_WHEN THE DAY BROKE_.
All night long the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed around the table
where Rance Belmont and John Corbett played the game which is still
remembered and talked of by the Black Creek old settlers when their
thoughts run upon old times.
Just as the daylight began to show blue behind the frosted panes, and
the yellow lamplight grew pale and sickly, Rance Belmont rose and
stretched his stiffened limbs.
"I am sorry to bring such a pleasant gathering to an end," he said,
with his inscrutable smile, "but I believe I am done." He was searching
through his pockets as he spoke. "Yes, I believe the game is over."
"You're a mighty good loser, Rance," George Sims declared with
admiration.
The other men rose, too, and went out to feed their horses, for the
storm was over and they must soon be on the road.
When John Corbett and Rance Belmont went out into the kitchen, Maggie
Corbett was chopping up potatoes in the frying-pan with a baking-powder
can, looking as fresh and rested as if she had been asleep all night,
instead of holding a lonely vigil beside a stovepipe-hole.
John Corbett advanced to the table and solemnly deposited the green box
thereon; then with painstaking deliberation he arranged the contents of
his pockets in piles. Rance Belmont's watch lay by itself; then the
bills according to denomination; last of all the silver and a slip of
brown paper with writing on it in lead-pencil.
When all was complete, he nodded to Maggie to take charge of the
proceedings.
Maggie hastily inspected the contents of the green box, and having
satisfied herself that it was all there, she laid it up, high and dry,
on the clock shelf.
Then she hastily looked at the piles and read the slip of brown paper,
which seemed to stand for one sorrel pacer, one cutter, one set single
harness, two goat robes.
"Rance," said Maggie, slowly, "we don't want a cent that don't belong
to us. I put Da at playing with you in the hope he would win all away
from you that you had, for we were bound to stop you from goin' away
with that dear girl if it could be done, and we knew you couldn't go
broke; but now you can't do any harm if you had all the money in the
world, for she's just gone home a few minutes ago with her man."
Rance Belmont started forward with a smothered oath, which Mrs. Corbett
ignored.
"So take your money and horse and all, Rance. It ain't me and Da would
keep a cent we haven't earned. Take it, Rance"--shoving it toward him--
"there's no hard feelin's now, and good luck to you! Sure, I guess Da
enjoyed the game, and it seems he hadn't forgot the way." Maggie
Corbett could not keep a small note of triumph out of her voice.
Rance Belmont gathered up the money without a word, and, putting on his
cap and overcoat, he left the Black Creek Stopping-House. John Corbett
carried the green box upstairs and put it carefully back in its place
of safety, while Maggie Corbett carefully peppered and salted the
potatoes in the pan.
* * * * *
When Robert Grant, of the Imperial Lumber Company, of Toronto, wakened
from his slumber it was broad daylight, and the yellow winter sun
poured in through the frosted panes. The events of the previous night
came back to him by degrees; the sore place on his face reminding him
of the slight difference of opinion between himself and his new friend,
young Mr. Brown.
"Pretty nice, tasty room this young fellow has," he said to himself,
looking around at the many evidences of daintiness and good taste.
"He's a dandy fine young fellow, that Brown. I could take to him
without half trying."
Then he became conscious of low voices in the next room.
"Hello, Brown!" he called.
Fred appeared in the doorway with a smiling face.
"How do you feel this morning, Mr. Grant?" he asked.
"I feel hungry," Mr. Grant declared. "I want some more of your good
prairie cooking. If I get another meal of it I believe I'll be able to
make friends with my son-in-law. When are you going to let me get up?"
Just then there was a rustle of skirts and Evelyn came swiftly into the
room.
"Oh, father! father!" she cried, kissing the old man over and over
again. "You will forgive me, won't you?"
The old man's voice was husky with happy tears.
"I guess we won't talk about forgiveness, dearie--we're about even, I
think--but we've had our lesson. I've got my girl back--and, Evelyn, I
want you and Fred to come home with me for Christmas and forever.
You've got the old man solid, Evelyn. I couldn't face a Christmas
without you."
Evelyn kissed him again without speaking.
"I will apologize to your man, Evelyn," the old man said, after a
pause. "I haven't treated the boy right. I hope he won't hold it
against me."
"Not a bit of it," declared Evelyn. "You don't know Fred--that's all."
"Oh, how did you get here, Evelyn? Do you live near here? I have been
so glad to see you I forgot to ask."
"Mr. Brown brought me over," said Evelyn, unblushingly. "He came over
early this morning to tell me you were here. Wasn't it nice of him?"
"He's a dandy fellow, this young Brown," said the old man, and then
stopped abruptly.
Evelyn's eyes were sparkling with suppressed laughter.
"But where is Fred?" her father asked, with an effort, and Evelyn
watched him girding himself for a painful duty.
"I'll call him," she said, sweetly.
The old man's grey eyes grew dark with excitement and surprise as his
friend Brown came into the room and stood beside Evelyn and quite
brazenly put his left arm around her waist. His face was a study in
emotions as his quick brain grasped the situation. With a prolonged
whistle he dropped back on the pillow, and pulling the counterpane over
his face he shook with laughter.
"The joke is all on me," he cried. "I have been three or four different
kinds of a fool."
Then he emerged from the bed-clothes and, sitting up, grasped Fred's
outstretched hand.
"There's one thing, though, I am very proud of, Fred," he said; "I may
not be a good judge of humanity myself, but I am glad to know that my
girl had all her wits about her when she went to pick out a man for
herself!"
Randolph and Reginald stayed in hiding until it was established beyond
all doubt that their brother Fred was alive and well. Then they came
back to the "Sailors' Rest," and life for them went on as before.
At Christmas time a bulky letter and a small white box came addressed
to them, bearing the postmark of Bournemouth.
The brothers seized their letter with undiluted joy; it was addressed
in a bold, masculine hand, a lawyer's undoubtedly--a striking though
perhaps not conclusive proof that Aunt Patience had winged her flight.
They were a little bit disappointed that it had not black edges--they
had always imagined that the "blow" would come with black edges.
Reginald opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor.
Randolph opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor.
It contained a thick announcement card, with heavy gold edge, and the
news that it carried was to the effect that on December the first Miss
Priscilla Abigail Patience Brydon had been united in marriage to Rev.
Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland, Rector of St. Albans, Tilbury-on-
the-Stoke, and followed this with the information that Mr. and Mrs.
Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland would be at home after January the
first in the Rectory, Appleblossom Court, Parklane Road, Tilbury-on-
the-Stoke.
The envelope also contained a sweetly happy, fluttery little note from
Aunt Patience, saying she hoped they were well, and that she would try
to be a good mother to the Rector's four little boys.
The small white box contained two squares of wedding cake!
THE RUNAWAY GRANDMOTHER
(Reprinted by permission of _The Globe_, Toronto.)
George Shaw came back to his desolate hearth, and, sitting by the
untidy table, thought bitter things of women. The stove dripped ashes;
the table overflowed with dirty dishes.
His last housekeeper had been gone a week--she had left by request.
Incidentally there disappeared at the same time towels, pillow-covers,
a few small tools, and many other articles which are of a size to go in
a trunk.
His former housekeeper, second to the last, had been a teary-eyed
English lady, who, as a child, had played with King George, and was
well beloved by all the Royal family. She had a soul above work, and
utterly despised Canadians. Once, when her employer remonstrated with
her for wearing his best overcoat when she went to milk, she fell
a-weeping and declared she wasn't going to be put on. Mr. Shaw said the
same thing about his coat, and it led to unpleasantness. The next day
he found her picking chips in his brown derby, and when he expressed
his disapproval she told him it was no fit hat for a young man like
him--he should have a topper. Mr. Shaw decided that he would try to do
without her.
Before that he had had a red-cheeked Irishwoman, who cooked so well,
scrubbed so industriously, that he had thought his troubles were all
over. But one day she went to Millford, and came home in a state of
wild exhilaration, with more of the same in a large black bottle. When
Mr. Shaw came to put away the horse, she struck him over the head with
her handbag, playfully blackening one of his eyes, and then begged him
to come and make up--"kiss and forgit, like the swate pet that he was."
Exit Mrs. Murphy.
George Shaw decided to do his own cooking, but in three days every dish
in the house was dirty; the teapot was full of leaves, the stove full
of ashes, and the floor was slippery.
George Shaw's farm lay parallel with the Souris River in that fertile
region which lies between the Brandon and the Tiger Hills. His fields
ran an unbroken mile, facing the Tiger Hills, blue with mist. He was a
successful young farmer, and he should have been a happy man without a
care in the world, but he did not look it as he sat wearily by his red
stove, with the deep furrows of care on his young face.
The busy time was coming on; he needed another man, and he did hate
trying to do the cooking himself.
As a last hope he decided to advertise. He hunted up his writing-pad
and wrote hastily:
"Housekeeper wanted by a farmer; must be sober and steady. Good wages
to the right person. Apply to George Shaw, Millford, Man."
He read it over reflectively. "There ought to be someone for me," he
said. "I am not hard to please. Any good, steady old lady who will give
me a bite to eat, not swear at me or wear my clothes or drink while on
duty will answer my purpose."
Two days after his advertisement had appeared in the Brandon _Times_,
"she" arrived.
Shaw saw a smart-looking woman gaily tripping along the road, and his
heart failed.
As she drew near, however, he was relieved to find that her hair was
snowy white.
"Good evening, Mr. Shaw!" she called to him as soon as she was within
speaking distance.
"Good evening, madam," he replied, lifting his hat.
"I just asked along the road until I found you," she said, untying her
bonnet strings; "I knew this lonesome little house must be the place.
No trees, no flowers, no curtains, no washing on the line--I could tell
there was no woman around." She was fixing her hair at his little glass
as she spoke. "Now, son, run out and get a few chips for the fire, and
we'll have a bite of supper in a few minutes."
Shaw brought the chips.
"Now, what do you say to pancakes for supper?"
Shaw declared that nothing would suit him so well as pancakes.
The fire crackled merrily under the kettle, and soon the two of them
were sitting down to an appetizing meal of pancakes and syrup, boiled
eggs and tea.
"Land sakes, George, you must have had your own time with those
housekeepers of yours! Some of them drank, eh? I could tell that by the
piece you put in the paper. But never mind them now; I'll soon have you
feeling fine as silk. How's your socks? Toes out, I'll bet. Well, I'll
hunt you up a pair, if there's any to be found. If I can't find any you
can go to bed when you get your chores done, and I'll wash out them
you've on--I can't bear my men folks to have their toes out; a hole in
the heel ain't so bad, it's behind you and you can forget it, but a
hole in the toe is always in your way no matter which way you're
going."
After supper, when Shaw was out doing his chores, he could see her
bustling in and out of the house; now she was beating his bedclothes on
the line; in another minute she was leaning far out of a bedroom window
dusting a pillow.
When he came into the house she reported that her search for stockings,
though vigorous, had been vain. He protested a little about having to
go to bed when the sun was shining, but she insisted.
"I'm sorry, George," she said, "to have to make you go to bed, but it's
the only thing we can do. You'll find your bed feels a lot better since
I took the horse collar and the pair of rubber boots out from under the
mattress. That's a poor place to keep things. Good-night now--don't
read lying down."
When he went upstairs Shaw noticed with dismay that his lamp had gone
from the box beside his bed. So he was not likely to disobey her last
injunction--at least, not for any length of time.
Just at daylight the next morning there came a knock at his door.
"Come, George--time to get up!"
When he came in from feeding his horses a splendid breakfast was on the
table.
"Here's your basin, George; go out and have a good wash. Here's your
comb; it's been lost for quite awhile. I put a towel out there for you,
too. Hurry up now and get your vittles while they are nice!"
When Shaw came to the table she regarded him with pleasure.
"You're a fine-looking boy, George, when you're slicked up," she said.
"Now bow your head until we say grace! There, now pitch in and tell me
how you like grandma's cooking."
Shaw ate heartily and praised everything.
A few days afterwards she said, "Now, George, I guess I'll have to ask
you to go to town and get some things we need for the house."
Shaw readily agreed, and took out his paper and pencil.
"Soap, starch, ten yards of cheesecloth--that's for curtains," she
said. "I'll knit lace for them, and they'll look real dressy; toilet
soap, sponge and nailbrush--that's for your bath, George; you haven't
been taking them as often as you should, or the hoops wouldn't have
come off your tub. You can't cheat Nature, George; she always tells on
you. Ten yards flannelette--that's for night-shirts; ten yards
sheeting--that's for your bed--and your white shirts are pretty far
gone."
"How do you know?" he asked in surprise; "they are all in my trunk."
"Yes, I know, and the key is in that old cup on the stand, and I know
how to unlock a trunk, don't I?" she replied with dignity. "You need
new shirts all right, but just get one. I never could abear them
boughten shirts, they are so skimpy in the skirt; I'll make you some
lovely ones, with blue and pink flossin' down the front."
He looked up alarmed.
"Then about collars," she went on serenely. "You have three, but
they're not in very good shape, though, of course, you couldn't expect
anything better of them, kept in that box with the nails--oh, I found
them, George, you needn't look so surprised. You see I know something
about boys--I have three of my own." A shadow passed over her face and
she sighed. "Well, I guess that is all for to-day. Be sure to get your
mail and hurry home."
"Shall I tell the postmaster to put your mail in my box?" he asked.
"Oh, no, never mind--I ain't expectin' any," she said, and Shaw drove
away wondering.
A few nights after she said, "Well, George, I suppose you are wonderin'
now who this old lady is, though I am not to say real old either."
"Indeed you are not old," Shaw declared with considerable gallantry;
"you are just in your prime."
She regarded him gratefully. "You're a real nice boy, George," she
said, "and there ain't going to be no secrets between us. If you wet
your feet, or tear your clothes, don't try to hide it. Don't keep
nothing from me and I won't keep nothing from you. Now I'll tell you
who I am and all about it. I am Mrs. Peter Harris, of Owen Sound,
Ontario, and I have three sons here in the West. They've all done well,
fur as money goes. I came up to visit them. I came from Bert's here. I
couldn't stand the way Bert's folks live. Mind you, they burn their
lights all night, and they told me it doesn't cost a cent more. Land o'
liberty! They can't fool me. If lights burn, someone pays--and the
amount of hired help they keep is something scandalous. Et, that is
Bert's wife, is real smart, and they have two hired girls, besides
their own two girls, and they get in a woman to wash besides. I wanted
them to let the two girls go while I was there, but no, sir! Et says,
'Grandma, you didn't come here to work, you must just rest.' They
wouldn't let me do a thing, and that brazen hired girl--the housemaid,
they call her--one day even made my bed; and, mind you, George, she put
the narrow hem on the sheet to the top, and she wasn't a bit ashamed
when I told her. She said she hoped it didn't make me feel that I was
standin' on my head all night; and the way that woman hung out the
clothes was a perfect scandal!" Her voice fell to an awed whisper. "She
hangs the underwear in plain sight. I ain't never been used to the like
of that! I could not stay. Bert is kind enough, so is Et, and they have
one girl, Maud, that I really do like. She is twenty-one, but, of
course, brought up the way she has been, she is awful ignorant for that
age. Mind you, that girl had never turned the heel of a stocking until
I got her at it, but Maud can learn. I'd take that girl quick, and
bring her up like my own, if Bert would let me. Well, anyway, I could
not put up with the way they live, and I just ran away."
"You ran away!" echoed Shaw. "They'll be looking for you!"
"Let 'em look!" said the old lady, grimly. "They won't ever find me
here."
"I'll hide you in the haymow, and if they come in here to search for
you I'll declare I never knew you--I am prepared to do desperate
things," Shaw declared.
"George, if they ever get in here--that is, Et anyway--she'll know who
did the fixin' up. There ain't many that know how to do this Rocky Road
to Dublin that is on your lounge. Et would know who'd been here."
"That settles it!" declared Shaw. "Et shall not enter. If Et gets in it
shall be over my prostrate form, but maybe it would be better for you
to take the Rocky Road with you to the hayloft!"
The old lady laughed heartily. "Ain't we happy, George, you and me?
I've tried all my own, and they won't let me have one bit of my own
way. Out at Edward's--he's a lawyer at Regina--I tried to get them all
to go to bed at half-past ten--late enough, too, for decent people--and
didn't Edward's wife get real miffed over it? And then I went to Tom's
--he's a doctor down at Winnipeg, but he's all gone to politics; he was
out night after night makin' speeches, and he had a young fellow
lookin' after his practice who wouldn't know a corn from a gumboil only
they grow in different places. Tom's pa and me spent good money on his
education, and it's hard for us to see him makin' no use of it. He was
nice enough to me, wanted me to stay and be company for Edith, but I
told him he should try to be company for Edith himself. Well, he didn't
get elected--that's one comfort. I believe it was an answer to prayer.
Maybe he'll settle down to his doctorin' now. Then I went to Bert's,
and I soon saw I could not stay there. Just as soon as I saw your
little bit in the paper, I says, 'The Lord has opened a door!' I gave
Maud a hint that I would clear out some day and go where I would be let
work, and the dear child says to me, 'Grandma, if I ever get a house of
my own you can come and live with me, and you can do every bit of the
work, and everyone will have to do just what you say; they'll have to
go to bed at sundown if you say so.' Maud's the best one I have
belongin' to me. She'll give them a hint that I'm all right."
But Shaw was apprehensive. He knew who Bert was, and he had
uncomfortable visions of Mr. Albert Harris driving up to his door some
day and demanding that Mrs. Peter Harris, his mother, immediately come
home with him; and the fear and dread of former housekeepers swept over
George Shaw's soul. No, he would not give her up! Of course, there were
times when he thought she was rather exacting, and when he felt some
sympathy for Edward's wife forgetting "miffed."
When she was with him about a week she announced that he must have a
daily bath! "It is easier to wash you than the bed-clothes, that's one
reason," she said, "and it's good for you besides. That's what's wrong
with lots of young boys; they git careless and dirty, and then they
take to smoking and drinking just natcherally. A clean hide, mind you,
is next to a clean heart. Now go along upstairs; everything is ready
for you."
Henceforth there was no danger of the hoops falling off the tub, for it
was in daily use, and, indeed, it was not many nights until George Shaw
looked forward with pleasure to his nightly wash.
The old lady's face glowed with pleasure as she went about her work, or
sat sewing in the shade of the house. At her instigation Shaw had put
up a shed for his machinery, which formerly had littered the yard, and
put his wood in even piles.
The ground fell away in a steep ravine, just in front of the house, and
pink wild roses and columbine hung in profusion over the spring which
gushed out of the bank. Away to the east were the sand-hills of the
Assiniboine--the bad lands of the prairie, their surface peopled with
stiff spruce trees that stand like sentries looking, always looking out
across the plain!
Mrs. Harris often sat with her work in the shade of the house, on
pleasant afternoons, looking at this peaceful scene, and her heart was
full of gladness and content.
The summer passed pleasantly for George Shaw and his cheery old
housekeeper. Not a word did they hear from "Bert's" folks.
"I would like to see Maud," Mrs. Harris said one night to Shaw as she
sat knitting a sock for him beside their cheerful fireside. He was
reading.
"What is Maud like?" he asked.
"Maud favors my side of the house," she answered. "She's a pretty good-
looking girl, very much the hi'th and complexion I used to be when I
was her age. You'd like Maud fine if you saw her, George."
"I don't want to see her," Shaw replied, "for I am afraid that the
coming of Maud might mean the departure of Grandma, and that would be a
bad day for me."
"I ain't goin' to leave you, George, and I believe Maud would be
reasonable if she did come! She'd see how happy we are!"
It was in the early autumn that Maud came. The grain had all been cut
and stacked, and was waiting for the thresher to come on its rounds.
Shaw was ploughing in the field in front of his house when Maud came
walking briskly up the road just as her grandmother had done four
months before! The trees in the poplar grove beside the road were
turning red and yellow with autumn, and Maud, in her red-brown suit and
hat, looked as if she belonged to the picture.
Some such thought as this struggled in Shaw's brain and shone in his
eyes as he waited for her at the headland.
He raised his hat as she drew near. Maud went right into the subject.
"Have you my grandmother?" she asked.
Shaw hesitated--the dreaded moment had come. Visions of former
housekeepers--dirty dishes, unmade bed, dust, flies, mice--rose before
him and tempted him to say "no," but something stronger and better,
perhaps it was the "clean hide" prompting the clean heart, spoke up in
him.
"I have your grandmother," he said slowly, "and she is very well and
happy."
"Will you give her up?" was Maud's next question.
"Never!" he answered stoutly; "and she won't give me up, either. Your
grandmother and I are very fond of each other, I would like you to
know--but come in and see her."
That night after supper, which proved to be a very merry meal in spite
of the shadow which had fallen across the little home, Mrs. Harris said
almost tearfully: "I can't leave this pore lamb, Maud--there's no
knowin' what will happen to him."
"I will go straight back to the blanket and dog soup," Shaw declared
with cheerful conviction. "You can't imagine the state things were in
when your grandmother came--bed not made since Christmas, horsenails
for buttons, comb and brush lost but not missed, wash basin rusty! Your
grandmother, of course, has been severe with me--she makes me go to bed
before sundown. Yet I refuse to part with her. Who takes your
grandmother takes me; and now, Miss Maud, it is your move!"
That night when they sat in the small sitting-room with a bright fire
burning in the shining stove, Maud felt her claim on her grandmother
growing more and more shadowy. Mrs. Harris was in a radiant humor. She
was knitting lace for the curtains, and chatted gaily as she worked.
"You see, Maud, I am never lonely here; it's a real heartsome place to
live. There's the trains goin' by twice a day, and George here is a
real good hand to read out to me. We're not near done with the book
we're reading, and I am anxious to see if Adam got the girl. He was set
on havin' her, but some of her folks were in for makin' trouble."
"Folks sometimes do!" said Shaw, meaningly.
"Well, I can't go until we finish the book," the old lady declared,
"and we see how the story comes out, and I don't believe Maud is the
one to ask it."
Maud made a pretty picture as she sat with one shapely foot on the
fender of the stove, the firelight dancing on her face and hair. Shaw,
looking at her, forgot the errand on which she came--forgot everything
only that she was there.
"Light the lamp and read a bit of the book now," Mrs. Harris said.
"Maud'll like it, I know. She's the greatest girl for books!"
Shaw began to read. It was "The Kentucky Cardinal" he read, that
exquisite love-story, that makes us lovers all, even if we never have
been, or worse still, have forgotten. Shaw loved the book, and read it
tenderly, and Maud, leaning back in her chair, found her heart warmed
with a sudden great content.
A week later Shaw and Maud walked along the river bank and discussed
the situation. Autumn leaves carpeted the ground beneath their feet,
and the faint murmur of the river below as it slipped over its pebbly
bed came faintly to their ears. In the sky above them, wild geese with
flashing white wings honked away toward the south, and a meadow lark,
that jolly fellow who comes early and stays late, on a red-leafed
haw-tree poured out his little heart in melody.
"You see, Mr. Shaw," Maud was saying, "it doesn't look right for
Grandma to be living with a stranger when she has so many of her own
people. I know she is happy with you--happier than she has been with
any of us--but what will people think? It looks as if we didn't care
for her, and we do. She is the sweetest old lady in the world." Maud
was very much in earnest.
Shaw's eyes followed the wild geese until they faded into tiny specks
on the horizon. Then he turned and looked straight into her face.
"Maud," he said, with a strange vibration in his voice, "I know a way
out of the difficulty; a real good, pleasant way, and by it your
grandmother can continue to live with me, and still be with her own
folks. Maud, can you guess it?"
The blush that spread over Maud's face indicated that she was a good
guesser!
Then the meadow-lark, all unnoticed, hopped a little nearer, and sang
sweeter than ever. Not that anybody was listening, either!
THE RETURN TICKET
(Reprinted by permission of _The Canadian Ladies' Home Journal_.)
In the station at Emerson, the boundary town, we were waiting for the
Soo train, which comes at an early hour in the morning. It was a
bitterly cold, dark, winter morning; the wires overhead sang dismally
in the wind, and even the cheer of the big coal fire that glowed in the
rusty stove was dampened by the incessant mourning of the storm.
Along the walls, on the benches, sat the trackmen, in their sheepskin
coats and fur caps, with earlaps tied tightly down. They were tired and
sleepy, and sat in every conceivable attitude expressive of sleepiness
and fatigue. A red lantern, like an evil eye, gleamed from one dark
corner; in the middle of the floor were several green lamps turned low,
and over against the wall hung one barred lantern whose bright little
gleam of light reminded one uncomfortably of a small, live mouse in a
cage, caught and doomed, but undaunted still. The telegraph instruments
clicked at intervals. Two men, wrapped in overcoats, stood beside the
stove and talked in low tones about the way real estate was increasing
in value in Winnipeg.
The door opened and a big fellow, another snow shoveller, came in
hurriedly, letting in a burst of flying snow that sizzled on the hot
stove. It did not rouse the sleepers from the bench; neither did the
new-comer's remark that it was a "deuce of a night" bring forth any
argument--we were one on that point.
The train was late; the night agent told us that when he came out to
shovel in more coal--"she" was delayed by the storm.
I leaned back and tried to be comfortable. After all, I thought, it
might easily be worse. I was going home after a pleasant visit. I had
many agreeable things to think of, and still I kept thinking to myself
that it was not a cheerful night. The clock, of course, indicated that
it was morning, but the deep black that looked in through the frosted
windows, the heavy shadows in the room, which the flickering lanterns
only seemed to emphasize, were all of the night, and bore no relation
to the morning.
The train came at last with a roar that drowned the voice of the storm.
The sleepers on the bench sprang up like one man, seized their
lanterns, and we all rushed out together. The long coach that I entered
was filled with tired, sleepy-looking people, who had been sitting up
all night. They were curled up uncomfortably, making a brave attempt to
rest, all except one little old lady, who sat upright, looking out into
the black night. When the official came to ask the passengers where
they were going, I heard her tell him that she was a Canadian, and she
had been "down in the States with Annie, and now she was bringing Annie
home," and as she said this she pointed significantly ahead to the
baggage car.
There was something about the old lady that appealed to me. I went over
to her when the official had gone out. No, she wasn't tired, she said;
she "had been up a good many nights, and been worried some, but the
night before last she had had a real good sleep."
She was quite willing to talk; the long black night had made her glad
of companionship.
"I took Annie to Rochester, down in Minnesota, to see the doctors
there--the Mayos--did you ever hear of the Mayos? Well, Dr. Smale, at
Rose Valley, said they were her only hope. Annie had been ailing for
years, and Dr. Smale had done all he could for her. Dr. Moore, our old
doctor, wouldn't hear of it; he said an operation would kill her, but
Annie was set on going. I heard Annie say to him that she'd rather die
than live sick, and she would go to Rochester. Dave Johnston--Annie's
man, that is--he drinks, you know--"
The old lady's voice fell and her tired old face seemed to take on
deeper lines of trouble as she sat silent with her own sad thoughts. I
expressed my sorrow.
"Yes, Annie had her own troubles, poor girl," she said at last; "and
she was a good girl, Annie was, and she deserved something better. She
was a tender-hearted girl, and gentle and quiet, and never talked back
to anyone, to Dave least of all, for she worshipped the very ground he
walked on, and married him against all our wishes. She thought she
could reform him!"
She said it sadly, but without bitterness.
"Was he good to her?" I asked. People draw near together in the stormy
dark of a winter's morning, and the thought of Annie in her narrow box
ahead robbed my question of any rudeness.
"He was good to her in his own way," Annie's mother said, trying to be
quite just, "but it was a rough way. She had a fine, big, brick house
to live in--it was a grand house, but it was a lonely house. He often
went away and stayed for weeks, and her not knowing where he was or how
he would come home. He worried her always. The doctor said that was
part of her trouble--he worried her too much."
"Did he ever try to stop drinking?" I asked. I wanted to think better
of him if I could.
"Yes, he did; he was sober once for nearly a year, and Annie's health
was better than it had been for years, but the crowd around the hotel
there in Rose Valley got after him every chance, and one Christmas Day
they got him going again. Annie never could bear to mention about him
drinkin' to anyone, not even me--it would ha' been easier on her if she
could ha' talked about it, but she wasn't one of the talkin' kind."
We sat in silence, listening to the pounding of the rails.
"Everybody was kind to her in Rochester," she said, after a while.
"When we were sitting there waitin' our turn--you know how the sick
people wait there in two long rows, waitin' to be taken in to the
consultin' room, don't you? Well, when we were sittin' there Annie was
sufferin' pretty bad, and we were still a long way from the top of the
line. Dr. Judd was takin' them off as fast as he could, and the
ambulances were drivin' off every few minutes, takin' them away to the
hospital after the doctors had decided what was wrong with them. Some
of them didn't need to go to the hospital at all--they're the best off,
I think. We got talkin' to the people around us--they are there from
all over the country, with all kinds of diseases, poor people. Well,
there was a man from Kansas City who had been waitin' a week, but had
got up now second to the end, and I noticed him lookin' at Annie. I was
fannin' her and tryin' to keep her cheered up. Her face was a bad color
from the pain she was in, and what did this man do but git up and come
down to us and tell Annie that she could have his place. He said he
wasn't in very bad pain now, and he would take her place. He made very
little of it, but it meant a lot to us, and to him, too, poor fellow.
Annie didn't want to do it, but he insisted. Sick folks know how to be
kind to sick folks, I tell you."
The dawn began to show blue behind the frost ferns on the window and
the lamps overhead looked pale and sickly in the grey light.
"Annie had her operation on Monday," she went on after a long pause.
"She was lookin' every day for a letter from Dave, and when the doctor
told her they would operate on her on Monday morning early, she asked
him if he would mind putting it off until noon. She thought there would
be a letter from Dave, for sure, on that morning's mail. The doctor was
very kind to her--they understand a lot, them Mayos--and he did put it
off. In the ward with Annie there was a little woman from Saskatchewan,
that was a very bad case. She talked to us a lot about her man and her
four children. She had a real good man by what she said. They were on a
homestead near Quill Lake, and she was so sure she'd get well. The
doctor was very hopeful of Annie, and said she had nine chances out of
ten of getting better, but this little woman's was a worse case. Dr.
Will Mayo told her she had just one chance in ten---but, dear me, she
was a brave woman; she spoke right up quick, and says she, 'That's all
I want; I'll get well if I've only half a chance. I've got to; Jim and
the children can't do without me.' Jim was her man. When they came to
take her out into the operating room they couldn't give her ether, some
way. She grabbed the doctor's hand, and says she, kind of chokin' up,
all at once, 'You'll do your best for Jim's sake, won't you?' and he
says, says he, 'My dear woman, I'll do my best for your sake.' Busy and
all as they are, they're the kindest men in the world, and just before
they began to operate the nurse brought her a letter from Jim and read
it to her, and she held it in her hand through it all, and when they
wheeled her back into the ward after the operation, it was still in her
hand, though she had fainted dead away."
"Did Annie get her letter?" I asked her.
My companion did not answer at once, but I knew very well that the
letter had not come.
"She didn't ask for it at the last; she just looked at me before they
put the gauze thing over her face. I knew what she meant. I had been
down to see if it had come, and they told me all the mails were in for
the day from the West. She just looked at me so pitiful, but it was
like Annie not to ask. A letter from Dave would have comforted her so,
but it didn't come, though I wired him two days before telling him when
the operation would be. Annie was wonderful cheerful and calm, but I
was trembling like a leaf when they were givin' her the ether, and when
they wheeled her out all so stiff and white I just seemed to feel I'd
lost my girl."
I took the old lady's hand and tried to whisper words of comfort. She
returned the pressure of my hand; her eyes were tearless, and her voice
did not even waver, but the thought of poor Annie going into the valley
unassured by any loving word gave free passage to my tears.
"Did Dave write or wire?" I asked when I could speak.
"No, not a word; he's likely off on a spree." The old lady spoke
bitterly now. "Everybody was kind to my Annie but him, and it was a
word from him that would have cheered her the most. Dr. Mayo came and
sat beside her just an hour before she died, and says he, 'You still
have a chance, Mrs. Johnston,' but Annie just thanked him again for his
kindness and sort o' shook her head.....
"The little woman from Saskatchewan didn't do well at all after the
operation, and Dr. Mayo was afraid she wouldn't pull through. She asked
him what chance she had, and he told her straight--the Mayos always
tell the truth--that she had only one chance in a hundred. She was so
weak that he had to bend down to hear her whisperin', 'I'll take that
one chance!'"
"And did she?" I asked eagerly.
"She was still living when I left. She will get better, I think. She
has a very good man, by what she was tellin' us, and a woman can stand
a lot if she has a good man," the old lady said, with the wisdom born
of experience. "I've nursed around a lot, and I've always noticed
that!"
I have noticed it, too, though I've never "nursed around."
"Dave came with us to the station the day we left home. He was sober
that day, and gave Annie plenty of money. Annie told him to get a
return ticket for her, too. I said he'd better get just a single for
her, for she might have to stay longer than a month; but she said no,
she'd be back in a month, all right. Dave seemed pleased to hear her
talk so cheerful. When she got her ticket she sat lookin' at it a long
time. I knew what she was thinkin'. She never was a girl to talk
mournful, and when the conductor tore off the goin' down part she gave
me the return piece, and she says, 'You take this, mother.' I knew that
she was thinkin' what the return half might be used for."
We changed cars at Newton, and I stood with the old lady and watched
the trainmen unload the long box. They threw off trunks, boxes and
valises almost viciously, but when they lifted up the long box their
manner changed and they laid it down as tenderly as if they had known
something of Annie and her troubled life.
We sent another telegram to Dave, and then sat down in the waiting-room
to wait for the west train. The wind drove the snow in billows over the
prairie, and the early twilight of the morning was bitterly cold.
Her train came first, and again the long box was gently put aboard. On
the wind-swept platform Annie's mother and I shook hands without a
word, and in another minute the long train was sweeping swiftly across
the white prairie. I watched it idly, thinking of Annie and her sad
home-going. Just then the first pale beams of the morning sun glinted
on the last coach, and touched with fine gold the long white smoke
plume, which the wind carried far over the field. There is nothing so
cheerful as the sunshine, and as I sat in the little grey waiting-room,
watching the narrow golden beam that danced over the closed wicket, I
could well believe that a rest remains for Annie, and that she is sure
of a welcome at her journey's end. And as the sun's warmth began to
thaw the tracery of frost on the window, I began to hope that God's
grace may yet find out Dave, and that he too may "make good" in the
years to come. As for the little woman from Quill Lake, who was still
willing to take the one chance, I have never had the slightest doubt.
THE UNGRATEFUL PIGEONS
Philip was a little boy, with a generous growth of freckles, and a
loving heart. Most people saw only the freckles, but his mother never
lost sight of his affectionate nature. So when, one warm spring day, he
sat moodily around the house, she was ready to listen to his grievance.
"I want something for a pet," said Philip. "I have no dog or cat or
anything!"
"What would you like the very best of all?" his mother asked, with the
air of a fairy godmother.
"I want pigeons! They are so pretty and white and soft, and they lay
eggs and hatch young ones."
All his gloom had vanished!
"How much a pair?" asked his mother.
"Twenty-five cents out at Crane's. They have millions of them; I can
walk out--it's only five miles."
"Where will we put them when you bring them home?" she asked.
Philip thought they could share his room, but this suggestion was
promptly rejected!
Then Philip's father was hurriedly interviewed by Philip's mother, and
he agreed to nail a box on the end of the stable, far beyond the reach
of prowling cats, and Philip, armed with twenty-five cents, set forth
gaily on his five-mile walk. It was Saturday morning, and a beautiful
day of glittering April sunshine. The sun was nearly down when Philip
returned, tired but happy. It seemed there had been some trouble in
catching them. The quoted price of twenty-five cents a pair was for
raw, uncaught pigeons, but Philip had succeeded at last and brought
back two beauties, one with blue markings, and the other one almost
white.
The path of true love never ran smooth; difficulties were encountered
at once. Philip put a generous supply of straw in one end of the box
for a bed, but when he put them in they turned round and round as if
they were not quite satisfied with their lodgings. Then Philip had one
of those dazzling ideas which so often led to trouble with the other
members of his family. He made a hurried visit to Rose's--his sister's
--room. Rose was a grown-up lady of twelve.
When he came back, he brought with him a dove-grey chiffon auto veil,
the kind that was much favored that spring by young ladies in Rose's
set, for a head protection instead of hats.
Rose's intimate friend, Hattie Matthews, had that very day put a knot
in each side, which made it fit very artistically on Rose's head.
Philip carefully untied the knots, and draped it over the straw. The
effect was beautiful. Philip exclaimed with delight! They looked so
pretty and "woozy"!
In the innocence of his heart, he ran into the house, for Rose; he
wanted her to rejoice with him.
Rose's language was pointed, though dignified, and the pretty sight was
ruthlessly broken up. Philip's mother, however, stepped into the gap,
and produced an old, pale blue veil of her own, which was equally
becoming.
It was she, too, who proposed a pigeon book, and a very pleasant time
was spent making it,--for it was not a common book, bought with money,
but one made by loving hands. Several sheets of linen notepaper were
used for the inside, with stiff yellow paper for the cover, the whole
fastened with pale blue silk. Then Philip printed on the cover:
Philip Brown,
Pigeon Book,
but not in any ordinary, plain, little bits of letters! Each capital
was topped off with an arrow, and ended with a feather, and even the
small letters had a thick blanket of dots.
The first entry was as follows:
April 7th.--_I wocked out to Crane's, and got 2 fantales. they are hard
to ketch. I payed 25 scents. My father knailed a box on the stable, and
I put in a bed of straw, they are bootiful. my sister would not let me
have her vale, but I got one prettier. they look woozy_.
The next day, Sunday, Philip did not see how he could go to church or
Sunday-school--he had not time, he said, but his mother agreed to watch
the pigeons, and so his religious obligations did not need to be set
aside.
Monday afternoon the Browns' back yard was full of little boys
inspecting Philip's pigeons, not merely idle onlookers, but hard-headed
poultry fanciers, as shown by the following entry:
April 9th.--_I sold a pare of white ones to-day to Wilfred Garbett, to
be kept three weeks after birth, Eva Gayton wants a pare too any color,
in July. She paid for them_.
Under this entry, which was made laboriously in ink, there was another
one, in lead pencil, done by Philip's brother, Jack:
_This is called selling Pigeons short_.
Philip's friends recommended many and varied things for the pigeons to
eat, and he did his best to supply them all, as far as his slender
means allowed; he went to the elevator for wheat; he traded his good
jack-knife for two mouse-eaten and anaemic heads of squaw-corn, which
were highly recommended by an unscrupulous young Shylock, who had just
come to town and was short of a jack-knife. His handkerchief,
scribblers and pencils mysteriously disappeared, but other articles
came in their place: a small round mirror advertising corsets on the
back (Gordon Smith said pigeons liked a looking-glass--it made them
more contented to stay at home); a small swing out of a birdcage, which
was duly put in place (vendor Miss Edie Beal, owner unknown). Of
course, it was too small for pigeons, but there were going to be little
ones very soon, weren't there?
He also brought to them one day five sunflower seeds, recommended and
sold by a mild-eyed little Murphy girl, who had the stubby fingers of a
money-maker. Philip, being very low in funds that day, wanted her to
accept prospective eggs in payment, but the stubby-fingered Miss Murphy
preferred currency! Philip decided to make no entry of these
transactions in his Pigeon Book.
His young brother, Barrie, began to be troublesome about this time, and
to evince an unwholesome interest in the pigeons. The ladder, which was
placed against the stable under their house, at first seemed to him too
high to climb, but seeing the multitude of delighted spectators who
went up and down without accident, he resolved to try it, too, and so
successfully that he was able after a few attempts to carry a stick
with him, stand on the highest rung, and poke up the pigeons.
One day he was caught--with the goods--by Philip himself. So indignant
was Philip that for a moment he stood speechless. His young brother,
jarred by a guilty conscience and fear of Philip, came hastily down the
ladder, raising a few bruises on his anatomy as he came. Even in his
infant soul he felt he deserved all he had got, and thought best not to
mention the occurrence. Philip, too, generously kept quiet about it,
feeling that the claims of justice had been met. The only dissatisfied
parties in the transaction were the pigeons.
The next Sunday in Sabbath School there was a temperance lesson, and
Barrie Brown quoted the Golden Text with a slight variation--"At the
last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like a _ladder_!"
Philip was the only one who knew what he meant, and he said it served
him good and right.
The following entry appears in the Pigeon Book:
_My brother Barrie poks them, but he got his leson. tomoro I'll let
them out--there fond enough of home now I gess_.
The next day being Saturday, when Philip could watch them, he let them
out. All day long his heart was torn with pride and fear--they looked
so beautiful, circling and wheeling over the stable and far away across
the road, and yet his heart was chill with the fear that they would
never return.
That night the Pigeon Book received the following entry:
April 21st.--_I let them out and, they came back--they are sweet pets.
I dreem about them every night I have two dreems, my good dreem is
the've layd my bad dreem is about tomcats and two little heaps of
fethers its horrid_.
The next week another entry went into the book:
_I sold another pare to-day I've raised the price this pare is to be
delivered in Ogist. I gave them a bran mash to-day, it makes them lay
sure._
Under this Jack wrote:
_Thinking of the August delivery_.
The next entry was this:
May 1st.--_Wilfred G. is pritty meen, he thinks he knows it all. they
aint goin to lay all in a hurry._
There seemed to be no doubt about this. They certainly were not. In
spite of bran mashes, pepper, cotton batting, blue veil and tender
care, they refused to even consider the question of laying.
Philip was quite satisfied with them as they were, if they would only
stay with him, but the customers who had bought and paid for highly
recommended young fowl were inclined to be impatient and even
unpleasant when the two parent birds were to be seen gadding around the
street at all hours of the day, utterly regardless of their young
master's promises.
Philip learned to call them. His "cutacutacoo--cutacutacoo" could be
heard up and down the street. Sometimes they seemed to pay a little
attention to him, and then his joy was full. More often they seemed to
say, "Cutacutacoo yourself!" or some such saucy word, and fly farther
away.
One night they did not come home. Philip's most insistent "cutacutacoo"
brought no response. He hired boys to help him to look for them,
beggaring himself of allies and marbles, even giving away his Lucky
Shooter, a mottled pee-wee, to a lynx-eyed young hunter who claimed to
be able to see in the dark. He even dared the town constable by staying
out long after the curfew had rung, looking and asking. No one had seen
them.
Through the night it rained, a cold, cruel rain--or so it seemed to the
sad-hearted, wide-awake little boy. He stole out quietly, afraid that
he might be sent back to bed, but only his mother heard him, and she
understood. It was lonesome and dark outside, but love lighted his way.
He groped his way up the ladder, hoping to find them, but though the
straw, the cotton batting, the blue veil, the water-dish were all in
place--there were no pigeons!
Philip came back to bed, cold and wet in body, but his heart colder
still with fear, and his face wetter with tears. Under cover of the
night a boy of ten can cry all he wants to.
His mother, who heard him going out and who understood, called softly
to him to come to her room, and then sympathized. She said they were
safe enough, never fear, with some flock of pigeons; they had got
lonesome, that was all; they would come back when they got hungry, and
the rain would not hurt them, and be sure to wipe his feet!
The next day they were found across the street with Jerry Andrews'
pigeons, as unconcerned as you please. Philip parted with his Lost Heir
game--about the only thing he had left--to get Jerry to help him to
catch them when they were roosting. He shut them up for a few days and
worked harder than ever, if that were possible, to try to please them.
The Pigeon Book would have been neglected only for his mother, who said
it was only right to put in the bad as well as the good. That was the
way with all stories. Philip made this entry:
_They went away and staid and had to be brot back by force I guess they
were lonesome. I don't know why they don't like me--I like them_!
When his mother read that she said, "Poor little fellow," and made
pancakes for tea.
In a few days he let them out again, and watched them with a pale face.
They did not hesitate a minute, but flew straight away down the street
to the place they had been before, to the place where the people often
made pies of pigeons and were not ashamed to tell it!
Philip followed them silently, not having the heart to call.
"Say, Phil," the boy of the pigeon loft called--he was a stout boy who
made money out of everything--"I guess they ain't goin' to stay with
you. You might as well sell out to me. I'll give you ten cents for the
pair. I'm goin' to sell a bunch to the hotel on Saturday."
An insane desire to fight him took hold of Philip. He turned away
without speaking.
At school that day he approached the pigeon boy and made the
proposition that filled the boy with astonishment: "I'll give them to
you, Jerry," he said, hurriedly, "if you promise not to kill them. It's
all right! I guess I won't bother with pigeons--I think I'll get a dog
--or something," he ended lamely.
Jerry was surprised, but being a business man he closed the deal on the
spot. When Philip went home he put his pigeon book away.
There was a final entry, slightly smeared and very badly written:
_They are ungrateful broots_!
YOU NEVER CAN TELL
(Reprinted by permission of _Saturday Night_, Toronto.)
It was at exactly half-past three in the afternoon of a hot June day
that Mrs. Theodore Banks became smitten with the idea. Mrs. Banks often
said afterwards she did not know how she came to be thinking about the
Convention of the Arts and Crafts at all, although she is the
Secretary. The idea was so compelling that Mrs. Banks rushed down town
to tell Mr. Banks--she felt she could not depend on the telephone.
"Ted," she cried, when she opened the door of the office, "I have an
idea!"
Theodore raised his eyelids.
Mrs. Banks was flushed and excited and looked well. Mrs. Banks was a
handsome woman any time, and to-day her vivacity was quite genuine.
"You know the Convention of the Arts and Crafts--which begins on the
twentieth."
"I've heard of it--somewhere."
"Well, it just came to me, Teddy, what a perfectly heavenly thing it
would be to invite that little Mrs. Dawson, who writes reviews for one
of the papers here--you remember I told you about her--she is awfully
clever and artistic and good-looking, and lives away off from every
place, and her husband is not her equal at all--perfectly illiterate,
I heard--uncultured anyway. What a perfect joy it would be to her to
have her come, and meet with people who are her equals. She's an Ottawa
girl originally, I believe, and she does write the most perfectly sweet
and darling things--you remember I've read them for you. Of course, she
is probably very shabby and out of date in her clothes by this time.
But it doesn't really matter what one wears, if one has heaps of
brains. It is only dull women, really, who have to be so terribly
careful about what they wear, and spend so much money that way!"
"Dull women!" Theodore murmured. "Oh! is that why? I never really
knew."
She laughed at his look of enlightened surprise. When Mrs. Banks
laughed there were three dimples plainly showing, which did not
entirely discourage her merriment.
"And you know, Teddy, there is such a mystery about her marriage! She
will really be quite an acquisition, and we'll have her on the
programme."
"What mystery?" Mr. Banks asked.
"Oh, well, not mystery, maybe, but we all suppose she's not happy. How
could she be with so few of the real pleasures of life, and still she
stays with it, and actually goes places with her husband, and seems to
be keeping it up, and you know, Ted, she has either three or four
children!"
"Is it as bad as that?" he asked, solemnly.
"Oh, Ted! you know well enough what I mean--don't be such an owl! Just
think of how tied down and horrible it must be for her out there in
that desolate Alberta, with no neighbors at all for miles, and then
only impossible people. I should think it would drive her mad. I must
try to get her on the programme, too. She will at least be interesting,
on account of her personality. Most of our speakers are horribly prosy,
at least to me, but of course I never listen; I just look to see what
they've on and then go straight back to my own thinking. I just thought
I'd ask your advice, Teddy dear, before I asked the Committee, and so
now I'll go to see Mrs. Trenton, the President. So glad you approve,
dear! And really there will be a touch of romance in it, Ted, for Bruce
Edwards knew her when she lived in Ottawa--it was he who told me so
much about her. He simply raved about her to me--it seems he was quite
mad about her once, and probably it was a lover's quarrel or something
that drove her away to the West to forget,--and now think of her
meeting Bruce again. Isn't that a thriller?"
"If I thought Bruce Edwards had brains enough to care for any woman I'd
say it was not right to bring her here," said Mr. Banks; "but he
hasn't."
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Banks agreed, "he is quite over it now, no doubt.
Things like that never last, but he'll be awfully nice to her, and give
her a good time and take her around--you know what Bruce is like--he's
so romantic and cynical, and such a perfect darling in his manners--
always ready to open a door or pick up a handkerchief!"
"I am sure he would--if he needed the handkerchief," Theodore put in,
quietly.
"Oh, Ted! you're a funny bunny! You've never liked Bruce--and I know
why--and it's perfectly horrid of you, just because he has always been
particularly nice to me--he really can't help being dreamy and devoted
to any woman he is with, if she is not a positive fright."
* * * * *
Mrs. Trenton, the President of the Arts and Crafts, received Mrs.
Banks' suggestion cautiously. Mrs. Trenton always asked, Is it right?
Is it wise? Is it expedient? It was Mrs. Trenton's extreme cautiousness
that had brought her the proud distinction of being the first President
of the Arts and Crafts, where it was considered necessary to temper the
impetuosity of the younger members; and, besides, Mrs. Trenton never
carried her doubts and fears too far. She raised all possible
objections, mentioned all possible contingencies, but in the end
allowed the younger members to carry the day, which they did, with a
clear and shriven conscience, feeling that they had been very discreet
and careful and deliberate.
Mrs. Banks introduced her subject by telling Mrs. Trenton that she had
come to ask her advice, whereupon Mrs. Trenton laid aside the work she
was doing and signified her gracious willingness to be asked for
counsel. When Mrs. Banks had carefully laid the matter before Mrs.
Trenton, dwelling on the utter loneliness of the prairie woman's life,
Mrs. Trenton called the Vice-President, Miss Hastings, who was an oil
painter by profession, and a lady of large experience in matters of the
heart. Mrs. Trenton asked Mrs Banks to outline her plan again.
When she had finished, Mrs. Trenton asked: "Is it wise--is it kind? She
has chosen her life. Why bring her back? It will only fill her heart
with vain repinings. This man, illiterate though he may be, is her
lawful husband--she owes him a duty. Are we just to him?"
"Maybe she is perfectly happy," Miss Hastings said. "There is no
accounting for love and its vagaries. Perhaps to her he is clothed in
the rosy glow of romance, and all the inconveniences of her life are
forgotten. I have read of it," she added in explanation, when she
noticed Mrs. Trenton's look of incredulity.
Mrs. Trenton sighed, a long sigh that undulated the black lace on her
capacious bosom.
"It has been written--it will continue to be written, but to-day
marriage needs to be aided by modern--" she hesitated, and looked at
Mrs. Banks for the word.
"Methods," Mrs. Banks supplied, promptly, "housemaids, cooks, autos,
theatres, jewelry and chocolates."
"You put it so aptly, my dear," Mrs. Trenton smiled, as she patted her
pearl bracelet, Mr. Trenton's last offering on the hymeneal altar. "It
requires--" she paused again--Mrs. Trenton's pauses were a very
important asset in her conversation--"it requires--"
"Collateral," said Mrs. Banks.
Miss Hastings shook her head.
"I believe in marriage--all the same," she said heroically.
"Now, how shall we do it?" Mrs. Banks was anxious to get the
preliminaries over. "You have decided to invite her, of course."
Mrs. Trenton nodded.