"Did you find out as to how she stands?"

"Lyman, would you believe that I weakened? I put both my hands on her hair and I snatched a kiss from her, but she looked up at me and I weakened; I couldn't ask her. She wasn't scared; she was astonished; and when she looked down, I kissed the back of her neck, standing there in full view of the world, and she shivered as if she was cold, but her face was scarlet."

"Do you call it weakening when you grab a woman and kiss her? I should think that was rather strengthening."

"I didn't find out how she stood, that is, I did not get it in words, so I must have weakened. But I think it's all right. After dinner, while we were in the 'big room,' she showed me a photograph of a yap and said that it was Cousin Jerry. 'Permit me,' said I, bowing, and I sailed the picture out into the yard where the dog lay asleep in the sun. And there it lay, with the June bugs buzzing about it, till I relented and went after it. I weakened in going after it, but she pouted and I gave in. I reckon that after all, it's better not to be so headlong. Many a fellow would have rushed the thing and spoiled it right there. I am learning patience from you, Lyman."

"Well, don't keep on learning, or you'll get the worst of it. A woman will pardon a thing that's rash where she would look with scorn upon a gentle stupidity. You bite like a black bass and I'm a sucker; you leap up into the sunshine, and I lie under a rotting log. I am inclined to think, old boy, that there is a good deal of what they call the chump about me. You have gone to Pitt's and said more than you intended to say. And look at me: I have not said half of what I ought to have said. You know where to find your girl, but I have let mine go away. And I know now that she went away in disgust. However, I ought not to say that. It might imply that she was impatient with me and that would mean that she was waiting for me to say something, when in fact I don't believe she thinks of me at all, except as her protector and friend."

Warren sat nibbling at the stem of a corn-cob pipe. He stretched forth his legs and chewed upon the stem till it cracked between his teeth.

"This disposition to under-estimate yourself is where the whole trouble lies," said Warren. "It is the only weakness I have ever been able to find in your character. Don't you think it must be on account of some sort of work you have done? Haven't you at some time been in a position where everybody could come along and boss you?"

"I waited in a dining-room to pay my way through college. And you have struck it. Yes, sir, you've struck it on the top of the head. If a man has once stood as a servant, he is, if at all sensitive, ever afterward afflicted with a sort of self-repression. It is a sense of independence that makes the cow-boy aggressive; it is the wear of discipline that makes the regular soldier, long after quitting the army, appear humble. To wear a white apron and to carry a bowl of soup across a dining-room, one must not have had a high spirit or must have stabbed it. I stabbed mine."

"And yet you are as proud as the devil," said Warren.

"Yes, and I am not afraid of a pistol, but I fancy that anyone could drive me with a teaspoon. If I am ever the father of a boy I will teach him to work, to cut down trees, to dig ditches, to do anything rather than to wait on another man."

"But you don't regret having made the sacrifice to get the education, do you?"

"You over-rate my learning. I don't know anything thoroughly. I sailed through with the class and put myself in a position to learn, that's about all. But I have acquired one great piece of knowledge, which, had I not received a regular training, might have seemed to me as the arrogance of ignorance, and that is the fact that profound knowledge hurts the imagination. Of course I had read this—but ascribed it to prejudice. I know now, however, that it is true; and I would take care not to over-educate the boy with an instinct for art. His technique would destroy his creation. And take it in the matter of writing. I believe in correctness, but it is a fact that when a writer becomes a purist he conforms but does not create. After all, I believe that what's within a man will come out regardless of his training. There may be mute, inglorious Miltons, but Art struggles for expression. The German woman worked in a field and had no books, but she brought tears to the eyes of the Empress, with a little poem, dug up out of the ground."

"That sounds all right enough," said Warren, "but I don't know about its truth. It strikes me—and I like to think about it—that, if Nancy had been schooled and all that, she could have written about the sweetest poetry that ever was sent out."

Lyman smiled at his friend. "Education would undoubtedly assist her in the writing of verses," said he. "The log school-house would have given her the expression for poetry."

"May be so. But I don't want her to write. She'd fill up the paper and hurt the circulation. Sad day for a newspaper man when his wife fills up the paper. By the way, I forgot to tell you that I had a talk with the old man. I went out to the field with him after dinner; he was cutting oak sprouts from among the young corn and we had quite a chat. I reminded him of the fact that I hadn't known his daughter long, but I gave him to understand that I was all right. I told him that the express company had a high regard for me, and this made him open his eyes. He gradually caught my drift, and then he leaned on his hoe and laughed till the tears ran down his face; and I didn't have anything to lean on, so I took hold of the hoe handle and laughed too. After awhile the absurdity of the situation struck him, both of us leaning on a hoe, laughing fit to kill ourselves, and then he shook me off. But I wasn't to be put off this way. I told him I guessed I had to have some place to laugh, and I grabbed the hoe-handle again, and went on with my tittering. 'Young fellow,' he said, 'you just about suit me. You won't stay shuck off, and that's the sort of a man that gets next to me.' So we shook hands and without another word on the tender subject we went on talking about something else. Oh, he's all right, and the girl is too, I think. I don't know about the mother, but she is blue-eyed and tender-looking and I think she'll give in. Have you seen the banker lately?"

"I met him in the street this morning and spoke to him, and he bowed very politely. I've been thinking. Suppose my serial story should be accepted and they should send me a check. How could I get it cashed without going to his bank? And if any royalties should come from the sale of my book, what then? There's no other way open and I'll have to do business through his bank."

"That will be all right, if the check should happen to be large enough. Anyway, we don't do business with a bank because we like the owner of the concern. Oh, I didn't tell you that we have an account there already. We have about two hundred and fifty dollars over there and we don't owe a cent."

"Good!" Lyman cried, not because of the money, but that Warren had broken the ice.

"Good; I should say it is. I call it glorious. And it has come mainly through you. Why, when you came in I was still bleeding under the heel, you know."

"It has been your business management and economy, Warren. I have done nothing but scribble at odd times—I have played and you have worked."

"That's all right."

"No, it isn't all right. Whatever success may come to this paper belongs to you. What there is already has flowed through the channel of your energy, and I am not going to claim half the profits. The plant is yours, not mine. Without you the paper could not have lived a week."

"We'll fix that all right. But say, isn't it terrible to wait. I don't mind work, but I hate to wait, and I ought not to go out yonder again before day after tomorrow."

"What, ought not to go before day after tomorrow! You ought not to go before next week."

"Oh, come, now, old man, don't say that. This thing of waiting is awful. I think I could stand to be hanged if they'd do it at once, but the waiting would put me out. I never could wait. And besides I don't believe in it. One day I saw an old man at a soldiers' home and I asked him concerning his prospects and he said that he was waiting, and when I asked him what for, he said, 'to die.' And then I couldn't help but ask him what he was going to do then. I don't believe in waiting for anything; my idea is to go to it at once."

"Yes, that's all very well; but the old soldier was right after all, for life is but waiting for death."

"No," said Warren, "life is a constant fight against death, and we don't wait so long if we are fighting. If I thought as you do, I couldn't wait—I'd have to go out and hunt up death at once. I reckon you are low-spirited today. I'm glad I'm not a writer, Lyman. Writing saps all a man's spirit and leaves him no nourishment."

"I have always regarded the necessity to write as a sad infliction," Lyman replied. "A man steals from himself his most secret beliefs and emotions and puts them in the mouth of his characters. He is a sham."

"You ain't, old fellow."

"I am a fraud. Where are you going?"

"I've got to stir about," Warren answered. "I have to think when I sit still and I don't want to think. The truth is, I want to know how she stands. I wish I had a picture of her as she stood at the churn. It would make the fortune of a painter. Believe I'll get up a prayer-meeting at Mt. Zion."

"What, you get up a prayer-meeting?"

"Yes, so I can go home with her through the woods. I think that after a season of prayer and song she would lean toward me."

"Why not wait for a thunder storm and comfort her between flashes of lightning?"

"I wish I could get up a thunder storm. I'd like for that girl to grab me and choke me half to death. Well, I've got to stir around."

Warren went away, and during all the evening Lyman sat picking a nervous quarrel with himself.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE HOME.

Lyman saw nothing of Warren the next day, but on the day following he strode into the room, whistling in tuneless good humor.

"It's all right," he said, as he sat down. "I went out there and found her at the churn. I said, 'Look here, you'll drive me mad if you don't let that churn alone—I mean with the charm of the position.' And then she blushed, and I would have grabbed a kiss, but she shied to one side. She scolded me somewhat for coming so soon. She said that people would wonder what brought me out that way so often. I told her that if people had any sense they wouldn't wonder long—they would know that she had brought me there. Then I came out square-toed. I told her that I had discovered early in the action that I loved her, that I had waited long enough to be sure that it was not a passing fancy, but a genuine case of love. I told her that her cousin Jerry might believe in waiting, but that I did not. Then how she did blush and shy. I looked away, to give her a chance to get herself together again, looked out into the field where the old man was at work, and peeped through a crack at the old lady thumping the carpet loom. I didn't wait too long, though; I didn't want the girl to have time to cool off completely, so I said, looking at her. 'I want you to marry me, you understand; with my prospects I could go throughout the country and pick up most any woman who is struck on writing verses and essays, but I don't want one of them—I want you, and I want your promise to tell that fellow Jerry to go to the deuce, as far as you are concerned; and I want you to promise to wait for me a week or two and then be my wife.' Then I thought of how tedious it would be to wait so long and I corrected my statement by telling her that we needn't wait at all. How she did flounce in surprise. She said she had no idea that I cared anything for her. But I stopped her right there. 'That ain't the question,' I said, 'do you care anything for me? That's the question.' At this she hung her head and said that she didn't know, exactly, but that she would think about it. 'I don't want any thinking,' said I. 'What I want is for you to tell me right now.' Then she said something about that fool cousin. And I told her that I would shoot him on sight and look for him at that. I started to go away and she caught hold of me and said that if I promised not to shoot Jerry she would tell me the next day. 'You tell me now,' said I, 'or that fellow will be a corpse before morning.' Then she agreed that she thought she did love me a little. I told her that a little wouldn't satisfy me—I didn't want a breeze, I wanted a storm. She said I was hard to satisfy. She didn't think she could please me; she knew that she didn't amount to much in the eyes of town people. She had hoped so much to please me, and now she was grieved at her disappointment. She acknowledged that she was afraid to love me, and I told her that she needn't have any fear and that she might let herself out at once. And after a good deal of talk she did. I put her arms around my neck and made her squeeze me, and I called her a divine boa constrictor. She didn't exactly know what I meant, but it tickled her all the same. Then I went over into the field to consult the old man about the time I'd have to wait, and when I mentioned day after tomorrow he snorted. 'Young fellow,' said he, 'I like your pushing ways, but I don't want to be crowded off the face of the earth. You wait awhile. I don't want folks to think that I am anxious to git rid of the best gal that ever lived.' He got next to me when he put it that way, and I agreed to wait a week or so. Yes, sir, it's all right, with the exception that I've got to wait. But I won't wait alone; I'll go out there every once in awhile and make her wait with me."

Lyman caught hold of him and they stood near the window, laughing, but the laughter had more the sound of soft music than of two men in a merry mood. They sat down in the twilight, and their cigars glowed like the eyes of a beast, far apart.

Warren's restlessness was worn away in part, and the next day and for days succeeding he went about his work, humming what he supposed to be a tune. Two weeks dragged along and the time for the marriage was approaching. Every day or so the young fellow would drive out into the country to argue with the old man. He had rented a cottage and had furnished it and he pleaded the crime of permitting it to stand there empty of the two hearts that yearned to inhabit it. The old man acknowledged the logic of the argument, but swore that he could not have it said that he was anxious to get rid of his girl; and Warren always agreed to this, at the time of its emphatic utterance, but when he had driven back to town, and put up his horse, a spirit of rebellion would arise and back he would go the next day to renew the contest.

One night when Lyman went home he found old man Staggs in the sitting-room waiting for him. "I've got something to tell you," said the old man.

Lyman's heart jumped. "Has she returned?" he asked.

"Has who returned?"

"Why, Mrs. McElwin and her daughter?"

"Oh, I reckon not."

"Then what did you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you that I won't drink any more."

"You told me that some time ago."

"Yes, but under different circumstances. When I told you, I was sick and wouldn't have touched a drop if a barrel full had been under my nose; but I tell you now when I am well. Do you know the reason why I am so strong in the faith now? Of course you don't, and that is what I am going to tell you. I was out in the stable this evening and I found a bottle of liquor. Blast me if I hadn't been wanting it all day. But what did I do? I went out and threw the bottle—and the liquor—as far as I could send it, and I heard it squash in the street. And now I want to ask you if that wasn't nerve."

Lyman summoned his patience and agreed that it was nerve, and the old man continued. "I told my wife about it, but she didn't believe me. And now what I want you to do is to convince her that it is a fact. You can do it with a clear conscience, for I will swear to it. The fact is there's going to be a reunion of the old home guard at Downer's grove, about fifteen miles from here, and I want to go. I went last year and—well, I fell, somewhat. But I wouldn't fall this time, and I want you to tell Tobithy and Annie to let me go."

"And what if you come home drunk?"

"Lyman," said the old man, puffing up, "I have always stood as your friend. I have got out of bed at night to argue in your behalf, and I didn't expect no sich treatment as this. If you want to stab me, why don't you out with your knife and pop it to me right under the ribs. Here," he added, turning toward Lyman and smoothing his shirt tight over his side, "stab me right here and I won't say a word; but, for the Lord's sake, don't question my honor. Let me tell you something: I am a poor man and in debt; I need clothes and sometimes I am out of tobacco, but I wouldn't touch a drop of whisky for money enough to dam the Mississippi river. That's me, Lyman, and you may wollop it about in your mouth and chew on it. It is no more than natural that I should want to join my old friends. Of course we were not actually in the army, but we would have been soldiers if we hadn't been captured and disarmed, and we have an affection for the old organization. There ain't many of us left and it is cruelty to keep us apart. And I can't go unless Tobithy lets me take the money. It won't require more than five dollars. Will you assure her that I'll come home sober?"

"I don't think I can do that, Uncle Jasper. Understand, now, I believe you think you'll keep sober, but the truth of it is you can't. Why, if you didn't drink, the old fellows wouldn't be your companions."

The "veteran" smoothed his shirt over his side. "Stab me," he said. "Pop your knife under this rib—this one, right here. It will be a mercy to me if you do. When a man out-lives his word of honor, it's time to go and go violently. Pop it."

"Your drinking doesn't amount to much, Uncle Jasper. You don't drink viciously, but reminiscently. However, it is a crime to take money from those women—Hold on; I know you do all you can to earn a living; you work whenever anything comes up, but you haven't earned five dollars in—"

"I earned the money, but the scoundrel didn't pay me," the old fellow broke in. "I've got hundreds of dollars owin' to me, but the rascals laugh at me. I cured old Thompson's sick horse—worked with him all night, nearly, and he gave me a dollar. Haven't earned five dollars! the devil! How can a man earn five dollars when a scoundrel pays him one dollar for fifteen dollars' worth of labor? The shirt ain't very thick. The knife will go in all right. Pop it." He smoothed his shirt and closed his eyes as if expecting the death blow.

"You didn't let me get through," said Lyman. "I was going to say that your drinking did no particular harm. To meet your old cronies and to warm up with them is about all that is left to you of real enjoyment. Sooner or later we all live in the past, and there can be no very great evil in bringing the past near. So, now, if you will promise me to come home in as good condition as you can, I will give you five dollars."

The old fellow gulped, wheeled about to hide his eyes and leant forward with his face in his hands. Lyman slipped a bank note between his fingers and without saying a word went up stairs. At breakfast the next morning, which was the day of the reunion of the gallant home guard, old Jasper was full of life and hope, but that night when Lyman came home, he found him leaning on the gate, unable to find the latch. "I'm all right," he said.

"I believe you are," Lyman replied.

"Am, for a fact. I promised to come in good shape. Here, all right."

Lyman managed to get him to bed without disturbing anyone, but later at night he heard the women lashing him with their tongues. He knew that there was justice in the lashing and he dreaded lest they should cut at him for abetting the crime, but they did not, for at breakfast they smiled at him, doubtless not having discovered his complicity. The old man was heart-sick. "I want to see you," he said to Lyman, and leading him into the sitting-room, continued: "I have said it before, I know, but I want to say it now once for all that I'll never touch another drop as long as I live. Why, confound my old hide, don't I know exactly what it will do for me; and do you think I'll deliberately make a brute of myself? I won't, that's all. It's all right to bring the past back, that is, for a man who can do it, but it isn't for me, I tell you that. And I don't want to see those home guards any more. Why, if they had taken my advice, do you suppose they would have surrendered without firing a gun? They wouldn't. I argued with them and swore at them, but they stacked their guns; and then what could I do but surrender? That's neither here nor there, though—I'm never goin' to drink another drop. Oh, I've said it before—I know that, but it sticks, this time."



CHAPTER XXXI.

THERE CAME A CHECK.

Lyman's book met with a favor that no one had ventured to forecast. It did not touch the public's fad-nerve; it was too close to the soil for that. It was so simple, with an art so sly, with a humor that, like an essence, so quietly stole the senses, that the reviewers did not arise in resentment against it. They had expected nothing and were surprised to find much. Worn out with heavy volumes from the pens of the learned and the pretentious, they seemed to find in this little book a rest, a refuge for reverie, cooled with running water and sheltered by leaves from the burning sun. And at night, when the author lay down to rest and to muse upon himself, his heart did not beat with the exultant throb of victory—it was full of a melancholy gratitude. One morning a letter startled him. It came from a great periodical and enclosed a check in payment for a serial story. It represented more money than he had ever hoped to possess; he called Warren, and handed him the piece of paper.

"I can hardly trust my eyes," he said. "What do you make of it?"

Warren flew into a fit of enthusiasm. "Five thousand dollars," he cried. "And it comes from the advertising the newspapers have been giving you. I want to tell you that advertising pays. Five thousand dollars, and it didn't take you more than six months to write the thing. Those fellows don't know whether it's good or not. All they know is that the newspapers have given your other story a send-off. Talk about newspapers; the first thing you know we'll have money enough to paper the town. But this is all yours. No matter, I'm as much interested as if it were mine. Say, let me have this check a minute. I want to go across the street and show it to a fellow and tell him to go to—He spoke of this office one day as Poverty's Nest. Let me take it over there."

"No," said Lyman, laughing, "but I'll tell you what you may do with it—take it over to the bank and deposit it in my name."

"But you'll have to come along and leave your signature."

"Is that the way they do? All right; but I don't want to see McElwin."

"That won't be necessary. But don't you think we'd better carry the check around town awhile before depositing it?"

"No, that would be silly."

"Silly! It would be business. You let me have it and I'll rake in fifty subscriptions before three o'clock. It's business."

"No, we'll go over and deposit it."

They went over to the bank, laughing like boys as they crossed the street. McElwin had not come down. The ceremony was conducted by the cashier, a humdrum performance to him, but to Lyman and Warren one of marked impressiveness. They returned to the office with the air of capitalists. At the threshold of the "sanctum" they met a man who wanted to subscribe for the paper. Warren took his name and his money, and when he was gone, turned to Lyman with a smile. "It has begun to work already. The news of the deposit has flashed around town and they are coming in for recognition. Oh, we're all right. Do you remember those cigars you brought from the moonlight picnic? I believe I'll go out and get some just like them. Why, helloa, here is our old friend."

Uncle Buckley was standing at the door. Lyman jumped up and seized the old fellow by the hand and led him to a chair. "Look out, Sammy," he said with an air of caution. "Don't shake me or you'll make me spill the things Mother has stuffed me with. These here are harvest apples," he went on, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his brown jeans coat and drawing forth yellow apples. "I'll jest put them here on the table. And here is an Indian peach or two, the earliest ones I ever saw. And look at this, a pone of cracklin' bread. Think of that, this time of year. The fact is we killed a shote the other day. Mother 'lowed you couldn't git any sich bread in town and a feller has to have somethin' to eat once in awhile. Now, I do wonder what this here is," he added, tugging at his pocket. "Well, if it ain't the thighs and the pully-bone of a fried chicken, I'm the biggest liar that ever walked a log. Oh, I'm full up. She got up before day, mother did, and stuffed me for an hour or more. Blamed if a peart youngster didn't yell, 'Hi, there, sausage,' as I come in town. Now, I'm blowed if I know what this is. Yes, sir, it's a pair of socks, knit under the light of a tallow candle without the drappin' of a stitch. Oh, it ain't no laughin' matter, boys; there ain't no fun in gettin' up at four o'clock of a mornin' to be stuffed, I tell you. Well, I reckon I'm reasonably empty now." He leaned back and looked at his cargo, arrayed upon the table.

"I'll hire a wagon and have these things taken over to the house," said Lyman. "You tell her, bless her old heart, that I'm coming out there pretty soon with enough stuff to smother both of you. Warren, get those cigars."

"Sure. Is there anything else we want? Uncle Buckley, don't you want something to drink?"

"Well, if you've got some right good buttermilk handy I mout take a glass. But I don't want no licker, young man. I never touched it but once, and then I swapped a fine young mare for an old mule, and I swore then that I'd never tech it again. Go on and get your segyars and I'll make a shift of burnin' one of 'em."

Warren went out. Lyman feasted his eyes on the old man. "How are they all, Uncle Buckley?"

"Jest about the same. Jimmy killed the biggest black snake yistidy—I think it was yistidy. Let me see. I know in reason it was yistidy, for I was a splittin' some wood when he fotch the thing along, draggin' it by the tail. Though that mout have been day before yistidy. I believe it was day before yistidy. Anyhow it was the biggist black snake ever killed out there since the war, but of course in my day they killed bigger ones. He found him out in a blackberry patch and mauled him to death. Oh, he was a snorter. That's about the biggest piece of news I've got. Let me see. Lige met a pole-cat somewhere in the woods and socity ain't been hankering after Lige since then. I seen him this mornin' as I was comin' in, and I yelled at him to keep his distance, and he did or I would have hit him. Yes, sir, I can't stand a pole-cat. You ricollect Mab Basey, I reckon. She run away with a feller that come to help cut wheat and they ain't seen her sense. Oh, he married her and all that, but they don't know where she is. Luke Brizentine didn't git over it."

"What, Mab's running away?"

"Oh, no, not that. Didn't I tell you? Why, Jeff Sarver filled him so full of shot that his hide looked like a nutmeg grater. Yes, sir. They got into a difficulty over a steer that had been jumpin' into a field, and he tried to stab Jeff and Jeff shot him. Made a good deal of a stir at the time and Luke didn't live but two days, but how he could live that long was more than we could see, and it caused a good deal of surprise. Now, wait a minit. It was day before yistidy that Jimmy killed the snake. Sammy, where is that man that was your partner?"

"He has an office on the other side of the square."

"Yes, but are you sure, Sammy, that he ain't your partner?"

"Absolutely certain, Uncle Buckley."

The old man scratched his head. "Sammy, that man ain't honest."

"I am quite sure of that."

"He has fotch it home to me that he ain't, Sammy. But I don't know that I ought to tell you about it; I reckon I ought to let it go. And still, it wouldn't be treatin' you exactly right. He is a forger, Sammy. Look at this."

He had taken out a pocket-book and from about it was unwinding a string, and when the string came off, he took out a piece of paper and handed it to Lyman. It was a note for one hundred dollars and appended were the names of John Caruthers and Samuel Lyman.

"Understand, Sammy, that I don't want you to pay it; I simply want you to know that the feller has used your name wrong."

"It is a forgery," said Lyman.

"Yes, that's what I have been believing for some time past, but I didn't say anything about it to mother. When you went out that day he comes to me and says, 'We must have a hundred dollars and though we don't like to do it we have to appeal to you. Lyman says that he hasn't the heart to ask, so he has put it off on me.' And so, I snatches out my wallet and lets him have the money. But I don't ask you to pay it, Sammy."

"Why, my dear old friend, do you suppose I would let you lose it? I can pay it without a flinch; more than that, if you are in need of money, I can let you have five times as much." He tucked the note into his pocket and took up his check-book.

"Why, Sammy, I don't know whuther to laugh or to cry or to holler when you talk like that. But I don't need no money, and especially none that you have raked together."

"But you must take this," said Lyman, handing him a check. "It's the first check I ever made out," he added, laughing.

"Then you ain't been rich very long, Sammy," said the old man, taking the piece of paper. "But you've writ this in jest like you are used to it. You can't write as well, however, as Blake Peel. I reckon he's the finest writer in this country. Why, he can make a bird with a pen, and it looks like it's jest ready to fly—he's teached writin' school all up and down the creek, and I reckon he's the best. But I'm sorry about this thing, and I don't feel like takin' it."

"You've got to take it."

"Then I must. But you know where it is any time you want it," he said, putting the check into his pocket. "And now, Sammy, what are you going to do with that feller? The note wasn't signed as a firm, but your names was put on individual, and as you didn't write your name he forged it. What are you goin' to do with him?"

"I don't know. Here comes Warren. Don't say anything more about it now."

Warren came in. "Uncle Buckley," said he, "here is a cigar that will make you forget your woes."

"Thank you, my son. I don't believe I've got time to smoke jest now. I'll take this thing home and crumble it up and mother and I will smoke it in our pipes."

Warren staggered. "Gracious alive, don't do that!" he cried.

"All right, my son, I'll set out on a stump and burn it in the moonlight, a thinkin' of you and Sammy. Well, I must be movin'. Good-bye, all han's, and ricollect that my latch-string hangs on the outside."

They shook hands affectionately, and then sat in silence, listening to his footsteps as he trod slowly down the stairs.

"Why don't you light your cigar?" Warren asked.

"I don't care to smoke just now," Lyman answered. "I have some business on the other side of the square."



CHAPTER XXXII.

LAUGHED AT HIS WEAKNESS.

Lyman walked slowly across the public square. The lawyers, the clerks, the tradesmen, who had become acquainted with his habits were wont to say, as they saw him strolling about, "There he goes, blind as a bat, with a story in his head." And they commented upon him now, but they could see that he was not in a dreaming mood, for his head was high and his heels fell hard upon the ground. At the edge of the sidewalk he halted for a moment, and his eye ran along the signs over the doors. Then he stepped up to an open door and entered without pausing at the threshold. Caruthers was sitting with his face toward the door. He flushed as Lyman entered, took his feet off the corner of the table and straightened himself back in his chair. Lyman stepped up to the table and without a word, stood there looking at him.

"Well, you have come at last," said Caruthers, "I have been sitting here day after day, waiting for you."

"You expected me," said Lyman.

"Yes, as I say I have been waiting for you day after day. But where is the constable? You didn't bring him along."

Lyman took out the note. "The fog that settled between us," said he.

Caruthers nodded.

"I would have come sooner," said Lyman, "but the fog was not defined until a few moments ago."

"And I suppose your plan is to send me to the penitentiary. Tell me what you intend to do—don't stand there looking at me that way. Give a man a chance to defend his honor."

"Honor," Lyman repeated, with a cold smile. "You haven't as much honor as a hyena."

"Well, then, let me say name."

"You can say name. A snake has a name. And you want a chance to defend yours."

"Mr. Lyman, I really have no defense—I'm done up. I needed money and I put your name to that note, and if you want to disgrace my family, why you can send me to the penitentiary. I have suffered over it, day and night, and I am going to make the amount good if I live long enough. You can take everything I've got in here. But I suppose you would rather send me to the penitentiary."

Lyman sat down. "When I left my office," said he, "I was angry enough to kill you, but now you appear so contemptible that I am sorry for you."

"And I feel as contemptible as I look."

"I don't think that is quite possible. If you felt as contemptible as you look you'd blow your brains out." He got up and stood looking at Caruthers. He put his hand to his forehead as if a troublesome thought were passing through his mind. "Now that I am here I don't know what to do," said he. "I know that you ought to be punished, but my old weakness comes upon me and I falter." Caruthers brightened and Lyman looked like an abashed criminal.

"Lyman," said Caruthers, "if you have any mercy left, let me throw myself upon it. I know that there ought to be an end to your forgiveness, but why should you draw the line at me?"

"I am a fool," said Lyman, "and it makes me blush to know that I can't hide it from you. But you are so contemptible that I haven't the heart to punish you."

He tore the note into bits and turned toward the door, with his head hung low. He thought that he heard something and looking back he caught Caruthers laughing at him. His head went up; a strange light drove the gentleness out of his eyes.

"Ah, you laugh at my weakness. A moment ago I didn't know what to do. Now I know."

He sprang at Caruthers and seized him by the collar—he shoved him back and struck him in the mouth—he jerked him to his knees, threw him upon the floor and kicked him. The cries of the wretch brought a crowd to the door. A constable rushed in. "Get away," Lyman commanded. "He belongs to me."

"But you don't want to kill him," the officer replied. "Look, you have knocked his teeth out."

"So I have. Well, you may have him now."

Warren sat in the office, smoking. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked, as Lyman entered. "I'll bet you've got another piece of news to suppress."

"No, I haven't—we'll give it two columns. I knocked Brother Caruthers' teeth out and I'm glad of it."

"Good!" Warren cried. And then he called the office boy. "Tom, wet down two hundred extra copies for the next edition. Oh, Samuel, you are coming on first rate. What did he do?"

"He laughed at my weakness."

"Glad of it. Oh, we are prospering. Make a piece of news out of it, and don't think about yourself. Write it in the third. Talk about hard times when things come this way! Why, the world is on a keen jump. Hold on a moment. Here comes Nancy's dad."

Old man Pitt came walking carefully into the room, looking about to avoid upsetting anything. He shook hands with Lyman and Warren, looked for a place to spit, did not find it and spat on the floor. "I seen your little rumpus over yonder jest now," said he, "and it was powerful entertainin'. You snatched that feller about like he wa'n't nothin' more than a feather pillow. And I'm glad of it, for if there ever was a scoundrel on the face of the earth he's the man. I drapped in town today to see if there was any news goin' on, an' I bucked up agin it the first off-start. That's what I call keepin' things lively. Mr. Warren, our cousin Jerry was over at the house last night."

"The deuce you say!" Warren exclaimed.

"Yes, sir, last night; and he apologized for havin' been a leetle slow. He 'lowed that it had been in his mind all along to marry Nancy—"

"I'll shoot the top of his head off!" Warren broke in.

"No need of that, my son. I told him that we was much obleeged for his deliberation as the feller says, but that he was too late; and Nancy she up and tells him that she never had thought of marryin' him, and that she wouldn't have had him if he had asked her three years ago. And then she 'lowed that she loved you—"

"Talk about women!" Warren cried. "There's one for your life. And say, I'll be out there tomorrow morning at eight o'clock and the ceremony will be performed at half past eight. Just hold on, now, there's no use in arguing with me. She was born to you, but, by George, she was born for me, and that's all there is to it."

"Young feller," said Mr. Pitt, "the day for me to buck agin you is past. I don't mind markin' yearlin' calves and I don't hold off when it comes to breakin' up a hornet's nest, but I stand ready and willin' to fling up my hands when it comes to pullin' agin you. I have been kept busy many a time in my life; I have been woke up at mornin' and kept on the stretch pretty nigh till midnight, but you can come nearer occupyin' all my time and the time of all my folks than any article I ever come up against. I give in and so do the rest of them. You can jump on a hoss and ride right out there and marry her before I can git home if you want to."

The old fellow bowed his head as if he were exhausted with the strain of a long fight. Lyman sputtered with laughter, and Warren, his eyes shedding the light of victory, thus addressed the old man: "I am glad that you have at last given your consent, and I want to tell you that you shall never regret it."

"That's all right, young feller. I never squeal when a man outwinds me, and I am as much out-winded now as if I'd been wrasselin' with a bear. Nancy saw how the fight was goin', her and her mother, and for the past week or so they have been makin' clothes fitten to kill themselves, and if Nancy ain't got enough yet, why, I'll jest tell her to put on all she's got ready and let it rip at that. Well, I'm goin' now. I expect mebby, young feller, you'll beat me home and be married agin I git there, but I've got nothin' to say. I know when I'm winded. Good day."

They shook hands with him, and when he was gone Warren said: "Well, things are settling down on a fair sort of a basis. I like that old man, Lyman, and I don't believe I'll rush him; believe I'll give them more time to get things ready. I could go out there tonight, but I'll wait till tomorrow morning and let the ceremony be performed at eight o'clock. I'll get up about five and pick up a preacher on the way. He's a poor fellow and needs the job."

"Good!" Lyman cried. "I am really glad that you have decided not to push the old man."

"Yes, I think it best to give him and the girl plenty of time. Don't you?"

"I rather think so. They ought at least to have time enough to wash their faces and comb their hair. But to tell you the truth I don't relish the idea of getting up so early."

"You don't? Why, you've got nothing to do with it. Did you think I was going to let you go? Not much. You'd guy me and that would turn the whole thing into a farce. It's a fact that I don't want you; I may be peculiar, but I can't help it. I tell you what you must do: We'll be in town day after tomorrow night and I want you to come down to the house and take supper with us."

"I'll be there."

"But you mus'n't guy Nancy. She'll be scared anyway."

"I won't guy her. I shall feel more disposed to pronounce a benediction."

"I'm glad you feel that way though we don't want the occasion to be solemn. Where are you going?"

"Over to old Jasper's to imprison myself in my room. I want to think."

* * * * *

While Lyman was busy with Caruthers, Eva was tripping along a grass-grown street. She and her mother had just returned. The social relationship between the banker's daughter and the daughter of old Jasper Staggs had not been close; Eva's visits had always been a surprise. And on this day when Annie saw her coming, she got up in a flutter to meet her at the door.

"Why, how do you do?" Annie cried, catching her hand. "I am delighted to see you. When did you get home? We didn't hear that you had come back."

"We returned not more than an hour ago."

"Come in and put your things off."

"I haven't time to stay but a few moments. Is your mother well?"

"Yes, very well. I will call her."

"Oh, no, I'm going to remain so short a time. I was out walking and I thought I'd stop for a moment. Is your father well?"

"Yes, as well as usual. I don't know where he is—out in the garden, I suppose."

"Is Mr. Lyman here yet?"

"You mean is he still in town? Oh, yes, and he boards here, but I suppose he's at his office."

"Somebody told me that he was thinking of leaving town."

"That may be, but he hasn't gone yet."

"Does he do most of his work here?"

"Yes, all but the work for the paper."

"Would you mind showing me the room where he does his work? I'd like so much to see it."

"With pleasure, I'm sure."

She led Eva to the room above. The young woman stood with her hands clasped, looking at the bare walls—she looked at the chair, at every article of meager furniture. She went to the desk and took up a pen. "Is this the pen he writes with?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so. Did you wish to write something?"

"Oh, no," she answered, holding the pen. "And is that where he walks up and down while he's thinking?" she asked, pointing to a thread-bare pathway in the rag carpet.

"It must be," Annie answered. "We hear him walking a good deal and he always seems to be walking up and down in the same place."

Eva put down the pen and turned to go. Annie looked at her narrowly. They went down stairs and Eva did not halt until she had reached the door. "Won't you sit down?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I must be getting back. You must come over to see us. Good-bye."

Annie went out to the dining-room where her mother was ironing. "Eva has just been here," she said. "All she wanted was to go into the room where Mr. Lyman does his work. She's dead in love with him and he's blind as a bat not to see it. I don't believe he wrote the book—I don't believe he could write anything."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE PETITION.

Lyman did not sleep much that night. Annie, cautioned by her discreet mother not to say too much, had simply told him that Eva had called and asked about him. But that was enough to keep him awake nearly all night; and long before the table was set, the next morning, they heard him walking slowly up and down the pathway worn in the carpet. In the office he sat musing. The boy came in to tell him that at five o'clock he had helped Warren on the road to be married, and that he had left strict instructions that Lyman should be told not to forget the supper at the cottage. The boy went out and Lyman stood at the window, looking across at the bank. Presently he saw McElwin bow with dignity to a man whom he met in front of the door and then enter the place. The boy came in again and holding out a piece of "copy" written badly, asked him to read the first line. It was a notice of the meeting of the Chancery court. The boy returned to his work and Lyman continued to gaze at the bank. Suddenly a smile, not altogether soft, but half cynical, lighted up his face; and at the same instant he reached for his hat. Straightway he went to the bank and sent his name into the private office. McElwin came to the door.

"Why, come in, Mr. Lyman," he said cordially, extending his hand. Lyman shook hands with him and entered the room. The great clock began to strike. McElwin looked up at it and then said: "Have a seat, please."

Lyman sat down. McElwin did not permit the silence to become embarrassing. "Mr. Sawyer told me all about it, sir; he kept nothing back, although he must have seen that I could not help honoring you. Mr. Lyman, you have taught us all a lesson, sir, and I am more than pleased to see that you are prospering. It is more than likely," he went on, crossing his legs, "that you may soon seek some sort of investment for your money. Idle money, sir, is like an idle mind—a mischief to the community; and if you should desire to invest—"

"I can't afford to engage in trade," Lyman broke in. "Of course," he added, "trade is a good thing in its way, a sort of necessity, but the English have the right idea of it, after all—drawing a distinction between the tradesman and the gentleman. I remember a remark old Sam Johnson made concerning a fellow who had grown rich enough to stop buying and selling—'he had lost the servility of the tradesman without having acquired the manners of a gentleman.'"

McElwin bit his lip. "I didn't mean any offense," he said.

"Oh, surely not, and I have taken none. By the way, Mr. McElwin, Chancery court will meet next Monday."

"Ah! I had quite forgotten it. Time does fly, sir."

"Yes, and circumstances change, and men bow to circumstances."

"You are quite right, Mr. Lyman. And that reminds me that I have been forced through a change concerning Mr. Sawyer. I honor him on some grounds, you understand, but his confession of drunkenness shocked me greatly. In fact, sir, I am glad he did not marry my daughter."

"When I spoke of the meeting of the court," said Lyman, pretending to have paid no attention to McElwin's remark concerning Sawyer, "I wished to remind you of the petition for divorce."

"Yes, quite right," McElwin replied, uncrossing his legs and putting out his hand as if unconsciously feeling for his dignity, to pull it back to him.

"Is the paper which your daughter signed here or at your home?"

"At home, I think; yes, I am quite sure of it."

"Then would you mind walking up there with me so that I may sign it?"

"Why—er, not at all, sir, but we have plenty of time."

"No," Lyman insisted, "it is better to have it over with; and I ask your pardon for not having signed it sooner."

The banker got up, took down his hat, brushed it with the sleeve of his coat and announced his readiness to go. Together they walked out. Lyman assumed an unwonted gaiety. He commented humorously upon the tradesmen standing in their doors. The banker strove to laugh, but his heart was not in the effort. "Yes, sir," said he, "things change and women change, too. And I may make bold to say that my daughter—and my wife, sir—are not exceptions to the—er, rule."

"I don't quite understand," said Lyman.

"I mean, sir, that what at one time might have been distasteful may have become a—er—matter of endearment, you understand."

"I don't know that I do," the cruel tormenter replied.

"A woman's nature is a peculiar thing—a romantic thing, I might almost say. My daughter is strangely influenced by romance, sir. And her peculiar relationship to—ahem—yourself, I might say—"

"You mean that outrageous affair at old Jasper's house," Lyman broke in.

"Well, the odd—you understand—marriage. Yes, it has made quite a different person of her, I might say. Really, I was in hopes—it came upon me latterly, you observe, or I mean you understand—that we might come to some adjustment—"

"We will," Lyman interrupted. "I am more than willing to sign the petition."

"You are very kind, and I thank you—yes, very considerate—but my daughter has changed greatly since then, and I have lately indulged a hope together with my wife that we might throw open our home to you—ahem—you understand."

"We can settle it today," said Lyman. "I believe you told me once that I ought to go away, or sent some word of that sort, I don't remember which, and I am now ready to take your advice."

The banker sighed, and they walked along in silence until they came to the gate of Eva's home.

"Walk in," said McElwin.

They stepped upon the veranda and Lyman saw Eva sitting in the parlor. She came running to meet him, forgetful of everything—came running with her hands held out.

"He has come to sign the petition," said the banker in a dry voice. "Where is your mother?"

She drew back. "In the garden I think," she answered.

"I will go after her," said McElwin.

He walked away, heavy of foot. Eva turned to Lyman and asked him to sit down. He did so, and she remained standing. It reminded him of the night when they had met at the lantern picnic, only their position now were reversed, for then he had remained standing while she sat looking up at him. He took up a volume of Tennyson and opened it, and between the pages in front of him lay a faded clover bloom.

"A memory?" he asked, looking at her.

"Yes, a beautiful memory. Some one plucked it, threw it up and it fell in my lap—one day at the creek."

He looked at her searchingly. They heard McElwin in the garden calling his wife, "Lucy, oh, Lucy. Where are you?"

"Eva, I have not been honorable with you—I have held you not as a protector—I have held you selfishly—I love you."

"Lucy, where are you?" the banker called.

"I have not dared to hope that you could love me—I'm old and ugly. But I worshipped you and I can not set you free. I told your father that I would come to sign the paper, and I spoke sarcastically to him, but I will beg his pardon, for I honor him."

"Lucy, come here, quick!" the banker shouted in the garden.

"You did not think I could love you," she said, looking at him frankly, her eyes full of surprise and happiness; "you did not know me. I told my mother that with you life would be joyous in a shanty. Oh, my husband."

He got up quietly, the tears streaming down his face—he held out his arms.

* * * * *

"Lucy, he has come to sign the paper."

They were standing in the garden walk. She was almost breathless, having run to meet him. "Oh, he must not," she said. "It will kill her."

"He is going to sign it and we must be brave. Wait here till I fetch it," he said when they reached the rear veranda. She waited, tearful, trembling. He came with the paper and they stepped into the parlor. Lyman stood with his back toward them, his arms about Eva, her face hidden in his bosom. Mrs. McElwin held up her hands and then bowed her head with a whispered, "Thank God." The banker stood there, quickly, but without noise, tearing the paper into bits. His wife held her arms out toward him. He opened his hand and the bits of paper fluttered to the floor.

THE END