"Wait till I get in a few more pegs," continued Stokes, coolly. "The

other night he sneaked right into the enemy's lines and carried off a

British officer as a hawk takes a chicken. The Britisher fired his

pistol right under Zeb's nose; but, law! he didn't mind that any more'n

a 'sketer-bite. I call that soldiering, don't you? Anyhow, Old Put

thought it was, and sent for him 'fore daylight, and made a sergeant of

him. If I had as good a chance of gettin' rid of the rheumatiz as he

has of bein' captain in six months, I'd thank the Lord."

Susie sat up very straight, and tried to look severely judicial; but

her lip was quivering and her whole plump little form trembling with

excitement and emotion. Suddenly she dropped her face in her hands and

cried in a gust of tears and laughter: "He's just like grandfather;

he'd face anything!"

"Anything in the 'tarnal universe, I guess, 'cept you, Miss Susie. I

seed a cannon-ball smash a shovel in his hands, and he got another, and

went on with his work cool as a cucumber. Then I seed him writin' a

letter to you, and his hand trembled---"

"A letter to me!" cried the girl, springing up.

"Yes; 'ere it is. I was kind of pegging around till I got to that; and

you know---"

But Susie was reading, her hands trembling so she could scarcely hold

the paper. "It's about you," she faltered, making one more desperate

effort at self-preservation. "He says you'd stay if you could; that

they almost drove you home. And he asks that I be kind to you, because

there are not many to care for you--and--and---"

"Oh, Lord! never can get even with that Zeb Jarvis," groaned Ezra. "But

you needn't tell me that's all the letter's about."

Her eyes were full of tears, yet not so full but that she saw the

plain, closing words in all their significance. Swiftly the letter went

to her lips, then was thrust into her bosom, and she seized the

cobbler's hand, exclaiming: "Yes, I will! I will! You shall stay with

us, and be one of us!" and in her excitement she put her left hand

caressingly on his shoulder.

"SUSAN!" exclaimed Mr. Rolliffe, who entered at that moment, and looked

aghast at the scene.

"Yes, I WILL!" exclaimed Susie, too wrought up now for restraint.

"Will what?" gasped the mother.

"Be Zebulon Jarvis's wife. He's asked me plump and square like a

soldier; and I'll answer as grandma did, and like grandma I'll face

anything for his sake."

"WELL, this IS suddent!" exclaimed Mrs. Rolliffe, dropping into a

chair. "Susan, do you think it is becoming and seemly for a young

woman---"

"Oh, mother dear, there's no use of your trying to make a prim Puritan

maiden of me. Zeb doesn't fight like a deacon, and I can't love like

one. Ha! ha! ha! to think that great soldier is afraid of little me,

and nothing else! It's too funny and heavenly---"

"Susan, I am dumfounded at your behavior!"

At this moment Mr. Rolliffe came in from the wood-lot, and he was dazed

by the wonderful news also. In his eagerness to get even with Zeb, the

cobbler enlarged and expatiated till he was hoarse. When he saw that

the parents were almost as proud as the daughter over their prospective

son-in-law, he relapsed into his old taciturnity, declaring he had

talked enough for a month.

Susie, the only child, who apparently had inherited all the fire and

spirit of her fighting ancestors, darted out, and soon returned with

her rosebud of a face enveloped in a great calyx of a woollen hood.

"Where are you going?" exclaimed her parents.

"You've had the news. I guess Mother Jarvis has the next right." And

she was off over the hills with almost the lightness and swiftness of a

snowbird.

In due time Zeke appeared, and smiled encouragingly on Mrs. Rolliffe,

who sat knitting by the kitchen fire. The matron did not rise, and gave

him but a cool salutation. He discussed the coldness of the weather

awkwardly for a few moments, and then ventured: "Is Miss Susan at home?"

"No, sir," replied Mrs. Rolliffe; "she's gone to make a visit to her

mother-in-law that is to be, the Widow Jarvis. Ezra Stokes is sittin'

in the next room, sent home sick. Perhaps you'd like to talk over

camp-life with him."

Not even the cider now sustained Zeke. He looked as if a cannon-ball

had wrecked all his hopes and plans instead of a shovel. "Good-evening,

Mrs. Rolliffe," he stammered; "I guess I'll--I'll--go home."

Poor Mrs. Jarvis had a spiritual conflict that day which she never

forgot. Susie's face had flashed at the window near which she had sat

spinning, and sighing perhaps that Nature had not provided feathers or

fur for a brood like hers; then the girl's arms were about her neck,

the news was stammered out--for the letter could never be shown to any

one--in a way that tore primness to tatters. The widow tried to act as

if it were a dispensation of Providence which should be received in

solemn gratitude; but before she knew it she was laughing and crying,

kissing her sweet-faced daughter, or telling how good and brave Zeb had

been when his heart was almost breaking.

Compunction had already seized upon the widow. "Susan," she began, "I

fear we are not mortifyin' the flesh as we ought---"

"No mortifying just yet, if you please," cried Susie. "The most

important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb hasn't heard the news;

just think of it! You must write and tell him that I'll help you spin

the children's clothes and work the farm; that we'll face everything in

Opinquake as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the ink-horn? I'll

sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and SUCH news as he'll get! Wish

I could tell him, though, and see the great fellow tremble once more.

Afraid of me! Ha! ha! ha! that's the funniest thing--Why, Mother

Jarvis, this is Christmas Day!"

"So it is," said the widow, in an awed tone. "Susie, my heart misgives

me that all this should have happened on a day of which Popery has made

so much."

"No, no," cried the girl. "Thank God it IS Christmas! and hereafter I

shall keep Christmas as long as love is love and God is good."

JEFF'S TREASURE

CHAPTER I

ITS DISCOVERY

Jeff, the hero of my tale, was as truly a part of the Southern

Confederacy as the greater Jeff at Richmond. Indeed, were it not for

the humbler Jeff and the class he represented, the other Jeff would

never have attained his eminence.

Jeff's prospects were as dark as himself. He owned nothing, not even

himself, yet his dream of riches is the motive of my tale. Regarded as

a chattel, for whom a bill of sale would have been made as readily as

for a bullock, he proved himself a man and brother by a prompt

exhibition of traits too common to human nature when chance and some

heroism on his part gave into his hands the semblance of a fortune.

Jeff was a native Virginian and belonged to an F.F.V. in a certain

practical, legal sense which thus far had not greatly disturbed his

equanimity. His solid physique and full shining face showed that

slavery had brought no horrors into his experience. He had indulged, it

is true, in vague yearnings for freedom, but these had been checked by

hearing that liberty meant "working for Yankees"--appalling news to an

indolent soul. He was house-servant and man-of-all-work in a family

whose means had always been limited, and whose men were in the

Confederate army. His "missus" evinced a sort of weary content when he

had been scolded or threatened into the completion of his tasks by

nightfall. He then gave her and her daughters some compensation for

their trials with him by producing his fiddle and making the warm

summer evening resonant with a kind of music which the negro only can

evoke. Jeff was an artist, and had a complacent consciousness of the

fact. He was a living instance of the truth that artists are born, not

made. No knowledge of this gifted class had ever suggested kinship; he

did not even know what the word meant, but when his cheek rested

lovingly against his violin he felt that he was made of different clay

from other "niggahs." During the day he indulged in moods by the divine

right and impulse of genius, imitating his gifted brothers

unconsciously. In waiting on the table, washing dishes, and hoeing the

garden, he was as great a laggard as Pegasus would have been if

compelled to the labors of a cart-horse; but when night came, and

uncongenial toil was over, his soul expanded. His corrugated brow

unwrinkled itself; his great black fingers flew back and forth over the

strings as if driven by electricity; and electric in effect were the

sounds produced by his swiftly-glancing bow.

While the spirit of music so filled his heart that he could play to the

moon and silent stars, an audience inspired him with tenfold power,

especially if the floor was cleared or a smooth sward selected for a

dance. Rarely did he play long before all who could trip a measure were

on their feet, while even the superannuated nodded and kept time,

sighing that they were old. His services naturally came into great

demand, and he was catholic in granting them--his mistress in

good-natured tolerance acceding to requests which promised many

forgetful hours at a time when the land was shadowed by war. So it

happened that Jeff was often at the more pretending residences of the

neighborhood, sometimes fiddling in the detached kitchen of a Southern

mansion to the shuffle of heavy feet, again in the lighted parlor,

especially when Confederate troops were quartered near. It was then

that his strains took on their most inspiring and elevated character.

He gave wings to the dark-eyed Southern girls; their feet scarcely

touched the floor as they whirled with their cavaliers in gray, or

threaded the mazes of the cotillon then and there in vogue.

Nor did he disdain an invitation to a crossroads tavern, frequented by

poor whites and enlisted men, or when the nights were warm, to a

moonlit sward, on which he would invite his audience to a reel which

left all breathless. While there was a rollicking element in the

strains of his fiddle which a deacon could not resist, he, with the

intuition of genius, adapted himself to the class before him. In the

parlor, he called off the figures of a quadrille with a

"by-yer-leave-sah" air, selecting, as a rule, the highest class of

music that had blessed his ears, for he was ear-taught only. He would

hold a half-washed dish suspended minutes at a time while listening to

one "ob de young missys at de pianny. Dat's de way I'se pick up my most

scrumptious pieces. Dey cyant play nuffin in de daytime dat I cyant

'prove on in de ebenin';" and his vanity did not lead him much astray.

But when with those of his own color, or with the humbler classes, he

gave them the musical vernacular of the region--rude traditional

quicksteps and songs, strung together with such variations of his own

as made him the envy and despair of all other fiddlers in the vicinity.

Indeed, he could rarely get away from a great house without a sample of

his powers in this direction, and then blending with the rhythmical

cadence of feet, the rustle of garments, would be evoked ripples of

mirth and bursts of laughter that were echoed back from the dim

pine-groves without. Finally, when with his great foot beating time on

the floor and every muscle of his body in motion, he ended with an

original arrangement of "Dixie," the eyes of the gentlest maiden would

flash as she joined the chorus of the men in gray, who were scarcely

less excited for the moment than they would have been in a headlong

cavalry charge.

These were moments of glory for Jeff. In fact, on all similar occasions

he had a consciousness of his power; he made the slave forget his

bondage, the poor whites their poverty, maidens the absence of their

fathers, brothers, and lovers, and the soldier the chances against his

return.

At last there came a summer day when other music than that of Jeff's

fiddle resounded through that region. Two armies met and grappled

through the long sultry hours. Every moment death wounds were given and

received, for thick as insects in woods, grove, and thicket, bullets

whizzed on their fatal mission; while from every eminence the

demoniacal shells shrieked in exultation over the havoc they wrought.

Jeff's home was on the edge of the battlefield, and as he trembled in

the darkest corner of the cellar, he thought, "Dis yer beats all de

thunder-gusts I eber heered crack, run togedder in one big hurricane."

With the night came silence, except as it was broken by the groans and

cries of wounded men; and later the contending forces departed, having

accorded to the fallen such poor burial as was given them when life was

cheap and death the chief harvester in Virginia.

For a day or two Jeff's conscience was active, and the memory of the

resolutions inspired by the din of war gave to his thin visage a

preternatural seriousness. Dishes were washed in such brief time and so

thoroughly, and such havoc made in the garden-weeds that the world

might make a note of Jeff's idea of reform (to its advantage). In the

evening his fiddle wailed out psalm-tunes to the entire exclusion of

its former carnal strains.

It must be admitted, however, that Jeff's grace was like the early dew.

On the third evening, "Ole Dan Tucker" slipped in among the hymns, and

these were played in a time scarcely befitting their character. Then

came a bit of news that awakened a wholly different train of thought

and desire. A colored boy, more venturous than himself, was said to

have picked up some "Linkum" money on the battlefield. This information

shed on the wild wooded tract where the war trumpet had raged the most

fiercely a light more golden than that of the moon then at its full;

and Jeff resolved that with the coming night he also would explore a

region which, nevertheless, had nameless terrors for him.

"Ef dere's spooks anywhere dey's dereaway," he muttered over his hoe;

"but den, ki! dey woan 'fere wid dis yer niggah. What hab I'se got ter

do wid de wah and de fighten an de jabbin'? De spooks cyant lay nuffin

ter me eben ef ole marse an' de res' am a-fighten ter keep dere slabes,

as folks say."

Having thus satisfied himself that the manes of the dead thousands

could have no controversy with him, Jeff mustered sufficient resolution

to visit the field that night. He took no one into his confidence,

fearing if he discovered treasures of any kind he could not be left in

undisturbed possession. During the day the rudiments of imagination

which made him a musician had been conjuring up the possible results of

his expedition.

"De ting fer dis cullud pusson ter do is ter p'ramberlate ter de Linkum

lines. Ki! I doan wan' what drap outen OUR sogers' pockets. I kin git

Virginny leaf widouten runnin' 'mong de spooks arter it. De place fer a

big fine is whar de brush is tick and de Linkum men crawl away so dey

woan be tromp on. Who knows but I kin fine a place whar a ginral hide

hisself? Ob cose if he hab a lot of gole he'd stick it in de bush or

kiver it right smart, so dat oders moutn't get it foh he could helf

hisself."

Jeff thought he had reasoned himself into such a valorous state that he

could walk across the deserted battlefield with nonchalance; but as he

entered on a deeply shadowed dirt-road long since disused to any

extent, he found strange creeping sensations running up and down his

back. The moonlight filtered through the leaves with fantastic effects.

A young silver poplar looked ghastly in the distance; and now and then

a tree out off by a shot looked almost human in its mutilation.

He had not gone very far before he saw what appeared to be the body of

a man lying across the road. With a sudden chill of blood he stopped

and stared at the object. Gradually it resolved itself into a low mound

in the dim light. Approaching cautiously, he discovered with a dull

sense of horror that a soldier had been buried where he had fallen, but

covered so slightly that the tumulus scarcely more than outlined his

form.

"Ob cose I knowed I d hab ter see dese tings foh I started. What I such

a fool fer? De Feds nor de Yanks am' a-gwine ter bodder me if I am'

steppin' on 'em or ober 'em." And he went scrupulously on the other

side of the road.

By and by, however, he came to a part of the wood-lane where men had

fallen by the score, and bodies had been covered in twos, threes, and

dozens. His head felt as if his very wool were straightening itself

out, as he wound here and there and zigzagged in all directions lest he

should step on or over a grave. A breeze stirred the forest as if all

the thousands buried in its shades had heaved a long deep sigh. With

chattering teeth Jeff stopped to listen, then, reassured, continued to

pick his tortuous way. Suddenly there was an ominous rustling in a

thicket just behind. He broke into a headlong flight across and over

everything, when the startled grunt of a hog revealed the prosaic

nature of this spook. Scarcely any other sound could have been more

reassuring. The animal suggested bacon and hominy and hoe-cake,

everything except the ghostly. He berated himself angrily:

"Ki! you niggah! dat ar hog got mo' co'age dan you. He know he hab

nuffin mo' ter do wid de spooks dan you hab. De run ain' far, and when

I gits ober dat de spooks on de side dis way cyant cross arter me;" and

he hastened toward the spot where he supposed the Federals had been

massed the most heavily, crossing an open field and splashing through a

shallow place in the river, that their ghost-ships might be reminded of

running water.

On the further slope were the same sad evidences of poor mortality,

graves here and there and often all too shallow, broken muskets, bullet

perforated canteens and torn knapsacks--the debris of a pitched battle.

Many trees and shrubs were so lacerated that their foliage hung limp

and wilting, while boughs with shrivelled leaves strewed the ground.

Nature's wounds indicated that men had fought here and been mutilated

as ruthlessly.

For a time nothing of value rewarded Jeff's search, and he began to

succumb to the grewsome associations of the place. At last he resolved

to examine one more thicket that bordered an old rail-fence, and then

make a long detour rather than go back by the graveyard road over which

he had come. Pushing the bushes aside, he peered among their shadows

for some moments, and then uttered an exclamation of surprise and

terror as he bounded backward. There was no mistake this time; he had

seen the figure of a man with a ray of moonlight filtering through the

leaves on a ghastly bullet-hole in his temple. He sat with his back

against the fence, and had not moved after receiving the shock. At his

feet, dropped evidently from his nerveless hand, lay a metal box. All

had flashed almost instantaneously on Jeff's vision.

For some moments he was in doubt whether to take to his heels homeward

or reconnoitre again. The soldier sat in such a lifelike attitude that

while Jeff knew the man must be dead, taking the box seemed like

robbing the living. Yes, worse than that, for, to the superstitious

negro, the dead soldier appeared to be watching his treasure.

Jeff's cupidity slowly mastered his fears. Cautiously approaching the

figure, he again pushed aside the screening boughs, and with chattering

teeth and trembling limbs, looked upon the silent guardian of the

treasure, half expecting the dead man to raise his head, and warn him

off with a threatening gesture. Since the figure remained motionless,

Jeff made a headlong plunge, clutched the box, then ran half a mile

without thinking to look back.

Not for his life would he cross the battlefield again; so it was late

when by wide circuit he approached the dwelling of his mistress. His

panic had gradually subsided, and as he noted familiar objects, he felt

that he was beyond the proper range of the unjust spirits of the dead.

The soldier he had left sitting against the fence troubled him, it is

true; and he was not quite sure that he was through with one so

palpably robbed. That he had not been followed appeared certain; that

the question of future ownership of the treasure could be settled was a

matter of superstitious belief. There was only one way--he must hide

the box in a secret nook, and if it remained undisturbed for a

reasonable length of time, he might hope for its undisturbed enjoyment.

Accordingly he stole into a dense copse and buried his booty at the

foot of a persimmon-tree, then gained his humble quarter and slept so

late and soundly that he had to be dragged almost without the door the

next morning before he shook off his lethargy.

CHAPTER II

ITS INFLUENCE

With the exception of aptitude which enabled Jeff to catch and fix a

tune in his mind with a fair degree of correctness, his mental

processes were slow. Moreover, whether he should ever have any trouble

with "spooks" or not, one thing was true of him, as of many others in

all stations of life, he was haunted by the ghost of a conscience. This

uneasy spirit suggested to him with annoying iteration that his

proceedings the night before had been of very unusual and doubtful

character. When at last fully awake, he sought to appease the accusing

voice by unwonted diligence in all his tasks, until the fat cook, a

devout Baptist, took more than one occasion to say, "You'se in a

promisin' frame, Jeff. Ef I'se ony shoah dat yer hole out long anuff

ter get 'mersed, I'd hab hopes on yer, but, law! yer'll be a-fiddlin'

de debil's tunes 'fo' de week is out. I'se afeared dat dere must be an

awful prov'dence, like a battle or harricane, onst a week, ter keep yer

ser'ous;" and the old woman sniffed down at him with ill-concealed

disdain from her superior spiritual height.

Jeff was as serious as could have been wished all that day, for there

was much on his mind. Perplexing questions tinged with supernatural

terrors tormented him. Passing over those having a moral point, the

most urgent one was, "S'pose dat ar soger miss him box an come arter it

ternight. Ki! If I go ter see, I mout run right on ter de spook. I'se

a-gwine ter gib 'im his chance, an' den take mine." So that evening

Jeff fortified himself and increased the cook's hope by a succession of

psalm-tunes in which there was no lapse toward the "debil's" music.

Next morning, after a long sleep, Jeff's nerves were stronger, and he

began to take a high hand with conscience.

"Dat ar soger has hab his chance," he reasoned. "Ef he want de box he

mus' 'a' com arter it las' night. I'se done bin fa'r wid him, an' now

ter-night, ef dat ar box ain' 'sturbed, I'se a-gwine ter see de

'scription an' heft on it. Toder night I was so 'fuscated dat I

couldn't know nuffin straight."

When all were sleeping, he stole to the persimmon-tree and was elated

to find his treasure where he had slightly buried it. The little box

seemed heavy, and was wholly unlike anything he ever seen before.

"Ob cose it's got money in it," Jeff reasoned. "Nuffin else 'ud be done

up to tight and strong. I'se woan open it jes' yet, feared de missus or

de colored boys 'spec' someting. Ki! I isn't a-gwine ter be tied up,

an' hab dat box whip out in me. I'll tink how I kin hide an' spen' de

money kine of slowcution like." With this he restored the prize to its

shallow excavation and covered it with leaves that no trace of fresh

earth might be visible.

Jeff's deportment now began to evince a new evolution in mental and

moral process. The influence of riches was quite as marked upon him as

upon so many of his white brothers and sisters, proving their essential

kinship. To-day he began to sniff disdainfully at his menial tasks; and

in the evening "Ole Dan Tucker" resounded from his fiddle with a

rollicking abandon over which the cook groaned in despair, "Dat ar

niggah's 'ligion drop off ob 'im like a yaller pig from de bush.

'Ligion dat's skeert inter us hain't no 'count anyhow."

During the next few days it was evident that Jeff was falling from

grace rapidly. Never had he been so slow and careless in his tasks.

More than once the thought crossed his mind that he had better take his

box and "cut stick" for Washington, where he believed that wealth and

his fiddle would give him prominence over his race. For prudential and

other reasons he was in no haste to open the box, preferring rather to

gloat over it and to think how he could spend the money to the greatest

advantage. He had been paying his court to a girl as black as himself

on a neighboring plantation; but he now regarded that affair as

preposterous.

"She ain' good nuff fer me no mo'," he reasoned. "I'se a-gwine ter

shine up ter dat yeller Suky dat's been a-holdin' her head so high ober

ter Marse Perkins's. I'se invited ter play ober dar ter-night, an' I'll

make dat gal open her eye. Ki! she tinks no culled gemmen in dese parts

fit ter hole a cannle when she braid her long straight ha'r, but when

she see de ribbin I kin git her ter tie dat ha'r up wid, an' de

earrings I kin put in her ears, she larf on toder side ob her face.

'Fo' I go I'se a-gwine ter buy dat ar gole ring ob Sam Milkins down at

de tavern. S'pose it does take all I'se been sabin' up, I'se needn't

sabe any mo'. Dat ar box got nuff in it ter keep me like a lawd de rest

ob my life. I'd open it ter-night if I wasn't goin' ter Marse

Perkins's."

Jeff carried out his high-handed measures and appeared that evening at

"Marse Perkins's" with a ring of portentous size squeezed on the little

finger of his left hand. It had something of the color of gold, and

that is the best that can be said of it; but it had left its purchaser

penniless. This fact sat lightly on Jeff's mind, however, as he

remembered the box at the foot of the persimmon-tree; and he stalked

into the detached kitchen, where a dusky assemblage were to indulge in

a shuffle, with the air of one who intends that his superiority shall

be recognized at once.

"Law sakes, Jeff!" said Mandy, his hitherto ebon flame, "yer comes in

like a turkey gobbler. Doesn't yer know me?"

"Sartin I know yer, Mandy. You'se a good gal in you'se way, but, law!

you'se had yer spell. A culled gemmen kin change his min' when he sees

dat de 'finity's done gone."

"Look here, Jeff Wobbles, does yer mean ter give me de sack?"

"I mean ter gib yer good-ebenin', Miss Mandy Munson. Yer kyant 'spec' a

gemmen to be degaged in de music an' a gal at de same time," replied

Jeff, with oppressive gravity.

"Mister Johnsing, I'se tank yer fo' yer arm," said Mandy to a man near,

with responsive dignity. "Yer wait on me here, an' yer kin wait on me

home. I'se 'shamed on mysef dat I took up wid a lout dat kin do nuffin

but fiddle; but I was kine ob sorry fer him, he sich a fool."

"Go 'long," remarked Jeff, smiling mysteriously. "Ef yer knowed, yer

'ud be wringin' yer han's wuss dan yer did at de las' 'tracted meetin'.

Ah, Miss Suky, dat you?" and Jeff for the first time doffed his hat.

"Wat's in de win', Jeff, dat yer so scrumptious an' bumptious like dis

ebenin'?" Suky asked a trifle scornfully.

"Wen de 'freshments parse 'roun', I'se 'steem it a oblergation ter me

ef yer'll let me bring yer de cake an' cider. I'se sumpin fer yer.

Gemmen an' ladies, took yer places," he added in a stentorian voice; "I

ax yer' sideration fer bein' late, cose I had 'portant business; now,

"Bow dar, scrape dar;

Doan hang about de doah.

Shine up ter de pretty gals,

An' lead 'em on de floah"--

his fiddle seconding his exhortation with such inciting strains that

soon there was not a foot but was keeping time.

Suky observed that the musician had eyes for her only, and that toward

all others he maintained his depressing superiority. In vain did Mandy

lavish tokens of favor on "Mister Johnsing." Jeff did not lose his

sudden and unexpected indifference; while the great ring glistening on

his finger added to the mystery. There were many whispered surmises;

but gradually the conjecture that he had "foun' a heap ob Linkum money"

was regarded as the best explanation of the marked change in his

bearing.

Curiosity soon became more potent than Jeff's fiddle, and the

"'freshments" were hurried up. So far from resenting this, Jeff put his

violin under his arm and stalked across the improvised ball-room to

Miss Suky, oblivious of the fact that she had a suitor on either side.

"Gemmen," he remarked with condescension, "dis lady am degaged ter me

durin' de 'freshments period,'" and he held out his arm in such a way

that the massive ring glittered almost under Suky's nose. The magnet

drew. His arm was taken in spite of the protests of the enamored swains.

"Permit me de suggestation," continued Jeff, "dat ter a lady ob yer

'finement, dis place am not fit ter breve in. Wha's mo', I doan 'cline

ter hab dese yer common niggahs a-whisperin' an' a-pintin' an'

a-'jecturin' about us. Lemme yet yer a seat under de lite ob de risin'

moon. De dusk'll obscuate yer loveleness so I'se dar' tell all de news."

Suky, mystified and expectant, but complacent over another conquest,

made no objections to these whispered "suggestations," and was led to a

seat under the shadow of a tree. A chorus of not very flattering

remarks broke out, ceasing as suddenly when Jeff returned for a portion

of the cake and cider.

"Mister Wobbles, yer's prettin' on high de airs ter-night," Suky

remarked, with an interrogation point in her voice.

"Here's ter de health ob Mrs. Wobbles," he answered, lifting the cider

to his lips.

"I'se no 'jections ter dat. Who is she ter be?" replied Suky, very

innocently.

"It's not my 'tention ter go furder and far' wuss. Dis am a case wha de

presen' company am not 'cepted."

"No, not axcepted jes' yet, Mr. Wobbles, if yer'se 'dressin' yer

remarks ter me. Yer is goin' on jes' a little too far."

"P'raps a little far; but yer'll soon catch up wid me. Yer'se a lady

dat got a min' ob her own, I hope?"

"It's mine yet, anyhow."

"An' yer kin keep as mum as a possum w'en de cawn is in de milk?"

"Dat 'pends."

"Ob cose it does. But I'll trus' yer; yer ain' de one ter bite yer own

nose off. Does yer see dat ar ring, Suky? Law! how pretty dat look on

yer degaged finger!"

"'Tain' dar yet."

"Lemme put it dar. Ki! wouldn't dey look an' gape an' pint in dar

yonder w'en yer come a-sailin' in wid dat ring on?"

"Yes; dey tink me a big fool ter be captivated by a ring--brass, too,

like anuff."

"No, Suky, it's gole--yallow gole, di 'plexion ob yer own fair han'.

But, law! dis ain' nuffin ter what I'se 'll git yer. Yer'se shall hab

rings an' dresses an' jules till yer 'stinguish de oder gals like de

sun put out de stars."

"What yer foun', Jeff Wobbles?"

"I'se foun' what'll make yer a lady if yer hab sense. I'se gib yer de

compliment ob s'lecting yer ter shar' my fine if yer'll lemme put dis

ring on yer degaged finger."

"Yer doan say nuffin 'bout lub in dis yer 'rangement," Suky simpered,

sidling up to him.

"Oh, dat kind ob sent'ment 'll do fer common niggahs," Jeff explained

with dignity. "I'se hurd my missus talk 'bout 'liances 'twixt people of

quality. Ki! Suky, I'se in a'sition now ter make a 'liance wid yer. Yer

ain' like dat low gal, Mandy. What Mister Johnsing ebber hab ter gib

her but a lickin' some day? I'se done wid dat common class; I may

fiddle fur 'em now an' den, jes' ter see dem sport deysefs, while I'se

lookin' on kin' ob s'periur like, yer know. But den, dey ain' our kin'

ob folks. Yer'se got qulities dat'll shine like de risin' moon dar."

Then in a whisper he added, "De Linkum sogers is off dar ter the

east'erd. One night's trabel an' dey'd sen' us on ter Washin'on. Onst

yer git dar, an' hab all de jules an' dresses dat I gib yer, dar's not

a culled gemmen dereaway but 'ud bow down ter yer."

Here was a dazzling vista that Suky could not resist. Her ideas of

freedom, like those of Jeff, were not very exalted. At that period,

slave property in the vicinity of the Union lines was fast melting

away; and scarcely a night elapsed but some one was missing, the more

adventurous and intelligent escaping first, and others following as

opportunity and motive pointed the way. The region under consideration

had not yet been occupied by the Federals, and there was still no

slight risk involved in flight. Suky did not realize the magnitude of

the project. She was not the first of her sex to be persuaded by a

cavalier and promised gold to take a leap into the dark.

As a result of Jeff's representations the "'liance" was made there and

then, secrecy promised, and an escape to Washington agreed upon as soon

as circumstances permitted--Suky's mind, I regret to say, dwelling more

on "gemmen bowing down" to her than on the devotion of the allied

suitor.

No lady of rank in Timbuctoo could have sailed into the kitchen

ball-room with greater state than Suky now after the compact had been

made, Jeff supporting her on his arm with the conscious air of one who

has taken the prize from all competitors. With the assurance of a

potentate he ensconced himself in the orchestra corner and called the

dancers to their feet.

But the spirit of mutiny was present. Eager eyes noted that the ring on

his bow-hand was gone. Then it was seen glistening on Suky's hand as

she ostentatiously fanned herself. The clamor broke out, "Mister

Johnsing," incited by Mandy and the two swains between whom Suky had

been sandwiched, leading the revolt against Jeff's arrogance and

success.

There were many, however, who had no personal wrongs to right, and who

did not relish being made a cat's-paw by the disaffected. These were

bent on the natural progression and conclusion of the dance. In

consequence of the wordy uproar the master of the premises appeared and

cleared them all out, sending his own servants to their quarters.

Jeff nearly came to grief that night, for a party of the malcontents

followed him on his homeward walk. Suspecting their purpose, he dodged

behind some shrubbery, heard their threats to break his head and smash

his fiddle, and then went back to a tryst with Suky.

That sagacious damsel had been meditating on the proposed alliance.

Even in her rather sophisticated mind she had regarded a semblance of

love as essential; but since Jeff had put everything on such superior

grounds, she felt that she should prove herself fit for new and exalted

conditions of life by seeing to it that he made good all his remarkable

promises. She remembered that he had not yet opened the box of money,

and became a little sceptical as to its contents. Somebody might have

watched Jeff, and have carried it off.

True, she had the ring, but that was not the price of her hand. Nothing

less than had been promised would answer now; and when she stole out to

meet Jeff she told him so. Under the witching moonlight he began to

manifest tendencies to sentiment and tenderness. Her response was

prompt: "Go 'long! what dese common niggah ways got ter do wid a

'liance? Yer show me de gole in dat box--dat's de bargain. Den de

'liance hole me fas', an' I'll help yer spen' de money in Washin'on.

We'll hab a weddin' scrumptious as white folks. But, law sakes! Jeff

Wobbles, 't ain' no kin' ob 'liance till I see dat gole an' hab some ob

it too!"

Jeff had to succumb like many a higher-born suitor before him, with the

added chagrin of remembering that he had first suggested the purely

businesslike aspect of his motive.

"Berry well; meet me here ter-morrer night when I whistle like a

whip-o'-will. But yer ain' so smart as yer tink yer are, Suky. Yer'se

made it cl'ar ter me dat I'se got ter keep de han'lin' ob dat gole or

you'll be a-carryin' dis 'liance business too far! If I gib yer gole, I

expec' yer ter shine up an be 'greeable-like ter me ebbery way yer know

how. Dat's only fa'r, doggoned ef it ain'!" and Jeff spoke in a very

aggrieved tone.

Wily Suky chucked him under the chin, saying: "Show me de color ob de

gole an' de 'liance come out all right." Then she retired, believing

that negotiations had proceeded far enough for the present.

Jeff went home feeling that he had been forewarned and forearmed. Since

her heart responded to a golden key only, he would keep that key and

use it judiciously.

During the early hours of the following night Jeff was very wary and

soon discovered that he was watched. He coolly slipped the collar from

a savage dog, and soon there was a stampede from a neighboring grove.

An hour after, when all had become quiet again, he took the dog and,

armed with an axe, started out, fully resolved on breaking the

treasure-box which he had been hoarding.

The late moon had risen, giving to Jeff a gnome-like aspect as he dug

at the root of the persimmon-tree. The mysterious box soon gleamed with

a pale light in his hand, like the leaden casket that contained

Portia's radiant face. Surely, when he struck the "open sesame" blow,

that beauty which captivates young and old alike would dazzle his eyes.

With heart now devoid of all compunction, and exultant in anticipation,

he struck the box, shaving off the end he held furthest from him. An

"ancient fish-like smell" filled the air; Jeff sank on the ground and

stared at sardines and rancid oil dropping instead of golden dollars

from his treasure-box. They scarcely touched the ground before the dog

snapped them all up.

The bewildered negro knew not what to think. Had fish been the original

contents of the box, or had the soldier's spook transformed the gold

into this horrid mess? One thing, however, was clear--he had lost, not

only Suky, but prestige. The yellow girl would scorn him, and tell of

his preposterous promises. Mandy had been offended beyond hope, and he

would become the laughing-stock and byword of all the colored boys for

miles around.

"Dar's nuffin lef fer me but ter put out fer freedom," he soliloquized;

"ki! I'se a-gwine ter git eben wid dat yallar gal yet. I'll cut stick

ter-morrer night and she'll tink I 'sconded alone, totin' de box wid

me, and dat she was too sharp in dat 'liance business."

So it turned out; Jeff and his fiddle vanished, leaving nothing to

sustain Suky under the gibes of her associates except the ring, which

she eventually learned was as brazen as her own ambition.

Jeff wandered into the service of a Union officer whose patience he

tried even more than that of his tolerant Southern mistress; but when

by the camp-fire he brought out his violin, all his shortcomings were

condoned.

CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE

The August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert Scofield's brow was

clouded. He had wandered off to a remote part of the grounds of a

summer hotel on the Hudson, and seated in the shade of a tree, had

lapsed into such deep thought that his cigar had gone out and the birds

were becoming bold in the vicinity of his motionless figure.

It was his vacation time and he had come to the country ostensibly for

rest. As the result, he found himself in the worst state of unrest that

he had ever known. Minnie Madison, a young lady he had long admired,

was the magnet that had drawn him hither. Her arrival had preceded his

by several weeks; and she had smiled a little consciously when in

looking at the hotel register late one afternoon his bold chirography

met her eye.

"There are so many other places to which he might have gone," she

murmured.

Her smile, however, was a doubtful one, not expressive of gladness and

entire satisfaction. In mirthful, saucy fashion her thoughts ran on:

"The time has come when he might have a respite from business. Does he

still mean business by coming here? I'm not sure that I do, although

the popular idea seems to be that a girl should have no vacation in the

daily effort to find a husband. I continually disappoint the good

people by insisting that the husband must find me. I have a

presentiment that Mr. Scofield is looking for me; but there are some

kinds of property which cannot be picked up and carried off, nolens

volens, when found."

Scofield had been animated by no such clearly defined purpose as he was

credited with when he sought the summer resort graced by Miss Madison.

His action seemed to him tentative, his motive ill-defined even in his

own consciousness, yet it had been strong enough to prevent any

hesitancy. He knew he was weary from a long year's work. He purposed to

rest and take life very leisurely, and he had mentally congratulated

himself that he was doing a wise thing in securing proximity to Miss

Madison. She had evoked his admiration in New York, excited more than a

passing interest, but he felt that he did not know her very well. In

the unconventional life now in prospect he could see her daily and

permit his interest to be dissipated or deepened, as the case might be,

while he remained, in the strictest sense of the world, uncommitted. It

was a very prudent scheme and not a bad one. He reasoned justly: "This

selecting a wife is no bagatelle. A man wishes to know something more

about a woman than he can learn in a drawing-room or at a theatre

party."

But now he was in trouble. He had been unable to maintain this judicial

aspect. He had been made to understand at the outset that Miss Madison

did not regard herself as a proper subject for deliberate

investigation, and that she was not inclined to aid in his researches.

So far from meeting him with engaging frankness and revealing her

innermost soul for his inspection, he found her as elusive as only a

woman of tact can be when so minded, even at a place where people meet

daily. It was plain to him from the first that he was not the only man

who favored her with admiring glances; and he soon discovered that

young Merriweather and his friend Hackley had passed beyond the neutral

ground of non-committal. He set himself the task of learning how far

these suitors had progressed in her good graces; he would not be guilty

of the folly of giving chase to a prize already virtually captured.

This too had proved a failure. Clearly, would he know what Mr.

Merriweather and Mr. Hackley were to Miss Madison he must acquire the

power of mind reading. Each certainly appeared to be a very good friend

of hers--a much better friend than he could claim to be, for in his

case she maintained a certain unapproachableness which perplexed and

nettled him.

After a week of rest, observation, and rather futile effort to secure a

reasonable share of Miss Madison's society and attention, he became

assured that he was making no progress whatever so far as she was

concerned, but very decided progress in a condition of mind and heart

anything but agreeable should the affair continue so one-sided. He had

hoped to see her daily, and was not disappointed. He had intended to

permit his mind to receive such impressions as he should choose; and

now his mind asked no permission whatever, but without volition

occupied itself with her image perpetually. He was not sure whether she

satisfied his preconceived ideals of what a wife should be or not, for

she maintained such a firm reticence in regard to herself that he could

put his finger on no affinities. She left no doubt as to her

intelligence, but beyond that she would not reveal herself to him. He

was almost satisfied that she discouraged him utterly and that it would

be wiser to depart before his feelings became more deeply involved. At

any rate he had better do this or else make love in dead earnest. Which

course should he adopt?

There came a day which brought him to a decision.

A party had been made up for an excursion into the Highlands, Miss

Madison being one of the number. She was a good pedestrian and rarely

missed a chance for a ramble among the hills. Scofield's two rivals

occasionally got astray with her in the perplexing wood-roads, but he

never succeeded in securing such good-fortune. On this occasion, as

they approached a woodchopper's cottage (or rather, hovel), there were

sounds of acute distress within--the piercing cries of a child

evidently in great pain. There was a moment of hesitancy in the party,

and then Miss Madison's graceful indifference vanished utterly. As she

ran hastily to the cabin, Scofield felt that now probably was a chance

for more than mere observation, and he kept beside her. An ugly cur

sought to bar entrance; but his vigorous kick sent it howling away. She

gave him a quick pleased look as they entered. A slatternly woman was

trying to soothe a little boy, who at all her attempts only writhed and

shrieked the more. "I dunno what ails the young one," she said. "I

found him a moment ago yellin' at the foot of a tree. Suthin's the

matter with his leg."

"Yes," cried Miss Madison, delicately feeling of the member--an

operation which, even under her gentle touch, caused increased outcry,

"it is evidently broken. Let me take him on my lap;" and Scofield saw

that her face had softened into the tenderest pity.

"I will bring a surgeon at the earliest possible moment," exclaimed

Scofield, turning to go.

Again she gave him an approving glance which warmed his heart. "The ice

is broken between us now," he thought, as he broke through the group

gathering at the open door.

Never before had he made such time down a mountain, for he had a

certain kind of consciousness that he was not only going after the

doctor, but also after the girl. Securing a stout horse and wagon at

the hotel, he drove furiously for the surgeon, explained the urgency,

and then, with the rural healer at his side, almost killed the horse in

returning.

He found his two rivals at the cabin door, the rest of the party having

gone on. Miss Madison came out quickly. An evanescent smile flitted

across her face as she saw his kindled eyes and the reeking horse,

which stood trembling and with bowed head. His ardor was a little

dampened when she went directly to the poor beast and said, "This horse

is a rather severe indictment against you, Mr. Scofield. There was need

of haste, but--" and she paused significantly.

"Yes," added the doctor, springing out, "I never saw such driving! It's

lucky our necks are not broken."

"You are all right, Doctor, and ready for your work," Scofield remarked

brusquely. "As for the horse, I'll soon bring him around;" and he

rapidly began to unhitch the over-driven animal.

"What are you going to do?" Miss Madison asked curiously.

"Rub him into as good shape as when he started."

She turned away to hide a smile as she thought, "He has waked up at

last."

The boy was rendered unconscious, and his leg speedily put in the way

of restoration. "He will do very well now if my directions are carried

out strictly," the physician was saying when Scofield entered.

Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley stood rather helplessly in the

background and were evidently giving more thought to the fair nurse

than to the patient. The mother was alternating between lamentations

and invocations of good on the "young leddy's" head. Finding that he

would come in for a share of the latter, Scofield retreated again. Miss

Madison walked quietly out, and looking critically at the horse,

remarked, "You have kept your word very well, Mr. Scofield. The poor

creature does look much improved." She evidently intended to continue

her walk with the two men in waiting, for she said demurely with an air

of dismissal, "You will have the happy consciousness of having done a

good deed this morning."

"Yes," replied Scofield, in significant undertone; "you, of all others,

Miss Madison, know how inordinately happy I shall be in riding back to

the village with the doctor."

She raised her eyebrows in a little well-feigned surprise at his words,

then turned away.

During the remainder of the day he was unable to see her alone for a

moment, or to obtain any further reason to believe that the ice was in

reality broken between them. But his course was no longer noncommittal,

even to the most careless observer. The other guests of the house

smiled; and Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley looked askance at one who

threw their assiduous attentions quite into the shade. Miss Madison

maintained her composure, was oblivious as far as possible, and

sometimes when she could not appear blind, looked a little surprised

and even offended.

He had determined to cast prudence and circumlocution to the winds. On

the morning following the episode in the mountains he was waiting to

meet her when she came down to breakfast. "I've seen that boy, Miss

Madison, and he's doing well."

"What! so early? You are a very kind-hearted man, Mr. Scofield."

"About as they average. That you are kind-hearted I know--at least to

every one except me--for I saw your expression as you examined the

little fellow's injury yesterday. You thought only of the child--"

"I hope you did also, Mr. Scofield," she replied with an exasperating

look of surprise.

"You know well I did not," he answered bluntly. "I thought it would be

well worth while to have my leg broken if you would look at me in the

same way."

"Truly, Mr. Scofield, I fear you are not as kind-hearted as I supposed

you to be;" and then she turned to greet Mr. Merriweather.

"Won't you let me drive you up to see the boy?" interposed Scofield,

boldly.

"I'm sorry, but I promised to go up with the doctor this morning."

And so affairs went on. He thought at times her color quickened a

little when he approached suddenly; he fancied that he occasionally

surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful glance, but was not sure. He

knew that she was as well aware of his intentions and wishes as if he

had proclaimed them through a speaking-trumpet. His only assured ground

of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. Hackley had yet

won the coveted prize, though they evidently were receiving far greater

opportunities to push their suit than he had been favored with.

At last his vacation was virtually at an end. But two more days would

elapse before he must be at his desk again in the city. And now we will

go back to the time when we found him that early morning brooding over

his prospects, remote from observation. What should he do--propose by

letter? "No," he said after much cogitation. "I can see that little

affected look of surprise with which she would read my plain

declaration of what she knows so well. Shall I force a private

interview with her? The very word 'force,' which I have unconsciously

used, teaches me the folly of this course. She doesn't care a rap for

me, and I should have recognized the truth long ago. I'll go back to

the hotel and act toward her precisely as she has acted toward me. I

can then at least take back to town a little shred of dignity."

He appeared not to see her when she came down to breakfast. After the

meal was over he sat on the piazza engrossed in the morning paper. An

excursion party for the mountains was forming. He merely bowed politely

as she passed him to join it, but he ground his teeth as he saw

Merriweather and Hackley escorting her away. When they were out of

sight he tossed the paper aside and went down to the river, purposing

to row the fever out of his blood. He was already satisfied how

difficult his tactics would be should he continue to see her, and he

determined to be absent all day, to so tire himself out that exhaustion

would bring early sleep on his return.

Weary and leaden-spirited enough he was, as late in the afternoon he

made his way back, but firm in sudden resolve to depart on an early

train in the morning and never voluntarily to see the obdurate lady of

his affections again.

Just as the sun was about sinking he approached a small wooded island

about half a mile from the boat-house, and was surprised to notice a

rowboat high and dry upon the beach. "Some one has forgotten that the

tide is going out," he thought, as he passed; but it was no affair of

his.

A voice called faintly, "Mr. Scofield!"

He started at the familiar tones, and looked again. Surely that was

Miss Madison standing by the prow of the stranded skiff! He knew well

indeed it was she; and he put his boat about with an energy not in

keeping with his former languid strokes. Then, recollecting himself, he

became pale with the self-control he purposed to maintain, "She is in a

scrape," he thought; "and calls upon me as she would upon any one else

to get her out of it."

Weariness and discouragement inclined him to be somewhat reckless and

brusque in his words and manner. Under the compulsion of circumstances

she who would never graciously accord him opportunities must now be

alone with him; but as a gentleman, he could not take advantage of her

helplessness, to plead his cause, and he felt a sort of rage that he

should be mocked with an apparent chance which was in fact no chance at

all.

His boat stranded several yards from the shore. Throwing down his oars,

he rose and faced her. Was it the last rays of the setting sun which

made her face so rosy, or was it embarrassment?

"I'm in a dilemma, Mr. Scofield," Miss Madison began hesitatingly.

"And you would rather be in your boat," he added.

"That would not help me any, seeing where my boat is. I have done such

a stupid thing! I stole away here to finish a book, and--well--I didn't

notice that the tide was running out. I'm sure I don't know what I'm

going to do."

Scofield put his shoulder to an oar and tried to push his craft to what

deserved the name of shore, but could make little headway. He was glad

to learn by the effort, however, that the black mud was not

unfathomable in depth. Hastily reversing his action, he began pushing

his boat back in the water.

"Surely, Mr. Scofield, you do not intend to leave me," began Miss

Madison.

"Surely not," he replied; "but then, since you are so averse to my

company, I must make sure that my boat does not become as fast as yours

on this ebb-tide, otherwise we should both have to wait till the flood."

"Oh, beg pardon! I now understand. But how can you reach me?"

"Wade," he replied coolly, proceeding to take off his shoes and

stockings.

"What! through that horrid black mud?"

"I couldn't leap that distance, Miss Madison."

"It's too bad! I'm so provoked with myself! The mud may be very deep,

or there may be a quicksand or something."

"In which case I should merely disappear a little earlier;" and he

sprang overboard up to his knees, dragged the boat till it was

sufficiently fast in the ooze to be stationary, then he waded ashore.

"Well," she said with a little deprecatory laugh, "it's a comfort not

to be alone on a desert island."

"Indeed! Can I be welcome under any circumstances?"

"Truly, Mr. Scofield, you know that you were never more welcome. It's

very kind of you."

"Any man would be glad to come to your aid. It is merely your

misfortune that I happen to be the one."

"I'm not sure that I regard it as a very great misfortune. You proved

in the case of that little boy that you can act very energetically."

"And get lectured for my intemperate zeal. Well, Miss Madison, I cannot

make a very pleasing spectacle with blackamoor legs, and it's time I

put my superfluous energy to some use. Suppose you get in your boat,

and I'll try to push it off."

She complied with a troubled look in her face. He pushed till the veins

knotted on his forehead. At this she sprang out, exclaiming, "You'll

burst a blood-vessel."

"That's only a phase of a ruptured heart, and you are used to such

phenomena."

"It's too bad for you to talk in that way," she cried.

"It certainly is. I will now attend strictly to business."

"I don't see what you can do."

"Carry you out to my boat--that is all I can do."

"Oh, Mr. Scofield!"

"Can you suggest anything else?"

She looked dubiously at the intervening black mud, and was silent.

"I could go up to the hotel and bring Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley."

She turned away to hide her tears.

"Or I could go after a brawny boatman; but delay is serious, for the

tide is running out fast and the stretch of mud growing wider. Can you

not imagine me Mike or Tim, or some fellow of that sort."

"No, I can't."

"Then perhaps you wish me to go for Mike or Tim?"

"But the tide is running out so fast, you said."

"Yes, and it will soon be dark."

"Oh, dear!" and there was distress in her tones.

He now said kindly, "Miss Madison, I wish that like Sir Walter Raleigh

I had a mantle large enough for you to walk over. You can at least

imagine that I am a gentleman, that you may soon be at the hotel, and

no one ever be any the wiser that you had to choose between me and the

deep--ah, well--mud."

"There is no reason for such an allusion, Mr. Scofield."

"Well, then, that you had no other choice."

"That's better. But how in the world can you manage it?"

"You will have to put your arm around my neck."

"Oh!"

"You would put your arm around a post, wouldn't you?" he asked with

more than his old brusqueness.

"Yes-s; but--"

"But the tide is going out. My own boat will soon be fast. Dinner will

grow cold at the hotel, and you are only the longer in dispensing with

me. You must consider the other dire alternatives."

"Ob, I forgot that you were in danger of losing a warm dinner."

"You know I have lost too much to think of that or much else. But there

is no need of satire, Miss Madison. I will do whatever you wish. That

truly is carte blanche enough even for this occasion."

"I didn't mean to be satirical. I--I--Well, have your own way."

"Not if you prefer some other way."

"You have shown that practically there isn't any other way. I'm sorry

that my misfortune, or fault rather, should also be your misfortune.

You don't know how heavy--"

"I soon will, and you must endure it all with such grace as you can.

Put your arm round my neck, so--oh, that will never do! Well, you'll

hold tight enough when I'm floundering in the mud."

Without further ado he picked her up, and started rapidly for his boat.

Stepping on a smooth stone he nearly fell, and her arm did tighten

decidedly.

"If you try to go so fast," she said, "you will fall."

"I was only seeking to shorten your ordeal, but for obvious reasons

must go slowly;" and he began feeling his way.

"Mr. Scofield, am I not very heavy?" she asked softly.

"Not as heavy as my heart, and you know it."

"I'm sure I--"

"No, you are not to blame. Moths have scorched their wings before now,

and will always continue to do so."

Her head rested slightly against his shoulder; her breath fanned his

cheek; her eyes, soft and lustrous, sought his. But he looked away

gloomy and defiant, and she felt his grasp tighten vise-like around

her. "I shall not affect any concealment of the feelings which she has

recognized so often, nor shall I ask any favors," he thought. "There,"

he said, as he placed her in his boat, "you are safe enough now. Now go

aft while I push off."

When she was seated he exerted himself almost as greatly as before, and

the boat gradually slid into the water. He sprang in and took the oars.

"Aren't you going to put on your shoes and stockings?"

"Certainly, when I put you ashore."

"Won't that be a pretty certain way of revealing the plight in which

you found me?"

"Pardon my stupidity; I was preoccupied with the thought of relieving

you from the society which you have hitherto avoided so successfully;"

and bending over his shoes he tied them almost savagely.

There was a wonderful degree of mirth and tenderness in her eyes as she

watched him. They had floated by a little point; and as he raised his

head he saw a form which he recognized as Mr. Merriweather rowing

toward them. "There comes one of your shadows," he said mockingly. "Be

careful how you exchange boats when he comes along-side. I will give

you no help in such a case."

She looked hastily over her shoulder at the approaching oarsman. "I

think it will be safer to remain in your boat," she said.

"Oh, it will be entirely safe," he replied bitterly.

"Mr. Merriweather must have seen you carrying me."

"That's another thing which I can't help."

"Mr. Scofield," she began softly.

He arrested his oars, and turned wondering eyes to hers. They were

sparkling with mirth as she continued, "Are you satisfied that a

certain young woman whom you once watched very narrowly is entirely to

your mind?"

He caught her mirthful glance and misunderstood her. With dignity he

answered, "I'm not the first man who blundered to his cost, though

probably it would have made no difference. You must do me the justice,

however, to admit that I did not maintain the role of observer very

long--that I wooed you so openly that every one was aware of my suit.

Is it not a trifle cruel to taunt me after I had made such ample

amends?"

"I was thinking of Mr. Merriweather--"

"Undoubtedly"

"Since he has seen me with my arm around your neck--you know I couldn't

help it--perhaps he might row the other way if--if--well, if he saw

you--what shall I say--sitting over here--by me--or--Somehow I don't

feel very hungry, and I wouldn't mind spending another hour--"

Scofield nearly upset the boat in his precipitous effort to gain a seat

beside her--and Mr. Merriweather did row another way.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES

It was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of the Union

advance was sweeping rapidly over a rough mountainous region in the

South, and in his place on the extreme left of this line was Private

Anson Marlow. Tall trees rising from underbrush, rocks, bowlders,

gulches worn by spring torrents, were the characteristics of the field,

which was in wild contrast with the parade-grounds on which the

combatants had first learned the tactics of war. The majority, however,

of those now in the ranks had since been drilled too often under like

circumstances, and with lead and iron shotted guns, not to know their

duty, and the lines of battle were as regular as the broken country

allowed. So far as many obstacles permitted, Marlow kept his proper

distance from the others on the line and fired coolly when he caught

glimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmishers. They were retiring

with ominous readiness toward a wooded height which the enemy occupied

with a force of unknown strength. That strength was soon manifested in

temporary disaster to the Union forces, which were driven back with

heavy loss.

Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects of our present

concern, but rather the fate of Private Marlow. The tide of battle

drifted away and left the soldier desperately wounded in a narrow

ravine, through which babbled a small stream. Excepting the voices of

his wife and children no music had ever sounded so sweetly in his ears.

With great difficulty he crawled to a little bubbling pool formed by a

tiny cascade and encircling stones, and partially slaked his

intolerable thirst.

He believed he was dying--bleeding to death. The very thought blunted

his faculties for a time; and he was conscious of little beyond a dull

wonder. Could it be possible that the tragedy of his death was enacting

in that peaceful, secluded nook? Could Nature be so indifferent or so

unconscious if it were true that he was soon to lie there DEAD? He saw

the speckled trout lying motionless at the bottom of the pool, the gray

squirrels sporting in the boughs over his head. The sunlight shimmered

and glinted through the leaves, flecking with light his prostrate form.

He dipped his hand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it

fell in rubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood--his

life-blood; and would it soon all ooze away? Could it be that death was

coming through all the brightness of that summer afternoon?

From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood-thrush suddenly began

its almost unrivalled song. The familiar melody, heard so often from

his cottage-porch in the June twilight, awoke him to the bitter truth.

His wife had then sat beside him, while his little ones played here and

there among the trees and shrubbery. They would hear the same song

to-day; he would never hear it again. That counted for little; but the

thought of their sitting behind the vines and listening to their

favorite bird, spring after spring and summer after summer, and he ever

absent, overwhelmed him.

"Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife! Oh, my children!" he groaned.

His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled afresh from his

wound; what seemed a mortal weakness crept over him; and he thought he

died.

* * * * * * *

"Say, Eb, is he done gone?"

"'Clar to grashus if I know. 'Pears mighty like it." These words were

spoken by two stout negroes, who had stolen to the battlefield as the

sounds of conflict died away.

"I'm doggoned if I tink dat he's dead. He's only swoonded," asserted

the man addressed as Eb. "'Twon't do to lebe 'im here to die, Zack."

"Sartin not; we'd hab bad luck all our days."

"I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him; and his wife's a po'ful nuss."

"Pearson orter; he's a Unioner."

"S'pose we try him; 'tain't so bery fur off."

* * * * * * *

On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson Marlow sat in the

living-room of her cottage, that stood well out in the suburbs of a

Northern town. Her eyes were hollow and full of trouble that seemed

almost beyond tears, and the bare room, that had been stripped of

nearly every appliance and suggestion of comfort, but too plainly

indicated one of the causes. Want was stamped on her thin face, that

once had been so full and pretty; poverty in its bitter extremity was

unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted floor, the meagre fire, and scanty

furniture. It was a period of depression; work had been scarce, and

much of the time she had been too ill and feeble to do more than care

for her children. Away back in August her resources had been running

low; but she had daily expected the long arrears of pay which her

husband would receive as soon as the exigencies of the campaign

permitted. Instead of these funds, so greatly needed, came the tidings

of a Union defeat, with her husband's name down among the missing.

Beyond that brief mention, so horrible in its vagueness, she had never

heard a word from the one who not only sustained her home, but also her

heart. Was he languishing in a Southern prison, or, mortally wounded,

had he lingered out some terrible hours on that wild battlefield, a

brief description of which had been so dwelt upon by her morbid fancy

that it had become like one of the scenes in Dante's "Inferno"? For a

long time she could not and would not believe that such an overwhelming

disaster had befallen her and her children, although she knew that

similar losses had come to thousands of others. Events that the world

regards as not only possible but probable are often so terrible in

their personal consequences that we shrink from even the bare thought

of their occurrence.

If Mrs. Marlow had been told from the first that her husband was dead,

the shock resulting would not have been so injurious as the suspense

that robbed her of rest for days, weeks, and months. She haunted the

post-office, and if a stranger was seen coming up the street toward her

cottage she watched feverishly for his turning in at her gate with the

tidings of her husband's safety. Night after night she Jay awake,

hoping, praying that she might hear his step returning on a furlough to

which wounds or sickness had entitled him. The natural and inevitable

result was illness and nervous prostration.

Practical neighbors had told her that her course was all wrong; that

she should be resigned and even cheerful for her children's sake; that

she needed to sleep well and live well, in order that she might have

strength to provide for them. She would make pathetic attempts to

follow this sound and thrifty advice, but suddenly when at her work or

in her troubled sleep, that awful word "missing" would pierce her heart

like an arrow, and she would moan, and at times in the depths of her

anguish cry out, "Oh, where is he? Shall I ever see him again?"

But the unrelenting demands of life are made as surely upon the

breaking as upon the happy heart. She and her children must have food,

clothing, and shelter. Her illness and feebleness at last taught her

that she must not yield to her grief, except so far as she was unable

to suppress it; that for the sake of those now seemingly dependent upon

her, she must rally every shattered nerve and every relaxed muscle.

With a heroism far beyond that of her husband and his comrades in the

field, she sought to fight the wolf from the door, or at least to keep

him at bay. Although the struggle seemed a hopeless one, she patiently

did her best from day to day, eking out her scanty earnings by the sale

or pawning of such of her household goods as she could best spare. She

felt that she would do anything rather than reveal her poverty or

accept charity. Some help was more or less kindly offered, but beyond

such aid as one neighbor may receive of another, she had said gently

but firmly, "Not yet."

The Marlows were comparative strangers in the city where they had

resided. Her husband had been a teacher in one of its public schools,

and his salary small. Patriotism had been his motive for entering the

army, and while it had cost him a mighty struggle to leave his family,

he felt that he had no more reason to hold back than thousands of

others. He believed that he could still provide for those dependent

upon him, and if he fell, those for whom he died would not permit his

widow and children to suffer. But the first popular enthusiasm for the

war had largely died out; the city was full of widows and orphans;

there was depression of spirit, stagnation in business, and a very

general disposition on the part of those who had means, to take care of

themselves, and provide for darker days that might be in the immediate

future. Sensitive, retiring Mrs. Marlow was not the one to push her

claims or reveal her need. Moreover, she could never give up the hope

that tidings from her husband might at any time bring relief and safety.

But the crisis had come at last; and on this dreary December day she

was face to face with absolute want. The wolf, with his gaunt eyes, was

crouched beside her cold hearth. A pittance owed to her for work had

not been paid. The little food left in the house had furnished the

children an unsatisfying breakfast; she had eaten nothing. On the table

beside her lay a note from the agent of the estate of which her home

was a part, bidding her call that morning. She knew why--the rent was

two months in arrears. It seemed like death to leave the house in which

her husband had placed her, and wherein she had spent her happiest

days. It stood well away from the crowded town. The little yard and

garden, with their trees, vines, and shrubbery, some of which her

husband had planted, were all dear from association. In the rear there

was a grove and open fields, which, though not belonging to the

cottage, were not forbidden to the children; and they formed a

wonderland of delight in spring, summer, and fall. Must she take her

active, restless boy Jamie, the image of his father, into a crowded

tenement? Must golden-haired Susie, with her dower of beauty, be

imprisoned in one close room, or else be exposed to the evil of corrupt

association just beyond the threshold?

Moreover, her retired home had become a refuge. Here she could hide her

sorrow and poverty. Here she could touch what he had touched, and sit

during the long winter evenings in his favorite corner by the fire.

Around her, within and without, were the little appliances for her

comfort which his hands had made, flow could she leave all this and

live? Deep in her heart also the hope would linger that he would come

again and seek her where he had left her.

"O God!" she cried suddenly. "Thou wouldst not, couldst not permit him

to die without one farewell word," and she buried her face in her hands

and rocked back and forth, while hard, dry sobs shook her slight,

famine-pinched form.

The children stopped their play and came and leaned upon her lap.

"Don't cry, mother," said Jamie, a little boy of ten. "I'll soon be big

enough to work for you; and I'll get rich, and you shall have the

biggest house in town. I'll take care of you if papa don't come back."

Little Sue knew not what to say, but the impulse of her love was her

best guide. She threw her arms around her mother's neck with such an

impetuous and childlike outburst of affection that the poor woman's

bitter and despairing thoughts were banished for a time. The deepest

chord of her nature, mother love, was touched; and for her children's

sake she rose up once more and faced the hard problems of her life.

Putting on her bonnet and thin shawl (she had parted with much that she

now so sorely needed), she went out into the cold December wind. The

sky was clouded like her hopes, and the light, even in the morning

hours, was dim and leaden-hued.

She first called on Mr. Jackson, the agent from whom she rented her

home, and besought him to give her a little more time.

"I will beg for work from door to door," she said. "Surely in this

Christian city there must be those who will give me work; and that is

all I ask."

The sleek, comfortable man, in his well-appointed office, was touched

slightly, and said in a voice that was not so gruff as he at first had

intended it should be:

"Well, I will wait a week or two longer. If then you cannot pay

something on what is already due, my duty to my employers will compel

me to take the usual course. You have told me all along that your

husband would surely return, and I have hated to say a word to

discourage you; but I fear you will have to bring yourself to face the

truth and act accordingly, as so many others have done. I know it's

very hard for you, but I am held responsible by my employer, and at my

intercession he has been lenient, as you must admit. You could get a

room or two in town for half what you must pay where you are.

Good-morning."

She went out again into the street, which the shrouded sky made sombre

in spite of preparations seen on every side for the chief festival of

the year. The fear was growing strong that like Him in whose memory the

day was honored, she and her little ones might soon not know where to

lay their heads. She succeeded in getting the small sum owed to her and

payment also for some sewing just finished. More work she could not

readily obtain, for every one was busy and preoccupied by the coming

day of gladness.

"Call again," some said kindly or carelessly, according to their

nature. "After the holidays are over we will try to have or make some

work for you."

"But I need--I must have work now," she ventured to say whenever she

had the chance.

In response to this appeal there were a few offers of charity, small

indeed, but from which she drew back with an instinct so strong that it

could not be overcome. On every side she heard the same story. The

times were very hard; requests for work and aid had been so frequent

that purses and patience were exhausted. Moreover, people had spent

their Christmas money on their households and friends, and were already

beginning to feel poor.

At last she obtained a little work, and having made a few purchases of

that which was absolutely essential, she was about to drag her weary

feet homeward when the thought occurred to her that the children would

want to hang up their stockings at night; and she murmured: "It may be

the last chance I shall ever have to put a Christmas gift in them. Oh,

that I were stronger! Oh, that I could take my sorrow more as others

seem to take theirs! But I cannot, I cannot! My burden is greater than

I can bear. The cold of this awful day is chilling my very heart, and

my grief, as hope dies, is crushing my soul. Oh, he must be dead, he

must be dead! That is what they all think. God help my little ones! Oh,

what will become of them if I sink, as I fear I shall! If it were not

for them I feel as if I would fall and die here in the street. Well, be

our fate what it may, they shall owe to me one more gleam of

happiness;" and she went into a confectioner's shop and bought a few

ornamented cakes. These were the only gifts she could afford, and they

must be in the form of food.

Before she reached home the snow was whirling in the frosty air, and

the shadows of the brief winter day deepening fast. With a smile far

more pathetic than tears she greeted the children, who were cold,

hungry, and frightened at her long absence; and they, children-like,

saw only the smile, and not the grief it masked. They saw also the

basket which she had placed on the table, and were quick to note that

it seemed a little fuller than of late.

"Jamie," she said, "run to the store down the street for some coal and

kindlings that I bought, and then we will have a good fire and a nice

supper;" and the boy, at such a prospect, eagerly obeyed.

She was glad to have him gone, that she might hide her weakness. She

sank into a chair, so white and faint that even little Susie left off

peering into the basket, and came to her with a troubled face.

"It's nothing, dearie," the poor creature said. "Mamma's only a little

tired. See," she added, tottering to the table, "I have brought you a

great piece of gingerbread."

The hungry child grasped it, and was oblivious and happy.

By the time Jamie returned with his first basket of kindling and coal,

the mother had so far rallied from her exhaustion as to meet him

smilingly again and help him replenish the dying fire.

"Now you shall rest and have your gingerbread before going for your

second load," she said cheerily; and the boy took what was ambrosia to

him, and danced around the room in joyous reaction from the depression

of the long weary day, during which, lonely and hungry, he had wondered

why his mother did not return.

"So little could make them happy, and yet I cannot seem to obtain even

that little," she sighed. "I fear--indeed, I fear--I cannot be with

them another Christmas; therefore they shall remember that I tried to

make them happy once more, and the recollection may survive the long

sad days before them, and become a part of my memory."

The room was now growing dark, and she lighted the lamp. Then she

cowered shiveringly over the reviving fire, feeling as if she could

never be warm again.

The street-lamps were lighted early on that clouded, stormy evening,

and they were a signal to Mr. Jackson, the agent, to leave his office.

He remembered that he had ordered a holiday dinner, and now found

himself in a mood to enjoy it. He had scarcely left his door before a

man, coming up the street with great strides and head bent down to the

snow-laden blast, brushed roughly against him. The stranger's cap was

drawn over his eyes, and the raised collar of his blue army overcoat

nearly concealed his face. The man hurriedly begged pardon, and was

hastening on when Mr. Jackson's exclamation of surprise caused him to

stop and look at the person he had jostled.

"Why, Mr. Marlow," the agent began, "I'm glad to see you. It's a

pleasure I feared I should never have again."

"My wife," the man almost gasped, "she's still in the house I rented of

you?"

"Oh, certainly," was the hasty reply. "It'll be all right' now."

"What do you mean? Has it not been all right?"

"Well, you see," said Mr. Jackson, apologetically, "we have been very

lenient to your wife, but the rent has not been paid for over two

months, and--"

"And you were about to turn her and her children out-of-doors in

midwinter," broke in the soldier, wrathfully. "That is the way you

sleek, comfortable stay-at-home people care for those fighting your

battles. After you concluded that I was dead, and that the rent might

not be forthcoming, you decided to put my wife into the street. Open

your office, sir, and you shall have your rent."

"Now, Mr. Marlow, there's no cause for pitching into me in this way.

You know that I am but an agent, and--"

"Tell your rich employer, then, what I have said, and ask him what he

would be worth to-day were there not men like myself, who are willing

to risk everything and suffer everything for the Union. But I've no

time to bandy words. Have you seen my wife lately?"

"Yes," was the hesitating reply; "she was here to-day, and I--"

"How is she? What did you say to her?"

"Well, she doesn't look very strong. I felt sorry for her, and gave her

more time, taking the responsibility myself--"

"How much time?"

"I said two weeks, but no doubt I could have had the time extended."

"I have MY doubts. Will you and your employer please accept my humble

gratitude that you had the grace not to turn her out-of-doors during

the holiday season? It might have caused remark; but that consideration

and some others that I might name are not to be weighed against a few

dollars and cents. I shall now remove the strain upon your patriotism

at once, and will not only pay arrears, but also for two months in

advance."

"Oh, there's no need of that to-day."

"Yes, there is. My wife shall feel to-night that she has a home. She

evidently has not received the letter I wrote as soon as I reached our

lines, or you would not have been talking to her about two weeks more

of shelter."

The agent reopened his office and saw a roll of bills extracted from

Marlow's pocket that left no doubt of the soldier's ability to provide

for his family. He gave his receipt in silence, feeling that words

would not mend matters, and then trudged off to his dinner with a

nagging appetite.

As Marlow strode away he came to a sudden resolution--he would look

upon his wife and children before they saw him; he would feast his eyes

while they were unconscious of the love that was beaming upon them. The

darkness and storm favored his project, and in brief time he saw the

light in his window. Unlatching the gate softly, and with his steps

muffled by the snow that already carpeted the frozen ground, he reached

the window, the blinds of which were but partially closed. His children

frolicking about the room were the first objects that caught his eye,

and he almost laughed aloud in his joy. Then, by turning another blind

slightly, he saw his wife shivering over the fire.

"Great God!" he muttered, "how she has suffered!" and he was about to

rush in and take her into his arms. On the threshold he restrained

himself, paused, and said, "No, not jet; I'll break the news of my

return in my own way. The shock of my sudden appearance might be too

great for her;" and he went back to the window. The wife's eyes were

following her children with such a wistful tenderness that the boy,

catching her gaze, stopped his sport, came to her side, and began to

speak. They were but a few feet away, and Marlow caught every word.

"Mamma," the child said, "you didn't eat any breakfast, and I don't

believe you have eaten anything to-day. You are always giving

everything to us. Now I declare I won't eat another bit unless you take

half of my cake;" and he broke off a piece and laid it in her lap.

"Oh, Jamie," cried the poor woman, "you looked so like your father when

you spoke that I could almost see him;" and she caught him in her arms

and covered him with kisses.

"I'll soon be big enough to take care of you. I'm going to grow up just

like papa and do everything for you," the boy said proudly as she

released him.

Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her cake in her

mother's lap, saying:

"I'll work for you, too, mamma; and to-morrow I'll sell the doll Santa

Claus gave me last Christmas, and then we'll all have plenty to eat."

Anson Marlow was sobbing outside the window as only a man weeps; and

his tears in the bitter cold became drops of ice before they reached

the ground.

"My darlings!" the mother cried. "Oh, God spare me to you and provide

some way for us! Your love should make me rich though I lack all else.

There, I won't cry any more, and you shall have as happy a Christmas as

I can give you. Perhaps He who knew what it was to be homeless and

shelterless will provide for our need; so we'll try to trust Him and

keep His birthday. And now, Jamie, go and bring the rest of the coal,

and then we will make the dear home that papa gave us cheery and warm

once more. If he were only with us we wouldn't mind hunger or cold,

would we? Oh, my husband!" she broke out afresh, "if you could only

come back, even though crippled and helpless, I feel that I could live

and grow strong from simple gladness."

"Don't you think, mamma," Jamie asked, "that God will let papa come

down from heaven and spend Christmas with us? He might be here like the

angels, and we not see him."

"I'm afraid not," the sad woman replied, shaking her head and speaking

more to herself than to the child. "I don't see how he could go back to

heaven and be happy if he knew all. No, we must be patient and try to

do our best, so that we can go to him. Go now, Jamie, before it gets

too late. I'll get supper, and then we'll sing a Christmas hymn; and

you and Susie shall hang up your stockings, just as you did last

Christmas, when dear papa was with us. We'll try to do everything he

would wish, and then by and by we shall see him again."

As the boy started on his errand his father stepped back out of the

light of the window, then followed the child with a great yearning in

his heart. He would make sure the boy was safe at home again before he

carried out his plan. From a distance he saw the little fellow receive

the coal and start slowly homeward with the burden, and he followed to

a point where the light of the street-lamps ceased, then joined the

child, and said in a gruff voice, "Here, little man, I'm going your

way. Let me carry your basket;" and he took it and strode on so fast

that the boy had to run to keep pace with him. Jamie shuffled along

through the snow as well as he could, but his little legs were so short

in comparison with those of the kindly stranger that he found himself

gradually falling behind. So he put on an extra burst of speed and

managed to lay hold of the long blue skirt of the army overcoat.

"Please, sir, don't go quite so fast," he panted.

The stranger slackened his pace, and in a constrained tone of voice,

asked:

"How far are you going, little man?"

"Only to our house--mamma's. She's Mrs. Marlow, you know."

"Yes, I know--that is, I reckon I do. How much further is it?"

"Oh, not much; we're most half-way now. I say, you're a soldier, aren't

you?"

"Yes, my boy," said Marlow, with a lump in his throat. "Why?"

"Well, you see, my papa is a soldier, too, and I thought you might know

him. We haven't heard from him for a good while, and--" choking a

bit--"mamma's afraid he is hurt, or taken prisoner or something." He

could not bring himself to say "killed."

Jamie let go the overcoat to draw his sleeve across his eyes, and the

big man once more strode on faster than ever, and Jamie began to fear

lest the dusky form might disappear in the snow and darkness with both

basket and coal; but the apparent stranger so far forgot his part that

he put down the basket at Mrs. Marlow's gate, and then passed on so

quickly that the panting boy had not time to thank him. Indeed, Anson

Marlow knew that if he lingered but a moment he would have the child in

his arms.

"Why, Jamie," exclaimed his mother, "how could you get back so soon

with that heavy basket? It was too heavy for you, but you will have to

be mamma's little man mow."

"A big man caught up with me and carried it. I don't care if he did

have a gruff voice, I'm sure he was a good kind man. He knew where we

lived too, for he put the basket down at our gate before I could say a

word, I was so out of breath, and then he was out of sight in a

minute." Some instinct kept him from saying anything about the army

overcoat.

"It's some neighbor that lives further up the street, I suppose, and

saw you getting the coal at the store," Mrs. Marlow said, "Yes, Jamie,

it was a good, kind act to help a little boy, and I think he'll have a

happier Christmas for doing it."

"Do you really think he'll have a happier Christmas, mamma?"

"Yes, I truly think so. We are so made that we cannot do a kind act

without feeling the better for it."

"Well, I think he was a queer sort of a man if he was kind. I never

knew any one to walk so fast. I spoke to him once, but he did not

answer. Perhaps the wind roared so he couldn't hear me."

"No doubt he was hurrying home to his wife and children," she said with

a deep sigh.

When his boy disappeared within the door of the cottage, Marlow turned

and walked rapidly toward the city, first going to the grocery at which

he had been in the habit of purchasing his supplies. The merchant

stared for a moment, then stepped forward and greeted his customer

warmly.

"Well," he said, after his first exclamations of surprise were over,

"the snow has made you almost as white as a ghost; but I'm glad you're

not one. We scarce ever thought to see you again."

"Has my wife an open account here now?" was the brief response.

"Yes, and it might have been much larger. I've told her so too. She

stopped taking credit some time ago, and when she's had a dollar or two

to spare she's paid it on the old score. She bought so little that I

said to her once that she need not go elsewhere to buy; that I' d sell

to her as cheap as any one: that I believed you'd come back all right,

and if you didn't she could pay me when she could. What do you think

she did? Why, she burst out crying, and said, 'God bless you, sir, for

saying my husband will come back! So many have discouraged me.' I

declare to you her feeling was so right down genuine that I had to mop

my own eyes. But she wouldn't take any more credit, and she bought so

little that I've been troubled. I'd have sent her something, but your

wife somehow ain't one of them kind that you can give things to, and--"

Marlow interrupted the good-hearted, garrulous shopman by saying

significantly, "Come with me to your back-office"; for the soldier

feared that some one might enter who would recognize him and carry the

tidings to his home prematurely.

"Mr. Wilkins," he said rapidly, "I wanted to find out if you too had

thriftily shut down on a soldier's wife. You shall not regret your

kindness."

"Hang it all!" broke in Wilkins, with compunction, "I haven't been very

kind. I ought to have gone and seen your wife and found out how things

were; and I meant to, but I've been so confoundedly busy--"

"No matter now; I've not a moment to spare. You must help me to break

the news of my return in my own way. I mean they shall have such a

Christmas in the little cottage as was never known in this town. You

could send a load right over there, couldn't you?"

"Certainly, certainly," said Wilkins, under the impulse of both

business thrift and goodwill; and a list of tea, coffee, sugar, flour,

bread, cakes, apples, etc., was dashed off rapidly; and Marlow had the

satisfaction of seeing the errand-boy, the two clerks, and the

proprietor himself busily working to fill the order in the shortest

possible space of time.

He next went to a restaurant, a little further down the street, where

he had taken his meals for a short time before he brought his family to

town, and was greeted with almost equal surprise and warmth. Marlow cut

short all words by his almost feverish haste. A huge turkey had just

been roasted for the needs of the coming holiday, and this with a cold

ham and a pot of coffee was ordered to be sent in a covered tray within

a quarter of an hour. Then a toy-shop was visited, and such a doll

purchased! for tears came into Marlow's eyes whenever he thought of his

child's offer to sell her dolly for her mother's sake.

After selecting a sled for Jamie, and directing that they should be

sent at once, he could restrain his impatience no longer, and almost

tore back to his station at the cottage window. His wife was placing

the meagre little supper on the table, and how poor and scanty it was!

"Is that the best the dear soul can do on Christmas Eve?" he groaned.

"Why, there's scarcely enough for little Sue. Thank God, my darling, I

will sit down with you to a rather different supper before long!"

He bowed his head reverently with his wife as she asked God's blessing,

and wondered at her faith. Then he looked and listened again with a

heart-hunger which had been growing for months.

"Do you really think Santa Claus will fill our stockings to-night?" Sue

asked.

"I think he'll have something for you," she replied. "There are so many

poor little boys and girls in the city that he may not be able to bring

very much to you."

"Who is Santa Claus, anyway?" questioned Jamie.

Tears came into the wife's eyes as she thought of the one who had

always remembered them so kindly as far as his modest means permitted.

She hesitated in her reply; and before she could decide upon an answer

there was a knock at the door. Jamie ran to open it, and started back

as a man entered with cap, eyebrows, beard, and shaggy coat all white

with the falling snow. He placed two great baskets of provisions on the

floor, and said they were for Mrs. Anson Marlow.

"There is some mistake," Mrs. Marlow began; but the children, after

staring a moment, shouted, "Santa Claus! Santa Claus!"

The grocer's man took the unexpected cue instantly, and said, "No

mistake, ma'am. They are from Santa Claus;" and before another word

could be spoken he was gone. The face of the grocer's man was not very

familiar to Mrs. Marlow, and the snow had disguised him completely. The

children had no misgivings and pounced upon the baskets and with,

exclamations of delight drew out such articles as they could lift.

"I can't understand it," said the mother, bewildered and almost

frightened.

"Why, mamma, it's as plain as day," cried Jamie. "Didn't he look just

like the pictures of Santa Claus--white beard and white eyebrows? Oh,

mamma, mamma, here is a great paper of red-cheeked apples!" and he and

Susie tugged at it until they dragged it over the side of the basket,

when the bottom of the bag came out, and the fruit flecked the floor

with red and gold. Oh, the bliss of picking up those apples; of

comparing one with another; of running to the mother and asking which

was the biggest and which the reddest and most beautifully streaked!

"There must have been some mistake," the poor woman kept murmuring as

she examined the baskets and found how liberal and varied was the

supply, "for who could or would have been so kind?"

"Why, mommie," said little Sue, reproachfully, "Santa Claus brought

'em. Haven't you always told us that Santa Claus liked to make us

happy?"

The long-exiled father felt that he could restrain himself but a few

moments longer, and he was glad to see that the rest of his purchases

were at the door. With a look so intent, and yearning concentration of

thought so intense that it was strange that they could not feel his

presence, he bent his eyes once more upon a scene that would imprint

itself upon his memory forever.

But while he stood there, another scene came before his mental vision.

Oddly enough his thought went back to that far-off Southern brookside,

where he had lain with his hands in the cool water. He leaned against

the window-casing, with the Northern snow whirling about his head; but

he breathed the balmy breath of a Southern forest, the wood-thrush sang

in the trees overhead, and he could--so it seemed to him--actually feel

the water-worn pebbles under his palms as he watched the life-blood

ebbing from his side. Then there was a dim consciousness of rough but

kindly arms bearing him through the underbrush, and more distinctly the

memory of weary weeks of convalescence in a mountaineer's cabin. All

these scenes of peril, before he finally reached the Union lines,

passed before him as he stood in a species of trance beside the window

of his home.

The half-grown boys sent from the restaurant and toy-shop could not be

mistaken for Santa Claus even by the credulous fancy of the children,

and Mrs. Marlow stepped forward eagerly and said:

"I am sure there is some mistake. You are certainly leaving these

articles at the wrong house." The faces of the children began to grow

anxious and troubled also, for even their faith could not accept such

marvellous good-fortune. Jamie looked at the sled with a kind of awe,

and saw at a glance that it was handsomer than any in the street "Mr.

Lansing, a wealthy man, lives a little further on," Mrs. Marlow began

to urge; "and these things must be meant--"

"Isn't your name Mrs. Anson Marlow?" asked the boy from the restaurant.

"Yes."

"Then I must do as I've been told;" and he opened his tray and placed

the turkey, the ham, and the coffee on the table.

"If he's right, I'm right too," said he of the toy-shop. "Them was my

directions;" and they were both about to depart when the woman sprang

forward and gasped: "Stay!"

She clasped her hands and trembled violently.

"Who sent these things?" she faltered.

"Our bosses, mum," replied the boy from the restaurant, hesitatingly.

She sprang toward him, seized his arm, and looked imploringly into his

face. "Who ordered them sent?" she asked in a low, passionate voice.

The young fellow began to smile, and stammered awkwardly, "I don't

think I'm to tell."

She released his arm and glanced around with a look of intense

expectation.

"Oh, oh!" she gasped with quick short sobs, "can it be--" Then she

sprang to the door, opened it, and looked out into the black, stormy

night. What seemed a shadow rushed toward her; she felt herself

falling, but strong arms caught and bore her, half fainting, to a

lounge within the room.

Many have died from sorrow, but few from joy. With her husband's arms

around her Mrs. Marlow's weakness soon passed. In response to his deep,

earnest tones of soothing and entreaty, she speedily opened her eyes

and gave him a smile so full of content and unutterable joy that all

anxiety in her behalf began to pass from his mind.

"Yes," she said softly, "I can live now. It seems as if a new and

stronger life were coming back with every breath."

The young fellows who had been the bearers of the gifts were so touched

that they drew their rough sleeves across their eyes as they hastened

away, closing the door on the happiest family in the city.

A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS

A TRADITION OF THE REVOLUTION

Not very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but at a considerable

distance from the river, there stood, one hundred years ago, a

farmhouse that evidently had been built as much for strength and

defence as for comfort. The dwelling was one story and a half in

height, and was constructed of hewn logs, fitted closely together, and

made impervious to the weather by old-fashioned mortar, which seems to

defy the action of time. Two entrances facing each other led to the

main or living room, and they were so large that a horse could pass

through them, dragging in immense back-logs. These, having been

detached from a chain when in the proper position, were rolled into the

huge fireplace that yawned like a sooty cavern at the farther end of

the apartment. A modern housekeeper, who finds wood too dear an article

for even the air-tight stove, would be appalled by this fireplace.

Stalwart Mr. Reynolds, the master of the house, could easily walk under

its stony arch without removing his broad-brimmed Quaker hat. From the

left side, and at a convenient height from the hearth, a massive crane

swung in and out; while high above the centre of the fire was an iron

hook, or trammel, from which by chains were suspended the capacious

iron pots used in those days for culinary or for stock-feeding

purposes. This trammel, which hitherto had suggested only good cheer,

was destined to have in coming years a terrible significance to the

household.

When the blaze was moderate, or the bed of live coals not too ample,

the children could sit on either side of the fireplace and watch the

stars through its wide flue; and this was a favorite amusement of Phebe

Reynolds, the eldest daughter of the house.

A door opened from the living-room into the other apartments, furnished

in the old massive style that outlasts many generations. All the

windows were protected by stout oaken shutters which, when closed,

almost transformed the dwelling into a fortress, giving security

against any ordinary attack. There were no loopholes in the walls

through which the muzzle of the deadly rifle could be thrust and fired

from within. This feature, so common in the primitive abodes of the

country, was not in accordance with John Reynolds's Quaker principles.

While indisposed to fight, it was evident that the good man intended to

interpose between himself and his enemies all the passive resistance

that his stout little domicile could offer.

And he knew that he had enemies of the bitterest and most unscrupulous

character. He was a stanch Whig, loyal to the American cause, and,

above all, resolute and active in the maintenance of law and order in

those lawless times. He thus had made himself obnoxious to his Tory

neighbors, and an object of hate and fear to a gang of marauders, who,

under the pretence of acting with the British forces, plundered the

country far and near. Claudius Smith, the Robin Hood of the Highlands

and the terror of the pastoral low country, had formerly been their

leader; and the sympathy shown by Mr. Reynolds with all the efforts to

bring him to justice which finally resulted in his capture and

execution, and awakened among his former associates an intense desire

for revenge. This fact, well known to the farmer, kept him constantly

on his guard, and filled his wife and daughter Phebe with deep

apprehension.

At the time of our story, Phebe was only twelve years of age, but was

mature beyond her years. There were several younger children, and she

had become almost womanly in aiding her mother in their care. Her

stout, plump little body had been developed rather than enfeebled by

early toil, and a pair of resolute and often mirthful blue eyes bespoke

a spirit not easily daunted. She was a native growth of the period,

vitalized by pure air and out-of-door pursuits, and she abounded in the

shrewd intelligence and demure refinement of her sect to a degree that

led some of their neighbors to speak of her as "a little old woman."

When alone with the children, however, or in the woods and fields, she

would doff her Quaker primness, and romp, climb trees, and frolic with

the wildest.

But of late, the troublous times and her father's peril had brought

unwonted thoughtfulness into her blue eyes, and more than Quaker

gravity to the fresh young face, which, in spite of exposure to sun and

wind, maintained much of its inherited fairness of complexion. Of her

own accord she was becoming a vigilant sentinel, for a rumor had

reached Mr. Reynolds that sooner or later he would have a visit from

the dreaded mountain gang of hard riders. Two roads leading to the

hills converged on the main highway not far from his dwelling; and from

an adjacent knoll Phebe often watched this place, while her father,

with a lad in his employ, completed their work about the barn. When the

shadows deepened, all was made as secure as possible without and

within, and the sturdy farmer, after committing himself and his

household to the Divine protection, slept as only brave men sleep who

are clear in conscience and accustomed to danger.

His faith was undoubtedly rewarded; but Providence in the execution of

its will loves to use vigilant human eyes and ready, loving hands. The

guardian angel destined to protect the good man was his blooming

daughter Phebe, who had never thought of herself as an angel, and

indeed rarely thought of herself at all, as is usually the case with

those who do most to sweeten and brighten the world. She was a natural,

wholesome, human child, with all a child's unconsciousness of self. She

knew she could not protect her father like a great stalwart son, but

she could watch and warn him of danger, and as the sequel proved, she

could do far more.

The farmer's habits were well known, and the ruffians of the mountains

were aware that after he had shut himself in he was much like Noah in

his ark. If they attempted to burn him out, the flames would bring down

upon them a score of neighbors not hampered by Quaker principles.

Therefore they resolved upon a sudden onslaught before he had finished

the evening labors of the farm. This was what the farmer feared; and

Phebe, like a vigilant outpost, was now never absent from her place of

observation until called in.

One spring evening she saw two mounted men descending one of the roads

which led from the mountains. Instead of jogging quietly out on the

highway, as ordinary travellers would have done, they disappeared among

the trees. Soon afterward she caught a glimpse of two other horsemen on

the second mountain road. One of these soon came into full view, and

looked up and down as if to see that all was clear. Apparently

satisfied, he gave a low whistle, when three men joined him. Phebe

waited to see no more, but sped toward the house, her flaxen curls

flying from her flushed and excited face.

"They are coming, father! Thee must be quick!" she cried.

But a moment or two elapsed before all were within the dwelling, the

doors banged and barred, the heavy shutters closed, and the

home-fortress made secure. Phebe's warning had come none too soon, for

they had scarcely time to take breath before the tramp of galloping

horses and the oaths of their baffled foes were heard without. The

marauders did not dare make much noise, for fear that some passing

neighbor might give the alarm. Tying their horses behind the house,

where they would be hidden from the road, they tried various expedients

to gain an entrance, but the logs and heavy planks baffled them. At

last one of the number suggested that they should ascend the roof and

climb down the wide flue of the chimney. This plan was easy of

execution, and for a few moments the stout farmer thought that his hour

had come. With a heroism far beyond that of the man who strikes down

his assailant, he prepared to suffer all things rather than take life

with his own hands.

But his wife proved equal to this emergency. She had been making over a

bed, and a large basket of feathers was within reach. There were live

coals on the hearth, but they did not give out enough heat to prevent

the ruffians from descending. Two of them were already in the chimney,

and were threatening horrible vengeance if the least resistance was

offered. Upon the coals on the hearth the housewife instantly emptied

her basket of feathers; and a great volume of pungent, stifling smoke

poured up the chimney. The threats of the men, who by means of ropes

were cautiously descending, were transformed into choking,

half-suffocated sounds, and it was soon evident that the intruders were

scrambling out as fast as possible. A hurried consultation on the roof

ensued, and then, as if something had alarmed them, they galloped off.

With the exception of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in an

adjacent swamp, the night soon grew quiet around the closed and

darkened dwelling. Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanksgiving over their

escape, and then after watching a few hours, slept as did thousands of

others in those times of anxiety.

But Phebe did not sleep. She grew old by moments that night as do other

girls by months and years; as never before she understood that her

father's life was in peril. How much that life meant to her and the

little brood of which she was the eldest! How much it meant to her dear

mother, who was soon again to give birth to a little one that would

need a father's protection and support! As the young girl lay in her

little attic room, with dilated eyes and ears intent on the slightest

sound, she was ready for any heroic self-sacrifice, without once

dreaming that she was heroic.

The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was a period of

increased vigilance which compelled the outlaws to lie close in their

mountain fastnesses. But Phebe knew that her father's enemies were

still at large with their hate only stimulated because baffled for a

time. Therefore she did not in the least relax her watchfulness; and

she besought their nearest neighbors to come to their assistance should

any alarm be given.

When the spring and early summer passed without further trouble, they

all began to breathe more freely, but one July night John Reynolds was

betrayed by his patriotic impulses. He was awakened by a loud knocking

at his door. Full of misgiving, he rose and hastily dressed himself:

Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes at the first alarm, joined him

and said earnestly:

"Don't thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this time of night;"

and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on a bed in the adjoining

room, added her entreaty to that of her daughter. In answer, however,

to Mr. Reynolds's inquiries a voice from without, speaking quietly and

seemingly with authority, asserted that they were a squad from

Washington's forces in search of deserters, and that no harm would

ensue unless he denied their lawful request. Conscious of innocence,

and aware that detachments were often abroad on such authorized quests,

Mr. Reynolds unbarred his door. The moment he opened it he saw his

terrible error; not soldiers, but the members of the mountain gang,

were crouched like wild beasts ready to spring upon him.

"Fly, father!" cried Phebe. "They won't hurt us;" but before the

bewildered man could think what to do, the door flew open from the

pressure of half a dozen wild-looking desperadoes, and he was powerless

in their grasp. They evidently designed murder, but not a quick and

merciful "taking off"; they first heaped upon their victim the vilest

epithets, seeking in their thirst for revenge to inflict all the

terrors of death in anticipation. The good man, however, now face to

face with his fate, grew calm and resigned. Exasperated by his courage,

they began to cut and torture him with their swords and knives. Phebe

rushed forward to interpose her little form between her father and the

ruffians, and was dashed, half stunned, into a corner of the room. Even

for the sake of his sick wife, the brave farmer could not refrain from

uttering groans of anguish which brought the poor woman with faltering

steps into his presence. After one glance at the awful scene she sank,

half fainting, on a settee near the door.

When the desire for plunder got the better of their fiendish cruelty,

one of the gang threw a noosed rope over Mr. Reynolds's head, and then

they hanged him to the trammel or iron hook in the great chimney.

"You can't smoke us out this time," they shouted. "You've now got to

settle with the avengers of Claudius Smith; and you and some others

will find us ugly customers to settle with."

They then rushed off to rob the house, for the farmer was reputed to

have not a little money in his strong box. The moment they were gone

Phebe seized a knife and cut her father down. Terror and excitement

gave her almost supernatural strength, and with the aid of the boy in

her father's service she got the poor man on a bed which he had

occupied during his wife's illness. Her reviving mother was beginning

to direct her movements when the ruffians again entered; and furious

with rage, they again seized and hanged her father, while one, more

brutal than the others, whipped the poor child with a heavy rope until

he thought she was disabled. The girl at first cowered and shivered

under the blows, and then sank as if lifeless on the floor. But the

moment she was left to herself she darted forward and once more cut her

father down. The robbers then flew upon the prostrate man and cut and

stabbed him until they supposed he was dead. Toward his family they

meditated a more terrible and devilish cruelty. After sacking the house

and taking all the plunder they could carry, they relieved the

horror-stricken wife and crying, shrieking children of their presence.

Their further action, however, soon inspired Phebe with a new and more

awful fear, for she found that they had fastened the doors on the

outside and were building a fire against one of them.

For a moment an overpowering despair at the prospect of their fate

almost paralyzed her. She believed her father was dead. The boy who had

aided her at first was now dazed and helpless from terror. If aught

could be done in this supreme moment of peril she saw that it must be

done by her hands. The smoke from the kindling fire without was already

curling in through the crevices around the door. There was not a

moment, not a second to be lost. The ruffians' voices were growing

fainter and she heard the sounds of their horses' feet. Would they go

away in time for her to extinguish the fire? She ran to her attic room

and cautiously opened the shutter. Yes, they were mounting; and in the

faint light of the late-rising moon she saw that they were taking her

father's horses. A moment later, as if fearing that the blaze might

cause immediate pursuit, they dashed off toward the mountains.

The clatter of their horses' hoofs had not died away before the

intrepid girl had opened the shutter of a window nearest the ground,

and springing lightly out with a pail in her hand she rushed to the

trough near the barn, which she knew was full of water. Back and forth

she flew between the fire and the convenient reservoir with all the

water that her bruised arms and back permitted her to carry.

Fortunately the night was a little damp, and the stout thick door had

kindled slowly. To her intense joy she soon gained the mastery of the

flames, and at last extinguished them.

She did not dare to open the door for fear that the robbers might

return, but clambering in at the window, made all secure as had been

customary, for now it was her impulse to do just as her father would

have done.

She found her mother on her knees beside her father, who would indeed

have been a ghastly and awful object to all but the eyes of love.

"Oh, Phebe, I hope--I almost believe thy father lives!" cried the

woman. "Is it my throbbing palm, or does his heart still beat?"

"I'm sure it beats, mother!" cried the girl, putting her little hand on

the gashed and mangled body.

"Oh, then there's hope! Here, Abner," to the boy, "isn't there any man

in thee? Help Phebe get him on the bed, and then we must stop this

awful bleeding. Oh, that I were well and strong! Phebe, thee must now

take my place. Thee may save thy father's life. I can tell thee what to

do if thee has the courage."

Phebe had the courage and with deft hands did her mother's bidding. She

stanched the many gaping wounds; she gave spirits at first drop by

drop, until at last the man breathed and was conscious. Even before the

dawn began to brighten over the dreaded Highlands which their ruthless

enemies were already climbing, Phebe was flying, bare-headed, across

the fields to their nearest neighbor. The good people heard of the

outrage with horror and indignation. A half-grown lad sprang on the

bare back of a young horse and galloped across the country for a

surgeon. A few moments later the farmer, equipped for chase and battle,

dashed away at headlong pace to alarm the neighborhood. The news sped

from house to house and hamlet to hamlet like fire in prairie grass.

The sun had scarcely risen before a dozen bronzed and stern-browed men

were riding into John Reynolds's farm-yard under the lead of young Hal

June--the best shot that the wars had left in the region. The surgeon

had already arrived, and before he ceased from his labors he had

dressed thirty wounds.

The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was terrible--for she

was eager to return to her father and sick mother. She had not dreamed

of herself as the heroine of the affair, and had not given any such

impression, although more than one had remarked that she was "a plucky

little chick to give the alarm before it was light." But when the proud

mother faintly and tearfully related the particulars of the tragedy,

and told how Phebe had saved her father's life and probably her

mother's--for, "I was too sick to climb out of a window," she said;

when she told how the child after a merciless whipping had again cut

her father down from the trammel-hook, had extinguished the fire, and

had been nursing her father back to life, while all the time in almost

agony herself from the cruel blows that had been rained upon her--Phebe

was dazed and bewildered at the storm of applause that greeted her. And

when the surgeon, in order to intensify the general desire for

vengeance, showed the great welts and scars on her arms and neck,

gray-bearded fathers who had known her from infancy took her into their

arms and blessed and kissed her. For once in his life young Hal June

wished he was a gray-beard, but his course was much more to the mind of

Phebe than any number of caresses would have been. Springing on his

great black horse, and with his dark eyes burning with a fire that only

blood could quench, he shouted:

"Come, neighbors, it's time for deeds. That brave little woman ought to

make a man of every mother's son of us;" and he dashed away so

furiously that Phebe thought with a strange little tremor at her heart

that he might in his speed face the robbers all alone. The stout yeomen

clattered after him; the sound of their pursuit soon died away; and

Phebe returned to woman's work of nursing, watching, and praying.

The bandits of the hills, not expecting such prompt retaliation, were

overtaken, and then followed a headlong race over the rough mountain

roads--guilty wretches flying for life, and stern men almost reckless

in the burning desire to avenge a terrible wrong. Although the horses

of the marauders were tired, their riders were so well acquainted with

the fastnesses of the wilderness that they led the pursuers through

exceedingly difficult and dangerous paths. At last, June ever in the

van, caught sight of a man's form, and almost instantly his rifle awoke

a hundred echoes among the hills. When they reached the place, stains

of blood marked the ground, proving that at least a wound had been

given. Just beyond, the gang evidently had dispersed, each one for

himself, leaving behind everything that impeded their progress. The

region was almost impenetrable in its wildness except by those who knew

all its rugged paths. The body of the man whom June had wounded,

however, was found, clothed in a suit of Quaker drab stolen from Mr.

Reynolds. The rest of the band with few exceptions met with fates that

accorded with their deeds.

Phebe had the happiness of nursing her father back to health, and

although maimed and disfigured, he lived to a ripe old age. If the bud

is the promise of the flower, Phebe must have developed a womanhood

that was regal in its worth; at the same time I believe that she always

remained a modest, demure little Quakeress, and never thought of her

virtues except when reminded of them in plain English.

NOTE--In the preceding narrative I have followed almost literally a

family tradition of events which actually occurred.

THE END