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Title: The Love Story of Abner Stone

Author: Edwin Carlile Litsey

Release date: March 22, 2009 [eBook #28383]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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Transcriber's note

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I
II
III
IV
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VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV

THE LOVE STORY

OF

ABNER STONE

By

EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY

NEW YORK
A. S. Barnes and Company
MCMII

Copyright, 1902
By A. S. Barnes and Company
Published June, 1902

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Reprinted July, 1902

UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON
AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

TO HER

Preface
It seems a little strange that I, Abner Stone, now verging upon my
seventieth year, should bring pen, ink, and paper before me, with the
avowed purpose of setting down the love story of my life, which I had
thought locked fast in my heart forever. A thing very sacred to me; of the
world, it is true, yet still apart from it, the blessed memory of it all has
abode in my breast with the unfading distinctness of an old picture done in
oils, and has brightened the years I have thus far lived on the shadowed
slope of life. And now has come the firm belief that the world may be made
better by the telling of this story—as my life has been made better by
having lived it—and so I shall essay the brief and simple task before my
fingers have grown too stiff to hold the pen, trusting that some printer of
books will be good enough to put my story into a little volume for all who
would care to read. And I, as I pursue the work which I have appointed unto
myself, shall again stroll through the meadows and forests of dear
Kentucky, shall tread her dusty highways under the spell of a bygone June,
and shall sit within the portals of an old home whose floors are now pressed
by an alien foot. Now, ere I have scarce begun, the recollections come upon
me like a flood, and this page becomes blurred to my failing sight. O
Memory! Memory! and the visions of thine!

THE LOVE STORY of ABNER STONE

I
It is a long path which stretches from forty-five to seventy. A path easy
enough to make, for each day's journey through life is a part of it, but very
difficult to retrace. When we turn at that advanced mile-stone and look
back, things seem misty. For there is many a twist and angle in the highway
of a life, and often the things which we would forget stand out the clearest.
But I would not drive from my brain this quiet afternoon the visions which
enfold it,—the blessed recollections of over a score of years ago. For the
sweet voice which speaks in my ear as I write I have never ceased to hear;
the face which the mirror of my mind ever reflects before my eyes I have
looked upon with never-tiring eagerness, and the tender hand which I can
imagine betimes creeping into my own, is the chiefest blessing of a life
nearly spent.
There is no haunting memory of past misdeeds to shadow the quiet rest of
my last days. As I bid my mind go back over the path which my feet have
trod, no ghost uprises to confront it; no voice cries out for retribution or
justice; not even does a dumb animal whine at a blow inflicted, nor a worm
which my foot has wantonly pressed, appear. I would show forth no self-
praise in this, but rather a devout thankfulness unto the Creator who made
me as I am, with a heart of mercy for all living things, and a reverent love
for all His wonderful works. The beauty of tree, and flowering plant, and
lowly creeper abides with me as an everlasting joy, and the song of the
humblest singer the forest shelters finds a response in my heart. Without my
window now, as I sit down to make a history of part of my life, a brown-
coated English sparrow is chattering in a strange jargon to his mate on the
limb of an Early Harvest apple tree, and I pause a moment to listen to his
shrill little voice, and to watch the black patch under his throat puff up and
down.
It is the fall of the year, and the afternoon is gray. At times an arrow of
sunlight breaks through the shields of clouds, and kisses the brown earth
with a quivering spot of light. Across the sloping, unkept lawn, about
midway between the house and the whitewashed gate leading from the

yard, a rabbit hops, aimlessly, his back humped up, and his white tail
showing plainly amid his sombre surroundings. I can see the muscles about
his nostrils twitching, as he stops now and again to nibble at a withered tuft
of grass. A lonely jay flits from one tree to another; a cardinal speeds by my
window, a line of color across a dark background; and one by one the dry
leaves drop noiselessly down, making thicker the soft covering which
Nature is spreading over the breast of Mother Earth.
It may be that I shall not see the resurrection of another spring. Each winter
that has passed for the last few years has grown a little harder for me, and
my breathing becomes difficult in the damp, cold weather. Perhaps my eyes
shall not again behold the glorious flood of light and color which follows
the footsteps of spring; perhaps when the earth is wrapped once more in its
mantle of leaves they shall lie over my breast as well. For man's years upon
this earth are measured in Holy Writ as threescore and ten, and come
December fourth next, I shall have lived my allotted time. My ways have
not all been ways of pleasantness, nor all my paths peace. But I am glad to
have lived; to have known the hopes of youth and the trials of manhood. To
have felt within my soul that emotion which rules the earth and the
universes, and which is Heaven's undefiled gift to Man. From books I have
gained knowledge; from the lessons of life I have learned wisdom; from
love I have found the way which leads to life eternal.
Old age is treacherous, and it comes to me now that maybe I have delayed
my work too long. For the mind of age does not move with the nimbleness
of a young colt, but rather with the labored efforts of a beast of burden
whose limbs are stiff from a life of toil. But this I know, that there is a
period in my existence which the years cannot dim. I have lived it over
again and again, winter and summer, summer and winter, here in my quiet
country home among the hills. There has been nothing to my life but that;
first, the living of it, and then the memory of it.
It is my love story.

II
In the spring of 1860, I was a lodger in a respectable boarding-house on
Chestnut Street, in Louisville. My father—God rest his soul—had passed
away ten years before, and I was able to live comfortably upon the income
of my modest inheritance, as I was his sole child, and my dear mother was
to me but an elusive memory of childhood. Sometimes, in still evenings just
before I lit my student's lamp, and I sat alone musing, I would catch vague
glimpses of a sweet, pure face with calm, gray eyes—but that was all. No
figure, no voice, not even her hair, but sometimes my mind would picture
an aureole around her head. I have often wondered why she was taken from
me before I could have known her, but I have also striven not to be
rebellious. But she must have been an unusual woman, for my father never
recovered from her loss, and to the day of his death he wore a tress of her
hair in a locket over his heart. I have it now, and I wear it always.
I was of a timid disposition, and retiring nature, and so my acquaintances
were few, and of close friends I had not one. My mornings and evenings
were spent with my books, and in the afternoons I took solitary walks, often
wandering out into the country, if the weather was fine, for the blue sky had
a charm for me, and I loved to look at the distant hills,—the hazy and
purple undulations which marked the horizon. And Nature was never the
same to me. Always changing, always some beauty before undiscovered
bursting on my sight, and her limitless halls were full of paintings and of
songs of which I would never tire. Then, as evening closed in, and I would
reluctantly turn back to my crowded quarters, the sordid streets and the
cramped appearance of everything would fret me, and almost make me
envious of the sparrow perched on the telegraph wire over my head. For he,
at least, was lifted above this thoughtless, hurrying throng among which I
was compelled to pass, and the piteous, supplicating voice of the blind
beggar at the corner did not remind him that even thus he might some day
become. And thus, when my feet brought me to the line of traffic, as I
returned home, I would unconsciously hasten my steps, for the moil and toil
of a city's strife I could not bear.

In the spring of 1860, these long walks to the country became more
frequent. I had been cooped up for four rigorous months, a predisposition to
taking cold always before me as a warning that I must be careful in bad
weather. And the confines of a fourteen by eighteen room naturally become
irksome after weeks and weeks of intimate acquaintance. It is true there
were two windows to my apartment. A glance from one only showed me the
side of a house adjoining the one in which I stayed, but the other gave me a
view of a thoroughfare, and by this window I sat through many a bleak
winter day, watching the passers-by. One night there was a sleet, and when I
looked out the next morning, everything was covered in a gray coat of ice.
A young maple grew directly under my window, and its poor head was bent
over as though in sorrow at the treatment it had to endure, and its branches
hung listlessly in their icy case, with a frozen raindrop at the end of each
twig. The sidewalks were treacherous, and I found some amusement in
watching the pedestrians as they warily proceeded along the slippery
pavement, most of them treading as though walking on egg-shells. There
went an old gentleman who must have had business down town, for I had
seen him pass every day. This morning he carried a stick in his hand, and I
discovered that it was pointed with some sharp substance that would assist
him, for every time he lifted it up, it left a little white spot in the coating of
ice. There went a schoolboy, helter-skelter, swinging his books by a strap,
running and sliding along the pavement in profound contempt for its
dangers. A jaunty little Miss with fur wraps and veiled face, but through the
thin obstruction I could plainly see two rosy cheeks, and a pair of dancing
eyes. Her tiny feet, likewise, passed on without fear, and she disappeared.
Heaven grant they may rest as firm on every path through life!
Next came an aged woman, who moved with faltering feet, and always kept
one hand upon the iron fence enclosing the small yard, as a support. Each
step was taken slowly, and with trepidation, and I wished for the moment
that I was beside her, to lend her my arm. Some errand of mercy or dire
necessity called her forth on such a perilous venture, and I felt that,
whatever the motive be, it would shield her from mishap. And so they
passed, youth and age, as the day wore on. In the afternoon the old
gentleman re-passed, and I saw that his back was a little more stooped, and
he leaned heavier on his stick. For each day adds weight to the shoulders of
age.

And now a miserable cur came sniffing along the gutter on the opposite side
of the street. His ribs showed plainly through his dirty yellow coat, the
scrubby hair along his back stood on end, and his tail was held closely
between his legs. And so he tipped along, half-starved, vainly seeking some
morsel of food. He stopped and looked up, shivering visibly as the cold
wind pierced him through and through, then trotted to the middle of the
street, and began nosing something lying there. A handsome coupé darted
around the corner, taking the centre of the road. The starving cur never
moved, so intent was he on obtaining food, and thus it happened that a
pitiful yelp of pain reached my ears, muffled by the closed window. The
coupé whirled on its journey, and below, in the chill, desolate grayness of a
winter afternoon, an ugly pup sat howling at the leaden skies, his right
foreleg upheld, part of it dangling in a very unnatural manner. A pang of
compassion for the dumb unfortunate stirred in my breast, but I sat still and
watched. He tried to walk, but the effort was a failure, and again he sat
down and howled, this time with his meagre face upturned to my window.
The street was empty, as far as I could see, for twilight was almost come,
and cheery firesides were more tempting than slippery pavements and
stinging winds. The muffled tones of distress became weaker and more
despairing, and I could endure them no longer. I quickly arose and cast off
my dressing-gown and slippers. In less than a minute I had on shoes, coat,
and great-coat, and was quietly stealing down the stairs. Tenderly I took the
shivering, whining form up in my arms, casting my eyes around and
breathing a sigh of relief that no one had seen, and thanking my stars, as I
entered my room, that I had not encountered my landlady, who had a great
aversion to cats and dogs.
It was little enough of surgery I knew, veterinary or otherwise, but a
simpleton could have seen that a broken leg was at least one of the injuries
my charge had suffered. I laid the dirty yellow object down on the heavy
rug before the fire, and he stopped the whining, and his trembling, too, as
soon as the soothing heat began to permeate his half-frozen body. I knew
there was a pine board in my closet, and from this I made some splints and
bound up the broken limb as gently as I could, but my fingers were not very
deft nor my skill more than ordinary, and as a consequence a few fresh
howls were the result. But at last it was done, and then I made an
examination of the other limbs, finding them as nature intended they should

be, with the exception of a few scars and their unnatural boniness. So I got
one of my old coats and made a bed on the corner of the hearth, to which I
proceeded to transfer my rescued cur. He was grateful, as dogs ever are for
a kindness, and licked my hands as I put him down. And he found strength
somehow to wag his tail in token of thankfulness, so I felt repaid for my act
of mercy, and very well satisfied. A surreptitious visit to the dining-room
resulted in a purloined chunk of cold roast beef, and two or three dry, hard
biscuits, which I found in the corner of a cupboard. Thus laden with my
plunder, I started back, and in the hall came face to face with my boarding-
house mistress.
"Why, Mr. Stone, what in the world!" she began, before I could open my
mouth or put my hands behind my back.
"I—that is—Mrs. Moss, I have a friend with me to-night who is very
eccentric. He has been out in the cold quite a while, and he dislikes meeting
strangers, so that I thought I would let him thaw out in my room while I
came down and got us a little bite. You needn't expect us at supper, for I
have enough here for both."
"If it pleases you, Mr. Stone, I have no objections. But I should be glad to
send your meals to your room as long as your friend remains."
I had reached the foot of the stair, and was now going up it.
"He leaves to-morrow, Mrs. Moss,—I think. Thank you for your kindness,"
and I dodged into my room and shut the door.
My charge was waiting where I had left him, with bright eyes of
anticipation. I took a newspaper and spread it on the floor close up to him,
and depositing the result of my foraging expedition on this, I stood up and
watched him attack the beef with a vigor I did not suppose he possessed.
"Enjoy it, you little wretch!" I muttered, as he bolted one mouthful after
another. "I came nearer telling a lie for you, than I ever did in my life
before."
Then I made myself comfortable again, drew up my easy-chair, and lit my
lamp, and with pipe and book beguiled the hours till bed-time.

III
I named him Fido, after much deliberation and great hesitancy. My
principal objection to this name was that nearly every diminutive dog bore
it, but then it was old fashioned, and I had a weakness for old-fashioned
things, if this taste could be spoken of in such a manner. I had really
intended setting him adrift after his leg was strong, but during the days of
his convalescence I became so strongly attached to him that I completely
forgot my former idea. He was great company for me, and after I had given
him several baths, and all he could eat every day, he wasn't such a bad-
looking dog, after all. The hair on his back lay down now, and his pinched
body rounded out till I began to fear obesity, while his tail took on a
handsome curl. Altogether, I was rather proud of him. But the result of my
crude attempt at surgery became manifest when I finally removed the
splints. The limb had grown together, it is true, but it was dreadfully
crooked, and a large knot appeared where the fracture had been. When he
tried to walk, I discovered that this leg was a trifle shorter than its mate, and
poor Fido limped a little, but I believe this only added to my affection.
Winter held on till March, and then reluctantly gave way before the
approach of spring. The wind blew; the sun shone at intervals; the ice began
to melt, and muddy rivulets formed in the streets. When the ground dried up
a little, I began my afternoon walks, Fido limping cheerfully along beside
me. One day my commiseration for his affliction almost vanished. We had
strolled away out past the streets, and had been walking along a pike, when
the refreshing green of a clover meadow on my left caused me to climb the
fence and seek a closer acquaintance. Fido wriggled through a crack at the
bottom, and as I sat on the top rail for a moment, the little rascal suddenly
gave tongue and shot out across the meadow after a young rabbit, which
was making good time through the low clover. That lame leg didn't impede
my yellow pup's running qualities, and I had to call him severely by name
before he gave up the chase. He came panting back to me with his dripping
tongue hanging out, and with as innocent a look on his face as one could
imagine. I felt that he needed a gentle chastising, but there was nothing

lying around wherewith to administer it, and I did not search for the
necessary switch. But I wasted no more sympathy on that crooked right leg.
I became interested in the view before me, and forgot that time was passing.
The clover meadow stretched away to a low bluff, at the base of which I
could see the shining surface of a small stream. Far to my right a field was
being broken up for corn. The fresh scent of the newly turned earth came to
my nostrils like perfume. On the farther side of the field a patient mule was
plodding along, dragging his burden, a plough, behind him, and I heard the
guiding cries of the driver as he spoke in no gentle voice to the animal
which was wearing its life away for its master's gain. A meadow lark arose a
little to one side. I noticed his yellow vest, sprinkled with dark spots, as he
flew with drooping tail for a few rods, then sank down again in the clover.
From somewhere in the distance a Bob White's clear notes welled up
through the silence. A flutter of wings near by, and I turned my head to see
a bluebird flit gently to the top of a stake in the fence-corner not far away.
They were abroad, these harbingers of spring, and I knew that balmy
breezes and bursting buds came quickly in their wake. How sweet it was to
know that earth's winding-sheet had been rent from her breast once more;
that the shackles had been torn from her streams and the fetters loosed from
her trees; to feel that where there had been barren desolation and lifeless
refuse of last year's math would soon appear green shoots of grass, and
growing flowers; that the tender leaves of the trees would whisper each to
each in a language which we cannot understand, but which we love to hear.
Especially at eventide, when the heat of the day is softened by twilight
shadows, and a gentle breeze comes wandering along, touching with fairy
fingers the careworn face and tired hands.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. As I now directed my gaze to the
western sky, one of those rarely beautiful phenomena which sometimes
accompany sunset in early spring, was spread before me. Spanning the clear
sky, stretching from western horizon to zenith, and from zenith to eastern
horizon, was a narrow, filmy band of cloud. And by some subtle reflection
of which we do not know, the whole had caught the golden sheen of the
hidden sun, and glowed, pale gold and pink and saffron. The sky was clear
but for this encircling cloud-band, and my fancy saw it as a ring girding the
earth with celestial glory,—a fitting path for spirit feet when they tread the
upward heights. I watched it pale, with upturned face, its changing tints in

themselves a miracle, and thought of the wonders which lay beyond it,
which we are taught to seek. Thought of what was on the other side of that
steadily purpling curtain stretched above me which no human eye might
pierce. Groves of peace and endless song and light which never paled; my
mother's face—
A star blossomed out in the tranquil depths above me, white and pure as a
thought of God; some dun-colored boats were drifting in an azure sea out in
the west, and a whippoorwill's plaintive wail sounded through the dusk
from adown the fence-row. Up from the still earth there floated to my
nostrils the incense of a dew-drenched landscape,—fresh, odorous,
wonderfully sweet,—and a fire-fly's zigzag lantern came travelling towards
me across the darkening meadow. Everything had become very still. It was
that magic hour when the voices of the things of the day are hushed, and the
things of the night have not yet awakened. Only at intervals the
whippoorwill's call arose, like a pulse of pain. The voice of the ploughman
in the adjoining field came no more to my ears; a respite from labor had
come to both man and beast. The birds were still. There was no flutter of
wings, no piping cry. The earth rested for a spell, and a solemn quietude
stole over the scented fields.
I knew that I ought to be going—that I ought to have gone long ago, but
still I sat on the topmost rail of the fence, which stretched away like a
many-horned worm on either side of me. Supper was already cold, but I had
been a little late on several occasions before, and Mrs. Moss had very
kindly laid something aside for me. I was one whom she called "a queer
man who saw nothing outside of his books," and while this was not
altogether true, inasmuch as I was even now missing both supper and books
for another delight in which my soul revelled, still she bore with my
eccentricities, and I was thankful to her. "You should fall in love, Mr.
Stone," she said to me one day, half jestingly, "and that would get you out
of some of your staid ways." I replied with a smile that, as she did not take
young ladies to board, there was small chance of that, and had thought of
her remark no more. But now, in the tender gloaming of an April day, I felt
that I did love, and with as ardent a passion as any man ever owned. I loved
the rich sunlight, which I had watched fade away, but which still lingered in
my breast. I loved the greening of Nature, and the yellowing of her harvest.
I loved the soul-expanding influence of sky and air, and the far-reaching,

billowy fields. All things that grew, and all things that moved in this, God's
kingdom, I loved. What else was there to love? A woman? Yes; but they
lived for me only in the pages of history and romance, and it was not likely
that I, a bookworm bachelor of forty-five, would ever meet the one to stir
my heart. And I feared them, a little. Out here, under the sky, with no one to
hear but Fido and the dumb silence, I can make this confession. I knew she
lived, somewhere, the one to whom my heart would cry, because this is the
plan of the Creator, but I was glad that our lines of life had not crossed.
So please Him, thus would I live content.

IV
The last bright streamer had disappeared, but still there remained a faint,
chaste glow above the dark line of hills. An unseen Hand had sown the sky
thickly with stars, and more fell to their appointed places as the moments
passed. A bull-frog boomed out his guttural note, and Fido began to whine
and gnaw at the rail just below my feet. He was getting hungry, and I
acquiesced to his wordless plea to go home. Night had now come, and the
air was chilly, so I buttoned my coat close up to my chin, and moved
briskly. We were some distance from home, but the lights of the city were
reflected in the sky, and besides, it was not dark, because of the stars, and
the road over which we went had but one end.
I ate in quiet satisfaction the lunch which Mrs. Moss had saved for me, but
when I tried to interest myself in Emerson, a few minutes later, I found that
one of my favorites bored me. This sudden lack of appreciation of the great
essayist annoyed me, and I forced my eyes to traverse line after line, hoping
that the pleasing charm which they had always held for me would return.
But this policy proved futile, so at length I quietly closed the book and put
it down on the table, disgusted with myself. Perhaps my mind required
something in lighter vein, and there was my bookcase, with its glass doors
open, as they usually were. But the delightful metre of the "Lady of the
Lake" seemed halting and tame to me that night, and this volume I did not
close as gently as I had the former one, but flung it carelessly on the table
and walked nervously to the window and raised the sash. For a moment—
only a moment—I stood there, trying to find a few stars through the curtain
of factory smoke which hung overhead, and letting the cool air blow about
me. Then I put the window down, and came back to my easy-chair,
satisfied, for I had solved the riddle of my unrest.
That afternoon's walk had showed me of what I was depriving myself. It
dawned upon me in that moment that the pastoral joys which I had known
that day were dearer to my soul than printed pages and the mind-narrowing
captivity of four walls. Out there were unbounded possibilities for the mind
and soul, lessons to be learned, pages to be read, secrets to discover,—a

message in each soft gurgle of the brook; a whisper from each stirring leaf;
a hidden story in the dreamy face of each flower. All of these became voices
in my ears; I could listen to their singing and sighing for hours. What an
awakening it was! I had been dreaming for over half my life, and with a
sigh I looked at the well-worn tomes in my bookcase, which must now take
second place in my heart. They had served me well. True and tried friends,
into whose faces I had looked in both joy and sorrow, and never failed of
consolation or delight. I would never desert them—God forbid! They were
grappled to my soul with hooks which would neither bend nor break, and
which could not fall away. Still would I come to them and caress them with
loving fingers as I held them in my lap; still would I ask their advice and
store my mind of their knowledge, for they had lightened too many hours of
my life to be forsaken now,—it would be like giving up a friend of twoscore
years for one newly found. And I loved them none the less,—in the full
flush of the secret which I had discovered I knew this, and I walked over to
where the long rows stood like phalanxes, and ran my hands lovingly over
the sheepskin and vellum backs. And, 'pon my soul, they seemed to respond
to my fingers, as though I had touched hands with a friend! They may have
been dumb, but they were not lifeless; for the spirits of their creators still
lingered between the leaves, and made them live—for me. Good friends,
rest easy on your shelves; one by one each of you shall come down, as you
have always done, and commune with me. When Nature sleeps, then we
shall revel.
I sat down again, and stretched my feet out towards the low fire. With pipe
newly filled, I caressed it between my joined hands, and thought. After a
half hour of smoking and ruminating, I came to a conclusion. I would move
to the country for the summer! What a dolt I had been all these years! The
matter of board need not be considered, for that was cheaper in the country
than in town. When winter came again, I could return to my present
quarters, if I chose. What I wanted was a quiet old farmhouse with as few
people in it as possible, and located in the blue-grass region of the State.
Then life would be one endless delight,—days afield, and peaceful,
noiseless nights. To be awakened in the morning by the matin song of the
thrush; to breathe the intoxicating odor of honeysuckle and jessamine; to
step out into the dew-washed grass, instead of upon the hard pavement, and
to receive the countless benedictions of the outstretched arms of the trees as

I walked beneath them. Where had my mind been a-wandering all of these
years that I had not thought of this before? But I was too sensible to mar my
present joy with useless regrets. The future was bright with anticipation and
rich with promise, and my heart grew light.
And Fido—poor Fido—would be glad of the change, too, for I am sure it
must have taxed his love for me to stay in the goods-box which I had
converted into a kennel and placed in the small backyard. Mrs. Moss,—
honest soul,—when giving her reluctant consent to this, consoled herself by
thinking that she was only yielding to another of my vagaries.
There was no one else to consider, and so I put the thing down in my mind
as settled. I would leave this soul-dwarfing, cramped, smoke-hung
atmosphere, and take up my abode where the air was pure, and where the
sun could shine. Mrs. Moss would lose a good, quiet boarder, it is true; but
my consideration for Mrs. Moss's feelings would not cause me to sacrifice
myself. Some one else would come and take the room which had been mine
for ten years, and I would soon be forgotten.
The revelation which I had experienced put me in such high spirits at the
glorious prospects before me that I could not think of going to bed when
eleven o'clock sounded from the mantel-tree. Instead, I believe I actually
chuckled, as I slipped my hand into the pocket of my dressing-gown for my
tobacco-pouch, and proceeded to fill my pipe again. Method had always
been the rule of my life, but that night I put it by for a space. The question
paramount was—where should I go? Certainly most any farm housewife
would give me a room upstairs for a small money consideration a month,
but I was a little particular, and wanted to live and move among folks, for
which I was fitted by birth and education. I knew that blood as blue and as
genteel flowed through country veins as through city arteries; but how was I
to find these people out? I didn't know a dozen persons in Louisville outside
of my boarding-house. The hands of the clock were getting dangerously
near together at the top of the dial before a solution came.
Suddenly I bethought me of Reuben Walker, that staid, long-headed fellow
who had graduated with me back in forty. The nearest approach I ever had
to a friend. He had gone to practise law in Springfield, down there in
Washington County, and had made something of a name for himself, too. I

hadn't seen him since forty-five, hadn't written to him since fifty, but he was
the only man living I knew who could help me. So I forthwith indited a note
to Reuben Walker, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, reminding him of our former
intimacy, regretting that we had allowed ourselves to drift apart, and asking
if he knew of a quiet country home where I might spend the summer. I
reasoned that it was a country lawyer's business to know everybody in his
county, and I hoped that Reuben remembered me well enough to refer me
only to the kind with whom I would care to affiliate. I did not write letters
often, my correspondence averaging perhaps a half dozen epistles a year,
and so I signed my name to this one before reading it over. Then I
recollected one of the earliest injunctions of my father: "Be very careful
what you sign your name to," so I deliberately reread the missive before
me. It was all right; I had said all that was necessary, but just as I was
bending the sheet to fold it I stopped, spread it out again, and, taking up my
quill, wrote as a postscript:
"I much prefer a home where there are no young ladies."

V
In due time an answer came. It was with considerable anxiety that I broke
the seal, but there was a smile upon my face when I finished reading the
short, friendly letter which he had sent me. He knew a place that would suit
me exactly. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy were an elderly couple who lived about
eight miles north of Springfield. They belonged to the aristocracy of the
county, and lived in a two-story brick house on a magnificent farm. They
were warm friends of Reuben's, and he felt no hesitancy in declaring that
they would board me throughout the summer and fall. So positive was he of
this fact that he wrote me to come whenever I pleased, and he would have
everything arranged by the time I got there. He added a postscript, in
answer to mine, stating that his friends were childless, and he did not think I
would be bothered by any young ladies.
My elation at the success of my plans thus far was so apparent that it was
openly remarked upon at the tea-table that evening. And so I told them all
then and there of the change I was about to make. Of course there was a
chorus of regrets that I was to leave, which I could not believe genuine,
since I was so unsociable. But meeting Mrs. Moss in the hall as I started to
my room, I explained to her that my health demanded an immediate change
of air, and that for no other reason would I have gone. This the good lady
accepted smilingly, and wished me much happiness in my new home.
There were not many preparations for me to make. My books and my
wardrobe packed, my landlady paid, a modest demand on my bankers, and I
was ready. It was in the latter part of April, in the midst of a steady
downpour of rain, that I took my seat in the four-horse coach, with Fido
between my feet. I remember the feeling which came to me when the huge
vehicle started. I felt that I was almost leaving the earth, despite the
rumbling and the jolting, when I thought of my destination. The heavy
clouds and the swishing rain held no gloom for me. For above the clouds
was the broad, blue sky, with the sun somewhere in it, and somewhere
beyond the curtain of the rain was light and warmth and blooming fields.
My heart was beating riotously, for this trip was really an adventure to me,

who had not been anywhere for nearly twenty years. The coach was empty
but for us, Fido and me, and it will seem queer to some when I say that I
was very thankful for this. But I did not care to talk to people who were
nothing to me, and who I might never see again. I much preferred to be in
solitude, and muse upon all that my new life would hold for me. The rain
stopped all at once, so suddenly that I would have been surprised had it not
been April, and through the soiled glass of the coach door, now thickly
streaked where the raindrops had run down it, came a blunted arrow of
sunshine.
My trip would have been a tiresome one under ordinary circumstances, but
I did not feel the least fatigue during all the long journey. I shall never
forget the morning we rolled into Springfield, and drew up before a small
frame building opposite the court square. A plain board suspended above
the doorway of this building bore the simple inscription, "Reuben Walker,
Attorney-at-Law." Here was the place where my friend gave legal counsel
in exchange for legal money. I caught sight of his broad, humorous face ere
the coach had given its final jolt as it came to a standstill. Directly in front
of the office before which we stopped were two large locust-trees, and
under these trees that bright spring morning quite a little company had
gathered. There was a sudden explosion of laughter as the stage-driver
descended from his perch and opened the door for me to alight, and a quick
glance showed me that some joker had reached the climax of his narrative
just at that moment. Before I could rise from my seat, the coach door was
darkened by a figure, a strong hand was thrust into mine, and I was fairly
dragged into the arms of Reuben Walker, who gave me hearty greeting. To
this I responded quite as heartily. Fido had whisked out of his narrow
quarters, and had begun to stretch himself in many wild contortions. I
proceeded to reckon with my stage-driver, then Reuben took me by the
hand, and leading me up to the men whom he had just left, he made me
acquainted with each and every one. Most of them I have forgotten, for they
went out of my life as speedily as they entered it; but one I remember yet,
for he was afterwards governor of our beloved commonwealth. This was
Proctor Knott, and he it was who had exploded the joke just as I arrived. I
quietly joined the company, and listened to some more of this gifted young
lawyer's yarns. The ringing of the court-house bell soon after caused a

dispersion of the crowd. Some of them went with the lawyers to the court-
room, others strolled down town, and Reuben and I were left alone.
"Come in, come in, Abner," he said, bluffly, and he led the way into his
office.
A square table covered with green baize stood in the centre of the room. A
box filled with sawdust sat upon the floor to serve as a cuspidor; three or
four splint-bottomed chairs completed the office furniture. One of these I
occupied, placing my hat upon the table, and Reuben took another,
stretching out his short, fat legs, and crossing his hands over his bulging
front.
"I'm glad to see you, Abner, 'pon my honor," he began, smiling so that his
rubicund visage glowed with good feeling. "How did you take a notion to
come to the woods?"
"I was cramped," I answered truthfully. "The city's smoke was stifling me,
and I wanted a breath of fresh air."
"You'll get enough of that down at Henry Grundy's. That's the only cool
place in the county in midsummer. And if you'll take my advice and straddle
one of his thoroughbreds once a day, you'll get some color in your face. I've
fixed everything for you. You're to have a front room on the ground floor,
and pay twelve dollars a month. That's cheaper than stealing it. But you
don't want to make a hermit of yourself when you get down there. Come up
and spend a week or two with me. Miss 'Pheme [his wife] will be mighty
glad to see you. She makes me walk chalk, but she'll be easy on you. You're
going to be with mighty fine folks,—the cream of the county. They were
very particular at first, but I vouched for you, and that settled it. Henry said
he'd be in this morning after you. He's a Presbyterian and a Democrat, and
talks to you as though you were deaf, but he's harmless. Why don't you tell
me 'bout yourself?"
I saw at once that my good friend still insisted on doing all the talking,—
one of the traits of his young manhood,—and when I told him that he hadn't
drawn breath for five minutes, he seemed surprised.
"There's not much to tell about myself, Reuben," I replied. "I've been living
alone,—reading, smoking, and thinking a little. Then I fancied that I'd like

the country, and here I am."
"Where'd you get that?" He jerked one squat thumb toward my crippled
retainer.
"Picked him up out of the street several months ago, after he'd been run
over by a carriage."
"Same soft heart as ever, Abner. Remember when one of the boys at school
poked that nest of damned little English sparrows out of the gutter? There
was about sixteen of 'em, and you gathered the ugly little devils up into
your new hat and tried to raise 'em. Don't—you—re-member, Abner?"
His fat sides shook, as he ejaculated the last sentence with difficulty.
"Yes," I answered, smiling. "My efforts were useless, for the little fellows
all died. I felt sorry for them."
"I wish they were all in—hello! yonder's Henry, by jolly!"
I looked out of the window, and saw an old-fashioned rockaway draw up
beside the curbing. The horse which drew it was a high-headed bay; the
harness and the vehicle were spotless. A negro lad of near twenty, black as
the night before creation, sat on the front seat, and on the rear seat was a
man worth looking at twice. As the negro hastily scrambled down and
opened the door, this gentleman alighted. He was a trifle over six feet tall;
his face was wrinkled and kindly; his brows were gray and shaggy, and his
eyes were gray. A patriarchal white beard flowed down over his breast, and
his suit was of black broadcloth. Such an evident air of gentility sat upon
him, that I mentally congratulated myself that I was to be associated with
him. An instant later I heard his stentorian voice in the hall.
"Walker! Walker! Is that fellow Stone here yet? I can't wait all morning for
him, for there's plenty of ploughin', and plenty of lazy niggers back at the
farm! Hello! Why, is this Stone?"
And the hand that closed over mine was strong with the strength of the soil.

VI
"I must get some things for the boss, then we'll start home," announced Mr.
Grundy, after we were seated side by side in the rockaway. I noticed with
gratification that his voice had sunk a few notes. He had looked askance at
my yellow pup when I lifted him to a place at our feet, but had only
queried, "Is that part of your baggage?" and had not demurred. His next
speech was rather mystifying, for I had understood from Reuben that this
man was certainly lord of his manor, and presided in a lordly way.
"The boss?" I asked, with a puzzled look, whereat he burst into a laugh that
hurt my ears.
"Bless me! I forgot that you were a bachelor," he replied, when his risibles
had subsided sufficiently for him to talk. "If you ever marry, you'll find out
who's boss. The niggers call me boss and Marse, but Sallie's boss of our
plantation!"
We drove about town for perhaps half an hour, purchasing a supply of
groceries, then our horse's head was turned towards the open country.
"Antony'll take us home in less than an hour," said Mr. Grundy, eyeing with
pride the easy, far-reaching strides of the big bay. "That's the best horse in
my stables, Stone; there can't anything in the county catch him. I've taken
premiums with him at every fair in the circuit ever since he was a yearling.
It's a day's work for a nigger to drive him to town and back, for he pulls on
the lines every inch of the way, and it takes good muscles to hold him in."
My companion did most of the talking on the road home. I addressed a few
polite questions, then fell to viewing the country through which we were
being whirled. The world was waking after its annual nap. The odor and
charm of spring pervaded the air. Tree-buds were bursting, and tender
leaves were spreading their tiny hands to the gentle sky. Immense expanses
of green wheat waved by the roadside, and each small blade bowed its head
to me in welcome. A pair of bluebirds flitted from stake to stake of a rail
fence at our right. Yonder two gentle undulations prepared for corn swelled

and fell away. Wherever I looked was freshness and verdure, and the
starting into life of green things beneath the magic wand of spring. She
holds the key to earth's resurrection, and she alone can unlock the myriad
gateways of the sod. And what a host comes forth when her luring breath
falls upon the barren ground!—cereals, flowers, mosses, vines, and the
thousand little things which have no name. Forth they come exulting,—the
nightshade and the lily, the thistle and the rose. And on the broad bosom of
their mother there is room for each, and from her breast each draws its life.
A gray turret surrounded by evergreens drew my eyes to the left. I pointed
to it with the question, "Can you tell me what that is?"
"St. Rose,—a convent founded by the Dominicans in the early part of the
century. We'll drive over some day and take a look at it. That's the church
you see,—a fine piece of masonry."
Then I grew silent again, becoming absorbed in the changing landscape.
The road now led along the margin of a creek, bounded on the farther side
by densely wooded hills. We had been gradually descending for several
miles, and had now reached a great basin, wherein lay the fertile lands of
my host. A sudden turn to the right, and a beautiful valley stretched before
us. Part of it had yielded to the plough, and the brown, friable soil bespoke
richness and boundless possibilities for corn. Farther on were meadows,
reaching like green carpets close up to the whitewashed fences. And in the
distance—behold my future home! It sat upon the crest of a gentle
eminence back of those verdant lowlands, and was almost hidden by elms
and oaks. These trees filled the big yard, too, and some were burdened with
tangled grape-vines. Leaving the highway, a curving road led us up to the
yard gate. As we drove slowly up the avenue to the large two-story brick
house, a sense of unexpected happiness and quiet stole over me. Here was
the Mecca of my vague desires. Here, in the midst of pastoral beauty, a kind
Providence had sent me, and here, with the blue-grass all around, and peace
in my heart, I would be happy.
"Mother!"
The powerful voice at my elbow made me jump. By the time we reached
the ground, the double front doors were open, and standing there was one of
the sweetest-looking old women I had ever seen. She was clad in dignified

black, with a white kerchief at her throat, and her gray hair drawn smoothly
back from a kind, broad brow. Hat in hand, I mounted the huge stone steps
which led to the porch, while that big voice came from below.
"This is Stone, mother! Show him his room and make him comfortable! I'm
off to see 'bout the young lambs that came last night!"
It was a hospitable, friendly greeting which I received from the mistress of
the house. Her voice was low and pleasant to the ear, and there was culture
in every tone. The room into which she ushered me was delightfully cool
and shadowy. The ceiling was high, the windows broad and deep, with
green slat-curtains. The rocking-chair and the sofa near one of the windows
were covered with haircloth. The centre-table was a beautiful piece of
mahogany; sitting in the middle of it was a vase of jonquils. In one corner
was a bookcase, empty—ready for my treasures. Everything was as it
should be. I at once expressed my thanks and my satisfaction, and the good
lady retired, saying that I was doubtless weary, and needed to rest a little.
Left alone, I stood still a moment, and looked about me. The paper upon the
walls represented red-top clover in bloom, and I was glad of this. Hanging
about the room were some old-time portraits in gilt frames, and some
pictures representing historical events. Some dried-up cat-tails lifted their
brown heads from another vase on one end of the tall mantel. A screen
covered with wall-paper stood before the fireplace. Hastily I lifted it aside,
and there—yes, there was the blackened chimney, the andirons, and the
stone-laid hearth. If I have a weak point, it is an old-fashioned fireplace.
Dinner came just as I finished my toilet, and I followed Mrs. Grundy out
into the broad hall, onto a latticed porch, and into the dining-room. The
good things that were piled upon that table would have fed a regiment, but
all who sat down were my host and hostess, and myself. Mr. Grundy asked
a blessing, and his voice was just as loud as though he were hallooing to
one of his negroes across a field. Surely the Lord heard that petition. In two
minutes my plate was heaped high, and I had to put back other dishes till a
later moment. When he had fairly settled himself to the business of eating,
my host began to talk.
"Walker tells me that you're not used to mixing with people much, Stone,
but I'm afraid it'll be lonely for you 'way out here. We don't have much

company, and of course the niggers don't count. You can ride about the farm
with me if you want to, and mother can hold her own at talking. When
S'lome gets back, things'll be different. She's a whole houseful herself."
I almost dropped the piece of ham I was conveying to my mouth. Had
Reuben betrayed me! What did this talk of "mother" and "Salome" mean?
When he first spoke the word "mother," I had paid no particular attention to
it; but when coupled with that other name, it took a deeper meaning.
"I—I—I understood you had no children," I said, trying to conceal my
dismay by bending over my plate.
"Quite true, quite true, Stone. We've never had a child born to us. I got in
the habit of calling the boss mother, from S'lome."
"Who is Salome?" I asked, but my voice was so weak that it scarcely
conveyed the question.
"Bless me! didn't Walker tell you? I'll wring the rascal's neck for forgettin'
S'lome. Why, man, she's the pride of this farm, and the queen of every heart
on it! S'lome? Who's S'lome? Ask any nigger or dog in the county, and
they'll tell you. She's our 'dopted daughter, man, off to Bellwood for her
second year, and'll be home the fifth of June, God bless her!"

VII
Like most country folks, my new friends went to bed shortly after sundown.
About nine o'clock, I took my pipe and my tobacco-pouch, and crept
noiselessly out to the front porch. I had noticed a quaint settee there upon
my arrival that morning, and I had no trouble in finding it now, for a ghostly
moonlight had settled over everything. My mind was confronted by a
question of decidedly more moment than any under which it had at any time
before labored, and I had to think it out before I could sleep. If my
cherished and faithful pipe, together with solitude and the wondrous silence
of a night in spring, could not bring a solution to me, then the question was
certainly beyond me.
"—And'll be home the fifth of June, God bless her!"
I think they were the last distinct words I heard at that meal. I remember
mumbling something about the pleasure in store for me, and while my
tongue pronounced this statement, my conscience denounced me as a liar. It
would be no pleasure. An upstart of a boarding-school girl, with her airy
ways, her college slang and her ear-piercing laughter, tearing around the
house like a young cyclone, having girl friends and boy friends hanging
around continually,—the thought was not encouraging, and I groaned in
spirit, and puffed away, setting misty shallops afloat upon the sea of
moonlight. And these little shallops must have borne away as cargo my
fretting and my fears, for presently I fell into a philosophic mood, and the
future looked brighter. One thing was sure—I could not run away. That
would be cowardice, as well as an affront to hospitality. And did the worthy
man snoring in a near-by room once know that I thought of leaving because
his idol was coming, he would doubtless hasten my departure by turning
loose upon me the pack of fox-hounds I had heard clamoring for their
supper a few hours before.
And, too, there were five weeks yet before this wonderful being would
arrive. During this time I would walk, and accustom myself to riding, and
when this paragon did come, I would leave her in full and free possession of

the house throughout the day. It was not near so bad as it had looked at first.
By eleven o'clock I felt able to sleep, if not entirely reconciled to the new
order of things. "Sufficient unto the day—" I thought, with a sigh, and
knocking the ashes from my cold pipe into the palm of my hand, I threw
them over the railing of the porch, and went to bed.
The days passed for me now like a procession of pleasant dreams. The more
I became acquainted with my host and hostess, the more I identified myself
with their way of living, and the more I realized that I had fallen among
people of exceedingly gentle blood. They were aristocratic, and perhaps a
little too high headed for their near neighbors, and had but few callers, and
no visitors. The practically limitless farm was under the direct general
supervision of old Henry Grundy, and he was consequently a very busy
man, and seldom at home except at meal-times. I soon learned that the
slaves all loved him, for he was slow to anger, and always just. Out of the
thirty negroes on the place, I was given a youth of perhaps eighteen to be
my body-servant. He was to black my boots, keep my clothes dusted, hold
my stirrup, take care of my horse, and do anything else I wanted him to do.
This negro I dubbed Inky, in deference to his pronounced color.
I was allowed to sleep late in the morning,—a privilege for which I was
grateful. Often I would accompany the master on his tours of inspection,
riding a dapple-gray gelding which was placed at my disposal, and which
was exceedingly well behaved, as became an animal of his good breeding.
Then solitary walks became part of my daily routine. Accompanied only by
Fido, and carrying a walking-stick of stout hickory, I explored the hills and
valleys which stretched for miles in every direction. Oftentimes I was gone
all day, and the good people whom I had begun almost to love were very
indulgent to me, never complaining when I was late to a meal, or when my
roving spirit kept me out till after nightfall. I had a key to the front door,
and was careful to enter noiselessly on these occasions. I had never been
back to Springfield, and so had had no opportunity to upbraid Reuben for
his treachery. But, indeed, upon rereading his letter, I saw that he had told
me the truth, and at the same time had made me the victim of a joke. These
people had no children, and my friend had simply forbore mentioning the
adopted daughter.

Salome,—a beautiful name and an unusual one. I found myself thinking
upon it one afternoon, as I lay stretched upon a bed of moss in one of the
deepest recesses of the hills. I had never heard it before out of the
Scriptures. She who wore it ought to be a beautiful girl. "Salome, Salome,"
I caught myself murmuring, gazing dreamily up through the lace-like young
foliage above me to where two fluffy clouds were wandering arm in arm
along the pathways of the air. What would she look like, this Salome?
Would she be fair or dark, and would her ways be gentle or tomboyish? A
sudden realization of the trend of my thoughts made my cheeks tingle ever
so slightly, and I brought my eyes to bear upon Fido. This ever-restless
canine had chased a timid little ground-squirrel into a hole when we first
arrived at this spot, and had subsequently torn up enough leaves and dirt to
fill a moderate-size grave in his efforts to dislodge his quarry. He did not
know that I was watching him, and his antics were therefore perfectly
natural. He had dug a slanting ditch perhaps a foot deep in the soft loam,
and when my eyes fell upon him had stopped for a moment to get his wind.
He stood planted firmly on his four short legs, his tail vibrating incessantly,
like the pendulum of a clock. His muzzle was grimy with soil; his head
cocked on one side, and his ears pricked, while his beady little eyes
narrowly watched the hole before him. His lolling tongue was dripping, and
he was panting like a lizard. And I thought to myself, if men would attack
an obstacle like that dumb brute, there would be fewer failures in life. All at
once, and without warning, the pup leaped to the attack once more, and the
way he worked would have done credit to a galley slave. His shoulders
undulated with the ferocity of his movements, and dirt flew in a shower
from between his hind legs. Now and again he would pause, and thrust his
nose as far up in the hole as he could get it. A moment thus, while the
wagging tail still moved, then he would draw back, snort the dirt from his
nostrils, and with an eager whine renew his efforts.
With the deepening shadows came the thought that I was several miles from
home, so I arose reluctantly, picked up my stick, and, with Fido limping at
my heels, walked slowly back through the enchanted aisles of Nature.
The Saturday night following, a week before her arrival, I heard the story of
Salome.

I was on the old settee after supper, as usual. Here I always came to smoke
my pipe after the evening meal. Somewhat to my surprise, Mr. Grundy
came out and sat down beside me. Frequently he and his wife came out for
a short time in the early evening, but this night it was nearly nine o'clock
when I heard the old gentleman's heavy step in the hall. I made room for
him when I saw that it was his intention to sit down, and offered him my
tobacco, for I saw that he held a cob pipe in his hands,—another unusual
thing. He took my tobacco in silence, and in silence filled his pipe and lit it.
I felt that he had something to say to me, so I waited patiently, and we both
puffed away.
"S'lome's comin' a week from to-night," he said, at last. His voice was softer
than I had ever heard it, and a caressing note lurked in it. "Seems a long
time to us since she went away last September. S'lome's comin' home," he
repeated, as though the very sentence brought joy.
"It's right for me to tell you 'bout her, Stone, since you're to be one of us for
quite a spell. It's a sort o' sad story, but me an' mother've tried to make her
forget the beginning of her life. It may be that you don't like young girls
much, seein' that you've never married, but there'll be a kind spot in your
heart for S'lome when you hear 'bout her. You see, it began away back
yonder when I was a young fellow at school. Bob Summerton was a
classmate of mine, and my best friend. His one prevailin' weakness was a
woman's pretty face. He was a poor fellow, and had no business marryin'
when he did. His wife, highly connected, but without any near relations,
was killed in a railway accident. Their little girl, who had been born six
months before, escaped unhurt. Bob was a Kentuckian, from the soles of his
feet up, and one day, when S'lome was only three years old, he was shot by
a coward for defending a woman's good name. He telegraphed me to come,
and I reached him in time for him to consign to my keepin' the child soon to
be orphaned again. It nearly broke my heart, Stone,"—the strong man
choked back something in his throat,—"but even at that tender age the
young thing's grief was pitiful. I brought her here, and me and mother—
well, we've done what we could to make her happy—God bless her!"
The last words were in a husky whisper, and I knew that tears which had
started from the heart were glistening in the eyes of that grand old
gentleman.

"She's not so big, and she's not so little," he went on, presently, for I knew
of nothing to say at this juncture. "Just kind o' medium size, and as sweet as
the Lord's blessed sunshine. She ain't ashamed to keep the house clean, and
help mother, either. It's always May-time 'bout the old place when she's
here, Stone. She's tender-hearted as a lamb, and'll nuss a chicken with the
gapes for half a day. But the horse don't run on this farm that she's afraid to
ride. And when me or mother are ailin', she'll sit by us night and day—says
she's 'fraid to trust a nigger with medicine. And she's got our hearts so 't
they'd almost stop beatin' if she told 'em to. She's ridden on a load o' hay
many a time, and has gone to the wheat-field to help us with the thrashin'.
And she's comin' home next Saturday, Stone."
He stopped again, and I knew that he was thinking. Presently he arose, and
stretched his arms with a yawn.
"You'll like her, Stone, if you're a human. Good-night."
"Good-night," I answered, and his heavy boots thumped across the porch to
the hall door.
That night, for the first time in my life, a girl's face crept into my dreams.

VIII
The next week passed more swiftly than any of its predecessors had done
since I came to this idyllic spot. House-cleaning began on Monday, and
under Mrs. Grundy's experienced eye the half-dozen negresses employed in
the work moved with alacrity and precision. But what with beating carpets,
scrubbing floors, and turning things topsy-turvy in general, the task was not
accomplished with any considerable despatch. A man is a cumbrous article
at house-cleaning time, as any housewife will aver, and Mr. Grundy,
recognizing this fact, betook himself to the neighboring Little Beach River
to fish, and let "the boss" tear up things to her heart's content. His request
that I should accompany him was almost a warning, so I assented, for my
room was not to be spared in the general overhauling. Inky and Jim—Mr.
Grundy's factotum—went along to pitch our tent and attend to the cooking.
I was not a disciple of Walton, and as a consequence my success was
anything but extraordinary; still I derived a hearty enjoyment from the
outing.
Did you ever lazy along a river-bank in May, and just live, and fish, and
smoke, and do nothing else? If you have not, you have missed a very great
pleasure. If you fail to catch many fish, it doesn't matter much. There is a
certain spell in the air which defies ennui, and a kind of tonic steals into
your blood which makes it tingle through your veins, much as the rising sap
in the young trees, I imagine. You rise in the morning and bathe your eyes
open in a near-by spring, whose crystal cool water is like the touch of a
healing hand. Then comes breakfast of bacon, coffee, and good, light bread.
Then your pipe comes as naturally as a deep breath of the forest-scented air,
and you take your rod and minnows and wander up the bank through the
weeds and the dewy grass. Under the shadow of that old, half-sunken log is
where the bass stay. The water is deep and clear, and your hook sinks with a
low gurgle, like an infant's laughter. What matters it whether a bite comes at
once, or not? You sit in a hollow formed by a curving tree-root, rest your
back against the tree-trunk, and are very contented. The other side of the
stream is lined with endless stretches of trees,—sycamore, elm, dogwood

with their starry eyes peering in innate vanity over the bank into the mirror
beneath them, and underbrush of all descriptions. Where the tide has once
been, and receded, is a stretch of yellow clay, now glistening from the dews
of night. After a while the sun strikes this, and the wet surface glows like
gold. Then your wandering eye—for you have forgotten your cork—
observes a bubble as it rises and bursts midway across the stream, and you
idly watch the widening circle which radiates from it. Then in the centre of
the circle the tiniest dark spot appears, which gradually assumes the shape
of a black, shining head. It remains stationary for a while, then slowly
moves to the opposite bank. A disc-like shell is lifted, two broad feet dig
their claws into the mud, and Mr. Turtle drags himself up high and dry for a
sunning.
The delightful silence is suddenly broken by the harshest of chattering, and
a crested kingfisher descends like a shot from some dead limb high up in
the very tree under which you are sitting, and, skimming low over the
surface of the water, finally disappears without his prey. Then the pole is
almost jerked from your careless hands, and, if you have luck, a fine bass is
floundering at your feet in a few moments. Then another spell of sitting and
dreaming, while you lay your pipe aside for a while, and look up to where a
squadron of fleecy argosies are drifting calmly along to some unknown
bourn, bearing, mayhap, behind their filmy bulwarks the simple prayers of
trusting children.
Dinner-time comes too quickly, but it is over soon, and you seek a new
haunt, and stretch your legs out, and thank the Lord that you are alive.
Above you and around you is the fragrant new life of blooming things, and
the odor of the woods is as rare and sweet as some strange perfume. As the
sun goes down slowly, the shadows lengthen across the river. The little
wood violets nod on their slender stems by your side, and dusk creeps upon
you like a caress. The bird notes grow still, and a gentle rustling comes
from the leaves, and falls upon you like a benediction from Nature. After
supper you lie upon your bunk in the tent, and drowsily watch the stars
wink at you through the open door. Then the bull-frogs' lullaby begins, and
you drift into dreamland listening to that deep chorus from the river banks.
I passed four days like this,—elysian days to me. Friday we went back
home, and the next day she came.

The household was astir very early that morning, as was natural and proper
that it should be, considering the event which was to happen. Contrary to
my custom, I was up before the sun, and I smiled, in an amused way, at the
extra touches which I almost unconsciously put to my dress. I actually
halted over my necktie, but decided at last upon a black string, as most
becoming to my age and quiet habits. The gray streaks about my temples
seemed to show more plainly than usual, as I carefully brushed my hair. I
put on some clean cuffs, too, though the ones I had been wearing were not
soiled.
At breakfast everybody was happy. Mrs. Grundy beamed from behind the
tea-urn, and put three spoonfuls of sugar into my tea instead of two. Mr.
Grundy succeeded in upsetting his cup of black coffee, and laughed at it as
though it were a joke, and even the mulatto maid who moved deftly about
the table wore a broad grin. One thing was on the mind of each: Salome
was coming home.
The carriage was waiting at the front door when breakfast was over. Two
darkies had been rubbing on it for an hour, and not a speck could be seen
anywhere. There were two horses hitched to it this time, as fitted the
occasion. A span of high-strung blacks, with white feet, and they gave the
negro at their heads all he could do to keep them from going. They chafed
their bits, and stamped, and fretted at the delay, their tiny feet eager to be
speeding away. The master was going alone to meet his darling. Springfield
had no railway, and Salome was to arrive at Lebanon, eighteen miles
distant, by noon. Mr. Grundy came out arrayed in his best, as though he was
going to meet the Queen of England. His strong old face was alight with a
great happiness, as he bent and kissed his wife, then leaped down the steps
like a school-boy. He shouted back his adieus to each of us; the negro on
the front seat gathered up his lines, and braced his feet; the negro standing
at the head of the team loosened his hold, and stepped swiftly to one side.
There was a prancing of slender limbs, a tossing of two black heads, and
they were gone. There were tears of joy in the eyes of the good woman at
my side when I looked at her.
"She's coming, Mr. Stone, and we're all so happy!"

That was all she could say. Her voice broke, and with a smile on her sweet
old face she turned away into the house to hide her emotion.
The day was a restless one for me. I took a book, and went down to a rustic
seat under an elm tree. But the book lay open on my crossed knees without
my eyes ever seeking its pages. I was thinking of Salome—of the wonderful
charm which made every one love her. Elderly women, married women, I
had known and liked, but school-girls were my especial abomination. Truth
to tell, I had never known any, and I did not want to know any. Even this
paragon I would have gladly escaped had there been a way. But flight was
impossible, and since I must meet her, it was quite natural to wonder what
she was like, and to brood upon the mystery of her ensnaring all about her. I
was ashamed of my restlessness. The rustic chair grew uncomfortable, and I
paced up and down. The damp grass deadened the shine of my boots, and I
walked back to the house and summoned Inky to put them in shape again.
Even this African's face was beaming like a freshly polished stove, and I
became almost irritated.
"What are you grinning about?" I demanded, as he bent to his work with
blacking and brush.
"Miss S'lome's comin' home, Marse," he panted, rolling his white eyes at
me in ecstasy.
"Are you very glad?" I continued.
"Yas,'r, I is. Miss Salome's jes' so sweet that honey can't tech 'er. She picked
a br'ar out 'n my foot once, Marse; out 'n my ugly, black foot. An' she hel' it
in her lap, too, an' it nuvver hurt a speck."
I did not say anything more. I knew now why the birds were singing so
sweetly that morning, and why the squirrels in the yard were frisking so
gayly. Everything was glad because she was coming home.
The big bell on the tall pole behind the house rang at eleven that day instead
of half past. And away out in the fields hearts were quickened in black
bosoms. The slaves left the plough in the furrow, and the corn undropped,
and hurried home. The summons at this unusual hour meant that something
out of the ordinary had happened. It was the master's order, and as they all
came trooping in with inquiring faces, and stood grouped near the back

porch, Mrs. Grundy appeared, and told them briefly that their young
mistress was coming that afternoon, and that there would be no more work
that day. They cheered the news with many a lusty shout, and the
pickaninnies rolled over each other, and the youths turned handsprings,
while upon each face was a look of high good humor.
About four o'clock Mrs. Grundy and I repaired to the settee to watch the
road, which could be seen for perhaps a mile, winding through the valley.
Then around the corner of the house began to appear the vassals of this
Kentucky lord. The stain of the soil had been washed from their hands and
faces, and their cotton shirts were clean, though patched and worn. The
negresses, also, appeared, with their kinky hair done up in multitudes of
"horns," and tied with bits of the most extravagant-colored ribbon that their
wearers possessed. Every one was attired in his best, as though on a holiday
occasion, which, in truth, this was.
"Dar dey come!"
A six-year-old piece of midnight suddenly made this announcement in a
shrill treble key, and all eyes were turned at once towards the highway. A
carriage and a span of blacks were sweeping up the road. Mrs. Grundy gave
some orders in a low, yet positive tone, and in a trice two rows of slaves
were standing along each side of the avenue. They were going to give her a
royal welcome. Mrs. Grundy stood upon the lowest step, and I modestly
remained upon the porch, leaning against one of the massive pillars. I can
scarcely describe my feelings at that time now, but I think my nerves were
in a condition similar to that of the small boy when he makes his first
speech at school. They had reached the meadow, and were coming up the
slow incline. I could see nothing as yet but a straw hat, a white blur beneath
it, and a brown travelling suit. Through the wide-open yard gate they rolled.
Then those who had been called together to welcome her gave cheer after
cheer, and waved their hands and hats above their heads.
"Hi, Miss S'lome!" from a sturdy field hand.
"Hi, baby!" from an old mammy.
"Howdy, Missus!" from a housemaid.
"Hi, Mi' 'Ome!" from a pickaninny in arms.

And so the welcome greetings fell upon her. And from out the
pandemonium a high, sweet voice thrilled into my ears.
"Hello, Sambo! Here's Aunt Cynthy! Look how 'Lindy has grown!"
It was almost like the confused panorama of a dream. The horses stopped; a
lithe figure leaped, unaided, to the ground; I heard that dear word
"mother,"—and Salome was home.

IX
I descended the steps, and stood at a respectful distance. I saw a gray head
and a brown one side by side, and caught faintly the whispered love of
youth and age. Arms were at length unclasped, and Mrs. Grundy presented
me. A sudden up-flashing of dark eyes was the first impression I received
from the face turned towards me. She made me a low courtesy, and held out
her hand, and I took it and bowed over it with the best grace of which I was
master.
"I am glad to see you, Miss Salome," I said, truthfully, for my feelings had
undergone a wonderful revulsion, despite my indifference of that morning.
Sometimes a moment is long enough to change one's whole being.
"I am so pleased to find you here." Her voice was low, well bred, and
modulated. "Mother and father are very lonely after I go away. They love
me far more than I deserve," and she smiled back at them as they stood
hand in hand watching us. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will shake hands
with all of these good friends."
She nodded pleasantly in response to my bow, and moved away with a
certain gliding step. Straight to an old black mammy she went, and threw
herself into the good creature's arms. Then right and left she turned, while
they crowded around her, shaking hands with all. Some horny hands she
took could have crushed hers like a flower; but everywhere were
expressions of love and respect. And she was the gladdest thing there. The
genuine affection she felt for all the negroes was shown in her cordial
greetings.
The carriage was driven away, the blacks dispersed, and the rest of us
retired to "mother's room," which was situated back of mine. The two old
people hovered about their returned darling like parent birds over a strayed
fledgeling which had come back to the nest. I took a seat apart, and, joining
in the conversation but rarely, studied the girl who sat in a large rocking
chair, and who talked as volubly and as entertainingly as any one could
have wished. She was, as Mr. Grundy had said, of medium build. Her form

was youthful, but possessed of that subtle roundness which betokens the
approach of womanhood. Two dainty feet darted in and out beneath her
skirt as she rocked to and fro. Her face was not beautiful, but the features
were delicate and fine. Her lips were as red as rich blood could make them,
the upper one pouting ever so slightly, and the soft brown hair was parted in
the middle and drawn back from an exquisite forehead. The dark brown
eyes were the girl's chief charm. They danced and sparkled in impish
mischief, and had a way of shooting sudden glances which made
themselves felt as keenly as arrows. And crowning it all was a sweet grace
and womanliness which was good to see. From that hour my opinion of a
school-girl changed.
After supper all of us gathered on the front porch. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy
occupied the settee; Salome and I sat upon the porch at the top of the steps,
she leaning against one pillar, and I against the other, across from her. Of
course she did the talking, and while most of it was about the things which
had happened at school, I found myself listening with increasing interest. I
soon discovered that it was the music of her voice which held me,—soft,
rich, speaking in perfect accents. Her narrative was frequently interrupted
by bursts of bubbling laughter, as some amusing incident was remembered
and related. Very suddenly she stopped.
"Listen!" she said, and turned her head sideways, holding up one finger.
Through the silence which followed came the twanging notes of a banjo.
"It's Uncle Zeb!" she announced, in a loud whisper. Then to me,
impulsively, "Don't you like music, Mr. Stone?"
She leaned towards me, as though it was a vital question which she had
propounded.
"Very dearly," I answered promptly. "This is the first that I have heard since
coming here."
"It's a jig, and he's playing it for me—the old darling! I must go to him, or
he would be hurt."
She arose swiftly, and gathered up her skirts.

"Will you come, Mr. Stone, since you love music? We won't stay long."
I mumbled something, and got up, a trifle confused. Such perfect candor
and lack of artificiality was a revelation to me. She placed her disengaged
hand upon my arm at the bottom of the steps.
"Uncle Zeb almost raised me," she explained, as we took our way around
the house towards the darkey cabins. "He's taken me to the fields with him
many a time, and I was brought up on that tune you hear him playing. He
always plays it when I come home—look at them now!"
The cabins were all built in a locust grove to the rear of the house. To-night
the negroes had lighted a bonfire, and were making merry in the old-time,
ante-bellum way. Seated upon broken-down chairs, or strewn upon the
grass in various attitudes, these dusky children of misfortune watched the
performance of an exceedingly black old uncle, who, sitting upon a bench
before his cabin, was picking the strings of a banjo almost as old as himself.
His bald head, surrounded by a fringe of gray wool, shone brightly in the
firelight, he was rocking his body rhythmically backwards and forwards,
and keeping time with one foot upon the hard earth. As we came into the
circle of firelight we were discovered, and there was a quick movement,
and a deferential giving way. My companion took her hand from my arm,
and the action seemed to draw me much nearer the earth than I had been for
the past two or three minutes. The musician stopped playing when he
became aware of our presence.
"Bress de Lawd, honey chile! Am dat you? 'Pears to me a' angel mus' 'a'
drapped down frum de sky!"
"This is your little child, Uncle Zeb," she answered with feeling, "and I
have come out here to listen to you play."
"De ol' man can't play 'less de feet's a-goin'," he replied, shaking his head
solemnly. "You know you's al'ays danced fur ol' Zeb."
A darker color came to her cheeks, and she turned smilingly to me.
"Uncle Zeb taught me a jig when I was a wee thing in pinafores. He will
never play for me unless I dance for him. You know he thinks I am still a
child of eight or ten. If you think it's not—real nice, I won't ask you to stay."

The roguish upcasting of starry eyes, and the deprecating little manner, tied
my tongue for the instant.
"I shall be glad to stay, if you will permit me."
This much I managed to utter, and as she bowed assent, I went and leaned
against the cabin wall, by the side of Uncle Zeb. This was done partly to
give her all the room she needed, and partly to secure a support for myself,
for a strange weakness had begun to assail my limbs.
There was an eager, anticipative move on the part of the negroes. They
nudged each other, and whispered, grinned broadly, and shifted their
positions to where they could obtain an unobstructed view. Salome stood
bareheaded, with arms akimbo, waiting for the music. The travelling suit
had been discarded, and she was dressed in a simple blue dimity frock
which showed the perfect curves of her figure to charming advantage.
Uncle Zeb, with characteristic leisure, was in no hurry to begin. He twisted
the screws and thrummed the strings in a very wise manner. At length the
instrument was tuned to his satisfaction, and then his claw-like fingers
began to move with astonishing rapidity. I looked at Salome. She was
standing perfectly still. Then, as the music quickened, I saw her supple
body begin to sway, like a lily's stem when a zephyr breathes upon it. Her
hands dropped to her sides, and daintily lifting her gown above her feet, she
began to dance. Gently at first, and with such ease that she barely moved.
Then the step receded, advanced, and grew faster. Her tiny feet twinkled,
and tapped the earth in perfect time and rhythm. Such living grace I had
never looked upon! The bending form, the flushed face, and the dancing
feet, the grouped negroes and the old musician,—the picture was burned
into my memory like painting is burned upon china in a kiln. My breath
came quicker, and my face grew hot. I scarcely knew when she stopped, but
for the wild cheers of the spectators. Then, flushed and laughing, she came
and cast herself upon the bench by Uncle Zeb.
"Yo' do it better eb'ry time, chile!" declared the old fellow, highly delighted
that she had danced to his playing.
"And you gave it better than ever before! Did I shock you, Mr. Stone?" She
turned to me with a look of deep contrition.

I sat down beside her, and spoke my mind.
"I never saw anything like it. But don't fear that you shocked me. I wish that
I could see the same thing every evening."
"You're good not to mind it. Mother and father think it sweet, and I dance
for them sometimes. Now, if you don't mind, we will go back. I'm a little
tired to-night from my journey. Good-night, Uncle Zeb," she patted the old
man's hand. "Good-night, Lindy, Jane, Dinah, Sambo, Tom—all of you!"
She waved her hand, and, to a chorus of answering good-nights, we moved
away.

X
The grandfather's clock which stood in the hall struck twelve. My eyes
seemed loath to close in sleep. It is true I had not gone to bed till half-past
eleven, but usually Sleep sat upon my pillow, and proceeded to blindfold
me a few minutes after my going to bed. To-night, upon reaching my room,
I had read and smoked, and smoked and read, until my nerves had been
brought back to their normal state. It fretted me not a trifle to know that a
girl from boarding-school had upset me. But the ingenuous frankness of this
young being, the unaffectedness which waited upon her every movement,
had wrought such demolition to my theories that I was slow in recovering
my equipoise of thought. At length I strolled through a mazy vista to
oblivion, surrounded by a dancing throng of seraphs.
My rest was untroubled, and when I threw open my window-shutter the
next morning, and gazed out with sleep-blurred eyes, my first impression
was that things had become topsy-turvy, and that a soft sky studded with
stars lay before me. But as reason swiftly dominated my brain, I saw that
instead of the phenomenon which had at first seemed apparent, there was
only the bluegrass lawn thickly sown with dandelions, as though some
prodigal Crœsus had strown his wealth of gold broadcast. Perhaps the
lowly, modest yellow flowers were but imitating the glittering orbs which
had looked down upon them throughout the night—who knows? For is not
reasoning man oftentimes just as vain, when he seeks to clothe himself with
a majesty which is not for mortals?
For several days I adhered to the plans which I had laid out before the
coming of Salome. I rode with the master about the farm, took my solitary
walks with Fido, as usual, and spent most of each evening in my room,
alone. If left to the dictates of my own will, there is no telling how long this
would have continued. But one morning, at breakfast, my host surprised me
with the words:
"Stone, you remember the old St. Rose church you spoke of? It's worth
looking at, but the Lord knows when I'll have a chance to go with you.

S'lome's a great favorite with the sisters over at St. Catherine's, which is
about a half mile from St. Rose, and I heard her tell mother yesterday that
she was going to ride over to pay her respects this morning. Me and my
folks are Presbyterians, but nearly all of our neighbors are Catholics, and
good people, and we like them. Now if you'd like to go 'long, I don't s'pect
S'lome'd mind showin' you 'bout the place."
He looked at the daintily clad figure at my side with an interrogative smile.
"It would be a great favor to me," I put in hastily. "I had been thinking of
late I would have to go alone, but if Miss Salome would not object, I should
be pleased to go with her."
"Of course you may," she answered readily. "I love both places very much,
and the sisters are so sweet. Sister Hyacintha is my favorite,—a dear old
nun with the face of a saint. Do you like old-timey, quiet places, Mr. Stone?
St. Rose church is perhaps the oldest building in the county. St. Catherine's
is not half a mile from it, and the sisters conduct a boarding-school there.
Had I been a Catholic, I doubtless would have received my education at that
place."
I quickly assured her that I looked forward with much pleasure to our little
trip, and asked her if we were to go horseback, or in the carriage.
"Oh, horseback!" she exclaimed, with the delight of a child. "I believe you
are a good horseman," she added archly.
"Only fair," I responded, smiling. "Still I would much prefer to go that way.
I enjoy the exercise so much."
And so it was arranged. I had no dress for this sort of thing, and I felt a
trifle out of place when she joined me on the porch arrayed in a complete
riding habit of black. From her gauntlets to her silver-handled whip, her
attire was complete. I flushed.
"You know I am not accustomed to riding—will you pardon my
appearance?"
"It makes no difference whatever!" She laughed merrily. "The feathers don't
make the bird, and I am perfectly satisfied."

My mount was the same animal I had been used to, and the horse which had
been led out for her was a wiry, dapple-gray mare of impatient blood. I
knew the correct thing to do, and while I feared that I could not perform the
service successfully, I determined to try. So as she walked towards the
fretful mare which a negro was with difficulty restraining, I stepped
forward, doffed my hat, and with "Permit me, Miss Salome," I bent, and
hollowed my hand for the reception of her foot. With the naturalness and
grace of a queen she placed the sole upon my palm, and I lifted her to the
spring as though she had been a feather, and she sank into the saddle and
grasped the reins, which she proceeded to draw taut with no uncertain hold.
With my cheeks burning slightly—I was not used to waiting upon women
—I sought my saddle, and we cantered away.
How well the poet knew when he sang—

"What is so rare as a day in June?"

The bright morning sun blessed us with a benison of light; the sweet, cool,
scented air laid its thousand tiny hands lightly upon our faces, and the green
stretches of country all around us spoke of an earthly paradise. For a while
we said nothing, for that sorceress, June, had thrown her web about us, and
we were moving as through the vistas of a dream. Once I glanced at my
companion, and I saw such a peaceful, happy, yet thoroughly unconscious
look upon her face that I stayed the casual remark upon my tongue which I
felt that courtesy required. Then it dawned upon me with the suddenness of
a revelation that her nature was attuned to mine, and all at once I knew that
the sylvan sounds and scenes which were the delight of my soul were as
manna to hers as well. And I had shunned her!
"I fear you will think me a poor escort," she said at length, smiling at me
with a trace of sadness. "But I have been away so long, and all these
meadows, and trees, and brooks are friends—you don't know how I love
them. I have lived with them and in them since I could walk, and it is like
seeing dear ones in the flesh to come back and be with them, and hold silent
communion with them. Does this sound strange to you?"
"No." And yet I looked at her half perplexedly. My idols were being
shattered one by one. "No, it is not strange to me that such feelings exist,

for they are my own. That was why I sought this old-fashioned Kentucky
home. I lived in Louisville until I came here, and my soul was being
crushed out of me between four brick walls. I have been happy here; I did
not know what happiness was until I came here—except that derived from
books. But that sort of happiness you feel; this sort you live, and your being
is broadened by it. But you—I confess it sounds strange to me to hear you
say such things."
"Why should I not know them as well as you? My opportunities have been
greater."
"I don't know; I have no reason to give. In my ignorance and selfishness I
had thought that I was alone in this; that no one could listen to Nature's
secrets but myself. I have been wrong, and I am glad that I have been
undeceived."
The congeniality which became quickly established between us made our
seven-mile ride very short. Our horses were in good mettle, and the road
was fine. Before I knew where we were, we turned into a by-road bordered
by locust trees, and cantered down to St. Catherine's Academy. The lawn
before the three-story brick building was beautifully kept. I hitched our
horses, and as we strolled up the pavement towards the entrance, I saw two
or three figures moving about the premises, clad in the becoming black-
and-white garb of the order. Presently one sister espied us, and immediately
started our way. She was very old, and moved with slow, short steps.
Salome ran to her with a little cry of joy, bent down and kissed the wrinkled
face, and, as I came up, introduced me to Sister Hyacintha. I shall never
forget the patient, joyful, almost heavenly look on the face of this good
woman. She led us to the porch, and gave us chairs, and she and Salome
talked, while I listened. As it was nearing the noon hour, we were prevailed
upon to stay and take lunch. In the afternoon we were shown through the
building, and took a walk over the grounds. Time slipped by stealthily, and
the sun was hovering above the western horizon when Salome remembered
that St. Rose was yet to be seen.
A short ride over a narrow dirt road winding through masses of verdure
brought us to the confines of the old church, which, perched upon a hill,
reared its turret aloft in the purple air. I fastened our horses to some of the

numerous hitching-posts placed along the roadside for the use of
worshippers, and we turned to the iron gate leading into the premises. As
this clanged behind us we both felt keenly the jar it created, for everything
was so still and peaceful that the slightest noise was irrelevant, and we felt
bound to talk in whispers. We found ourselves upon a gravel walk bordered
by cedars; to our left was the road, to our right the white stones of a vast
burying ground rose up like spectral sentinels of the tomb.
Salome put her hand upon my arm. The path was steep, and I should have
offered her assistance, but I had not thought of it. Not a word was spoken
until we had reached the end of the path. Here the brow of the hill curved
around in the form of a semicircle, and was studded with cedars, like
emeralds in a crown. Before us, not a dozen steps away, rose the ancient
edifice we had come to view. It was made of solid masonry, and seemed
good for hundreds of years to come.
"Here we are."
Salome was panting a little as she said this, in a barely audible voice. I
looked at the gray pile in silent contemplation. Its style suggested
massiveness, although the building was not of any great size. The part
comprising the vestibule and bell-tower was octagon in shape, and the turret
was at least a hundred feet in air. Behind this were the ivy-covered walls of
the body of the church. It was at that time when the earth grows still before
drawing her night robes about her. In the western sky the sun's last
streamers flared out like a gorgeous fan, and on their tips some shy
diamonds glittered evasively. From the fields around us came the sweet
breath of the spring, smelling of the richer fragrance of early summer. The
birds were still; the stamping of our horses in the road below was the only
sound.
"Shall we go in?"
I started, although the tones were low and like the music of rippling water.
When I turned my head, the brown eyes looking into mine had a mournful
expression. The impressiveness of it all was upon her, too. There must have
been a certain look of inquiry upon my face, for she went on, in the same
wonderful voice:

"It's never locked, you know. I like that custom about a Catholic church. So
often the soul would enter into a holy place and be alone in prayer. Shall we
enter? I think there is enough light for us to see."
In reply, I drew closer to her, and held out my arm. She took it lightly, and
in the deepening twilight we walked to the broad, wooden door. It yielded
reluctantly to the pressure of my hand, on account of its size and weight,
and together we entered the shadows of the sacred place.

XI
The door settled heavily into place behind us, and we were in almost
complete darkness. Somewhere in front of us was a glimmer of light. I felt
the slight figure at my side drawing me forward, and I put myself under her
guidance. Crossing the vestibule, we passed into the room beyond.
Although we trod lightly, the bare floor sent up sounds which echoed
loudly, it seemed to us. A ghostly light filled the chamber into which we had
come, and made it look much larger than it really was. The roof was lost
above us, but there, before us, were the plain, brown, wooden benches
forming the pews, and the nave leading down to the altar railing. Along this
a worn strip of carpet was placed. Slowly we went forward, awed by the
silent majesty of a place of worship. All at once there came to me a
realization of the peculiar position in which I was placed—walking down a
church aisle with a beautiful girl upon my arm—and my face grew red. I
could tell it by the hot tingling at my neck and temples, but the gloom was
deep enough to hide it from her. The sudden force of what such a
proceeding as this might mean made my heart—my staid, old, methodical
heart—throb unwontedly. I hoped that the gloved hand resting so near to it
did not feel its throbbings, although they sounded in my ears like a hammer
on an anvil.
We had reached the railing. Before us rose the altar, with its images and its
unlit tapers, its cloth of gold, and its silver appurtenances. A stretch of
carpeted floor lay between it and us. Directly this side the railing was a
narrow ledge. Salome suddenly bent her knees and rested them upon this,
placed her elbows upon the railing and bent her head in her hands. For a
moment I gazed at the black bowed figure, then found myself imitating her
attitude. In the stillness of the old church we knelt alone. Around us was
utter silence, and the paling light of a dead day. Perhaps in the dark corners
the ghosts of confessed sins were lurking; above the spot where we knelt
many a "Benedicite" had fallen upon humble hearts waiting to receive it.
She was praying. Perhaps confessing to the Great Absolver the sinless sins
which bore no crimson stain, and praying His favor for the ones she loved.
As well might a flower of the fields bow down and breathe out tales of

grave misdeeds, for her heart was like a flower—yea, like the closed cup of
a lily at night, garbed in purity as white as holiness.
I watched her through the fingers I had placed over my face. This surely
was no sin, for my own heart was not still enough for prayer. She was very
still, and only her small ear and a portion of her cheek were visible. What
did this half-stifling feeling mean which rose up in my throat? I had never
seen a woman in prayer, alone. Away back through the dimly lit aisles
which led to a distant boyhood my mind had sometimes strayed, and
viewed a small white figure kneeling at its mother's side at bedtime. That
was myself, and her petitions were doubtless sent up by the little cot where
I lay asleep. A young girl praying! It is as sacred as the miracle of birth.
And by this simple act, this girl had placed in me a greater trust than words
could speak. She deemed me good enough to be by her side when she
approached her Creator—and was I worthy? I knew I was not. And though
my life had been free from those polluting sins which glow like rubies in
the souls of some men, I felt that here I had no fitting place, that her prayers
would be clogged by the unholiness of my presence. She knelt, immovable
as the statued Christ which hung almost over our heads. The glow in the
stained-glass windows to our left had turned to a gray blur; the outlines of
her figure were growing indistinct. As suddenly and as quickly as she had
knelt, she arose, and with the freedom of a child took my arm as we
retraced our steps.
A young moon was tilted over in the sky near the horizon as we gained the
open. The limitless depths above us were aglow with millions of sparkling
stars. We stood for a moment before going down to our horses.
"We'll be a little late getting back."
Again it was my companion who broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, for it will be because of me."
She laughed,—the bubbling notes so like the falling of a forest rivulet over
a low rock ledge.
"It will not matter, unless we count the loss of sleep. Mother and father
know how I love the night, and when they know where I am, and whom I
am with, they are not concerned."

"I would gladly lose a night's rest for an experience like this. You have
made me very much your debtor. How solemn and beautiful it all is!" My
eyes took in all visible things in a comprehensive glance. "Do you come
here often?"
"No; I only care to come at the close of day, and my parents are getting too
old to be dragged around to humor my whims. It is too far to come alone,
and so I miss it."
"Then did I really perform some sort of service for you in accompanying
you here? I had imagined the favor all on your side."
"Let's call it square," she smiled. "I showed you the place, and you acted as
my protector and escort. A very even bargain, I think. We had better go now.
We will have a fine ride home."
It was very dark on the cedar-bordered walk down which we went, and
while I longed to offer assistance, I refrained. When we came to the road,
however, we found that there was enough light. The horses were restless at
their posts, and we mounted with considerable difficulty after I had
unhitched them. But Salome, peerless horsewoman that she was, quickly
had hers in hand, and mine soon became tractable of its own accord. We
proceeded at a smart canter until we reached the turnpike. There Salome
suggested a gallop, and I could do nothing but assent, although fast riding
was something to which I was not accustomed. But I gradually
accommodated myself to the long, undulating leaps of my mount, and then
began to enjoy it. It was highly exhilarating as well as novel. Salome sat as
though part of the animal she managed so well, and as we swept along I
kept my eyes upon her in a kind of wonder. It was so new to me, and the
skill with which her small hand managed her mettled horse was nothing
short of a marvel.
We did not talk much during this part of our ride. Occasionally she would
fling a remark across at me above the thud of the hammering feet, but I
think the beauty of the night and the wonderful silence sat upon our minds,
and made our tongues unwilling for speech. Sometimes the road was open
and clear, and then I could see her eyes, like veiled stars. And around and
about us were fields of growing corn and ripening wheat, and infolding us
close, as in a filmy garment, was that indescribable odor of green things and

of dew-wet turf. Then the pike would sweep around a curve, like the stretch
of a winding river, and bordering each side of the highway were clumps and
rows of gigantic forest-trees. Oftentimes their boughs would intertwine
above, and what seemed to be the black mouth of a tunnel would confront
us. Into this apparent pit of darkness we would dash, but the horses never
shied. They knew well the ground their fleet hoofs were spurning, and they
knew that farther on was home,—a good stall, and a rack full of musky
clover hay. Under the trees I could not see Salome. Now and again some
sparks of fire would shoot out when a hoof struck a stone. Then out into the
open again. The pace our steeds had assumed of their own free will was no
mean one, and when scarcely an hour had gone we were riding slowly
through the meadow to the big whitewashed gate giving entrance to the
yard. The young moon had grown weary, and tumbled out of the sky; but
the stars seemed brighter—they looked as though the dew which sparkled
on the grass below us had washed their tiny faces on its way to earth. The
Milky Way appeared as a phantom lace curtain stretched across the sky.
I opened the gate from my horse, and held it back for Salome to pass
through. When she had done this, I followed, and the gate clanged back.
The noise of its shutting notified Inky and Jim of our arrival, for they were
waiting sleepily as we came up to the fine stone steps of the old home, and
at once took charge of the horses. I helped Salome up the steps by placing
my hand beneath her elbow. We stood for a moment on the edge of the
porch.
"We must move around gently," I suggested. "The old folks have doubtless
been asleep an hour."
"Bless their dear hearts!" she answered with earnest fervor. "Mother says
you move like a mouse," she resumed, and I could see the faint glint of her
teeth as she smiled. "My room is upstairs, and I am not so likely to disturb
them. Have you enjoyed your day?"
"It has been very pleasant," I answered warmly. "I feel more grateful to you
than I can say for being so nice to a stranger who happens to be a guest in
your home. But I love the woods, and the fields, and the pure, fresh air
which blows straight down from heaven. This much we have in common.

Will you let me go with you again—sometimes? I would not bore you, nor
presume too much."
In my great earnestness I had come closer to her.
"I am out of doors a great deal, and you may go with me often, if you wish.
I enjoyed having you to-day."
This was said just as seriously as my question had been put. Then, in one of
those rare changes of which her nature was capable, she added:
"You know I need a protector in my various rambles, and you shall be my
esquire when I go forth in state to see my flower subjects scattered all over
the farm. My knight-errant, too, to espouse my cause should snake, or dog,
or an enraged animal of the pastures seek to do me harm."
"Gladly, your majesty," I answered gallantly, falling into the spirit which
her words betokened, and bowing low. "Behold your vassal; command me
when you will."
A whispered "good-night," a faint echo of that enchanting laugh, and she
had slipped through the door and was gone.
I did not tarry long, for the beauty of the night had suddenly paled.
Everything had grown darker, and, by habit, I thought of my easy-chair and
pipe, and went in also. Salome was standing at the farther end of the long,
broad hall, with a lighted candle in her hand. Her hat had been removed,
and her tangled hair was half down. The riding habit had also disappeared,
and she was robed in some sort of a loose house gown which fell away into
a train. Her back was towards me, and she had one foot on the first step of
the curved stairway which went up from that point. She heard me turn the
key in the lock, and looked back. I went towards her; why, I do not know.
She waited until I had come quite close.
"I haven't anything very particular to say," I began, I fear very confusedly.
But my foolish feet had led me to her, obedient to the dictates of a foolish
mind, and I had to speak first.
"I have been in mother's room," she answered, opening her eyes very wide,
as a child does when it hears a sound in the dark. "I went for this wrapper,

and would you believe it, I did not waken either of them! Mother sleeps
very lightly, too!"
"You have performed quite a feat," I assured her, at once put at ease by her
genuineness. "Have you planned anything for to-morrow?"
"Father has some sheep on the lower farm that are sick, and I am going to
take them some salt, because that is good for their blood."
"May I help you salt the sheep? I'll carry the salt, if you will let me go."
She turned her head sideways, with a slight uplifting of the brows, as
though hesitating.
"Ye-e-e-s, I guess so," she replied at last, doubtfully. "Do you know
anything about sheep?"
"Nothing more than I have read. They are very docile, I believe, and a great
many of our clothes come from their backs."
"But that isn't all." There was the wisdom of Solomon on the fresh young
face, shadowed by disarranged tresses. "Some of them have horns, like a
cow, only they grow back instead of out. And they'll run you sometimes,
when they take a notion. Can you run, Mr. Stone?"
The picture which came to my mind of the staid and dignified Abner Stone
flying across a meadow with coat-tails streaming, and an irate ram at his
heels, brought a broad smile to my face.
"Yes; I can run. But I promise not to desert you if danger comes."
"Then be ready in the morning. I will say good-night again, for I know you
must tell this day's doings to your pipe before you retire."
Our entire conversation at the foot of the stair had been in low whispers,
and I whispered back her good-night, and turned to go. Then, like Lot's
wife, I looked behind me. She had reached the first landing, where the
stairway curved. She saw me, and peered forward, holding the candle above
her head. The loose sleeve of her dress fell back with the motion, and the
bare symmetry of her rounded forearm gleamed upon the blackness like
ivory upon ebony. I waved my hand; she waved hers, then was gone.

I sank into a chair and bowed my head in my hands, my soul torn by the
pangs of a new birth.

XII
Only a few old negroes were astir when I stepped from the house the next
morning. Even the master had not arisen. The stars and the sun's
forerunners were having a battle on the broad field overhead; one by one
the stars were vanquished and their lamps extinguished. I stood upon the
lowest step of the flight in front of the house, and watched the misty,
uncertain shapes of trees and bushes gradually evolve themselves into
distinguishable outlines. The process was slow, because a kind of vapor lay
upon everything, and it resisted strenuously the onslaught of the sun. But it
gave way, as darkness ever must before light, and, as if by magic, the
curtain which night had placed was rolled away, and little by little the
landscape was revealed. Along the creek, which ran just beyond the pike,
and parallel with it, hung a dense wall of fog, against which it seemed the
arrows of day fell, blunted. The air was cool and fresh, and I drew it deep
down into my lungs, feeling the sluggish blood start afresh with each
draught.
With the dawning of that day came the dawning of a new life for me. I
realized that I had been living in a darkened room, and that a window had
suddenly been thrown open, letting in upon me a shower of golden light,
with the songs of birds and the incense of flowers. My old life had been a
contented one, had known the pleasures to be derived from association with
books and God's great out-door miracles. The new life, whose silver dawn
was beginning to tip my soul with a strange radiance, held untold joys
which belong rightly to heaven, and which numbed my mind as I strove
blindly after comprehension. I was as a little child left all at once alone
upon the world. I stood, helpless, trying to centralize my disordered
thoughts, with a strange oppressed feeling in my breast which deep
respirations could not drive away. I was deeply, deeply troubled, and my
mind was in a maze. But one idea possessed me, and that doggedly asserted
itself, overriding the tumult in my brain. I was longing, madly longing, to
see again her whom I loved. The word in my mind was like the touch of a
white-hot iron, and I started as if stung, and fell to pacing nervously up and
down. It could not be; it could not be! That child of nineteen,—I a man of

forty-five! The idea was monstrous! What an old fool I had been! I did not
know my own mind, that was all. I would be all right in a day or two. But
still that sinking feeling weighed above my heart, and my usually calm
pulse was rioting with something other than exercise.
"Let it be love!" I cried at last, in my troubled soul. "The painful bliss of
this half hour's experience is worth the cost of denial, for she shall never
know!"
Thus did I, poor worm, commune in my fool's heaven, recking not, nor
knowing, that I was setting at naught the plans of my Creator.
At breakfast I was myself, although my hand trembled when I conveyed
food to my mouth, and I felt my cheeks coloring when she came in a little
late, arrayed in a pink-flowered, flowing gown, and looking as fresh as
though she had just risen, bathed in dew, from the blue-and-crimson cup of
a morning-glory.
"How did you rest after your night ride?" she smiled, sitting by me and
resting her elbows on the edge of the table, then pillowing her round chin in
her pink palms.
"I slept better for my outing," I answered promptly, lying with the ease of a
schoolboy. The truth was, my sleep had been broken and poor.
"It's a good thing for Stone that you're back," thundered Mr. Grundy.
"You're so everlastingly fond of running over all creation, and he has the
rovingest disposition I ever saw. Goin' down to salt those sheep this
mornin', S'lome?"
"Yes, sir. I made a compact with Mr. Stone last night to act as my esquire on
all my expeditions. You've often said I should have some one to go along
with me."
"Don't let her impose on you, Stone," responded the old gentleman,
throwing a quick wink in my direction. "She's young, you know, and don't
know as much as mother. She'll have you climbing an oak tree to get a
young hawk out of its nest likely as not."

Salome laughed, while I boldly assured them that I would make the effort
should she desire such a thing. Mrs. Grundy was quiet, as usual. She
contented herself listening to the conversation of the others, and seldom
took her eyes off the girl it was plain to see she worshipped.
"Get ready for a walk this morning, Mr. Stone!" called Salome, a short time
after breakfast, peeping over the balustrades at the top of the stair. "The
lower farm is about two miles, and the walk will be good for us."
"I'll get my hat and stick; are you coming now?"
"As soon as I can get in another dress. I'll meet you in the locust grove. Tell
Tom to get you the salt, and I'll be there before you have missed me."
She was gone with a pattering of little feet.
I went into my room for my stick and hat with a grim smile upon my face.
The steady ground which I had thought beneath me was becoming shifting
sand. I went slowly around the house to the negro quarters with bowed
head, briefly gave Tom his mistress' orders, and stood apathetically while
the darky hastened away to obey.
A quick scurrying in the grass, and the pressure of two small paws upon my
trousers' leg brought me to myself, and I bent down to pat the yellow head
of Fido, who had espied me, and instantly besought recognition.
"You poor, dumb, faithful thing," I apostrophized, looking at the bright eyes
which shone love into mine. "You are spared this agony of soul, and the
futile efforts to solve problems which cannot be known. You love me, and I
love you; why could we both not be content?"
"Is Fido going, too?"
I composed my face with an effort, and straightened up as the cheery voice
hailed me. She was coming towards me like a woodland sprite, floating, it
seemed to me, for her gliding step was so free from any pronounced
undulation. Her dress of blue checked gingham just escaped the ground, and
she wore a gingham sunbonnet with two long strings, which she held in
either hand. The sunbonnet was tilted back, and her laughing face, with its
rich, delicate under-color of old wine, was fit for a god to kiss.

"Yes, we will take him along if you do not object. He was the companion of
my rambles before you came. We will make a congenial three."
Tom approached with a bucket of salt, which, after an exaggerated scrape of
the foot and a pull at his forelock, he handed to me, and we set out.
Our way led through the orchard at the back of the house, where grew, I
think, all sorts of apples known to man. Each bough was freighted with its
burden of round, green fruit, and here and there an Early Harvest tree was
spattered with golden patches, where the ripened apples hung in their green
bower. Beyond the orchard lay a woods pasture, formed of a succession of
gentle swells, the heavy bluegrass turf soft as an Oriental carpet to the feet,
while scattered about were hundreds of magnificent trees, mostly oak and
poplar. Dotting the sward were numerous little white balls on long stems,—
dandelions gone to seed. These Salome plucked constantly, and, filling her
cheeks with wind, would blow like Boreas, until her face was purple. When
I inquired the purpose of this queer performance, I was shyly informed that
it was to tell if her sweetheart loved her. If she blew every one of the pappus
off at one breath, he loved her; if she didn't, he didn't love her. She was
certainly very much concerned about the matter, for every ball she came to
she plucked and blew. Sometimes all the pappus disappeared, and
sometimes they didn't, and so she never reached a decided conclusion.
The pasture crossed, a rail fence rose up before us. I at once stepped
forward to let down a gap, but Salome halted me.
"The idea!" she declared. "I don't mind that at all. You stand just where you
are, and turn your back; I'll call you when I'm over."
I blushed, and obeyed.
A wheat-field of billowy gold stretched before us when I joined her. A
narrow path ran through it, curving sinuously, as a path made by chance
will. This we followed, Salome going in front. The wheat was ready for the
reaper, and the full heads were swelled to bursting. Salome gathered some,
threshed them between her hands, blew out the chaff, and offered me part of
the grain, eating the other herself. It was pasty, but not unpleasant, and I ate
it because it was her gift. We were walking peacefully along, through the
waist-high grain, when Salome gave a little scream and jumped back,

plump into my arms. Even in my excitement I saw the tail of a black snake
vanishing across the path. I released her quickly, of course, but the touch of
her figure was like wine in my veins.
"I beg your pardon!" she said humbly; "but the ugly thing frightened me. It
darted out so quickly, and I almost stepped upon it. You couldn't get one of
the negroes to follow this path any farther. They are very superstitious, you
know, and are firm believers in signs."
"I'm sorry you were startled so; perhaps I had better go in front," I ventured.
"No; you sha'n't. I'm not really afraid of snakes, except when I run upon one
unexpectedly. I kill them when I get a chance."
And so she started out again in advance of me, and began telling the various
beliefs of the negroes. I learned from her that their lives were almost
governed by "signs," and that some very trivial thing would deter them
from a certain course of action. There were ways to escape the spell of
witches, to avoid snakes, and to keep from being led into a morass by jack-
o'-lanterns. This folk-lore of the darkies was exceedingly interesting to me,
told in the charming manner which characterized the speech of my
companion.
The wheat-field ended at the pike, and here another fence was passed in the
same manner as the first one. Then we swung down the dusty road together,
side by side. To the right and left of us dog-fennel was blooming, and the
"Jimpson" weed flared its white trumpets in a brave show. Occasionally a
daisy lifted its yellow, modest head, and Salome took great delight in
getting me to tell her which was daisy and which was fennel. My ignorance
caused many a blunder, to her high amusement; but at last I discovered that
the daisy's head was larger than that of its humble brother. A half-mile's
walk along the pike brought us to an old sagging gate, which I pushed open,
and we went through. A grassy hill was before us, sloping down to a cool
hollow where a spring bubbled out from beneath a moss-grown old rock.
There were trees and bushes, and a soft green bank, and we joined hands
and ran like two school-children till we reached the spring. Of course she
must have a drink, so down she knelt, and plunged her pouting lips into the
cool water. Her hair, tangled and loosened by our run, fell in wavy strands

about her face. When she had drunk her fill, it was my turn, and so I
stretched out full length, and carefully put my lips just where hers had been.
Never had water tasted so sweet! I was taking it in, in long, cool swallows,
when a sudden pressure on the back of my head bobbed my face deep into
the spring. I turned my head with a smile, to find her standing back and
laughing like a child at the trick she had played.
"You rascal!" I fumed good-naturedly, "I'll pay you back!"
Another peal of laughter was her only answer, caused, no doubt, by my wet
face and the water dripping from my chin.
"Yonder come the sheep," she said. "Get up, and let's salt them."
I arose and picked up the bucket. Coming slowly up the hollow were five or
six shabby-looking sheep. Their wool stood on them in patches, and they
seemed scarcely able to walk.
"What's the matter with them?" I queried.
"See how rusty the poor things look!" Her voice told of deep concern.
"Father says they have the scab, and it must be a dreadful disease, like
leprosy. Let's go meet them, and save them the trouble of walking so far."
I could not help smiling at the tender heart this speech betrayed, but I went
with her. As we neared the sorry-looking group, Salome took a handful of
salt and placed it upon a large flat stone. They rushed at it eagerly, despite
their weakened state, and lapped it with their tongues. We put out more salt,
at a dozen different places, so that all might have enough, then went back to
the bank by the spring, and while she sat down in the shade and held her
bonnet in her lap, I reclined by her side, and looked up at her, content.

XIII
"Do you love the country as much as you seem to?" she asked, gazing
blissfully up at the dense foliage of the elm tree under which we were
resting.
"I could not love it more; it is a wonder which never ends, and an enduring
delight. If I could think that Paradise was like this day, and this place, I
would not care when death came."
"I'm so glad," she answered, with the simplicity and directness of a child. "I
have been in cities, and I don't see how a soul can live there. It seems to me
that mine would cramp and dwindle until it died if I had to live in a big
town. Even the large and beautiful places of worship speak more of the
human than of the divine. It seems that men go because they must, and that
women go to show their clothes. This is my religion and my temple." She
smiled in real joy as she waved her hand about her in a gesture
comprehending everything bounded by the horizon. "Look at the roof of my
temple. Was there ever one so high built by mortals, and was there ever a
pigment mixed that could give it the tint which mine holds? And it is not
always the same. To-day it is a pale blue, marked with delicate lines of
cloud. At twilight it will darken to azure; to-night it will be studded with a
million gems. And no prayer falls back from that roof upon the head of the
sender, for the stars are the portholes through which they go to heaven. Do
you never think that way?"
I shook my head slowly.
"It is very beautiful," I said, "and equally true, no doubt, but I had never
thought of it in just that way. I love this life because I can't help but love it.
The forests, the meadows, the fields, and the brooks are what my soul
craves; yet if you ask me why, I cannot tell you. I have been happier the few
short weeks I have spent in your home than I was all the rest of my life.
Since you have come, my happiness has deepened."

I dared not look up, but kept my eyes on the four-leaf clover I was plucking
to pieces.
"I'm glad I've helped make your visit pleasant."
Her voice was in the same low sweet tones which she had before employed,
and I knew by this she attached no particular significance to my last
sentence.
"When mother wrote me that you had come to board with us, I was a little
displeased, for I was jealous of the sweet accord in which we all dwelt, and
did not want it marred. But when she told me all about you, and your habits,
my feelings changed. I do not wish to draw any unjust comparisons, but
there are very few people with tastes and inclinations like yours and mine,
—don't you think so?"
This naïve frankness almost amused me.
"I think you are right. I never knew any one who would care for just the
things we do, and they are certainly the most innocent pleasures which the
world affords."
A sudden darkening of the landscape and a breath of cool air accentuated
the silence which fell at this point. We both looked up, and saw the edge of
a blue-black cloud peeping over the shoulder of a northwestern hill.
"I'm afraid we'll get wet," said Salome, rising hastily, and surveying her airy
garments dubiously. "There isn't even a cabin between here and home. I
wouldn't care a fig, but mother always hates for me to be out in a storm. We
can only do our best, and walk rapidly."
With the salt bucket in my left hand, and her hand in my right, I helped her
up the hill the best I could. Fido limped behind. He had been lost nearly all
the time since we started,—chasing rabbits, doubtless,—and had only made
his appearance a few moments before the cloud startled us. We gained the
pike directly, and as we hurried towards the wheat-field the cloud grew with
alarming rapidity, and a scroll-work of flame began to show about its outer
edges.
"Isn't it beautiful?" whispered Salome. "But we're going to catch it."

And we did. Half-way across the wheat-field the first big drops splashed
against our faces, blown by strong gusts of wind. I gazed around helplessly
for shelter. A few yards to our right rose the cumbersome shape of a last
year's straw-rick; it was better than nothing.
"Come!" I said, taking her arm firmly. "I'll find you shelter."
She consented silently, and I crushed a path for her through the ripe grain
until we reached the rick. The rain was beginning to pelt us sharply.
Furiously I went to work, tearing out straw by the handfuls, armfuls, and in
a few seconds I had excavated a hole large enough for Salome to enter in a
crouching posture.
"Get in!" I commanded. I think she little liked the tone of authority I had
assumed, for if there ever was a petted being, it was she, yet she obeyed,
and cuddled up in her refuge out of reach of the driving rain.
I sat down by the side of her covert, and rested my back against the rick. I
also turned up my coat-collar, and pulled my hat well down upon my head;
but I soon saw that a good soaking was in store for me.
"Why don't you come in, too?" she asked in guileless innocence. "I can
make room for you, and you will surely get wet out there. Aren't you afraid
of rheumatism? Father has it if he gets his toe damp."
"I'll get along all right," I replied. "There doesn't much rain strike me, and I
never had the rheumatism in my life."
I didn't tell her of the trouble with my breathing, and the attack that would
be almost sure to follow this exposure.
We both grew quiet after this, and listened to the swish of the rain and the
mighty howling of the wind. It had grown very dark, and the air was chilly.
The lightning was incessant, and traced zigzag pathways of fire across the
sombre heavens. The thunder was terrific, and often shook the solid earth. I
asked Salome if she was not afraid, but she laughed from her snug retreat,
and said she loved it all. What manner of girl was this, who feared nothing,
and who loved Nature even when she was at war with herself?

The strife of the elements ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The thunder
rumbled away in the east; the rain stopped falling, and a rift of blue showed
through the dun masses overhead. This was followed by a broad shaft of
sunlight, which struck on the golden sea around us with a shimmering
radiance. I jokingly called Salome a "hayseed" when she emerged from her
shelter, for her brown hair was sprinkled with wisps of straw. She ignored
the epithet in her solicitation for my welfare, and proceeded straightway to
place her hand upon my shoulders and back to see if I was wet.
"You're soaking!" she declared in genuine alarm. "You must have a hot
whiskey toddy and six grains of quinine the minute you get home!"
I made a wry face; but she only shook her head in a determined way, and
announced that she would see to it in person. As for herself, she was as dry
as a butterfly which had just emerged from a chrysalis, and I congratulated
myself upon the care I had taken of her. But before we reached home she
was in a plight almost equal to my own, for the wind had blown the wheat
across the path, and it was impossible for me to remove it entirely.
As a consequence, her ladyship was at once hustled off to bed by good Mrs.
Grundy, and treated to the same remedy she had prescribed for me. I took a
rather stiff toddy, and changed my clothes, and felt no ill effects from my
experience.
After the first wild flush which had attended the discovery of the awakening
of my affection for this girl had subsided, I became, in a degree, calmer. But
it was there, deep in my soul, and I could feel it growing, growing, as
steadily as my heart was beating. And I was old enough to know that in
time it would conquer me, and drag me to her feet like a fettered slave
before his master. My will seemed, in a measure, paralyzed, and I made no
effort to escape. Something warned me that it would be useless. And so I
drifted, living in a careless sort of lotos dream, which I could have wished
would last forever. Now there were scented, joyful days, when we strolled
through dales and wooded hollows, listening to Nature's great orchestra as it
played its never-ending symphony. Perfect nights, when the heavy air
would be redolent of the honeysuckles' wafted souls and the breath of
sleepy roses. From the cabins in the locust grove would float the tinkling of
the banjo, the untrained guffaw of the negro men, and the wild, half-

barbaric notes of an old-time melody. And the stars would shine in glory
above us, and we would sit on the steps and talk of the things we both
loved. The old folks on the settee would get sleepy and go in, and we would
sit there by the hour, and still my secret was my own. I think she guessed it,
but this blissful existence was too sweet to be ended by some foolish words
which had better remain forever in my heart, even though they ate it out.

XIV
August came. It was half gone ere I realized that she would go back to
Bellwood early in September. How and where the days had gone I could not
tell. Week after week had slipped by, and, forgetting that time was passing, I
lived in my fool's paradise, and gave no thought to the days that were
speeding away on silken wings. Harvest had come and gone; the fierce heat
of a Kentucky summer made the days sultry, but the nights were good to
live. I had lived through it all as in a kind of waking dream. But in the
worship-chamber of my heart I had built an altar, and on it was placed the
first and only love of my life. The fire which glowed there was as pure as
Easter dawn, yet it was as intense as the still white heat you may see in a
furnace. And the time was coming when she would go away.
One night I wandered, restless, down into the tree-grown yard. We had sat
together that night, as usual, but my lips had been mute. The time had come
when there was but one thing to say, and I had resolved not to say it. And so
she had left me early, saying, in her impetuous way, that I was unsociable.
Back and forth the long avenue I paced, thinking of the day she came home,
of the many, many times we had been together; thinking of the pure,
unselfish, Christian womanhood which crowned her with its consecrating
light. Back and forth, back and forth, and her sweet young face burned itself
into my mind with every step I took. Down the avenue, then up, and I
leaned against the corrugated trunk of an oak, and fastened my eyes upon
the windows of her room. The blinds were drawn, but she was up, for a
light showed through them. Salome! Salome!—that was the one thought of
my mind, the one bitter cry from my aching heart. There was a shadow on
the curtain; a bare, uplifted arm was silhouetted against it. God bless you,
Salome! My Salome! Good-night!
The next day I kept to my room, sending word that my head was troubling
me. In the afternoon I went out and sat upon the porch, turning my troubled
face towards the peaceful west. The sun was sinking, swathed in purple
robes. Far stretching on either side were azure seas, with dun-colored
islands dotting their broad expanses. Below me wound the dusty pike, like a

yellow ribbon, flanked on one side by the half-dry creek, and on the other
by a field of tasselled corn. A crow sat upon the dead limb of a sycamore,
and cawed, and cawed, in noisy unrest. The weight which had been placed
upon my breast two months before seemed like a millstone now. The
consciousness of hopelessness made it heavier than before.
"Has your headache gone, Mr. Stone?"
She had come to the doorway without my knowledge, and now advanced
towards me with a tender, questioning look upon her face.
"Yes," I answered in quiet desperation, turning my face from her. "The pain
has gone to my heart."
She stood beside me, silently, and I felt the muscles hardening in my
cheeks, as I shut my jaws tight to keep back the flood of words which
rushed to my lips, and clamored for utterance. Presently I felt that I could
speak rationally.
"How long before you return to school?"
"Three weeks; I wish I did not have to go."
"Let's walk down to the grape-vine swing," I proposed abruptly, turning to
her with set face.
She held her sunbonnet in her hand,—the same bonnet she always wore out
of doors about the farm,—and she settled it on her brown, fluffy hair as I
arose. The swing was in one corner of the yard, quite away from the house,
and it had come to be one of our favorite resorts at twilight. This afternoon
she occupied it, as was her custom, and I sat at the base of a walnut tree
close by her. Something had fallen upon her usually gay spirits, and
checked the outpourings of her mind. She sat silent, holding to the arms of
her swing, and looking with earnest eyes out over the varied landscape. I
watched her, while the fierce pulsings of my temples blurred my eyes, and
made her seem as in a sea of mist. The noises of the day had lulled to
echoes. The peace of a summer twilight was stealing stealthily over all the
land. From a far-off pasture came the silvery tinkle of a sheep-bell; the
unutterably mournful cooing of a dove was borne from the forest. The
whispering leaves above us rustled gently before the approach of the Angel

of the Dusk. The sylvan solitude became as an enchanted spot where none
were living but she and I. Why—oh, why could it not last forever, just as it
was that moment! But Time does not halt for love or hate, and she was
going away,—out of my life, to leave it as a barren rock in a burning desert.
The intense longing of my gaze caused her to turn towards me. She dropped
her eyes, while her cheeks grew rosy as the sunset.
"Salome!"
The sweet name fell in trembling accents from my lips. She caught her
breath quickly, but did not look up. I arose and stood before her, with my
hands clasped in front of me.
"I love you, Salome!" I said in husky tones, for my voice would barely
come. "You have called into life that love which God has given every man.
It possesses me as utterly as the winds of heaven possess the earth. It has
made me as weak as a child, and, like a child, I have told you. I was not
strong enough to keep it from you. Should you detest me for giving way as
I have, I would not blame you. I am a middle-aged man; you are a little girl,
and I have no right to ask anything from you. Your life is before you; mine
is over half spent. But I love you, and I would die for you, Salome—
Salome, my precious one!"
I turned from her, and set my teeth upon my lip, for my confession had
shaken my soul to its uttermost depths. Not for the earth, nor for heaven
would I have touched her white hand. Through the swirling blood which
benumbed my consciousness I felt a presence near me,—her presence. I
turned with a low cry. She was standing there, close to me. Her bonnet had
fallen off, and in the deep twilight her brown hair glowed like an aureole
about a saint. One swift, hurt, appealing glance from her uplifted eyes, and
she sank, quivering, upon my breast, sobbing, "Abner! Abner!"
God of mercy, I thank thee! I thank thee!

Once more we sat on the steps. The bewitching beauty of the August night
lay around us. The yellow harvest moon sailed on as calmly as though it

were used to beholding lovers. I held her hand in a kind of stupefied
satisfaction, feeling as though under the spell of some powerful opiate. She
was so close to me!—the skirt of her gingham gown had fallen over one of
my feet. I touched her hair, so tenderly, and smoothed it back from her pure
forehead. How could it be? This young creature, so full of life and health,
encompassed with all that wealth and love could give—to love me!—me, a
simple bookworm and lover of Nature, who had come into her life by
chance. The golden hours of that enchanted night still glow like letters of
fire upon the web of memory. It was the one perfect period in my quiet and
uneventful existence,—the one brief time when life was full, and I held to
my lips the cup of all earthly happiness. And the changing years cannot rob
me of the recollection.

XV
The next day Salome was seized with a severe headache. She did not leave
the house, and of course I did not see her, as she stayed in her room
upstairs. We felt no especial concern, although she was not accustomed to
such attacks, and with the coming of night her head grew easier. I went out
after supper to pace up and down the avenue, to smoke my pipe, and to
watch the windows of her room. I remained in the yard till nearly eleven,
and the light was still burning when I went in. The next morning Mrs.
Grundy told me that Salome had some fever, and that a doctor had been sent
for. I heard the news in silent fear, and my heart sank. I longed to tell this
good old woman what her daughter was to me; but Salome had said nothing
about it, and I could not speak without her consent.
The doctor came, an important-looking young fellow whom I felt inclined
to kick off the porch the moment he set foot on it. When he descended from
the sick room he pompously announced that it was only an ordinary cold,
which would quickly disappear before the remedies which he had left. But
the days went by, and she grew no better, and I never saw her. How my
heart hungered for a glance of her sweet face; how my eyes longed to look
into the clear, brown depths of hers. One morning I was told that a leading
physician from Louisville had been summoned. Dr. Yandel came—and
stayed. Typhoid fever is a grim foe which requires vigilance as well as
medical skill.
I went about like one distraught with a cold hand gripping my heart. It was
then she asked to see me. I went to her room for a few moments, and came
out with my face gray, and a pitiful, broken prayer to God. Two weeks—
and one night they came for me. Like a broken, shattered lily she lay, but
her lips smiled with their last breath, and whispered—"Abner."
Blinded and weak, I groped my way out into the night, and sat down. My
yellow dog found me, and crept, whining, between my knees. When I lifted
my stricken face to the sky, I thought I saw a misty shallop touch the strand

of heaven, and a slender white figure with brown hair step onto the plains of
Paradise.

Transcriber's note
The following changes have been made to the text:
Page 16: "hard biscuit" changed to "hard biscuits".
Page 86: "give her royal welcome" changed to "give her a royal welcome".

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