Читать книгу The Web of Time - Robert E. Knowles - Страница 3

IV

THE RICHES OF THE POOR

The retreating figure had no sooner gained the house in the distance than Harvey began to cast glances, eager and expectant, towards the road that skirted the outer edge of the field in which he was working. Once or twice he straightened up, wincing a little with the ache that long stooping brings, and peered intently towards the top of a distant hill beyond which he could not see. Suddenly his eye brightened, and a muffled exclamation of pleasure broke from his lips, for the vision he longed for had appeared. Yet it was commonplace enough—only a coloured sunbonnet, some four or five feet from the ground, and swaying a little uncertainly in the noontide light. But it was moving nearer, ever nearer, to the waiting boy, who knew the love that lent strength to the little feet and girded the tiny hands which bore something for himself.

The girlish form was now well beyond the curving hill, trudging bravely on; and Harvey saw, or thought he saw, the happy smile upon the eager face, the pace quickening as she caught sight of her brother in the distance. Harvey's eyes filled with tenderness as he gazed upon the approaching child; for the poor, if they love and are loved again, know more of life's real wealth than the deluded rich.

A few minutes more and she was at the bars, panting but radiant. Harvey ran to lay them down, taking the bundles from her hands. "Oh, but my arms ache so," the girl said, as she sank upon the grass; "it must be lovely to have a horse."

"Some day we will," her brother returned abruptly. "You just wait and see—and then you won't ever walk anywhere. But you oughtn't to carry these all this way, Jessie; I could bring it in my pocket just as well."

The girl's face clouded a little. "But then it gets so cold, Harvey—and what's in there ought to be nice and warm," she said hopefully, nodding towards the pail. "Mother heated the can just when we put it in, and I came as fast as ever I could, so it wouldn't cool—and I held it in the hot sun all the time," she concluded triumphantly, proud of her ingenuity.

"That's lovely, Jessie," replied the boy; "and you're quite right," he went on, noticing the flitting sign of disappointment. "I just hate cold things—and I just love them hot," he affirmed as he removed the lid.

Jessie bended eagerly over it and the faint steam that arose was as beautiful to her eyes as was ever ascending incense to priestly ministrant.

"It's hot, Harvey! I thought it would be," she cried. "Mother was so anxious for you to have a nice dinner—I knew that was what you liked," as an exclamation of delight came from the boy. "Mother said she never saw such a boy for meat-pies as you. And there's something further down, that you like too—they're under a saucer, and they have butter and sugar both, on them. No, you'd never guess what it is—oh, that's not fair," she cried, "you're smelling; any one can guess what it is if they smell," laughing merrily as she tried to withdraw the pail beyond the range of his olfactory powers.

"It's pancakes!" pronounced her brother, sniffing still.

"Yes, of course—but you never would have guessed. Mother made them the very last thing before I started. And I cried when she was putting them in—oh, Harvey, it was so sad," the girl burst out with trembling voice, her hands going to her face as she spoke. "And mother cried too," she added, looking out at her brother through swimming eyes.

Harvey halted in his attack. "What for? What were you crying about?" he asked earnestly, the food still untasted.

"It was about mother's eyes. You see, she put the pancakes on the table beside the stove—and there was a pile of table mats beside them. Well, when mother went to put them into the pail, she took up the mats instead—never knew the difference till she felt them. And I could see how sad it made her—she said she was afraid she soon wouldn't see at all; and I just couldn't keep from crying. Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice went eagerly on, "don't you think we'll soon be able to send her to the city to see the doctor there?—everybody says he could cure the right eye anyhow; mother thinks the left one's gone. Don't you think we will, Harvey?"

Harvey looked into space, a large slice of the tempting pie still in his hand. "I'm hoping so," he said—"I made almost thirty cents this morning; I counted it up just before you came—and there's the two dollars I made picking raspberries that mother doesn't know about—it's in that knot-hole in the closet upstairs, you know. And maybe Mr. Borland's going to give me more work—I asked him, and then——"

"I told mother I was going to sell Muffy," his sister broke in impulsively. "But she said I mustn't; I guess she's awful fond of Muffy, she cried so hard."

"I'd hate to sell Muffy," the boy responded judicially; "she's the only one that always lays big eggs. And then, besides, they might kill her and eat her up—rich people nearly always do their hens that way." Two pairs of eyes darkened at thought of a tragedy so dread.

"We wouldn't, even if we was rich, would we, Harvey?" the girl resumed earnestly.

"No, not with Muffy," Harvey assured her. "They're awful rich over there," he volunteered, pointing to the large stone house in the distance.

"It must be lovely," mused the girl. "We could have such lots of lovely things. Why don't you eat your dinner, Harvey?—it'll get so cold."

"I don't want it much," replied her brother. "You see, I had a pretty good breakfast," he explained cheerfully.

The loving eyes, still moist, gazed into his own. She was so young, some years younger than he, and as inexperienced almost as a child could be; yet the stern tuition of poverty and sorrow had given something of vision to the eyes that looked so wistfully out upon the plaintive face before her. She noted his shabby dress, the patches on his knees, the boots that stood so sorely in need of impossible repairs, the grimy stains of toil from head to foot, the furrowed channels that the flowing perspiration had left upon his face. And a great and mysterious pity seemed to possess her. She felt, dimly enough, yet with the sad reality of truth, that her brother had hardly had a chance in life's unequal struggle. His tenderness, his unselfishness, his courage, all these she recognized, though she could not have called them by their names. She knew how ardently he longed to do so much that chill penury forbade; and as she glanced at the dust-covered pile in the distance that his toil had gathered, then back at the tired figure on the grass, all stained and spotted, the food he so much needed untasted in his sorrow, she felt more and more that there was only one hero in the world, however baffled and unrecognized he might be.

"Mother'll be so disappointed," the girl pleaded, "if you don't eat it, Harvey; she tried so hard to make it nice. Besides, I'll just have to carry it back," she suddenly urged, a note of triumphant expectation in her voice; "and it was real heavy, too," well pleased with the culminating argument.

The boy hesitated, then slowly raised the tempting morsel to his lips. "I didn't have such an awful lot of breakfast," he conceded; "I really am pretty hungry—and it was so good of you to fetch it to me, sister," his gaze resting affectionately on her.

A long silence ensued, Jessie watching delightedly as the little repast was disposed of, entertaining her brother the while with a constant stream of talk, all fed from the fountain-head of their own little circle, their own humble and struggling life. But however far afield her speech, with her thought, might wander, it kept constantly returning to the one central figure of their lonely lives, to her from whom their own lives had sprung; and the most unobservant listener would soon have known that the unselfish tenderness, the loving courage, of the mother-heart that had warmed and sheltered their defenseless lives, was reaping now its great and rich reward.

Jessie had reverted again to the dark shadow that overhung them both, their mother's failing eyesight; and two earnest little faces looked very soberly one into the other, as though they must together beat back the enemy from the gate.

Suddenly Harvey broke the silence. "I'm pretty sure she's going to get well," he said earnestly, holding the bottle in one hand and the glass stopper in the other. "I had a dream last night that—that comforted me a lot," he went on, slightly embarrassed by the fanciful nature of his argument; he could see that Jessie had hoped for something better. "I dreamed I was walking some place on a country road. And it was all dark—for mother, at least—it was awful dark, and I was leading her by the hand. I thought there was something troubling her that you didn't know about—nor me—nobody, only mother. Well, just when we were groping round in the dark, a great big black cloud broke up into little bits, and the sun came out beautiful—just like—like it is now," he described, glancing towards the orb above them. "Of course, that was only in my dream—but we went straight on after that and mother could see to walk just as well as me," he concluded, smiling as hopefully as if dreams were the only realities of life.

Jessie, holding her sunbonnet by both strings and swinging it gently to and fro, had a curious look of interest, not unmixed with doubt, upon her childish face. "That was real nice, Harvey," she said slowly at length, "but I don't just understand. You see, people always dream their dreams at night—and the sun couldn't come out at night; anyhow it never does."

Harvey gazed indulgently. "It can do anything when you're dreaming," he said quickly, a far-off look in his thoughtful eyes. "That's when all the wonderful things happen," he went on, still looking absently across the fields. "Poor folks have just as good a time as rich folks, when they're asleep," he concluded, his voice scarcely audible.

"But they know the difference when they wake up," retorted his sister, plucking a clover leaf eagerly. "Only three leaves!" she exclaimed contemptuously, tossing it aside. "Yes, it's very different when they wake up—and everybody's awake more than they're asleep," she affirmed, as confident in her philosophy as he in his.

Her brother said nothing as he proceeded to fold up the rather generous remains of his dinner; poor laddie, he knew the taste of bread eaten with tears, even if he had never heard the phrase. His face brightened a little as his hand went out to the pocket of his blouse, extracting a parcel wrapped in paper. He held it with both hands behind his back, uncovering it the while.

"Shut your eyes, Jessie—and open your mouth," he directed, as enthusiastically as though the formula were being tested for the first and only time.

Jessie obeyed with a confidence born of long experience, and her brother, all care vanished meanwhile from his face, held the plum-cake to her lips. "Now, bite," he said. Jessie, already faintly tasting, made a slight incision. "Oh, Jessie, bite bigger—bite bigger, Jessie!" he cried in dismay; "you're just trying how little you can take—and I kept it for you." But Jessie's eyes were wide open now, fixed on the unwonted luxury. "Too much isn't good for little girls," she said quaintly, swallowing eagerly, nevertheless; "I'll eat one piece if you'll eat the other, Harvey," she said, noticing the double portion.

"I'm keeping mine for mother," said the boy resolutely.

"So'm I," the other exclaimed before his words were out. "I'd sooner have the pancakes, anyhow," she added, fearing his protest. "Will you take it to her, Harvey—or me?"

"I think you'd better," replied her brother, "and I'll eat the rest of the dinner if you'll promise to eat your part of the cake when you get home."

Jessie nodded her consent, and a few minutes saw Harvey's portion of the contract nobly executed, his sister as satisfied as he.

V

A FLOW OF SOUL

Good Dr. Fletcher always said a little longer grace than usual when he dined at Mr. Craig's. Whether this was due to the length of the ensuing meal, or to the long intervals that separated these great occasions, or to the wealth that provided them, or to the special heart-needs of the wealthy, it were difficult to say. But one thing is beyond all doubt, and that is that the good minister of the Glenallen Presbyterian Church would no more have thought of using an old grace at Mrs. Craig's table than she herself would have dreamed of serving the same kind of soup, or repeating a dessert whose predecessor was within the call of memory.

On this particular evening Dr. Fletcher's invocation had been particularly long, due perhaps to the aroma, more than usually significant, that had escaped the kitchen to assure the sanguine guests; and a sort of muffled amen broke from their waiting lips, soon to confirm the word by all sincerity of action. This amen was doubtless due in part to gratitude for what had ended, as well as to anticipation of what was about to be begun. Cecil Craig, seated beside his mother, took no part in the terminal devotion; long before the time to utter it, his open eyes were turned towards the door through which the servants were to enter, and from which, so far as he could reckon, all blessings flow.

Soup came first, and young Craig dauntlessly led on in the attack. His mother tried eagerly to call to his attention, and to his alone, that he had seized the spoon meant for his dessert; but Cecil was already in full cry, the mistaken weapon plying like a paddle-wheel between his plate and his mouth—and no signal of distress could reach him. The most unfortunate feature of it all, however, was the speedy plight of one or two timorous guests, who, waiting for the lead of any members of the family, had followed Cecil's; and, suddenly detecting whither he had led them, were soon floundering sadly in such a slough of despond as they scarce escaped from during the entire meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Borland were there, one on either side of Dr. Fletcher; and the light of temporary peace was upon Mrs. Borland's brow—for the Craigs' home was nearer to a mansion than any other in Glenallen. A slight shade of impatience flitted across her face as she glanced athwart Dr. Fletcher's portly form, surveying her husband's bosom swathed in snowy white, his napkin securely tucked beneath his chin. But David was all unconscious, the region beneath the napkin being exceeding comfortable; for the soup was good, and her spouse bade fair to give Cecil a stern chase for the honours of the finish.

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke, "it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I'd sooner do hard labour. Don't you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister's gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope. "I don't think you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the astonished host. "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed, savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm's length away from him. "The minister's quite right," he now broke in; "you don't understand, Mr. Craig—Dr. Fletcher don't mean that he takes coal an' tea, when he visits poor folks. But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that's willin' to take 'em. But a minister's got to give somethin' far more than that; even on Sundays—at least that's my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher gives is far more important than what he says."

"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its anointing.

"That's it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart. "Everythin's jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in this here house—with this here bird—we ain't enjoyin' it because we're gettin' so much turkey, but because we're gettin' so much Craig," he went on fervently. "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter," passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an eatin' house—but it wouldn't jest taste the same. It wouldn't have the Craig taste, you see—there wouldn't be no human flavour to it, like; an' turkey ain't nothin' without a human flavour. That's what makes everythin' taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around on the assembled guests.

"I don't believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that kind for mine. Turkey's one thing, and humanity's another—no stews for me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit; "people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.

"You're wrong there," replied David Borland quickly. "Folks lives on humanity—only it's got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the turkey nevertheless.

"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently, for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant terror when they were dining out. All was well so far, however, her husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.

"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister. "He has said the very thing I have often wished to say. I have always felt that what a preacher gives to his people—of his heart and love and sympathy—is far more than what he says to them. If it were not so, they'd better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing a sermon. And I think the same holds true of all giving—all philanthropy, for instance. What you give of yourself to the poor is far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were told, I believe it's what the poor are looking for, far more than they are for money." The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher's face and the slight quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might, too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen felt for the humble and kindly man.

Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character. Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.

"That's mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor I'd sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the humanity. I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he went on sagaciously; "no mixin' up business with religion, for me—of course, helping the poor isn't exactly religion, but it comes mighty near it. And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop. But when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn't want to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."

"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin' it, Mr. Craig? Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an unduly merry mouth with it the while.

Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest. "I didn't wish to know," he replied loftily in a moment; "all I'm making out is the principle that governed me. And I always take the same stand in my business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified, as proud of his language as of his attitude. "Of all the men I've got hired, I don't believe I know a half dozen except the foremen. I get their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and that's the end of it."

"You don't know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek. "There's nothing so interesting as human life."

"You bet—that's just it," chimed David's robust voice; "that's where a fellow gets his recreation. I don't think I'm master of my business till I know somethin' about my men—there ain't no process, even in manufacturing half so interestin' as the doin's of folks in their own lives. I know lots of their wives, too, an' half the kids—please give me a little more stuffin', Mrs. Craig: it's powerful good," and David passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.

"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it isn't mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled. "Business on business lines, that's my motto. Just the other day a little gaffer asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother's eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I'd take him, and if I didn't, nobody's eyes could make any difference."

"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.

"I believe it was. Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, nothin' much—only I hired him. And he isn't goin' to have no blind mother if my givin' him work will help—that's more. She's got a son worth lookin' at—that's one thing sure. An' he earned every penny I ever gave him, too—what was you goin' to say, Doctor?" For he saw the minister had something to offer.

"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of the opportunity. "Poor little chap, he's had hard lines—his father was a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as good a fight as I ever saw. I'm sure she carries about some burden of sorrow nobody knows anything about. She has two children. Well, a long time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject. Goodness me! You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. 'Not till the last crust's gone,' she said. She was fairly roused; 'I'm richer than they are,' she said; 'I've got my two children, and I'll keep them as long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.' Really, I never felt more rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell. And the wee fellow raged like a little lion. 'Did he want to take sister?—tell him to go home, mother,' and he was fairly shouting and stamping his little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the while. I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."

David Borland's eyes were glistening. "Bully for you, Doctor!" his voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth stickin' to. I'm proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping the table as he spoke.

"That's what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the pause that followed. "I often feel what you sometimes say in your sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together. The rich and the poor, I mean. They need us, and we need them—and we both have our own parts to play in the great plan."

"That's it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that's exactly it—last Sunday when we sang that line, 'My web of time He wove,' I jest stopped singin'—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God Himself couldn't weave much without us helpin' Him—the rich an' the poor—it's Him that designs, but it's us that has to weave. An' I reckon our hands has got to touch—if they're workin' on the same piece," he concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.

A considerable silence followed, the host showing no disposition to break it. Cecil was the first to speak.

"Harvey wears patches on his knees," he informed the company. "What is there for dessert, mother?"

Mrs. Craig whispered the important information; the radiant son straightway published it to the world: "Plum pudding!—I like that—only I hope it has hard sauce."

Which it ultimately proved to have—and to Mrs. Borland's great dismay. For David, loyal to ancient ways, yet ever open to the advantage of modern improvement, passed back his plate for a second helping.

"I used to think the kind of gravy-sauce you slashed all over it was the whole thing—but I believe that ointment's got it beat," he said; whereat Mrs. Borland laid her spoon upon her plate, the ointment and the anointed untasted more.

VI

AN INVESTMENT

David Borland stood quite a little while gazing at the contents of the window before he entered the tiny store. Rather scanty those contents were; a few candy figures, chiefly chocolate creations, a tawdry toy or two, some samples of biscuits judiciously assorted, a gaudy tinselled box of chewing-gum, and a flaming card that proclaimed the merits of a modern brand of tea.

These all duly scrutinized, David pushed the door open and entered the humble place of business. The opening door threw a sleigh-bell, fastened above it, into quite an hysterical condition, and this in turn was answered by hurrying footsteps from the inner room. It was Harvey who appeared.

"Good-morning, Mr. Borland," the boy said respectfully. "Did you want to see mother?" he enquired a little anxiously; "she's gone to the market, but I think she'll soon be back."

"That's all right, my boy," the man responded. "No, it wasn't your mother I wanted; it was you—I come to do a little business."

"Oh," said Harvey, glancing hopefully towards the window.

"'Tain't exactly shop business," David said, a little nervously, "I come to—to buy a hen," he blurted out. Harvey's hand went like lightning into the glass case. Withdrawn, it produced a candy creature of many colours, its comb showing the damage that vandal tongues had done. "Totty Moore licked at it once or twice when we wasn't lookin'," he explained apologetically; "it used to be in the window—it's a settin' hen," he enlarged, indicating with his finger a pasty pedestal on which the creative process was being carried on.

David grinned broadly. "'Tain't that kind of a hen I'm wantin'," he said. "I want the real article—a real live two-legged hen."

"Oh," said Harvey, staring hard.

"Where's your chicken-house?" enquired David, coming to business direct.

"It's outside," the boy replied instructively—"but there ain't very many."

"Let's go and see them," said the man.

The boy led the way, David ducking his head several times en route, bowing profoundly at the last as they entered the little house.

"This your hennery?" he asked, surveying the inmates amid a storm of cackling; "sounds like you had hundreds of 'em."

"Just five," said Harvey, peering towards his customer through the semi-darkness.

"I think I'll buy that there one on the roost," David said after due deliberation; "seems to be the highest-minded of the bunch."

"Can't," said Harvey, "that's Jessie's; it's only got just one eye—that's why Jessie wanted it. Can't sell Jessie's," he concluded firmly.

David agreed. "Haven't you got one called Pinky?" he enquired.

"No," Harvey replied solemnly, "she's dead—we had her a long, long time ago. I can show you her grave outside in the yard."

"Never mind," said Mr. Borland; "this ain't no day for inspectin' graves. I might have known she'd passed away—how long does a hen live, anyhow—a healthy hen?"

"Depends on how they're used," said the boy; "Pinky sneezed to death—too much pepper, I think. Who told you about Pinky, sir?"

"Depends a good deal, too, on how often the preacher comes to dinner, don't it? It was Madeline told me about Pinky—you know my girl, don't you?"

"Yes," and Harvey's face was bright; "I'm awful sorry Pinky's dead—I could sell you one of Pinky's grandchildren's children, Mr. Borland."

"What?" said Mr. Borland, turning a straw about and placing the unchewed end in his mouth, "one of what?"

"One of Pinky's grandchildren's children. You see, her child was Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child was Blackie—and that's her scratchin' her cheek with her left foot. She's done scratchin', but that's her over there."

"She's got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.

"She's bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born right in this room; besides, I've got it all marked down on the door."

David surveyed the descendant critically. "Does she lay brown eggs?" he enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."

Harvey hesitated a moment. "They're—they're pretty brown," he said after a pause. "They mostly turn brown a little after they're laid."

"I'm terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.

"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.

"Well, really—I don't know," and David grinned a little. "Only I always fancy they're kind o'—kind o' better done, don't you think? Besides," he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o' match better, you see."

"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before. Of course, there isn't any hen can be taught always to lay them brown—I think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland, I think she'd get them brown nearly all the time."

"That's a thunderin' good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which his theory was received.

"We'll call it a bargain," said David.

"All right," exclaimed the boy, "just wait a minute till I get a bag."

"Don't bother about that; I'll just leave her here till I send for her—she'll earn her board. But I may as well pay you now—how much is she worth?"

The boy pondered. "I don't hardly know—of course the brown kind comes a little dearer," he ventured, glancing cautiously at Mr. Borland. "She's an awful well-bred hen—I can show you on the door. And she'll eat anything—Jessie's string of beads broke loose in the yard once and Blackie ate them all but two; that shows she's healthy," he concluded earnestly.

"It's a wonder she ain't layin' glass alleys," remarked David. "Well, about the price—I'll tell you what I'll do with you. Here's a bill—an' if she keeps on at the brown business, mebbe I'll give you a little more."

He handed the boy a crisp note, the lad's hand trembling as he took it. He gave the door a push open that the light might fall on it. "Oh, Mr. Borland," he cried, in a loud, shrill voice, "I won't—you mustn't, you mustn't. Mother wouldn't let me—I can't—please take it back, Mr. Borland," and David noticed in the fuller light that the boy was shaking with emotion, his face aglow with its eager excitement.

"Nonsense, my lad; what you going on about? I reckon I know somethin' about the price of hens—especially the brown kind. No, I won't take it back. She's worth that much to me jest to keep the yard red up o' glass."

"Oh, Mr. Borland—I wish I——"

"Tut, tut," David interrupted; "boys should take what's set before 'em, an' ask no questions—an' don't you tell nobody now, only your mother. Say, isn't that her callin'? Listen—it is, sure enough—that's your mother callin' you," and David took advantage of the interruption to unlatch an adjoining gate, slipping through to the outer lane, his face the more radiant of the two.

VII

"EFFECTUAL CALLING"

"I'll go with you as far as the door, dear—but the elders wouldn't want me to come in, of course." Thus spoke Mrs. Simmons to her son as the little family were seated at their evening meal. Very humble it was, indeed, with its strawberry jam, and bread and cheese, these themselves carefully measured out.

"Come away, Jessie; what's keeping you?" the mother called to the outer kitchen.

"I'll come in a minute, mother," the child's cheery voice replied. "I'm doing something," which was evident a little later when Jessie appeared, flushed and triumphant, bearing in one hand a little plate of well-browned toast, and in the other, her little fingers tingling with its heat, a large brown egg, evidently an unwonted luxury.

"Jessie, my child, what have you been doing?" the mother asked, peering rather closely at the dainties the child had laid upon her plate. "Oh, Jessie, you shouldn't have done it—you know we can't afford it, dear; we need to sell them all," she remonstrated, affection and gratitude nevertheless mingling in her voice.

"It was cracked, mother—it got a little fall," the child explained artfully.

"Jessie gave it a little fall; she always gets the biggest one cracked a little when there isn't much for supper—don't you, sister?" Harvey asked knowingly.

His sister blushed, but the reply she was struggling to provide was interrupted by the tinkling of the bell above the door in the little room without. This was a signal the mother was never slow to obey; customers were rare enough and must not be permitted to escape. Rising quickly, she made her way, her hands extended rather pitifully, to the little room that did duty as a store. Jessie bore the little delicacies back to the kitchen, lest they should cool in the interval.

The mother was back again in a minute, sighing as she resumed her seat.

"Did they buy anything, mother?" her son enquired.

"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn't have; I sent them to Ford's," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining street. "I was speaking about you going to the elders' meeting, Harvey—I'll go with you as far as the church, as I said. And you mustn't be afraid, son; they'll be glad you're going to join the church. And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at home."

"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"

"Some of the questions, most likely. Be sure you know 'effectual calling'—I think they nearly always ask 'effectual calling.'"

"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four times last night—do you think there'll be others there to join the church, mother?"

"I couldn't say for sure, but it's likely there'll be some. I guess it's almost time to go now, dear," she said rising. "Jessie, you'll do the best you can if anybody comes in—I'll not be long."

"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?" Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.

"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish about me. I'm not so bad as that," she protested. "Why, I can tell the day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the 23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey clinging close beside her.

Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church. Often, when she thought the boy's eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so much of battle. And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict. Of merriment, there were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.

"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at the church.

Harvey followed her, unquestioning. He knew whither her feet were turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often with toddling feet. They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper. On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked, their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the woman's steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely light of the new-risen moon. The boy stood behind her for a moment, then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman's closed about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.

"I think I remember when baby died," Harvey began, after they had stood long together by the grave; "I was asleep, wasn't I, mother? I remember in the morning."

"Yes, dear," said his mother, her voice tremulous; "yes, you were asleep—I was with baby when she died."

"Was father there too, mother?"

"Yes, Harvey, yes—pull that weed, dear; there, at the foot of baby's grave."

"Did father cry when baby died, mother?—like you did, mother?"

"I don't know, dear—yes, I think so. We'll have to bring some fresh flowers soon, won't we, Harvey?" the mother's lips trembling.

"Yes, mother, I'll pick some pretty ones to-morrow. Did father die long after baby, mother?" the boy pursuing the dread subject with the strange persistence wherewith children so often probe a secret wound.

"No, my son—yes, I mean; yes, Harvey, it was the same night, I think," her nervous fingers roving about Harvey's uncovered head.

"You think, mother?" the tone full of surprise.

"It was near the same time, Harvey," she answered hurriedly, unable to control her voice. "I can't tell you now, son—some day, perhaps. But mother was so sorry about baby that she hardly knows—don't ask me any more about it, Harvey," she suddenly pleaded; "never any more—some day I'll tell you all about your father, and all you've asked me so often. But don't ask me any more, my son—it makes mother feel bad," as she bent over to kiss the curious lips.

He could see the tears upon his mother's cheeks, and he inwardly resolved that her bidding should be done, silently wondering the while what this mysterious source of pain might be.

After a long silence the boy's voice was heard again: "Weren't baby's eyes shut when she died, mother?"

"Yes, darling—yes, they were closed in death," and the unforgetting heart beat fast at the tender memory.

"But they're open now, aren't they, mother?—and wasn't it God that did it?"

"Yes, Harvey, they're open now—God opened them, I'm sure."

"Couldn't He make people see all right before they're dead, mother? Couldn't He do it for you?"

"Yes, child—yes, He could if He wanted to."

"And why wouldn't He want to?" the boy asked wonderingly. "I'm sure He could; and I've been asking Him to do it for us Himself—if we couldn't get the money for the doctor to do it. Wasn't that right, mother?"

The moon, high now, looked down upon the lonely pair; they stood together, they two, beside the unresponsive grave, the elder face bathed in tears, the younger unstained by grief and wistful with the eager trust of childhood. The insignia of poverty was upon them both, and the boy shivered slightly in the chill air; but the great romance and tragedy of life were interwoven there, love and hope and sorrow playing the parts they had so often played before. The woman stooped down amid the glistening grass and took her child into her arms, pressing him close to her troubled bosom, her face against his cheek, while her eyes roved still about his sister's grave.

"We must go on," she murmured presently. "Can you see a light in the church?"

"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."

"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to gaze about the sleeping city.

"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said softly.

"Wasn't he good enough? Wouldn't they let him?" the lad asked wonderingly.

"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered. "But he never thought he was good enough."

"But he was, wasn't he?" the boy pursued.

"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was. He always meant to be good; he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell you why he thought—why he thought he wasn't good enough. He was afraid you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn't help very well—I'll tell you some day, Harvey. Who's that?" she whispered excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way silently towards them.

His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey's hand tight clasped in hers again. The figure came swiftly on.

"It's Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It's Madeline Borland—I guess she's going to join too."

Which proved indeed to be the case. "I knew it was you," the girl began, almost breathless as she came up to them. "The beadle said it was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she's waiting till I join. I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don't want to go in alone." Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl's eyes were searching his mother's face. He did not withdraw his hand, but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.

"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of introduction; "and that's Miss Borland, mother."

"Please don't say that," the girl interrupted. "I think you might call me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to Harvey's mother. The older woman was evidently struck by the girl's beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner. At any rate she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet face upturned in the quivering light.

"And this—this is my sister's grave," Harvey's subdued voice added a moment later.

The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound. She had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave with dignity.

"You haven't any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.

"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven't even got a plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes turning now to Harvey's face. He looked down, then up again, and the soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer, and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face. The girl's look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.

"Doesn't it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister's grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen. "Of course, we've often seen each other at school—but this is our first real meeting, isn't it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that twinkled feebly in the distant church.

"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we'd better go. Do you know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half leading his mother by the hand.

"No, I don't. Father doesn't believe in catechisms—I wanted him to join along with me, but he said he wasn't good enough. Only he said he'd see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."

"That's what my father said," Harvey interjected quickly; "and my mother says he was often good—only of course it's too late now," a little sigh escaping with the words.

"Perhaps they join them in heaven," the girl suggested in an awestruck voice. "Father says that's where the real joining's done; if your father was good, I'm sure they'd join him," she concluded earnestly, looking into both the serious faces as she spoke.

"Don't you think maybe they would, mother?" pleaded the boy. The habit of a lifetime committed everything to the mother for final judgment.

"That's in God's hands, dear," the delicate face glancing upward through the mist. "I'm sure God would do it if He could—we'd better hurry on; they'll be waiting for us in the church."

The little procession wound its way back to the humble temple, Harvey still holding his mother by the hand, Madeline following close behind. And the shadowy home of the little child was left alone in the silence and the dark.

The youthful pair disappeared within the ivy-grown door. The mother, her dim eyes still more dimmed by tears, turned upon her homeward way, a troubled expression on her face. Why had she not told him more, she wondered to herself—something about his father, and the cruel appetite that had been his shame and his undoing? And her lips moved in trembling prayer that God would save her son from the blight of his father's life, that the dread heritage might never wrap his life in the same lurid flame.