"I suppose you think so. But after the way he's treated you— By George, Fan! I can't see—"

Fanny drew herself up proudly.

"Of course I haven't talked much about it, Jim," she said, with dignity; "but Wesley and I had a—a little misunderstanding. It's all explained away now."

And to this meager explanation she stubbornly adhered, through subsequent soul-searching conversations with her mother, and during the years of married life that followed. In time she came to believe it, herself; and the "little misunderstanding with Wesley" and its romantic denouement became a well-remembered milestone, wreathed with sentiment.

But poised triumphant on this pinnacle of joy, she yet had time to think of another than herself.

"Jim," said she, a touch of matronly authority already apparent in her manner. "I've wanted for a long time to talk to you seriously about Ellen."

Jim stared.

"About Ellen?" he repeated.

"Jim, she's awfully fond of you. I think you've treated her cruelly."

"Look here, Fan," said Jim, "don't you worry yourself about Ellen Dix. She's not in love with me, and never was."

Having thus spoken, Jim would not say another word. He gulped down his supper and was off. He kissed Fanny when he went.

"Hope you'll be happy, and all that," he told her rather awkwardly. Fanny looked after him swinging down the road. "I guess it's all right between him and Ellen," she thought.



Chapter XXV

Jim had no definite plan as he tramped down the road in the falling darkness. He felt uncertain and miserable as he speculated with regard to Lydia. She could not guess at half the unkind things people must be saying; but she would ask for the bread of sympathy and they would give her a stone. He wished he might carry her away, shielding her and comforting her against the storm. He knew he would willingly give his life to make her happier. Of course she did not care for him. How could she? Who was he—Jim Dodge—to aspire to a girl like Lydia?

The wind had risen again and was driving dark masses of cloud across the sky; in the west a sullen red flared up from behind the hills, touching the lower edges of the vaporous mountains with purple. In a small, clear space above the red hung the silver sickle of the new moon, and near it shone a single star.... Lydia was like that star, he told himself—as wonderful, as remote.

There were lights in the windows of Bolton House. Jim stopped and gazed at the yellow squares, something big and powerful rising within him. Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he approached and looked in. In a great armchair before the blazing hearth sat, or rather crouched, Andrew Bolton. He was wearing a smoking-jacket of crimson velvet and a pipe hung from his nerveless fingers. Only the man's eyes appeared alive; they were fixed upon Lydia at the piano. She was playing some light tuneful melody, with a superabundance of trills and runs. Jim did not know Lydia played; and the knowledge of this trivial accomplishment seemed to put her still further beyond his reach. He did not know, either, that she had acquired her somewhat indifferent skill after long years of dull practice, and for the single purpose of diverting the man, who sat watching her with bright, furtive eyes.... Presently she arose from the piano and crossed the room to his side. She bent over him and kissed him on his bald forehead, her white hands clinging to his shoulders. Jim saw the man shake off those hands with a rough gesture; saw the grieved look on her face; saw the man follow her slight figure with his eyes, as she stooped under pretext of mending the fire. But he could not hear the words which passed between them.

"You pretend to love me," Bolton was saying. "Why don't you do what I want you to?"

"If you'd like to go away from Brookville, father, I will go with you. You need me!"

"That's where you're dead wrong, my girl: I don't need you. What I do need is freedom! You stifle me with your fussy attentions. Give me some money; I'll go away and not bother you again."

Whereat Lydia had cried out—a little hurt cry, which reached the ears of the watcher outside.

"Don't leave me, father! I have no one but you in all the world—no one."

"And you've never even told me how much money you have," the man went on in a whining voice. "There's daughterly affection for you! By rights it all ought to be mine. I've suffered enough, God knows, to deserve a little comfort now."

"All that I have is yours, father. I want nothing for myself."

"Then hand it over—the control of it, I mean. I'll make you a handsome allowance; and I'll give you this place, too. I don't want to rot here.... Marry that good-looking parson and settle down, if you like. I don't want to settle down: been settled in one cursed place long enough, by gad! I should think you could see that."

"But you wanted to come home to Brookville, father. Don't you remember you said—"

"That was when I was back there in that hell-hole, and didn't know what I wanted. How could I? I only wanted to get out. That's what I want now—to get out and away! If you weren't so damned selfish, you'd let me go. I hate a selfish woman!"

Then it was that Jim Dodge, pressing closer to the long window, heard her say quite distinctly:

"Very well, father; we will go. Only I must go with you.... You are not strong enough to go alone. We will go anywhere you like."

Andrew Bolton got nimbly out of his chair and stood glowering at her across its back. Then he burst into a prolonged fit of laughter mixed with coughing.

"Oh, so you'll go with father, will you?" he spluttered. "You insist—eh?"

And, still coughing and laughing mirthlessly, he went out of the room.

Left to herself, the girl sat down quietly enough before the fire. Her serene face told no story of inward sorrow to the watchful eyes of the man who loved her. Over long she had concealed her feelings, even from herself. She seemed lost in revery, at once sad and profound. Had she foreseen this dire disappointment of all her hopes, he wondered.

He stole away at last, half ashamed of spying upon her lonely vigil, yet withal curiously heartened. Wesley Elliot was right: Lydia Orr needed a friend. He resolved that he would be that friend.

In the room overhead the light had leapt to full brilliancy. An uncertain hand pulled the shade down crookedly. As the young man turned for a last look at the house he perceived a shadow hurriedly passing and repassing the lighted window. Then all at once the shadow, curiously huddled, stooped and was gone. There was something sinister in the sudden disappearance of that active shadow. Jim Dodge watched the vacant window for a long minute; then with a muttered exclamation walked on toward the village.



Chapter XXVI

In the barroom of the Brookville House the flaring kerosene lamp lit up a group of men and half-grown boys, who had strayed in out of the chill darkness to warm themselves around the great stove in the middle of the floor. The wooden armchairs, which in summer made a forum of the tavern's side piazza, had been brought in and ranged in a wide semicircle about the stove, marking the formal opening of the winter session. In the central chair sat the large figure of Judge Fulsom, puffing clouds of smoke from a calabash pipe; his twinkling eyes looking forth over his fat, creased cheeks roved impartially about the circle of excited faces.

"I can understand all right about Andrew Bolton's turning up," one man was saying. "He was bound to turn up sooner or later. I seen him myself, day before yesterday, going down street. Thinks I, 'Who can that be?' There was something kind of queer about the way he dragged his feet. What you going to do about it, Judge? Have we got to put up with having a jailbird, as crazy as a loon into the bargain, living right here in our midst?"

"In luxury and idleness, like he was a captain of industry," drawled another man who was eating hot dog and sipping beer. "That's what strikes me kind of hard, Judge, in luxury and idleness, while the rest of us has to work."

Judge Fulsom gave an inarticulate grunt and smoked on imperturbably.

"Set down, boys; set down," ordered a small man in a red sweater under a corduroy coat. "Give the Jedge a chance! He ain't going to deliver no opinion whilst you boys are rammaging around. Set down and let the Jedge take th' floor."

A general scraping of chair legs and a shuffling of uneasy feet followed this exhortation; still no word from the huge, impassive figure in the central chair. The oily-faced young man behind the bar improved the opportunity by washing a dozen or so glasses, setting them down showily on a tin tray in view of the company.

"Quit that noise, Cholley!" exhorted the small man in the red sweater; "we want order in the court room—eh, Jedge?"

"What I'd like to know is where she got all that money of hers," piped an old man, with a mottled complexion and bleary eyes.

"Sure enough; where'd she get it?" chimed in half a dozen voices at once.

"She's Andrew Bolton's daughter," said the first speaker. "And she's been setting up for a fine lady, doing stunts for charity. How about our town hall an' our lov-elly library, an' our be-utiful drinking fountain, and the new shingles on our church roof? You don't want to ask too many questions, Lute."

"Don't I?" cried the man, who was eating hot dog. "You all know me! I ain't a-going to stand for no grab-game. If she's got money, it's more than likely the old fox salted it down before they ketched him. It's our money; that's whose money 'tis, if you want to know!"

And he swallowed his mouthful with a slow, menacing glance which swept the entire circle.

"Now, Lucius," began Judge Fulsom, removing the pipe from his mouth, "go slow! No use in talk without proof."

"But what have you got to say, Jedge? Where'd she get all that money she's been flamming about with, and that grand house, better than new, with all the latest improvements. Wa'n't we some jays to be took in like we was by a little, white-faced chit like her? Couldn't see through a grindstone with a hole in it! Bolton House.... And an automobile to fetch the old jailbird home in. Wa'n't it love-ly?"

A low growl ran around the circle.

"Durn you, Lute! Don't you see the Jedge has something to say?" demanded the man behind the bar.

Judge Fulsom slowly tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. "If you all will keep still a second and let me speak," he began.

"I want my rights," interrupted a man with a hoarse crow.

"Your rights!" shouted the Judge. "You've got no right to a damned thing but a good horsewhipping!"

"I've got my rights to the money other folks are keeping, I'll let you know!"

Then the Judge fairly bellowed, as he got slowly to his feet:

"I tell you once for all, the whole damned lot of you," he shouted, "that every man, woman and child in Brookville has been paid, compensated, remunerated and requited in full for every cent he, she or it lost in the Andrew Bolton bank failure."

There was a snarl of dissent.

"You all better go slow, and hold your tongues, and mind your own business. Remember what I say; that girl does not owe a red cent in this town, neither does her father. She's paid in full, and you've spent a lot of it in here, too!" The Judge wiped his red face.

"Oh, come on, Jedge; you don't want to be hard on the house," protested the man in the red sweater, waving his arms as frantically as a freight brakeman. "Say, you boys! don't ye git excited! The Jedge didn't mean that; you got him kind of het up with argufying.... Down in front, boys! You, Lute—"

But it was too late: half a dozen voices were shouting at once. There was a simultaneous descent upon the bar, with loud demands for liquor of the sort Lute Parsons filled up on. Then the raucous voice of the ringleader pierced the tumult.

"Come on, boys! Let's go out to the old place and get our rights off that gal of Bolton's!"

"That's th' stuff, Lute!" yelled the others, clashing their glasses wildly. "Come on! Come on, everybody!"

In vain Judge Fulsom hammered on the bar and called for order in the court room. The majesty of the law, as embodied in his great bulk, appeared to have lost its power. Even his faithful henchman in the red sweater had joined the rioters and was yelling wildly for his rights. Somebody flung wide the door, and the barroom emptied itself into the night, leaving the oily young man at his post of duty gazing fearfully at the purple face of Judge Fulsom, who stood staring, as if stupefied, at the overturned chairs, the broken glasses and the empty darkness outside.

"Say, Jedge, them boys was sure some excited," ventured the bartender timidly. "You don't s'pose—"

The big man put himself slowly into motion.

"I'll get th' constable," he growled. "I—I'll run 'em in; and I'll give Lute Parsons the full extent of the law, if it's the last thing I do on earth. I—I'll teach them!—I'll give them all they're lookin' for."

And he, too, went out, leaving the door swinging in the cold wind.

At the corner, still meditating vengeance for this affront to his dignity, Judge Fulsom almost collided with the hurrying figure of a man approaching in the opposite direction.

"Hello!" he challenged sharply. "Where you goin' so fast, my friend?"

"Evening, Judge," responded the man, giving the other a wide margin.

"Oh, it's Jim Dodge—eh? Say, Jim, did you meet any of the boys on the road?"

"What boys?"

"Why, we got into a little discussion over to the Brookville House about this Andrew Bolton business—his coming back unexpected, you know; and some of the boys seemed to think they hadn't got all that was coming to them by rights. Lute Parsons he gets kind of worked up after about three or four glasses, and he sicked the boys onto going out there, and—"

"Going out—where? In the name of Heaven, what do you mean, Judge?"

"I told 'em to keep cool and— Say, don't be in a hurry, Jim. I had an awful good mind to call out Hank Simonson to run a few of 'em in. But I dunno as the boys'll do any real harm. They wouldn't dare. They know me, and they know—"

"Do you mean that drunken mob was headed for Bolton House? Why, Good Lord, man, she's there practically alone!"

"Well, perhaps you'd better see if you can get some help," began the Judge, whose easy-going disposition was already balking at effort.

But Jim Dodge, shouting back a few trenchant directions, had already disappeared, running at top speed.

There was a short cut to Bolton House, across plowed fields and through a patch of woodland. Jim Dodge ran all the way, wading a brook, swollen with the recent rains, tearing his way through thickets of brush and bramble, the twinkling lights in the top story of the distant house leading him on. Once he paused for an instant, thinking he heard the clamor of rude voices borne on the wind; then plunged forward again, his flying feet seemingly weighted with lead; and all the while an agonizing picture of Lydia, white and helpless, facing the crowd of drunken men flitted before his eyes.

Now he had reached the wall at the rear of the gardens; had clambered over it, dropping to his feet in the midst of a climbing rose which clutched at him with its thorny branches; had run across an acre of kitchen garden and leaped the low-growing hedge which divided it from the sunken flower garden he had made for Lydia. Here were more rosebushes and an interminable space broken by walks and a sundial, masked by shrubs, with which he collided violently. There was no mistaking the clamor from the front of the house; the rioters had reached their quarry first! Not stopping to consider what one man, single-handed and unarmed, could do against a score of drunken opponents, the young man rounded the corner of the big house just as the door was flung wide and the slim figure of Lydia stood outlined against the bright interior.

"What do you want, men?" she called out, in her clear, fearless voice. "What has happened?"

There was a confused murmur of voices in reply. Most of the men were decent enough fellows, when sober. Some one was heard to suggest a retreat: "No need to scare the young lady. 'Tain't her fault!"

"Aw! shut up, you coward!" shouted another. "We want our money!"

"Where did you get yer money?" demanded a third. "You tell us that, young woman. That's what we're after!"

"Where's the old thief? ...We want Andrew Bolton!"

Then from somewhere in the darkness a pebble flung by a reckless hand shattered a pane of glass. At sound of the crash all pretense of decency and order seemed abandoned. The spirit of the pack broke loose!

Just what happened from the moment when he leaped upon the portico, wrenching loose a piece of iron pipe which formed the support of a giant wistaria, Jim Dodge could never afterward recall in precise detail. A sort of wild rage seized him; he struck right and left among the dark figures swarming up the steps. There were cries, shouts, curses, flying stones; then he had dragged Lydia inside and bolted the heavy door between them and the ugly clamor without.

She faced him where he stood, breathing hard, his back against the barred door.

"They were saying—" she whispered, her face still and white. "My God! What do they think I've done?"

"They're drunk," he explained. "It was only a miserable rabble from the barroom in the village. But if you'd been here alone—!"

She shook her head.

"I recognized the man who spoke first; his name is Parsons. There were others, too, who worked on the place here in the summer.... They have heard?"

He nodded, unable to speak because of something which rose in his throat choking him. Then he saw a thin trickle of red oozing from under the fair hair above her temple, and the blood hammered in his ears.

"You are hurt!" he said thickly. "The devils struck you!"

"It's nothing—a stone, perhaps."

Something in the sorrowful look she gave him broke down the flimsy barrier between them.

"Lydia—Lydia!" he cried, holding out his arms.

She clung to him like a child. They stood so for a moment, listening to the sounds from without. There were still occasional shouts and the altercation of loud, angry voices; but this was momently growing fainter; presently it died away altogether.

She stirred in his arms and he stooped to look into her face.

"I—Father will be frightened," she murmured, drawing away from him with a quick decided movement. "You must let me go."

"Not until I have told you, Lydia! I am poor, rough—not worthy to touch you—but I love you with my whole heart and soul, Lydia. You must let me take care of you. You need me, dear."

Tears overflowed her eyes, quiet, patient tears; but she answered steadily.

"Can't you see that I—I am different from other women? I have only one thing to live for. I must go to him.... You had forgotten—him."

In vain he protested, arguing his case with all lover's skill and ingenuity. She shook her head.

"Sometime you will forgive me that one moment of weakness," she said sadly. "I was frightened and—tired."

He followed her upstairs in gloomy silence. The old man, she was telling him hurriedly, would be terrified. She must reassure him; and tomorrow they would go away together for a long journey. She could see now that she had made a cruel mistake in bringing him to Brookville.

But there was no answer in response to her repeated tapping at his door; and suddenly the remembrance of that stooping shadow came back to him.

"Let me go in," he said, pushing her gently aside.

The lights, turned high in the quiet room, revealed only emptiness and disorder; drawers and wardrobes pulled wide, scattered garments apparently dropped at random on chairs and tables. The carpet, drawn aside in one corner, disclosed a shallow aperture in the floor, from which the boards had been lifted.

"Why— What?" stammered the girl, all the high courage gone from her face. "What has happened?"

He picked up a box—a common cigar box—from amid the litter of abandoned clothing. It was quite empty save for a solitary slip of greenish paper which had somehow adhered to the bottom.

Lydia clutched the box in both trembling hands, staring with piteous eyes at the damning evidence of that bit of paper.

"Money!" she whispered. "He must have hidden it before—before— Oh, father, father!"



Chapter XXVII

History is said to repeat itself, as if indeed the world were a vast pendulum, swinging between events now inconceivably remote, and again menacing and near. And if in things great and heroic, so also in the less significant aspects of life.

Mrs. Henry Daggett stood, weary but triumphant, amid the nearly completed preparations for a reception in the new church parlors, her broad, rosy face wearing a smile of satisfaction.

"Don't it look nice?" she said, by way of expressing her overflowing contentment.

Mrs. Maria Dodge, evergreen wreaths looped over one arm, nodded.

"It certainly does look fine, Abby," said she. "And I guess nobody but you would have thought of having it."

Mrs. Daggett beamed. "I thought of it the minute I heard about that city church that done it. I call it a real tasty way to treat a minister as nice as ours."

"So 'tis," agreed Mrs. Dodge with the air of complacent satisfaction she had acquired since Fanny's marriage to the minister. "And I think Wesley'll appreciate it."

Mrs. Daggett's face grew serious. Then her soft bosom heaved with mirth.

"'Tain't everybody that's lucky enough to have a minister right in the family," said she briskly. "Mebbe if I was to hear a sermon preached every day in the week I'd get some piouser myself. I've been comparing this with the fair we had last summer. It ain't so grand, but it's newer. A fair's like a work of nature, Maria; sun and rain and dew, and the scrapings from the henyard, all mixed with garden ground to fetch out cabbages, potatoes or roses. God gives the increase."

Mrs. Dodge stared at her friend in amazement.

"That sounds real beautiful, Abby," she said. "You must have thought it all out."

"That's just what I done," confirmed Mrs. Daggett happily. "I'm always meditating about something, whilst I'm working 'round th' house. And it's amazing what thoughts'll come to a body from somewheres.... What you going to do with them wreaths, Maria?"

"Why, I was thinking of putting 'em right up here," said Mrs. Dodge, pointing.

"A good place," said Mrs. Daggett. "Remember Fanny peeking through them wreaths last summer? Pretty as a pink! An' now she's Mis' Reveren' Elliot. I seen him looking at her that night.... My! My! What lots of things have took place in our midst since then."

Mrs. Dodge, from the lofty elevation of a stepladder, looked across the room.

"Here comes Ann Whittle with two baskets," she said, "and Mrs. Solomon Black carrying a big cake, and a whole crowd of ladies just behind 'em."

"Glad they ain't going to be late like they was last year," said Mrs. Daggett. "My sakes! I hadn't thought so much about that fair till today; the scent of the evergreens brings it all back. We was wondering who'd buy the things; remember, Maria?"

"I should say I did," assented Mrs. Dodge, hopping nimbly down from the ladder. "There, that looks even nicer than it did at the fair; don't you think so, Abby?"

"It looks perfectly lovely, Maria."

"Well, here we are at last," announced Mrs. Whittle as she entered. "I had to wait till the frosting stiffened up on my cake."

She bustled over to a table and began to take the things out of her baskets. Mrs. Daggett hurried forward to meet Mrs. Solomon Black, who was advancing with slow majesty, bearing a huge disk covered with tissue paper.

Mrs. Black was not the only woman in the town of Brookville who could now boast sleeves made in the latest Parisian style. Her quick black eyes had already observed the crisp blue taffeta, in which Mrs. Whittle was attired, and the fresh muslin gowns decked with uncreased ribbons worn by Mrs. Daggett and her friend, Maria Dodge. Mrs. Solomon Black's water-waves were crisp and precise, as of yore, and her hard red cheeks glowed like apples above the elaborate embroidery of her dress.

"Here, Mis' Black, let me take your cake!" offered Abby Daggett. "I sh'd think your arm would be most broke carryin' it all the way from your house."

"Thank you, Abby; but I wouldn't das' t' resk changin' it; I'll set it right down where it's t' go."

The brisk chatter and laughter, which by now had prevaded the big place, ceased as by a preconcerted signal, and a dozen women gathered about the table toward which Mrs. Solomon Black was moving like the central figure in some stately pageant.

"Fer pity sake!" whispered Mrs. Mixter, "what d' you s'pose she's got under all that tissue paper?"

Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the other of the eager, curious faces gathered around.

"There!" she said. "I feel now 's 'o' I could dror m' breath once more. I ain't joggled it once, so's t' hurt, since I started from home."

Then slowly she withdrew the shrouding tissue paper from the creation she had thus triumphantly borne to its place of honor, and stood off, a little to one side, her face one broad smile of satisfaction.

"Fer goodness' sake!"

"Did you ev—er!"

"Why, Mis' Black!"

"Ain't that just—"

"You never done that all yourself?"

Mrs. Black nodded slowly, almost solemnly. The huge cake which was built up in successive steps, like a pyramid, was crowned on its topmost disk by a bridal scene, a tiny man holding his tiny veiled bride by the hand in the midst of an expanse of pink frosting. About the side of the great cake, in brightly colored "mites," was inscribed "Greetings to our Pastor and his Bride."

"I thought 'twould be kind of nice, seeing our minister was just married, and so, in a way, this is a wedding reception. I don't know what the rest of you ladies'll think."

Abby Daggett stood with clasped hands, her big soft bosom rising and falling in a sort of ecstasy.

"Why, Phoebe," she said, "it's a real poem! It couldn't be no han'somer if it had been done right up in heaven!"

She put her arms about Mrs. Solomon Black and kissed her.

"And this ain't all," said Mrs. Black. "Lois Daggett is going to fetch over a chocolate cake and a batch of crullers for me when she comes."

Applause greeted this statement.

"Time was," went on Mrs. Black, "and not so long ago, neither, when I was afraid to spend a cent, for fear of a rainy day that's been long coming. 'Tain't got here yet; but I can tell you ladies, I got a lesson from her in generosity I don't mean to forget. 'Spend and be spent' is my motto from now on; so I didn't grudge the new-laid eggs I put in that cake, nor yet the sugar, spice nor raisins. There's three cakes in one—in token of the trinity (I do hope th' won't nobody think it's wicked t' mention r'ligion in connection with a cake); the bottom cake was baked in a milk-pan, an' it's a bride's cake, being made with the whites of fourteen perfec'ly fresh eggs; the next layer is fruit and spice, as rich as wedding cake ought to be; the top cake is best of all; and can be lifted right off and given to Rever'nd an' Mrs. Wesley Elliot.... I guess they'll like to keep the wedding couple for a souvenir."

A vigorous clapping of hands burst forth. Mrs. Solomon Black waited modestly till this gratifying demonstration had subsided, then she went on:

"I guess most of you ladies'll r'member how one short year ago Miss Lyddy Orr Bolton came a'walkin' int' our midst, lookin' sweet an' modest, like she was; and how down-in-th'-mouth we was all a-feelin', 'count o' havin' no money t' buy th' things we'd worked s' hard t' make. Some of us hadn't no more grit an' gumption 'n Ananias an' S'phira, t' say nothin' o' Jonah an' others I c'd name. In she came, an' ev'rythin' was changed from that minute! ...Now, I want we sh'd cut up that cake—after everybody's had a chance t' see it good—all but th' top layer, same's I said—an' all of us have a piece, out o' compl'ment t' our paster an' his wife, an' in memory o' her, who's gone from us."

"But Lyddy Orr ain't dead, Mis' Black," protested Mrs. Daggett warmly.

"She might 's well be, 's fur 's our seein' her 's concerned," replied Mrs. Black. "She's gone t' Boston t' stay f'r good, b'cause she couldn't stan' it no-how here in Brookville, after her pa was found dead. The' was plenty o' hard talk, b'fore an' after; an' when it come t' breakin' her windows with stones an' hittin' her in th' head, so she was 'bleeged t' have three stitches took, all I c'n say is I don't wonder she went t' Boston.... Anyway, that's my wish an' d'sire 'bout that cake."

The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Elliot offered a welcome interruption to a scene which was becoming uncomfortably tense. Whatever prickings of conscience there might have been under the gay muslin and silks of her little audience, each woman privately resented the superior attitude assumed by Mrs. Solomon Black.

"Easy f'r her t' talk," murmured Mrs. Fulsom, from between puckered lips; "she didn't lose no money off Andrew Bolton."

"An' she didn't get none, neither, when it come t' dividin' up," Mrs. Mixter reminded her.

"That's so," assented Mrs. Fulsom, as she followed in pretty Mrs. Mixter's wake to greet the newly-married pair.

"My! ain't you proud o' her," whispered Abby Daggett to Maria Dodge. "She's a perfec' pictur' o' joy, if ever I laid my eyes on one!"

Fanny stood beside her tall husband, her pretty face irradiating happiness. She felt a sincere pity welling up in her heart for Ellen Dix and Joyce Fulsom and the other girls. Compared with her own transcendent experiences, their lives seemed cold and bleak to Fanny. And all the while she was talking to the women who crowded about her.

"Yes; we are getting nicely settled, thank you, Mrs. Fulsom—all but the attic. Oh, how'd you do, Judge Fulsom?"

The big man wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead.

"Just been fetchin' in th' ice cream freezers," he said, with his booming chuckle. "I guess I'm 's well 's c'n be expected, under th' circumstances, ma'am.... An' that r'minds me, parson, a little matter was s'ggested t' me. In fact, I'd thought of it, some time ago. No more 'n right, in view o' th' facts. If you don't mind, I'll outline th' idee t' you, parson, an' see if you approve."

Fanny, striving to focus attention on the pointed remarks Miss Lois Daggett was making, caught occasional snatches of their conversation. Fanny had never liked Lois Daggett; but in her new role of minister's wife, it was her foreordained duty to love everybody and to condole and sympathize with the parish at large. One could easily sympathize with Lois Daggett, she was thinking; what would it be like to be obliged daily to face the reflection of that mottled complexion, that long, pointed nose, with its rasped tip, that drab lifeless hair with its sharp hairpin crimp, and those small greenish eyes with no perceptible fringe of lashes? Fanny looked down from her lovely height into Miss Daggett's upturned face and pitied her from the bottom of her heart.

"I hear your brother Jim has gone t' Boston," Miss Daggett was saying with a simper.

From the rear Fanny heard Judge Fulsom's rumbling monotone, earnestly addressed to her husband:

"Not that Boston ain't a nice town t' live in; but we'll have t' enter a demurrer against her staying there f'r good. Y' see—"

"Yes," said Fanny, smiling at Miss Daggett. "He went several days ago."

"H'm-m," murmured Miss Daggett. "She's livin' there, ain't she?"

"You mean Miss Orr?"

"I mean Miss Lyddy Bolton. I guess Bolton's a good 'nough name for her."

From the Judge, in a somewhat louder tone:

"That's th' way it looks t' me, dominie; an' if all th' leadin' citizens of Brookville'll put their name to it—an' I'm of th' opinion they will, when I make my charge t' th' jury—"

"Certainly," murmured Fanny absently, as she gazed at her husband and the judge.

She couldn't help wondering why her Wesley was speaking so earnestly to the Judge, yet in such a provokingly low tone of voice.

"I had become so accustomed to thinking of her as Lydia Orr," she finished hastily.

"Well, I don't b'lieve in givin' out a name 'at ain't yourn," said Lois Daggett, sharply. "She'd ought t' 'a' told right out who she was, an' what she come t' Brookville for."

Judge Fulsom and the minister had moved still further away. Fanny, with some alarm, felt herself alone.

"I don't think Miss Orr meant to be deceitful," she said nervously.

"Well, o' course, if she's a-goin' t' be in th' family, it's natural you sh'd think so," said Lois Daggett, sniffing loudly.

Fanny did not answer.

"I sh'd hope she an' Jim was engaged," proclaimed Miss Daggett. "If they ain't, they'd ought t' be."

"Why should you say that, Miss Lois?" asked Fanny hurriedly. "They are very good friends."

Miss Daggett bent forward, lowering her voice.

"The's one thing I'd like t' know f'r certain," she said: "Did Jim Dodge find that body?"

Fanny stared at her inquisitor resentfully.

"There were a good many persons searching," she said coldly.

Miss Daggett wagged her head in an irritated fashion.

"Of course I know that," she snapped. "What I want t' know is whether Jim Dodge—"

"I never asked my brother," interrupted Fanny. "It all happened so long ago, why not—"

"Not s' terrible long," disagreed Miss Daggett. "It was th' first o' November. N' I've got a mighty good reason f'r askin'."

"You have?" murmured Fanny, flashing a glance of entreaty at her husband.

"Some of us ladies was talkin' it over," pursued the spinster relentlessly, "an' I says t' Mis' Deacon Whittle: 'Who counted th' money 'at was found on Andrew Bolton's body?' I says. 'W'y,' s' she, 'th' ones 'at found him out in th' woods where he got lost, I s'pose.' But come t' sift it right down t' facts, not one o' them ladies c'd tell f'r certain who 't was 'at found that body. The' was such an' excitement 'n' hullaballoo, nobody 'd thought t' ask. It wa'n't Deacon Whittle; n'r it wa'n't th' party from th' Brookville House; ner Hank Simonson, ner any o' the boys. It was Jim Dodge, an' she was with him!"

"Well," said Fanny faintly.

She looked up to meet the minister's eyes, with a sense of strong relief. Wesley was so wise and good. Wesley would know just what to say to this prying woman.

"What are you and Miss Daggett talking about so earnestly?" asked the minister.

When informed of the question under discussion, he frowned thoughtfully.

"My dear Miss Daggett," he said, "if you will fetch me the dinner bell from Mrs. Whittle's kitchen, I shall be happy to answer your question and others like it which have reached me from time to time concerning this unhappy affair."

"Mis' Deacon Whittle's dinner bell?" gasped Lois Daggett. "What's that got t' do with—"

"Bring it to me, and you'll see," smiled the minister imperturbably.

"What are you going to do, Wesley?" whispered Fanny.

He gazed gravely down into her lovely eyes.

"Dearest," he whispered back, "trust me! It is time we laid this uneasy ghost; don't you think so?"

By now the large room was well filled with men, women and children. The ice cream was being passed around when suddenly the clanging sound of a dinner bell, vigorously operated by Joe Whittle, arrested attention.

"The minister's got something to say! The minister's got something to say!" shouted the boy.

Wesley Elliot, standing apart, lifted his hand in token of silence, then he spoke:

"I have taken this somewhat unusual method of asking your attention to a matter which has for many years past enlisted your sympathies," he began: "I refer to the Bolton affair."

The sound of breath sharply indrawn and the stir of many feet died into profound silence as the minister went on, slowly and with frequent pauses:

"Most of you are already familiar with the sordid details. It is not necessary for me to go back to the day, now nearly nineteen years ago, when many of you found yourselves unexpectedly impoverished because the man you trusted had defaulted.... There was much suffering in Brookville that winter, and since.... When I came to this parish I found it—sick. Because of the crime of Andrew Bolton? No. I repeat the word with emphasis: No! Brookville was sick, despondent, dull, gloomy and impoverished—not because of Andrew Bolton's crime; but because Brookville had never forgiven Andrew Bolton.... Hate is the one destructive element in the universe; did you know that, friends? It is impossible for a man or woman who hates another to prosper.... And I'll tell you why this is—why it must be true: God is love—the opposite of hate. Hence All Power is enlisted on the side of love.... Think this over, and you'll know it is true.... Now the Bolton mystery: A year ago we were holding a fair in this village, which was sick and impoverished because it had never forgiven the man who stole its money.... You all remember that occasion. There were things to sell; but nobody had money to buy them. It wasn't a pleasant occasion. Nobody was enjoying it, least of all your minister. But a miracle took place— There are miracles in the world today, as there always have been, thank God! There came into Brookville that day a person who was moved by love. Every impulse of her heart; everything she did was inspired by that mightiest force of the universe. She called herself Lydia Orr.... She had been called Lydia Orr, as far back as she could remember; so she did no wrong to anyone by retaining that name. But she had another name, which she quickly found was a byword and a hissing in Brookville. Was it strange that she shrank from telling it? She believed in the forgiveness of sins; and she had come to right a great wrong.... She did what she could, as it is written of another woman, who poured out a fragrant offering of love unappreciated save by One.... There quickly followed the last chapter in the tragedy—for it was all a tragedy, friends, as I look at it: the theft; the pitiful attempt to restore fourfold all that had been taken; the return of that ruined man, Andrew Bolton, after his heavy punishment; and his tragic death.... Some of you may not know all that happened that night. You do know of the cowardly attack made upon the helpless girl. You know of the flight of the terrified man, of how he was found dead two days later three miles from the village, in a lonely spot where he had perished from hunger and exposure.... The body was discovered by James Dodge, with the aid of his dog. With him on that occasion was a detective from Boston, employed by Miss Bolton, and myself. There was a sum of money found on the body amounting to something over five thousand dollars. It had been secreted beneath the floor of Andrew Bolton's chamber, before his arrest and imprisonment. It is probable that he intended to make good his escape, but failed, owing to the illness of his wife.... This is a terrible story, friends, and it has a sad ending. Brookville had never learned to forgive. It had long ago formed the terrible habits of hate: suspicion, envy, sharp-tongued censure and the rest. Lydia Bolton could not remain here, though it was her birthplace and her home.... She longed for friendship! She asked for bread and you gave her—a stone!"

The profound silence was broken by a sob from a distant corner. The strained listeners turned with a sharp movement of relief.

"Fer pity sake!" faltered Abby Daggett, her beautiful, rosy face all quivering with grief. "Can't nobody do nothing?"

"Yes, ma'am!" shouted the big voice of Judge Fulsom. "We can all do something.... I ain't going to sum up the case against Brookville; the parson's done it already; if there's any rebuttal coming from the defendant, now's the time to bring it before the court.... Nothing to say—eh? Well, I thought so! We're guilty of the charges preferred, and I'm going to pass sentence.... But before I do that, there's one thing the parson didn't mention, that in my opinion should be told, to wit: Miss Lydia Bolton's money—all that she had—came to her from her uncle, an honest hardworkin' citizen of Boston. He made every penny of it as a soap-boiler. So you see 'twas clean money; and he left it to his niece, Lydia Bolton. What did she do with it? You know! She poured it out, right here in Brookville—pretty nigh all there was of it. She's got her place here; but mighty little besides. I'm her trustee, and I know. The five thousand dollars found on the dead body of Andrew Bolton, has been made a trust fund for the poor and discouraged of this community, under conditions anybody that'll take the trouble to step in to my office can find out...."

The Judge paused to clear his throat, while he produced from his pocket, with a vast deal of ceremony, a legal looking document dangling lengths of red ribbon and sealing wax.

"This Bond of Indemnity, which I'm going to ask every man, woman and child of fifteen years and up'ards, of the village of Brookville, hereinafter known as the Party of the First Part, to sign, reads as follows: Know all men by these presents that we, citizens of the village of Brookville, hereinafter known as the Party of the First Part, are held and firmly bound unto Miss Lydia Orr Bolton, hereinafter known as the Party of the Second Part.... Whereas; the above-named Party of the Second Part (don't f'rget that means Miss Lydia Bolton) did in behalf of her father—one Andrew Bolton, deceased—pay, compensate, satisfy, restore, remunerate, recompense and re-quite all legal indebtedness incurred by said Andrew Bolton to, for, and in behalf of the aforesaid Party of the First Part....

"You git me? If you don't, just come to my office and I'll explain in detail any of the legal terms not understood, comprehended and known by the feeble-minded of Brookville. Form in line at nine o'clock. First come, first served:

"We, the Party of the First Part, bind ourselves, and each of our heirs, executors, administrators and assigns, jointly and severally, firmly by these presents, and at all times hereafter to save, defend, keep harmless and indemnify the aforesaid Party of the Second Part (Miss Lydia Bolton) of, from and against all further costs, damages, expense, disparagements (that means spiteful gossip, ladies!) molestations, slander, vituperations, etc. (I could say more, but we've got something to do that'll take time.) And whereas, the said Party of the Second Part has been actually drove to Boston to live by the aforesaid slander, calumniations, aspersions and libels—which we, the said Party of the First Part do hereby acknowledge to be false and untrue (yes, and doggone mean, as I look at it)—we, the said Party of the First part do firmly bind ourselves, our heirs, executors, administrators an' assigns to quit all such illegalities from this day forth, and forever more." ...

"You want to get out of the habit of talking mean about Andrew Bolton, for one thing. It's been as catching as measles in this town since I can remember. Andrew Bolton's dead and buried in our cemetery, beside his wife. We'll be there ourselves, some day; in the meanwhile we want to reform our tongues. You get me? All right!

"And whereas, we, the Party of the First Part, otherwise known as the village of Brookville, do ask, beg, entreat, supplicate and plead the f'rgiveness of the Party of the Second Part, otherwise known as Miss Lydia Orr Bolton. And we also hereby request, petition, implore an' importune Miss Lydia Orr Bolton, otherwise known as the Party of the Second Part, to return to Brookville and make it her permanent place of residence, promising on our part, at all times hereafter, to save, defend, keep harmless and indemnify her against all unfriendliness, of whatever sort; and pledging ourselves to be good neighbors and loving friends from the date of this document, which, when signed by th' Party of the First Part, shall be of full force and virtue. Sealed with our seals. Dated this seventh day of June, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred—"

A loud uproar of applause broke loose in the pause that followed; then the minister's clear voice called for silence once more.

"The Judge has his big fountain pen filled to its capacity," he said. "Come forward and sign this—the most remarkable document on record, I am not afraid to say. Its signing will mean the wiping out of an old bitterness and the dawning of a new and better day for Brookville!"

The Reverend Wesley Elliot had mixed his metaphors sadly; but no one minded that, least of all the minister himself, as he signed his name in bold black characters to the wondrous screed, over which Judge Fulsom had literally as well as metaphorically burned the midnight oil. Deacon and Mrs. Whittle signed; Postmaster and Mrs. Daggett signed, the latter with copious tears flowing over her smooth rosy cheeks. Miss Lois Daggett was next:

"I guess I ought to be written down near the front," said she, "seeing I'm full as much to blame, and like that, as most anybody."

"Come on you, Lute Parsons!" roared the Judge, while a group of matrons meekly subscribed their signatures. "We want some live men-folks on this document.... Aw, never mind, if you did! We all know you wa'n't yourself that night, Lucius.... That's right; come right forward! We want the signature of every man that went out there that night, full of cussedness and bad whiskey.... That's the ticket! Come on, everybody! Get busy!"

Nobody had attended the door for the last hour, Joe Whittle being a spellbound witness of the proceedings; and so it chanced that nobody saw two persons, a man and a woman who entered quietly—one might almost have said timidly, as if doubtful of a welcome in the crowded place. It was Abby Daggett who caught sight of the girl's face, shining against the soft dark of the summer night like a pale star.

"Why, my sakes alive!" she cried, "if there ain't Lyddy Bolton and Jim Dodge, now! Did you ever!"

As she folded the girl's slight figure to her capacious breast, Mrs. Daggett summed up in a single pithy sentence all the legal phraseology of the Document, which by now had been signed by everybody old enough to write their names:

"Well! we certainly are glad you've come home, Lyddy; an' we hope you'll never leave us no more!"



Chapter XXVIII

"Fanny," said Ellen suddenly; "I want to tell you something."

Mrs. Wesley Elliot turned a complacently abstracted gaze upon her friend who sat beside her on the vine-shaded piazza of the parsonage. She felt the sweetest sympathy for Ellen, whenever she thought of her at all:

"Yes, dear."

"Do you remember my speaking to you about Jim— Oh, a long time ago, and how he—? It was perfectly ridiculous, you know."

Fanny's blue eyes became suddenly alert.

"You mean the time Jim kissed you," she murmured. "Oh, Ellen, I've always been so sorry for—"

"Well; you needn't be," interrupted Ellen; "I never cared a snap for Jim Dodge; so there!"

The youthful matron sighed gently: she felt that she understood poor dear Ellen perfectly, and in token thereof she patted poor dear Ellen's hand.

"I know exactly how you feel," she warbled.

Ellen burst into a gleeful laugh:

"You think you do; but you don't," she informed her friend, with a spice of malice. "Your case was entirely different from mine, my dear: You were perfectly crazy over Wesley Elliot; I was only in love with being in love."

Fanny looked sweetly mystified and a trifle piqued withal.

"I wanted to have a romance—to be madly in love," Ellen explained. "Oh, you know! Jim was merely a peg to hang it on."

The wife of the minister smiled a lofty compassion.

"Everything seems so different after one is married," she stated.

"Is that really so?" cried Ellen. "Well, I shall soon know, Fan, for I'm to be married in the fall."

"Married? Why, Ellen Dix!"

"Uh—huh," confirmed Ellen, quite satisfied with the success of her coup. "You don't know him, Fan; but he's perfectly elegant—and handsome! Just wait till you see him."

Ellen rocked herself to and fro excitedly.

"I met him in Grenoble last winter, and we're going to live there in the sweetest house. He fell in love with me the first minute he saw me. You never knew anyone to be so awfully in love ... m'm!"

Without in the least comprehending the reason for the phenomenon, Mrs. Wesley Elliot experienced a singular depression of spirit. Of course she was glad poor dear Ellen was to be happy. She strove to infuse a sprightly satisfaction into her tone and manner as she said:

"What wonderful news, dear. But isn't it rather—sudden? I mean, oughtn't you to have known him longer! ...You didn't tell me his name."

Ellen's piquant dark face sparkled with mischief and happiness.

"His name is Harvey Wade," she replied; "you know Wade and Hampton, where you bought your wedding things, Fan? Everybody knows the Wades, and I've known Harvey long enough to—"

She grew suddenly wistful as she eyed her friend:

"You have changed a lot since you were married, Fan; all the girls think so. Sometimes I feel almost afraid of you. Is it—do you—?"

Fanny's unaccountable resentment melted before a sudden rush of sympathy and understanding. She drew Ellen's blushing face close to her own in the sweetness of caresses:

"I'm so glad for you, dear, so glad!"

"And you'll tell Jim?" begged Ellen, after a silence full of thrills. "I should hate to have him suppose—"

"He doesn't, Ellen," Jim's sister assured her, out of a secret fund of knowledge to which she would never have confessed. "Jim always understood you far better than I did. And he likes you, too, better than any girl in Brookville."

"Except Lydia," amended Ellen.

"Oh, of course, except Lydia."



Chapter XXIX

There was a warm, flower-scented breeze stirring the heavy foliage drenched with the silver rain of moonlight, and the shrilling of innumerable small voices of the night. It all belonged; yet neither the man nor the woman noticed anything except each other; nor heard anything save the words the other uttered.

"To think that you love me, Lydia!" he said, triumph and humility curiously mingled in his voice.

"How could I help it, Jim? I could never have borne it all, if you—"

"Really, Lydia?"

He looked down into her face which the moonlight had spiritualized to the likeness of an angel.

She smiled and slipped her hand into his.

They were alone in the universe, so he stooped and kissed her, murmuring inarticulate words of rapture.

After uncounted minutes they walked slowly on, she within the circle of his arm, her blond head against the shoulder of his rough tweed coat.

"When shall it be, Lydia?" he asked.

She blushed—even in the moonlight he could see the adorable flutter of color in her face.

"I am all alone in the world, Jim," she said, rather sadly. "I have no one but you."

"I'll love you enough to make up for forty relations!" he declared. "And, anyway, as soon as we're married you'll have mother and Fan and—er—"

He made a wry face, as it occurred to him for the first time that the Reverend Wesley Elliot was about to become Lydia's brother-in-law.

The girl laughed.

"Haven't you learned to like him yet?" she inquired teasingly.

"I can stand him for a whole hour at a time now, without experiencing a desire to kick him," he told her. "But why should we waste time talking about Wesley Elliot?"

Lydia appeared to be considering his question with some seriousness.

"Why, Jim," she said, looking straight up into his eyes with the innocent candor he had loved in her from the beginning, "Mr. Elliot will expect to marry us."

"That's so!" conceded Jim; "Fan will expect it, too."

He looked at her eagerly:

"Aren't you in a hurry for that wonderful brother-in-law, Lydia? Don't you think—?"

The smile on her face was wonderful now; he felt curiously abashed by it, like one who has inadvertently jested in a holy place.

"Forgive me, dearest," he murmured.

"If you would like—if it is not too soon—my birthday is next Saturday. Mother used to make me a little party on my birthday, so I thought—it seemed to me—and the roses are all in bloom."

There was only one way to thank her for this halting little speech: he took her in his arms and whispered words which no one, not even the crickets in the hedge could hear, if crickets ever were listeners, and not the sole chorus on their tiny stage of life.

THE END