was plenty to

keep you and the children."

"I'm afraid, Zebulon, you've been fighting as well as working so hard

all summer long. For my sake and the children's, you've been letting

Susan Rolliffe think meanly of you."

"I can't help what she thinks, mother; I've tried not to act meanly."

"Perhaps the God of the widow and the fatherless will shield and bless

you, my son. Be that as it may," she added with a heavy sigh,

"conscience and His will must guide in everything. If He says go forth

to battle, what am I that I should stay you?" Although she did not

dream of the truth, the Widow Jarvis was a disciplined soldier herself.

To her, faith meant unquestioning submission and obedience; she had

been taught to revere a jealous and an exacting God rather than a

loving one. The heroism with which she pursued her toilsome, narrow,

shadowed pathway was as sublime as it was unrecognized on her part.

After she had retired she wept sorely, not only because her eldest

child was going to danger, and perhaps death, but also for the reason

that her heart clung to him so weakly and selfishly, as she believed.

With a tenderness of which she was half-ashamed she filled his wallet

with provisions which would add to his comfort, then, both to his

surprise and her own, kissed him good-by. He left her and the younger

brood with an aching heart of which there was little outward sign, and

with no loftier ambition than to do his duty; she followed him with

deep, wistful eyes till he, and next the long barrel of his rifle,

disappeared in an angle of the road, and then her interrupted work was

resumed.

Susie Rolliffe was returning from an errand to a neighbor's when she

heard the sound of long rapid steps.

A hasty glance revealed Zeb in something like pursuit. Her heart

fluttered slightly, for he had looked so stern and sad of late that she

had felt a little sorry for him in spite of herself. But since he could

"wrastle" with nothing more formidable than a stony farm, she did not

wish to have anything to say to him, or meet the embarrassment of

explaining a tacit estrangement. She was glad, therefore, that her gate

was so near, and passed in as if she had not recognized him. She heard

his steps become slower and pause at the gate, and then almost in shame

in being guilty of too marked discourtesy, she turned to speak, but

hesitated in surprise, for now she recognized his equipment as a

soldier.

"Why, Mr. Jarvis, where are you going?" she exclaimed.

A dull red flamed through the bronze of his thin cheeks as he replied

awkwardly, "I thought I'd take a turn in the lines around Boston."

"Oh, yes," she replied, mischievously, "take a turn in the lines. Then

we may expect you back by corn-husking?"

He was deeply wounded, and in his embarrassment could think of no other

reply than the familiar words, "'Let not him that girdeth on his

harness boast himself as he that putteth it off.'"

"I can't help hoping, Mr. Jarvis, that neither you nor others will put

it off too soon--not, at least, while King George claims to be our

master. When we're free I can stand any amount of boasting."

"You'll never hear boasting from me, Miss Susie;" and then an awkward

silence fell between them.

Shyly and swiftly she raised her eyes. He looked so humble,

deprecatory, and unsoldier-like that she could not repress a laugh.

"I'm not a British cannon," she began, "that you should be so fearful."

His manhood was now too deeply wounded for further endurance even from

her, for he suddenly straightened himself, and throwing his rifle over

his shoulder, said sternly, "I'm not a coward. I never hung back from

fear, but to keep mother from charity, so I could fight or die as God

wills. You may laugh at the man who never gave you anything but love,

if you will, but you shall never laugh at my deeds. Call that boasting

or not as you please," and he turned on his heel to depart.

His words and manner almost took away the girl's breath, so unexpected

were they, and unlike her idea of the man. In that brief moment a

fearless soldier had flashed himself upon her consciousness, revealing

a spirit that would flinch at nothing--that had not even quailed at the

necessity of forfeiting her esteem, that his mother might not want.

Humiliated and conscience-stricken that she had done him so much

injustice, she rushed forward, crying, "Stop, Zebulon; please do not go

away angry with me! I do not forget that we have been old friends and

playmates. I'm willing to own that I've been wrong about you, and

that's a good deal for a girl to do. I only wish I were a man, and I'd

go with you."

Her kindness restored him to his awkward self again, and he stammered,

"I wish you were--no, I don't--I merely stopped, thinking you might

have a message; but I'd rather not take any to Zeke Watkins--will,

though, if you wish. It cut me all up to have you think I was afraid,"

and then he became speechless.

"But you acted as if you were afraid of me, and that seemed so

ridiculous."

He looked at her a moment so earnestly with his dark, deep-set eyes

that hers dropped. "Miss Susie," he said slowly, and speaking with

difficulty, "I AM afraid of you, next to God. I don't suppose I've any

right to talk to you so, and I will say good-by. I was reckless when I

spoke before. Perhaps--you'll go and see mother. My going is hard on

her."

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if he were taking his last

look, then he turned slowly away.

"Good-by, Zeb," she called softly. "I didn't--I don't understand. Yes,

I will go to see your mother."

Susie also watched him as he strode away. He thought he could continue

on steadfastly without looking back, but when the road turned he also

turned, fairly tugged right about by his loyal heart. She stood where

he had left her, and promptly waved her hand. He doffed his cap, and

remained a moment in an attitude that appeared to her reverential, then

passed out of view.

The moments lapsed, and still she stood in the gateway, looking down

the vacant road as if dazed. Was it in truth awkward, bashful Zeb

Jarvis who had just left her? He seemed a new and distinct being in

contrast to the youth whom she had smiled at and in a measure scoffed

at. The little Puritan maiden was not a reasoner, but a creature of

impressions and swift intuitions. Zeb had not set his teeth, faced his

hard duty, and toiled that long summer in vain. He had developed a

manhood and a force which in one brief moment had enabled him to compel

her recognition.

"He will face anything," she murmured. "He's afraid of only God and me;

what a strange thing to say--afraid of me next to God! Sounds kind of

wicked. What can he mean? Zeke Watkins wasn't a bit afraid of me. As

mother said, he was a little forward, and I was fool enough to take him

at his own valuation. Afraid of me! How he stood with his cap off. Do

men ever love so? Is there a kind of reverence in some men's love? How

absurd that a great strong, brave man, ready to face cannons, can bow

down to such a little--" Her fragmentary exclamations ended in a peal

of laughter, but tears dimmed her blue eyes.

Susie did visit Mrs. Jarvis, and although the reticent woman said

little about her son, what she did say meant volumes to the girl who

now had the right clew in interpreting his action and character. She

too was reticent. New England girls rarely gushed in those days, so no

one knew she was beginning to understand. Her eyes, experienced in

country work, were quick, and her mind active. "It looks as if a giant

had been wrestling with this stony farm," she muttered.

Zeb received no ovations on his lonely tramp to the lines, and the

vision of Susie Rolliffe waving her hand from the gateway would have

blinded him to all the bright and admiring eyes in the world. He was

hospitably entertained, however, when there was occasion; but the

advent of men bound for the army had become an old story. Having at

last inquired his way to the position occupied by the Connecticut

troops, he was assigned to duty in the same company with Zeke Watkins,

who gave him but a cool reception, and sought to overawe him by

veteran-like airs. At first poor Zeb was awkward enough in his

unaccustomed duties, and no laugh was so scornful as that of his rival.

Young Jarvis, however, had not been many days in camp before he guessed

that Zeke's star was not in the ascendant. There was but little

fighting required, but much digging of intrenchments, drill, and

monotonous picket duty. Zeke did not take kindly to such tasks, and

shirked them when possible. He was becoming known as the champion

grumbler in the mess, and no one escaped his criticism, not even "Old

Put"--as General Putnam, who commanded the Connecticut quota, was

called. Jarvis, on the other hand, performed his military duties as he

had worked the farm, and rapidly acquired the bearing of a soldier.

Indomitable Putnam gave his men little rest, and was ever seeking to

draw his lines nearer to Boston and the enemy's ships. He virtually

fought with pick and shovel, and his working parties were often exposed

to fire while engaged in fortifying the positions successively

occupied. The Opinquake boys regarded themselves as well seasoned to

such rude compliments, and were not a little curious to see how Zeb

would handle a shovel with cannon-balls whizzing uncomfortably near.

The opportunity soon came. Old Put himself could not have been more

coolly oblivious than the raw recruit. At last a ball smashed his

shovel to smithereens; he quietly procured another and went on with his

work. Then his former neighbors gave him a cheer, while his captain

clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Promote you to be a veteran on

the spot!"

The days had grown shorter, colder, and drearier, and the discomforts

of camp-life harder to endure. There were few tents even for the

officers, and the men were compelled to improvise such shelter as

circumstances permitted. Huts of stone, wood, and brush, and barricades

against the wind, lined the hillside, and the region already was

denuded of almost everything that would burn. Therefore, when December

came, Zeke Watkins found that even a fire was a luxury not to be had

without trouble. He had become thoroughly disgusted with a soldier's

life, and the military glory which had at first so dazzled him now wore

the aspect of the wintry sky. He had recently sought and attained the

only promotion for which his captain now deemed him fitted--that of

cook for about a dozen of his comrades; and the close of the December

day found him preparing the meagre supper which the limited rations

permitted. By virtue of his office, Zeke was one of the best-fed men in

the army, for if there were any choice morsels he could usually manage

to secure them; still, he was not happy. King George and Congress were

both pursuing policies inconsistent with his comfort, and he sighed

more and more frequently for the wide kitchen-hearth of his home, which

was within easy visiting distance of the Rolliffe farmhouse. His term

of enlistment expired soon, and he was already counting the days. He

was not alone in his discontent, for there was much homesickness and

disaffection among the Connecticut troops. Many had already departed,

unwilling to stay an hour after the expiration of their terms; and not

a few had anticipated the periods which legally released them from

duty. The organization of the army was so loose that neither appeals

nor threats had much influence, and Washington, in deep solicitude, saw

his troops melting away.

It was dark by the time the heavy tramp of the working party was heard

returning from the fortifications. The great mess-pot, partly filled

with pork and beans, was bubbling over the fire; Zeke, shifting his

position from time to time to avoid the smoke which the wind, as if it

had a spite against him, blew in his face, was sourly contemplating his

charge and his lot, bent on grumbling to the others with even greater

gusto than he had complained to himself. His comrades carefully put

away their intrenching tools, for they were held responsible for them,

and then gathered about the fire, clamoring for supper.

"Zeke, you lazy loon," cried Nat Atkinson, "how many pipes have you

smoked to-day? If you'd smoke less and forage and dun the commissary

more, we'd have a little fresh meat once in a hundred years."

"Yes, just about once in a hundred years!" snarled Zeke.

"YOU find something to keep fat on, anyhow. We'll broil you some cold

night. Trot out your beans if there's nothing else."

"Growl away," retorted Zeke. "'Twon't be long before I'll be eating

chickens and pumpkin-pie in Opinquake, instead of cooking beans and

rusty pork for a lot of hungry wolves."

"You'd be the hungriest wolf of the lot if you'd 'a' been picking and

shovelling frozen ground all day."

"I didn't 'list to be a ditch-digger!" said Zeke. "I thought I was

going to be a soldier."

"And you turned out a cook!" quietly remarked Zeb Jarvis.

"Well, my hero of the smashed shovel, what do you expect to be--Old

Put's successor? You know, fellows, it's settled that you're to dig

your way into Boston, tunnel under the water when you come to it. Of

course Put will die of old age before you get half there. Zeb'll be the

chap of all others to command a division of shovellers. I see you with

a pickaxe strapped on your side instead of a sword."

"Lucky I'm not in command now," replied Zeb, "or you'd shovel dirt

under fire to the last hour of your enlistment. I'd give grumblers like

you something to grumble about. See here, fellows, I'm sick of this

seditious talk in our mess. The Connecticut men are getting to be the

talk of the army. You heard a squad of New Hampshire boys jeer at us

to-day, and ask, 'When are ye going home to mother?' You ask, Zeke

Watkins, what I expect to be. I expect to be a soldier, and obey orders

as long as Old Put and General Washington want a man. All I ask is to

be home summers long enough to keep mother and the children off the

town. Now what do you expect to be after you give up your cook's ladle?"

"None o' your business."

"He's going home to court Susie Rolliffe," cried Nat Atkinson. "They'll

be married in the spring, and go into the chicken business. That'd just

suit Zeke."

"It would not suit Susie Rolliffe," said Zeb, hotly. "A braver, better

girl doesn't breathe in the colonies, and the man that says a slurring

word against her's got to fight me."

"What! Has she given Zeke the mitten for your sake, Zeb?" piped little

Hiram Woodbridge.

"She hasn't given me anything, and I've got no claim; but she is the

kind of girl that every fellow from Opinquake should stand up for. We

all know that there is nothing chicken-hearted about her."

"Eight, by George--George W., I mean, and not the king," responded

Hiram Woodbridge. "Here's to her health, Zeb, and your success! I

believe she'd rather marry a soldier than a cook."

"Thank you," said Zeb. "You stand as good a chance as I do; but don't

let's bandy her name about in camp any more'n we would our mother's.

The thing for us to do now is to show that the men from Connecticut

have as much backbone as any other fellows in the army, North or South.

Zeke may laugh at Old Put's digging, but you'll soon find that he'll

pick his way to a point where he can give the Britishers a dig under

the fifth rib. We've got the best general in the army. Washington, with

all his Southern style, believes in him and relies on him. Whether

their time's up or not, it's a burning shame that so many of his troops

are sneaking off home."

"It's all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jarvis," growled Zeke. "You

haven't been here very long yet; and you stayed at home when others

started out to fight. Now that you've found that digging and not

fighting is the order of the day, you're just suited. It's the line of

soldiering you are cut out for. When fighting men and not ditch-diggers

are wanted, you'll find me---"

"All right, Watkins," said the voice of Captain Dean from without the

circle of light. "According to your own story you are just the kind of

man needed to-night--no ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service. I

detail you, for you've had rest compared with the other men. I ask for

volunteers from those who've been at work all day."

Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes also began to

rise with difficulty. "No, Stokes," resumed the officer, "you can't go.

I know you've suffered with the rheumatism all day, and have worked

well in spite of it. For to-night's work I want young fellows with good

legs and your spirit. How is it you're here anyhow Stokes? Your time's

up."

"We ain't into Boston yet," was the quiet reply.

"So you want to stay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you shall cook for the men till you're better. I won't keep so

good a soldier, though, at such work any longer than I can help. Your

good example and that of the gallant Watkins has brought out the whole

squad. I think I'll put Jarvis in command, though; Zeke might be rash,

and attempt the capture of Boston before morning;" and the facetious

captain, who had once been a neighbor, concluded, "Jarvis, see that

every man's piece is primed and ready for use. Be at my hut in fifteen

minutes." Then he passed on to the other camp-fires.

In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, almost roasting his

lame leg, and grumbling from pain and the necessity of enforced

inaction. He was a taciturn, middle-age man, and had been the only

bachelor of mature years in Opinquake. Although he rarely said much, he

had been a great listener, and no one had been better versed in

neighborhood affairs. In brief, he had been the village cobbler, and

had not only taken the measure of Susie Rolliffe's little foot, but

also of her spirit. Like herself he had been misled at first by the

forwardness of Zeke Watkins and the apparent backwardness of Jarvis.

Actual service had changed his views very decidedly. When Zeb appeared

he had watched the course of this bashful suitor with interest which

had rapidly ripened into warm but undemonstrative goodwill. The young

fellow had taken pains to relieve the older man, had carried his tools

for him, and more than once with his strong hands had almost rubbed the

rheumatism out of the indomitable cobbler's leg. He had received but

slight thanks, and had acted as if he didn't care for any. Stokes was

not a man to return favors in words; he brooded over his gratitude as

if it were a grudge. "I'll get even with that young Jarvis yet," he

muttered, as he nursed his leg over the fire. "I know he worships the

ground that little Rolliffe girl treads on, though she don't tread on

much at a time. She never trod on me nuther, though I've had her foot

in my hand more'n once. She looked at the man that made her shoes as if

she would like to make him happier. When a little tot, she used to say

I could come and live with her when I got too old to take care of

myself. Lame as I be, I'd walk to Opinquake to give her a hint in her

choosin'. Guess Hi Woodbridge is right, and she wouldn't be long in

making up her mind betwixt a soger and a cook--a mighty poor one at

that. Somehow or nuther I must let her know before Zeke Watkins sneaks

home and parades around as a soldier 'bove ditch-digging. I've taken

his measure.

"He'll be putting on veteran airs, telling big stories of what he's

going to do when soldiers are wanted, and drilling such fools as

believe in him. Young gals are often taken by such strutters, and think

that men like Jarvis, who darsn't speak for themselves, are of no

account. But I'll put a spoke in Zeke's wheel, if I have to get the

captain to write."

It thus may be gathered that the cobbler had much to say to himself

when alone, though so taciturn to others.

The clouds along the eastern horizon were stained with red before the

reconnoitring party returned. Stokes had managed, by hobbling about, to

keep up the fire and to fill the mess-kettle with the inevitable pork

and beans. The hungry, weary men therefore gave their new cook a cheer

when they saw the good fire and provision awaiting them. A moment

later, however, Jarvis observed how lame Stokes had become; he took the

cobbler by the shoulder and sat him down in the warmest nook, saying,

"I'll be assistant cook until you are better. As Zeke says, I'm a wolf

sure enough; but as soon's the beast's hunger is satisfied, I'll rub

that leg of yours till you'll want to dance a jig;" and with the ladle

wrung from Stokes's reluctant hand, he began stirring the seething

contents of the kettle.

Then little Hi Woodbridge piped in his shrill voice, "Another cheer for

our assistant cook and ditch-digger! I say, Zeke, wouldn't you like to

tell Ezra that Zeb has showed himself fit for something more than

digging? You expressed your opinion very plain last night, and may have

a different one now."

Zeke growld something inaudible, and stalked to his hut in order to put

away his equipments.

"I'm cook-in-chief yet," Stokes declared; "and not a bean will any one

of you get till you report all that happened."

"Well," piped Hi, "you may stick a feather in your old cap, Ezra, for

our Opinquake lad captured a British officer last night, and Old Put is

pumping him this blessed minute."

"Well, well, that is news. It must have been Zeke who did that neat

job," exclaimed Stokes, ironically; "he's been a-pining for the soldier

business."

"No, no; Zeke's above such night scrimmages. He wants to swim the bay

and walk right into Boston in broad daylight, so everybody can see him.

Come, Zeb, tell how it happened. It was so confounded dark, no one can

tell but you."

"There isn't much to tell that you fellows don't know," was Zeb's

laconic answer. "We had sneaked down on the neck so close to the

enemy's lines---"

"Yes, yes, Zeb Jarvis," interrupted Stokes, "that's the kind of

sneaking you're up to--close to the enemy's lines. Go on."

"Well, I crawled up so close that I saw a Britisher going the round of

the sentinels, and I pounced on him and brought him out on the run,

that's all."

"Oho! you both ran away, then? That wasn't good soldiering either, was

it, Zeke?" commented Stokes, in his dry way.

"It's pretty good soldiering to stand fire within an inch of your

nose," resumed Hi, who had become a loyal friend and adherent of his

tall comrade. "Zeb was so close on the Britisher when he fired his

pistol that we saw the faces of both in the flash; and a lot of bullets

sung after us, I can sell you, as we dusted out of those diggin's."

"Compliments of General Putnam to Sergeant Zebulon Jarvis," said an

orderly, riding out of the dim twilight of the morning. "The general

requests your presence at headquarters."

"Sergeant! promoted! Another cheer for Zeb!" and the Opinquake boys

gave it with hearty goodwill.

"Jerusalem, fellows! I'd like to have a chance at those beans before I

go!" but Zeb promptly tramped off with the orderly.

When he returned he was subjected to a fire of questions by the two or

three men still awake, but all they could get out of him was that he

had been given a good breakfast. From Captain Dean, who was with the

general at the time of the examination, it leaked out that Zeb was in

the line of promotion to a rank higher than that of sergeant.

The next few days passed uneventfully; and Zeke was compelled to resume

the pick and shovel again. Stokes did his best to fulfil his duties,

but it had become evident to all that the exposure of camp would soon

disable him utterly. Jarvis and Captain Dean persuaded him to go home

for the winter, and the little squad raised a sum which enabled him to

make the journey in a stage. Zeke, sullen toward his jeering comrades,

but immensely elated in secret, had shaken the dust--snow and slush

rather--of camp-life from his feet the day before. He had the grace to

wait till the time of his enlistment expired, and that was more than

could be said of many.

It spoke well for the little Opinquake quota that only two others

besides Zeke availed themselves of their liberty. Poor Stokes was

almost forced away, consoled by the hope of returning in the spring.

Zeb was sore-hearted on the day of Zeke's departure. His heart was in

the Connecticut Valley also. No message had come to him from Susie

Rolliffe. Those were not the days of swift and frequent communication.

Even Mrs. Jarvis had written but seldom, and her missives were brief.

Mother-love glowed through the few quaint and scriptural phrases like

heat in anthracite coals. All that poor Zeb could learn from them was

that Susie Rolliffe had kept her word and had been to the farm more

than once; but the girl had been as reticent as the mother. Zeke was

now on his way home to prosecute his suit in person, and Zeb well knew

how forward and plausible he could be. There was no deed of daring that

he would not promise to perform after spring opened, and Zeb reasoned

gloomily that a present lover, impassioned and importunate, would stand

a better chance than an absent one who had never been able to speak for

himself.

When it was settled that Stokes should return to Opinquake, Zeb

determined that he would not give up the prize to Zeke without one

decisive effort; and as he was rubbing the cobbler's leg, he stammered,

"I say Ezra, will you do me a turn? 'Twon't be so much, what I ask,

except that I'll like you to keep mum about it, and you're a good hand

at keeping mum."

"I know what yer driving at, Zeb. Write yer letter and I'll deliver it

with my own hands."

"Well, now, I'm satisfied, I can stay on and fight it out with a clear

mind. When Zeke marched away last summer, I thought it was all up with

me; and I can tell you that any fighting that's to do about Boston will

be fun compared with the fighting I did while hoeing corn and mowing

grass. But I don't believe that Susie Rolliffe is promised to Zeke

Watkins, or any one else yet, and I'm going to give her a chance to

refuse me plump."

"That's the way to do it, Zeb," said the bachelor cobbler, with an

emphasis that would indicate much successful experience. "Asking a girl

plump is like standing up in a fair fight. It gives the girl a chance

to bowl you over, if that's her mind, so there can't be any mistake

about it; and it seems to me the women-folks ought to have all the

chances that in any way belong to them. They have got few enough

anyhow."

"And you think it'll end in my being bowled over?"

"How should I know, or you either, unless you make a square trial?

You're such a strapping, fighting feller that nothing but a cannon-ball

or a woman ever will knock you off your pins."

"See here, Ezra Stokes, the girl of my heart may refuse me just as

plump as I offer myself; and if that's her mind she has a right to do

it. But I don't want either you or her to think I won't stand on my

feet. I won't even fight any more recklessly than my duty requires. I

have a mother to take care of, even if I never have a wife."

"I'll put in a few pegs right along to keep in mind what you say; and

I'll give you a fair show by seeing to it that the girl gets your

letter before Zeke can steal a march on you."

"That's all I ask," said Zeb, with compressed lips. "She shall choose

between us. It's hard enough to write, but it will be a sight easier

than facing her. Not a word of this to another soul, Ezra; but I'm not

going to use you like a mail-carrier, but a friend. After all, there

are few in Opinquake, I suppose, but know I'd give my eyes for her, so

there isn't much use of my putting on secret airs."

"I'm not a talker, and you might have sent your letter by a worse

messenger'n me," was the laconic reply.

Zeb had never written a love-letter, and was at a loss how to begin or

end it. But time pressed, and he had to say what was uppermost in his

mind. It ran as follows:

"I don't know how to write so as to give my words weight. I cannot come

home; I will not come as long as mother and the children can get on

without me. And men are needed here; men are needed. The general fairly

pleads with the soldiers to stay. Stokes would stay if he could. We're

almost driving him home. I know you will be kind to him, and remember

he has few to care for him. I cannot speak for myself in person very

soon, if ever. Perhaps I could not if I stood before you. You laugh at

me; but if you knew how I love you and remember you, how I honor and

almost worship you in my heart, you might understand me better. Why is

it strange I should be afraid of you? Only God has more power over me

than you. Will you be my wife? I will do anything to win you that YOU

can ask. Others will plead with you in person. Will you let this letter

plead for the absent?"

Zeb went to the captain's quarters and got some wax with which to seal

this appeal, then saw Stokes depart with the feeling that his destiny

was now at stake.

Meanwhile Zeke Watkins, with a squad of homeward-bound soldiers, was

trudging toward Opinquake. They soon began to look into one another's

faces in something like dismay. But little provision was in their

wallets when they had started, for there was little to draw upon, and

that furnished grudgingly, as may well be supposed. Zeke had not cared.

He remembered the continuous feasting that had attended his journey to

camp, and supposed that he would only have to present himself to the

roadside farmhouses in order to enjoy the fat of the land. This

hospitality he proposed to repay abundantly by camp reminiscences in

which it would not be difficult to insinuate that the hero of the scene

was present.

In contrast to these rose-hued expectations, doors were slammed in

their faces, and they were treated little better than tramps. "I

suppose the people near Boston have been called on too often and

imposed on, too," Zeke reasoned rather ruefully. "When we once get over

the Connecticut border we'll begin to find ourselves at home;" and

spurred by hunger and cold, as well as hope, they pushed on

desperately, subsisting on such coarse provisions as they could obtain,

sleeping in barns when it stormed, and not infrequently by a fire in

the woods. At last they passed the Connecticut border, and led by Zeke

they urged their way to a large farmhouse, at which, but a few months

before, the table had groaned under rustic dainties, and feather-beds

had luxuriously received the weary recruits bound to the front. They

approached the opulent farm in the dreary dark of the evening, and

pursued by a biting east wind laden with snow. Not only the weather,

but the very dogs seemed to have a spite against them; and the family

had to rush out to call them off.

"Weary soldiers ask for shelter," began Zeke.

"Of course you're bound for the lines," said the matronly housewife.

"Come in."

Zeke thought they would better enter at once before explaining; and

truly the large kitchen, with a great fire blazing on the hearth,

seemed like heaven. The door leading into the family sitting-room was

open, and there was another fire, with the red-cheeked girls and the

white-haired grandsire before it, their eyes turned expectantly toward

the new-comers. Instead of hearty welcome, there was a questioning look

on every face, even on that of the kitchen-maid. Zeke's four companions

had a sort of hang-dog look--for they had been cowed by the treatment

received along the road; but he tried to bear himself confidently, and

began with an insinuating smile, "Perhaps I should hardly expect you to

remember me. I passed this way last summer---"

"Passed this way last summer?" repeated the matron, her face growing

stern. "We who cannot fight are ready and glad to share all we have

with those who fight for us. Since you carry arms we might very justly

think you are hastening forward to use them."

"These are our own arms; we furnished them ourselves," Zeke hastened to

say.

"Oh, indeed," replied the matron, coldly; "I supposed that not only the

weapons, but the ones who carry them, belonged to the country. I hope

you are not deserting from the army."

"I assure you we are not. Our terms of enlistment have expired."

"And your country's need was over at the same moment? Are you hastening

home at this season to plow and sow and reap?"

"Well, madam, after being away so long we felt like having a little

comfort and seeing the folks. We stayed a long as we agreed. When

spring opens, or before, if need be---"

"Pardon me, sir; the need is now. The country is not to be saved by men

who make bargains like day-laborers, and who quit when the hour is up,

but by soldiers who give themselves to their country as they would to

their wives and sweethearts. My husband and sons are in the army you

have deserted. General Washington has written to our governor asking

whether an example should not be made of the men who have deserted the

cause of their country at this critical time when the enemy are

receiving re-enforcements. We are told that Connecticut men have

brought disgrace on our colony and have imperilled the whole army. You

feel like taking comfort and seeing the folks. The folks do not feel

like seeing you. My husband and the brave men in the lines are in all

the more danger because of your desertion, for a soldier's time never

expires when the enemy is growing stronger and threatening every home

in the land. If all followed your example, the British would soon be

upon your heels, taking from us our honor and our all. We are not

ignorant of the critical condition of our army; and I can tell you,

sir, that if many more of our men come home, the women will take their

places."

Zeke's companions succumbed to the stern arraignment, and after a brief

whispered consultation one spoke for the rest. "Madam," he said, "you

put it in a way that we hadn't realized before. We'll right-about-face

and march back in the morning, for we feel that we'd rather face all

the British in Boston than any more Connecticut women."

"Then, sirs, you shall have supper and shelter and welcome," was the

prompt reply.

Zeke assumed an air of importance as he said: "There are reasons why I

must be at home for a time, but I not only expect to return, but also

to take many back with me."

"I trust your deeds may prove as large as your words," was the chilly

reply; and then he was made to feel that he was barely tolerated. Some

hints from his old associates added to the disfavor which the family

took but little pains to conceal. There was a large vein of selfish

calculation in Zeke's nature, and he was not to be swept away by any

impulses. He believed he could have a prolonged visit home, yet manage

so admirably that when he returned he would be followed by a squad of

recruits, and chief of all he would be the triumphant suitor of Susie

Rolliffe. Her manner in parting had satisfied him that he had made go

deep an impression that it would be folly not to follow it up. He

trudged the remainder of the journey alone, and secured tolerable

treatment by assuring the people that he was returning for recruits for

the army. He reached home in the afternoon of Christmas; and although

the day was almost completely ignored in the Puritan household, yet

Mrs. Watkins forgot country, Popery, and all, in her mother love, and

Zeke supped on the finest turkey of the flock. Old Mr. Watkins, it is

true, looked rather grim, but the reception had been reassuring in the

main; and Zeke had resolved on a line of tactics which would make him,

as he believed, the military hero of the town. After he had satisfied

an appetite which had been growing ever since he left camp, he started

to call on Susie in all the bravery of his best attire, filled with

sanguine expectations inspired by memories of the past and recent

potations of cider.

Meanwhile Susie had received a guest earlier in the day. The stage had

stopped at the gate where she had stood in the September sunshine and

waved her bewildered farewell to Zeb. There was no bewilderment or

surprise now at her strange and unwonted sensations. She had learned

why she had stood looking after him dazed and spellbound. Under the

magic of her own light irony she had seen her drooping rustic lover

transformed into the ideal man who could face anything except her

unkindness. She had guessed the deep secret of his timidity. It was a

kind of fear of which she had not dreamed, and which touched her

innermost soul.

When the stage stopped at the gate, and she saw the driver helping out

Ezra Stokes, a swift presentiment made her sure that she would hear

from one soldier who was more to her than all the generals. She was

soon down the walk, the wind sporting in her light-gold hair,

supporting the cobbler on the other side.

"Ah, Miss Susie!" he said, "I am about worn out, sole and upper. It

breaks my heart, when men are so sorely needed, to be thrown aside like

an old shoe."

The girl soothed and comforted him, ensconced him by the fireside,

banishing the chill from his heart, while Mrs. Rolliffe warmed his

blood by a strong, hot drink. Then the mother hastened away to get

dinner, while Susie sat down near, nervously twisting and untwisting

her fingers, with questions on her lips which she dared not utter, but

which brought blushes to her cheeks. Stokes looked at her and sighed

over his lost youth, yet smiled as he thought: "Guess I'll get even

with that Zeb Jarvis to-day." Then he asked, "Isn't there any one you

would like to hear about in camp?"

She blushed deeper still, and named every one who had gone from

Opinquake except Zeb. At last she said a little ironically: "I suppose

Ezekiel Watkins is almost thinking about being a general about this

time?"

"Hasn't he been here telling you what he is thinking about?"

"Been here! Do you mean to say he has come home?"

"He surely started for home. All the generals and a yoke of oxen

couldn't 'a' kept him in camp, he was so homesick--lovesick too, I

guess. Powerful compliment to you, Miss Susie," added the politic

cobbler, feeling his way, "that you could draw a man straight from his

duty like one of these 'ere stump-extractors."

"No compliment to me at all!" cried the girl, indignantly. "He little

understands me who seeks my favor by coming home at a time like this.

The Connecticut women are up in arms at the way our men are coming

home. No offence to you, Mr. Stokes. You're sick, and should come; but

I'd like to go myself to show some of the strong young fellows what we

think of them."

"Coming home was worse than rheumatism to me, and I'm going back soon's

I kin walk without a cane. Wouldn't 'a' come as 'tis, if that Zeb

Jarvis hadn't jes' packed me off. By Jocks! I thought you and he was

acquainted, but you don't seem to ask arter him."

"I felt sure he would try--I heard he was doing his duty," she replied

with averted face.

"Zeke Watkins says he's no soldier at all--nothing but a dirt-digger."

For a moment, as the cobbler had hoped, Susie forgot her blushes and

secret in her indignation. "Zeke Watkins indeed!" she exclaimed. "He'd

better not tell ME any such story. I don't believe there's a braver,

truer man in the--Well," she added in sudden confusion, "he hasn't run

away and left others to dig their way into Boston, if that's the best

way of getting there."

"Ah, I'm going to get even with him yet," chuckled Stokes to himself.

"Digging is only the first step, Miss Susie. When Old Put gets good and

ready, you'll hear the thunder of the guns a'most in Opinquake."

"Well, Mr. Stokes," stammered Susie, resolving desperately on a short

cut to the knowledge she craved, "you've seen Mr. Jarvis a-soldiering.

What do you think about it?"

"Well, now, that Zeb Jarvis is the sneakin'ist fellow---"

"What?" cried the girl, her face aflame.