Carlia poked the log in the grate into a blaze, then slyly turned the lamp wick down. When detected and asked why she did that she replied:
"I wanted to make it appear more like a picnic party around a camp fire in the hills."
Dorian's high school days in the city began that fall, a little late because he had so many things to set right at home; but he soon made up the lost time, for he was a student not afraid of hard work. He walked back and forth the three miles. Mrs. Brown offered him a room at her large city residence, but he could not accept it because of his daily home chores. However, he occasionally called on the Brown's who tried to make him feel as much at home as they did at Greenstreet.
Never before were days so perfect to Dorian, never before had he so enjoyed the fleeting hours. For the first week or two, he was a little shy, but the meeting each morning with boys and girls of his own age and mingling with them in their studies and their recreations, soon taught him that they were all very much alike, just happy, carefree young people, most of them trying to get an education. He soon learned, also, that he could easily hold his own in the class work with the brightest of them. The teachers, and students also, soon learned to know this. Boys came to him for help in problems, and the younger girls chattered about him with laughing eyes and tossing curls. What a wonder it was! He the simple, plainly-dressed country boy, big and awkward and ugly as he thought himself to be, becoming a person of some importance. And so the days went all too swiftly by. Contrary to his younger boyhood's experience, the closing hour came too soon, when it was time to go home to mother and chores and lessons.
And the mother shared the boy's happiness, for she could see the added joy of living and working which had come into his life by the added opportunities and new environment. He frequently discussed with his mother his lessons. She was not well posted in the knowledge derived from books, and sometimes she mildly resented this newer learning which he brought into the home and seemed to intrude on her old-established ideas. For instance, when the cold winter nights came, and Dorian kept open his bedroom window, the mother protested that he would "catch his death of cold." Night air and drafts are very dangerous, especially if let into one's bedroom, she held.
"But, mother, I must have air to breathe," said Dorian, "and what other kind of air can I have at night? I might store a little day-air in my room, but I would soon exhaust its life-giving qualities at night. You know, mother," he went on in the assurance of his newly acquired knowledge, "I guess the Lord knew what He was about when He enveloped the earth with air which presses down nearly fifteen pounds to the square inch so that it might permeate every possible nook and corner of the globe." Then he went on to explain the wonderful process of blood purification in the lungs, and demonstrated to her that the breath is continually throwing off foul matter. He did this by breathing into a fruit jar, screwing on the lid for a little while, and then having the nose make the test.
"Some bed rooms I've gone into smell just like that," he said.
"Here, mother is a clipping from a magazine. Listen:
"'Of all the marvels of God's workmanship, none is more wondrous than the air. Think of our all being bathed in a substance so delicate as to be itself unperceived, yet so dense as to be the carriage to our senses of messages from the world about us! It is never in our way; it does not ask notice; we only know it is there by the good it does us. And this exquisitely soft, pure, yielding, unseen being, like a beautiful and beneficent fairy, brings us blessings from all around. It has the skill to wash our blood clean from all foulness. Its weight keeps us from tumbling to pieces. It is a reservoir where the waters lie stored, until they fall and gladden the earth. It is a great-coat that softens to us the heat of the day, and the cold of the night. It carries sounds to our ears and smells to our nostrils. Its movements fill Nature with ceaseless change; and without their aid in wafting ships over the sea, commerce and civilization would have been scarce possible. It is of all wonders the most wonderful.'"
At another time when Dorian had a cold, and consequently, a loss of appetite, his mother urged him to eat more, saying that he must have strength to throw off his cold.
"What is a cold?" he smilingly asked.
"Why, a cold is—a cold, of course, you silly boy."
"What does it do to the activities of the body?"
"I'm not a doctor; how can I tell."
"All mothers are doctors and nurses; they do a lot of good, and some things that are not so good. For instance, why should I eat more when I have a cold?" She did not reply, and so he went on: "The body is very much like a stove or a furnace; it is burning material all the time. Sometimes the clinkers accumulate and stop the draft, both in the human as well as the iron stove. When that happens, the sensible thing to do is not to throw in more fuel but to clean out the clinkers first."
"Where did you get all that wisdom, Dorian?"
"I got it from my text book on hygiene, and I think it's true because it seems so reasonable."
"Well, last night's talk led me to believe that you would become a philosopher; now, the trend is more toward the doctor; tomorrow I'll think you are studying law."
"Oh, but we are, mother; you ought to hear us in our civil government class. We have organized into a Congress of the United States, and we are going to make laws."
"You'll be elected President, I suppose."
"I'm one of the candidates."
"Well, my boy" she smiled happily at him, "I hope you will be elected to every good thing, and that you will fill every post with honor; and now, I would like you to read to me from the 'Lady of the Lake' while I darn your stockings. Your father used to read the story to me a long, long time ago, and your voice is very much like his when you read."
And thus with school and home and ward duties the winter passed. Spring called him again to the fields to which he went with new zeal, for life was opening to him in a way which life is in the habit of doing to the young of his age. Mildred Brown and her mother were in California. He heard from her occasionally by way of postcards, and once she sent him one of her sketches of the ocean. Carlia Duke also was not forgotten by Mildred. Dorian and Carlia met frequently as neighbors will do, and they often spoke of their mutual friend. The harvest was again good that fall, and Dorian once more took up his studies at the high school in the city. Carlia finished the grades as Dorian completed his second year, and the following year Carlia walked with Dorian to the high school. That was no great task for the girl, now nearly grown to young womanhood, and it was company for both of them. During these walks Carlia had many questions to ask about her lessons, and Dorian was always pleased to help her.
"I am such a dunce," she would say, "I wish I was as smart as you."
"You must say 'were' when you wish. I were as smart as you," he corrected.
"O, yes: I forgot. My, but grammar is hard, especially to a girl which—"
"No—a girl who; which refers to objects and animals, who to persons."
Carlia laughed and swung her books by the strap. Dorian was not carrying them that day. Sometimes he was absentminded regarding the little courtesies.
The snow lay hard packed in the road and it creaked under their feet. Carlia's cheeks glowed redder than ever in contact with the keen winter air. They walked on in silence for a time.
"Say, Dorian, why do you not go and see Mildred?" asked Carlia, not looking at him, but rather at the eastern mountains.
"Why? Is she not well?"
"She is never well now. She looks bad to me."
"When did you see her?"
"Last Saturday. I called at the house, and she asked about you—Poor girl!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"You are very smart in some things, but are a stupid dunce in other things. Mildred is like an angel both in looks and—everything. I wish I was—were half as good."
"But how am I such a dunce, Carlia?"
"In not seeing how much Mildred thinks of you."
"Thinks of me? Mildred?"
"She just loves you."
Carlia still looked straight ahead as though fearful to see the agitation she had brought to the young man; but he looked at her, with cheeks still aflame. He did not understand Carlia. Why had she said that? Was she just teasing him? But she did not look as if she were teasing. Silently they walked on to the school house door.
But Dorian could not forget what Carlia had said. All day it intruded into his lessons. "She said she loves me" he whispered to his heart only. Could it be possible? Even if she did, what final good would come of it? The distance between them was still too great, for he was only a poor farmer boy. Dear Mildred—his heart did not chide him for thinking that—so frail, so weak, so beautiful. What if she—should die! Dorian was in a strange state of mind for a number of days. He longed to visit the Brown home, yet he could not find excuse to go. He could not talk to anybody about what was in his mind and heart, not even to his mother with whom he always shared his most hidden thoughts.
One evening he visited Uncle Zed, ostensibly, to talk about a book.Uncle Zed was deep in the study of "Natural Law in the Spiritual World"and would have launched into a discussion of what he had found, butDorian did not respond; he had other thoughts in mind.
"Uncle Zed," he said, "how can I become something else than a farmer?"
The old man looked questioningly at his young friend. "What's the matter with being a farmer?" he asked.
"Well, a farmer doesn't usually amount to much, I mean in the eyes of the world. Farmers seem to be in a different class from merchants, for example, or from bankers or other more genteel workers."
"Listen to me, Dorian Trent." Uncle Zed laid down his book as if he had a serious task before him. "Let me tell you something. If you haven't done so before, begin now and thank the Lord that you began life on this globe of ours as a farmer's child and boy. Whatever you do or become in the future, you have made a good beginning. You have already laid away in the way of concepts, we may say, a generous store of nature's riches, for you have been in close touch with the earth, and the life which teems in soil and air and the waters. Pity the man whose childish eyes looked out on nothing but paved streets and brick walls or whose young ears heard nothing but the harsh rumble of the city, for his early conceptions from which to interpret his later life is artificial and therefore largely untrue."
Uncle Zed smiled up into the boy's face as if to ask, Do you get that? Dorian would have to have time to assimilate the idea; meanwhile, he had another question:
"Uncle Zed, why are there classes among members of our Church?"
"Classes? What do you mean?"
"Well, the rich do not associate with the poor nor the learned with the unlearned. I know, of course, that this is the general rule in the world, but I think it should be different in the Church."
"Yes; it ought to be and is different. There are no classes such as you have in mind in the Church, even though a few unthinking members seem to imply it by their actions; but there is no real class distinction in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, only such that are based on the doing of the right and the wrong. Character alone is the standard of classification."
"Yes, I see that that should be true."
"It is true. Let me illustrate: The presiding authority in the Church is not handed down from father to son, thus fostering an aristocratic tendency; also this authority is so wide-spread that anything like a "ruling family" would be impossible. In a town where I once lived, the owner of the bank and the town blacksmith were called on missions. They both were assigned to the same field, and the blacksmith was appointed to preside over the banker. The banker submitted willingly to be directed in his missionary labors by one who, judged by worldly standards, was far beneath him in the social scale. I know a shoemaker in the city who is a teacher in the theological class of his ward, whose membership consists of merchants, lawyers, doctors, and the like. Although he is poor and earns his living by mending shoes, he is greatly respected for his goodness and his knowledge of Scriptural subjects and doctrine."
"So you think—that a young fellow might—that it would not be wrong—or foolish for a poor man to think a lot of—of a rich girl, for instance."
Uncle Zed peered at Dorian over his glasses. The old man took him gently by the shoulders. Ah, that's what's back of all this, he thought; but what he said was:
"My boy, Emerson said, 'Hitch your wagon to a star,' and I will add, never let go, although the rocks in the road may bump you badly. Why, there's nothing impossible for a young man like you. You may be rich, if you want to; I expect to see you learned; and the Priesthood which you have is your assurance, through your diligence and faithfulness, to any heights. Yes, my boy; go ahead—love Mildred Brown all you want to; she's fine, but not a bit finer than you."
"Oh, Uncle Zed," Dorian somewhat protested; but, nevertheless, he went home that evening with his heart singing.
Some days later word came to Mrs. Trent that Mildred was very ill. "Call on them after school," she said to Dorian, "to see just how she is, and ask Mrs. Brown if I can do anything for her."
Dorian did as he was directed. He went around to the back door for fear he might disturb the sick girl. Mrs. Brown herself, seeing him coming, met him and let him in.
Yes, Mildred was very ill. Mrs. Brown was plainly worried. Could he or his mother do anything to help? No; only to lend their faith and prayers. Would he come into the sick room to see her for a few minutes? Yes, if she desired it.
Dorian followed the mother into the sick room. Mildred lay well propped up by pillows in a bed white as snow. She was thinner and paler than ever, eyes bigger, hair heavier and more golden. When she saw Dorian, she smiled and reached out her hand, letting it lie in the big strong one.
"How are you?" she said, very low.
"Well and fine, and how are you?"
She simply shook her head gently and closed her eyes, seeming content to touch the strong young manhood beside her. The mother went quietly from the room, and all became quite still. Speech was difficult for the sick girl, and equally hard for the young man. But he looked freely at the angel-like face on the pillow without rebuke from the closed eyes. He glanced about the room, beautifully clean and airy. All her books and her working material had been carried away as if she were through with them for good. In a corner on an easel stood an unfinished copy of "Sunset in Marshland." Dorian's eyes rested for a moment on the picture, and as he again looked at the girl, he saw a smile pass over the marble-like face.
That was all. Presently, he left the room, and without many words, the house.
Each day after that Dorian managed to learn of the girl's condition, though he did not go into the sick chamber. On the sixth day word came to Dorian at school that Mildred was dying. He looked about for Carlia to tell her, but she was nowhere to be found. Dorian could not go home. Mildred was dying! The one girl—yes, the only one in all the world who had looked at him with her heart in the look, was leaving the world, and him. Why could she not live, if only for his sake? He sat in the school room until all had gone, and he was alone with the janitor. His open book was still before him, but he saw not the printed page. Then the short winter day closed. Dusk came on. The janitor had finished sweeping the room and was ready to leave. Dorian gathered up his books, put on his overcoat, and went out. Mildred was dying! Perhaps she was about to begin that great journey into the unknown. Would she be afraid? Would she not need a strong hand to help her? "Mildred," he whispered.
He walked on slowly up the street toward the Brown's. Darkness came on. The light gleamed softly through the closed blinds of the house. Everything was very still. He did not try to be admitted, but paced back and forth on the other side of the street. Back and forth he went for a long time, it seemed. Then the front door opened, and the doctor passed out. Mildred must either be better or beyond all help. He wanted to ask the doctor, but he could not bring himself to intercept him. The house remained quiet. Some of the lights were extinguished. Dorian crossed the street. He must find out something. He stood by the gate, not knowing what to do. The door opened again, and a woman, evidently a neighbor, came out. She saw the young man and stopped.
"Pardon me," said Dorian, "but tell me how Mildred—Miss Brown is?"
"She just died."
"Thank you."
The woman went into a nearby house. Dorian moved away, benumbed with the despair which sank into his heart at the final setting of his sun. Dead! Mildred was dead! He felt the night wind blow cold down the street, and he saw the storm clouds scudding along the distant sky. In the deep blue directly above him a star shone brightly, but it only reminded him of what Uncle Zed had said about hitching to a star; yes, but what if the star had suddenly been taken from the sky!
A form of a girl darted across the street toward him. He stopped and saw that it was Carlia.
"Dorian" she cried, "how is she?"
"She has just died."
"Dead! O, dear," she wailed.
They stood there under the street light, the girl looking with great pity into the face of the young man. She was only a girl, and not a very wise girl, but she saw how he suffered, and her heart went out to his heart. She took his hand and held it firmly within her warmer grasp; and by that simple thing the young man seemed again to get within the reach of human sympathy. Then they walked on without speaking, and she led him along the streets and on to the road which led to Greenstreet.
"Come on, Dorian, let's go home," she said.
"Yes; let's go home, Carlia."
The death of Mildred Brown affected Dorian Trent most profoundly. Not that he displayed any marked outward signs of his feelings, but his very soul was moved to its depths, sometimes as of despair, sometimes as of resentment. Why, he asked himself, should God send—he put it this way—send to him this beautiful creature who filled his heart so completely, why hold her out to him as if inviting him to take her, and then suddenly snatch her away out of his life—out of the life of the world!
For many days Dorian went about as if in a pained stupor. His mother, knowing her boy, tried in a wise way to comfort him; but it was not altogether a success. His studies were neglected, and he had thoughts of quitting school altogether; but he did not do this. He dragged through the few remaining days until spring, when he eagerly went to work on the open reaches of the farm, where he was more away from human beings and nearer to that something in his heart. He worked long and hard and faithfully that spring.
On the upper bank of the canal, where the sagebrush stood untouched, Dorian that summer found the first sego blossoms. He had never observed them so closely before nor seen their real beauty. How like Mildred they were! He gathered a bouquet of them that Saturday afternoon as he went home, placed them in a glass of water, and then Sunday afternoon he wrapped them in a damp newspaper and took the bouquet with him to town. His Sunday trips to the city were usually for the purpose of visiting Mildred's grave. The sun shone warm that day from a blue sky as Dorian came slowly and reverently to the plot where lay all that was earthly of one whom he loved so well. The new headstone gleamed in white marble and the young grass stood tender and green. Against the stone lay a bunch of withered wild roses. Someone had been there before him that day. Whom could it be? Her mother was not in the city, and who else would remember the visit of the angel-being who had returned to her eternal home? A pang shot through his heart, and he was half tempted to turn without placing his own tribute on the grave, then immediately he knew the thought was foolish. He took off the wrapping and placed his fresher flowers near the more withered ones. Later that summer, he learned only incidently that it had been Carlia who had been before him that afternoon.
During those days, Carlia kept out of Dorian's way as much as possible. She even avoided walking to and from school with him. He was so absentminded even with her that she in time came to resent it in her feelings. She could not understand that a big, very-much-alive boy should have his mind so fixed on a dead girl that he should altogether forget there were living ones about, especially one, Carlia Duke.
One evening Dorian met Uncle Zed driving his cow home from the pasture, and the old man invited the younger man to walk along with him. Dorian always found Uncle Zed's company acceptable.
"Why haven't you come to me with your trouble?" abruptly asked UncleZed.
Dorian started, then hung his head.
"We never have any unshared secrets, you know, and I may have been able to help you."
"I couldn't talk to anybody."
"No; I suppose not."
The cow was placed in the corral, and then Uncle Zed and Dorian sat down on a grassy bank. The sun was painting just such a picture of the marshlands as Dorian knew so well.
"But I can talk to you" continued the old man as if there had been no break in his sentences. "Death, I know, is a strange and terrible thing, for youth; when you get as old as I, I hope you will look on death as nothing more than a release from mortality, a moving from one sphere to another, a step along the eternal line of progress. I suppose that it is just as necessary that we pass out of the world by death as that we enter it by birth; and I further suppose that the terror with which death is vested is for the purpose of helping us to cling to this earth-life until our mission here is completed."
Dorian did not speak; his eyes were on the marshlands.
"Imagine, Dorian, this world, just as it is, with all its sin and misery and without any death. What would happen? We would all, I fear, become so self-centered, so hardened in selfishness that it would be difficult for the gentle power of love to reach us; but now there is hardly a family that has not one or more of its members on the other side. And these absent loved ones are anchors to our souls, tied to us by the never-ending cords of love and affection. You, yourself, my boy, never have had until now many interests other than those of this life; now your interests are broadened to another world, and that's something worth while…. Now, come and see me often." They arose, each to go to his home.
"I will, Uncle Zed. Thank you for what you have said."
Dorian completed his four years high school. Going to the University might come later, but now he was moved by a spirit of activity to do bigger things with his farm, and to enlarge it, if possible.
About this time, dry-farming had taken the attention of the farmers in his locality, and many of them had procured lands on the sloping foothills. Dorian, with a number of other young men had gone up the nearby canyon to the low hills of the valley beyond and had taken up lands. That first summer Dorian spent much of his time in breaking up the land. As timber was not far away, he built himself a one-roomed log house and some corrals and outhouses. A mountain stream rushed by the lower corner of his farm, and its wild music sang him to sleep when he spent the night in the hills. He furnished his "summer residence" with a few simple necessities so that he could live there a number of days at a time. He minded not the solitude. The wild odorous verdure of the hills, the cool breezes, the song of the distant streams, the call of the birds, all seemed to harmonize with his own feelings at that time. He had a good kerosene lamp, and at nights when he was not too tired, he read. On his visits to the city he usually had an eye for book bargains, and thus his board shelving came to be quite a little library. He had no method in his collecting, no course of connected study. At one time he would leisurely read one of Howell's easy-going novels, at another time he would be kept wide-eyed until midnight with "Lorna Doone" or with "Ben Hur."
Dorian had heard of Darwin, of Huxley, of Ingersol and of Tom Payne, but he had never read anything but selections from these writers. Now he obtained a copy of the "Origin of Species" and a book by Ingersol. These he read carefully. Darwin's book was rather heavy, but by close application, the young student thought he learned what the scientist was "driving at." This book disturbed him somewhat. There seemed to be much truth in it, but also some things which did not agree with what he had been taught to be true. In this he realized his lack of knowledge. More knowledge must clear up any seeming contradiction, he reasoned. Ingersol was more readable, snappy, witty, hitting the Bible in a fearless way. Dorian had no doubt that all of Ingersol's points could be answered, as he himself could refute many of them.
One day as Dorian was browsing as usual in a book store he came across a cheap copy of Drummond's "Natural Law in the Spiritual World," the book which he had given Uncle Zed. As he wanted a copy himself, he purchased this one and took it with him to his cabin in the hills. Immediately he was interested in the book, and he filled its pages with copious notes and marks of emphasis.
It was Sunday afternoon in mid-summer at Greenstreet. The wheat again stood in the shock. The alfalfa waved in scented purple. Dorian and the old philosopher of Greenstreet sat in the shade of the cottonwood and looked out on the farm scene as they talked.
"I've also been reading 'Natural Law in the Spiritual World'" saidDorian.
"Good," replied Uncle Zed. "I was going to lend you my copy, so we could talk about it intelligently. What message have you found in it for you?"
"Message?"
"Yes; every book should have a message and should deliver it to the reader. Drummond's book thundered a message to me, but it came too late. I am old, and past the time when I could heed any such call. If I were young, if I—if I were like you, Dorian, you who have life before you, what might not I do, with the help of the Lord!"
"What, Uncle Zed?"
"Drummond was a clergyman and a professor of natural history and science. As such, he was a student of the laws of God as revealed both through the written word of inspiration and in nature about him. In his book he aims to prove that the spiritual world is controlled by the same laws which operate in the natural wold; and as you perhaps discovered in your reading, he comes very nearly proving his claim. He presents some wonderfully interesting analogies. Of course, much of his theology is of the perverted sectarian kind, and therein lies the weakness of his argument. If he had had the clear truth of the restored gospel, how much brighter would his facts have been illumed, how much stronger would have been his deductions. Why, even I with my limited scientific knowledge can set him right in many places. So I say, if I were but a young man like you, do you know what I'd do?"
"What?" again questioned Dorian.
"I would devote all my mind, might and strength to the learning of truth, of scientific truth. I would cover every branch of science possible in the limits of one life, especially the natural sciences. Then with my knowledge of the gospel and the lamp of inspiration which the priesthood entitles me to, I could harmonize the great body of truth coming from any and every source. Dorian, what a life work that would be!"
The old man looked smilingly at his companion with a strange, knowing intimation. He spoke of himself, but he meant that Dorian should take the suggestion. Dorian could pick up his beautiful dream and make it come true. Dorian, with life and strength, and a desire for study and truth could accomplish this very desirable end. The old man placed his hand lovingly on the young man's shoulder, as he continued:
"You are the man to do this, Dorian—you, not I."
"I—Uncle Zed, do you believe that?"
"I do. Listen, my boy. I see you looking over the harvested field. It is a fine work you are doing; thousands can plant and harvest year after year; but few there are who can and will devote their lives to the planting of faith and the nourishing and the establishing of faith in the hearts of men; and that's what we need now to properly answer the Lord's cry that when He cometh shall He find faith on the earth?… Let the call come to you—but there, in the Lord's own good time. Come into the house. I have a new book to show you, also I have a very delicious cherry pie."
They went into the house together, where they inspected both book and pie. Dorian weakly objected to the generous portion which was cut for him, but Uncle Zed explained that the process of division not only increased the number of pieces of pie, but also added to its tastiness. Dorian led his companion to talk about himself.
"Yes," he said in reply to a question, "I was born in England and brought up in the Wesleyan Methodist church. I was a great reader ever since I can remember. I read not only history and some fiction, but even the dry-as-dust sermons were interesting to me. But I never seemed satisfied. The more I read, the deeper grew the mysteries of life. Nowhere did I find a clear, comprehendible statement of what I, an entity with countless other entities, was doing here. Where had I come from, where was I going? I visited the churches within my reach. I heard the preachers and read the philosophers to obtain, if possible, a clue to the mystery of life. I studied, and prayed, and went about seeking, but never finding."
"But you did find the truth at last?"
"Yes; thank the Lord. I found the opening in the darkness, and it came through the simple, humble, and not very learned elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."
"What is the principle trouble with all this learning of the world that it does not lead to the truth?"
"The world's ignorance of God. Eternal life consists in knowing the only true God, and the world does not know Him; therefore, all their systems of religion are founded on a false basis. That is the reason there is so much uncertainty and floundering when philosophers and religionists try to make a known truth agree with their conceptions of God."
"Explain that a little more to me, Uncle Zed."
"Some claim that Nature is God, others that God only manifests Himself through nature. I read this latter idea many places. For instance, Pope says:
"'All are but parts of one stupendous wholeWhose body nature is, and God the soul.'
"Also Tennyson:
'The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and plainsAre not these, O soul, the vision of Him who reigns?Speak to Him there, for He hears, and spirit with spirit can meet,Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.'
"This, no doubt, is beautiful poetry, but it tells only a part of the truth. God, by His Spirit is, and can be all the poet here describes. 'Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?' exclaims the Psalmist. 'In him we live and move and have our being' declares Paul; but these statements alone are not enough for our proper understanding of the subject. We try to see God behind the veil of nature, in sun and wind and flower and fruit; but there is something lacking. Try now to formulate some distinct idea of what this universal and almighty force back of nature is. We are told that this force is God, whom we must love and worship and serve. We want the feeling of nearness to satisfy the craving for love and protection, but our intellect and our reason must also be somewhat satisfied. We must have some object on which to rest—we cannot always be floating about unsuspended in time and space.
"Then there is some further confusion: Christian philosophers have tried to personify this 'soul of the universe,' for God, they say, thinks and feels and knows. They try to get a personality without form or bounds or dimentions, but it all ends in vagueness and confusion. As for me, and I think I am not so different from other men,—for me to be able to think of God, I must have some image of Him. I cannot think of love or good, or power or glory in the abstract. These must be expressed to me by symbols at least as eminating from, or inherent in, or exercised by some person. Love cannot exist alone: there must be one who loves and one who is being loved. God is love. That means to me that a person, a beautiful, glorified, allwise, benevolent being exercises that divine principle which is shed forth on you and me.
"Now, if the world would only leave all this metaphysical meandering and come back to the simple truth, what a clearing of mists there would be! All their philosophies would have a solid basis if they would only accept the truth revealed anew to us through the Prophet Joseph Smith that God is one of a race, the foremost and first, if you wish it, but still one of a race of beings who inhabit the universe; that we humans are His children, begotten of Him in the pre-mortal world in His image; that we are on the upward path through eternity, following Him who has gone before and has marked out the way; that if we follow, we shall eventually arrive at the point where He now is. Ignorance of these things is what I understand to be ignorance of God."
"In England I lost my wife and two children. The gospel came to me shortly after, I am sure, to comfort me in the depths of my despair. Not one church on earth that I knew of, Catholic or Protestant, would hold out any hope of my ever being reunited with wife and children as such. There is no family life in heaven, they teach. At that time I went about listening to the preachers, and I delved into books. I made extensive copyings in my note books. I have them yet, and some day when you are interested I will show them to you."
"I am interested now," said Dorian.
"But I'm not going to talk to you longer on this theme, even though it is Sunday and time for sermonizing. I'm going to meeting, where you also ought to go. You are not attending as regularly as you should."
"No, but I've been very busy."
"No excuse that. There is danger in remaining away too long from the established sources of spiritual inspiration and uplift, especially when one is reading Ingersol and Tom Paine. I have no fault to find with your ambition to get ahead in the world, but with it 'remember thy creator in the days of thy youth.' Are you neglecting your mother?"
"No; I think not, Uncle Zed; but what do you mean about mother?"
"You are all she has. Are you making her days happy by your personal care and presence. Are you giving of yourself to her?"
"Well, perhaps I am not so considerate as I might be; I am away quite a lot; thank you for calling my attention to it."
"Are you neglecting anybody else?"
"Not that I know."
"Good. Now I must clear away my table and get ready for meeting. You'll go with me."
"I can't. I haven't my Sunday clothes."
"The Lord will not look at your clothes."
"No; but a lot of people will."
"We go to meeting to worship the Lord, not to be looked at by others. Go home and put on your Sunday best; there is time." The old man was busy between table and cupboard as he talked. "Have you seen Carlia lately?"
"No," replied Dorian.
"The last time she was here I thought she was a little peaked in the face, for you know she has such a rosy, roly-poly one."
"Is that so? She comes to see you, then?"
"Yes; oftener than you do."
"I never meet her here."
"No; she manages that, I surmise."
"What do you mean?"
"I tell you Carlia is a lovely girl," continued Uncle Zed, ignoring his direct question. "Have you ever eaten butter she has churned?"
"Not that I know."
"She used to bring me a nice pat when my cow was dry; and bread of her own baking too, about as good as I myself make." He chuckled as he wiped the last dish and placed it neatly in the rack.
Dorian arose to go. "Remember what I have told you this evening" said Uncle Zed. The old man from behind his window watched his young friend walk leisurely along the road until he reached the cross-lots path which led to the Duke home. Here he saw him pause, go on again, pause once more, then jump lightly over the fence and strike out across the field. Uncle Zed then went on finishing his preparations for meeting.
As Dorian walked across the field, he did think of what Uncle Zed had said to him. Dorian had built his castles, had dreamed his dreams; but never before had the ideas presented to him by Uncle Zed that afternoon ever entered in them. The good old man had seemed so eager to pass on to the young man an unfulfilled work, yes, a high, noble work. Dorian caught a glimpse of the greatness of it and the glory of it that afternoon, and his soul was thrilled. Was he equal to such a task?… He had wanted to become a successful farmer, then his vision had gone on to the teaching profession; but beyond that he had not ventured. He was already well on the way to make a success of his farms. He liked the work. He could with pleasure be a farmer all his life. But should a man's business be all of life? Dorian realized, not of course in its fuller meaning, that the accumulating of worldly riches was only a means to the accomplishing of other and greater ends of life; and here was before him something worthy of any man's best endeavors. Here was a life's work which at its close would mean something to him and to the world. With these thoughts in his mind he stepped up to the rear of the Duke place where he saw someone in the corral with the cows, busy with her milking.
"Hello, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he stopped at the yard and stood leaning against the fence.
Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As she straightened, with a three-legged stool in one hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she looked toward Dorian. "O, is that you? You scared me."
"Why?"
"A stranger coming so suddenly."
The young man laughed. "Nearly through?" he asked.
"Just one more—Brindle, the kickey one."
"Aren't you afraid of her?"
Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beautiful white teeth. Her red cheeks were redder than ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the young man noticed, though she was still plump and round-limbed.
"My buckets are full, and I'll have to take them to the house before I can finish," she said. "You stay here until I come back—if you want to."
"I don't want to—here, let me carry them." He took the pails from her hand, and they went to the house together.
The milk was carried into the kitchen where Mrs. Duke was busy with pots and pans. Mr. Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing touches to his hair. He was dressed for meeting. As he heard rather than saw his daughter enter, he asked:
"Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?"
"Not yet," she replied.
"Well, don't forget—and say, you'd better give a little new milk to the calf. It's not getting along as well as it should—and, if you have time before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses."
"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm not going to meeting,I'll have plenty of time."
"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand, and saw Dorian. "Hello, Dorian," he greeted, "you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late if we don't hurry."
"Father, I told you I'm not going. I—" she hesitated as if not quite certain of her words—"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows, and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are the pigs and the calves and the horses to feed. But I'll not keep Dorian. You had better go with father"—this to the young man who still stood by the kitchen door.
"Leave the rest of the chores until after meetin'," suggested the father, somewhat reluctantly, to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's presence.
"I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian. "I'm not dressed for it, soI'll keep Carlia company, if you or she have no objections."
"Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you to miss your meetin's."
"We'll be good," laughed Dorian.
"But—"
"Come, father," the mother prompted, "you know I can't walk fast in this hot weather."
Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian went back to the corral.
"Let me milk," offered Dorian.
"No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over the fence."
"O, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the girl finish her milking. He again carried the milk back; he also took the "slop" to the pigs and threw the hay to the horses, while the girl gave the new milk to the butting calf; then back to the house where they strained the milk. Then the young man was sent into the front room while the girl changed from work to Sunday attire.
The front room was very hot and uncomfortable. The young man looked about on the familiar scene. There were the same straight-backed chairs, the same homemade carpet, more faded and threadbare than ever, the same ugly enlarged photographs within their massive frames which the enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke. There was the same lack of books or music or anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood and looked about, there came to him more forcibly than ever the barrenness of the room and of the house in general. True, his own home was very humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and refinement about it. The Duke home had always impressed him as being cold and cheerless and ugly. There were no protecting porches, no lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard had crept close up to the house. It was a place to work. The eating and the sleeping were provided, so that work could be done, farm and kitchen work with their dirt and litter. The father and the mother and the daughter were slaves to work. Only in work did the parents companion with the daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly those who came to talk about cattle and crops and irrigation.
As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and loving; but her sordid environment seemed to be crushing her. At times she struggled to get out from under; but there seemed no way, so she gradually gave in to the inevitable. She became resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes frequently flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in physical strength and beauty, these unfortunate traits of character became more pronounced. The budding womanhood which should have been carefully nurtured by the right kind of home and neighborhood was often left to develop in wild and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood in that front room awaiting her had only a dim conception of all this.
Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She had on a white dress and had placed a red rose in her hair.
"O, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight of her.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Here you go dolling up, and look at me."
"You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly stuffy in here."
Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he turned and stood looking at the girl before him. It seemed to him that he had never seen her so grown-up and so beautiful.
"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he asked.
"While you have been away growing up too."
"It's the long dress, isn't it?"
"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitching hay." She gave a toss to her head and held out her roughened red hands as proof of her assertion. He stepped closer to her as if to examine them more carefully, but she swiftly hid them behind her back. The rose, loosened from the tossing head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picked it up. He sniffed at it then handed it to her.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
She reddened. "None of your—Say, sit down, can't you."
Dorian seated himself on the sofa and invited her to sit by him, but she took a chair by the table.
"You're not very neighborly," he said.
"As neighborly as you are," she retorted.
"What's the matter with you, Carlia?"
"Nothing the matter with me. I'm the same; only I must have grown up, as you say."
A sound as of someone driving up the road came to them through the open door. Carlia nervously arose and listened. She appeared to be frightened, as she looked out to the road without wanting to be seen. A light wagon rattled by, and the girl, somewhat relieved, went back to her chair.
"Isn't it warm in here?" she asked.
"It's warm everywhere."
"I can't stay here. Let's go out—for a walk."
"All right—come on."
They closed the door, and went out at the rear. He led the way around to the front, but Carlia objected.
"Let's go down by the field," she said. "The road is dusty."
The day was closing with a clear sky. A Sunday calm rested over meadow and field, as the two strolled down by the ripening wheat. The girl seemed uneasy until the house was well out of sight. Then she seated herself on a grassy bank by the willows.
"I'm tired," she said with a sigh of relief.
Dorian looked at her with curious eyes. Carlia, grown up, was more of a puzzle than ever.
"You are working too hard," he ventured.
"Hard work won't kill anybody—but it's the other things."
"What other things?"
"The grind, the eternal grind—the dreary sameness of every day."
"You did not finish the high school. Why did you quit?"
"I had to, to save mother. Mother was not only doing her usual house work, but nearly all the outside choring besides. Father was away most of the time on his dry farm too, and he's blind to the work at home. He seems to think that the only real work is the plowing and the watering and the harvesting, and he would have let mother go on killing herself. Gee, these men!" The girl viciously dug the heel of her shoe into the sod.
"I'm sorry you had to quit school, Carlia."
"Sorry? I wanted to keep on more than I ever wanted anything in my life; but—"
"But I admire you for coming to the rescue of your mother. That was fine of you."
"I'm glad I can do some fine thing."
Dorian had been standing. He now seated himself on the bank beside her. The world about them was very still as they sat for a few moments without speaking.
"Listen," said he, "I believe Uncle Zed is preaching. The meeting house windows are wide open, for a wonder.
"He can preach," she remarked.
"He told me you visit him frequently."
"I do. He's the grandest man, and I like to talk to him."
"So do I. I had quite a visit with him this afternoon. I rather fooled him, I guess."
"How?"
"He told me to go home and change my clothes, and then go to meeting; but I came here instead."
"Why did you do that?"
"To see you, of course."
"Pooh, as if I was anything to look at."
"Well, you are, Carlia," and his eyes rested steadily on her to prove his contention. "Why didn't you want to go to meeting this evening?"
"You heard me tell father."
"That wasn't the whole truth. I was not the reason because you had decided not to go before I came."
"Well—how do you know that? but, anyway, it's none of your business, where I go, is it?" She made an effort to stare him out of countenance, but it ended in lowered head and eyes.
"Carlia! No, of course, it isn't. Excuse me for asking."
There was another period of silence wherein Dorian again wondered at the girl's strange behavior. Was he annoying her? Perhaps she did not care to have him paying his crude attentions to her; and yet—
"Tell me about your dry farm," she said.
"I've already plowed eighty acres," he informed her. "The land is rich, and I expect to raise a big crop next year. I've quite a cosy house, up there, not far from the creek. The summer evenings are lovely and cool. I can't get mother to stay over night. I wish you would come and go with her, and stay a few days."
"How could I stay away from home that long? The heavens would fall."
"Well, that might help some. But, honestly, Carlia, you ought to get away from this grind a little. It's telling on you. Don't you ever get into the city?"
"Sometimes Saturday afternoons to deliver butter and eggs."
"Well, some Saturday we'll go to see that moving picture show that's recently started in town. They say it's wonderful. I've never been. We'll go together. What do you say?"
"I would like to."
"Let's move on. Meeting is out, and the folks are coming home."
They walked slowly back to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Duke soon arrived and told of the splendid meeting they had had.
"Uncle Zed spoke," said Mr. Duke, "and he did well, as usual. He's a regular Orson Pratt."
"The people do not know it," added Dorian; "perhaps their children or their children's children will."
"Well, what have you two been doing?" enquired the father of Carlia.
"We've just been taking a walk," answered Dorian. "Will it be alright if Carlia and I go to the new moving picture theatre in town some Saturday?"
Neither parent made any objection. They were, in fact, glad to have this neighbor boy show some interest in their daughter.
"Your mother was at meeting," said Mrs. Duke; "and she was asking about you."
"Yes; I've neglected her all afternoon; so I must be off. Good night folks."
Carlia went with him to the gate, slipping her arm into his and snuggling closely as if to get the protection of good comradship. The movement was not lost on Dorian, but he lingered only for a moment.
"Goodnight, Carlia; remember, some Saturday."
"I'll not forget. Goodnight" she looked furtively up and down the road, then sped back into the house.
Dorian walked on in the darkening evening. A block or so down the road he came on to an automobile. No one in Greenstreet owned one of these machines as yet, and there were but few in the city. As Dorian approached, he saw a young man working with the machinery under the lifted hood.
"Hello," greeted Dorian, "what's the trouble?"
"Damned if I know. Been stalled here for an hour." The speaker straightened from his work. His hands were grimy, and the sweat was running down his red and angry face. He held tightly the stump of a cigarette between his lips.
"I'm sorry I can't help you," said Dorian, "but I don't know the first thing about an automobile."
"Well, I thought I knew a lot, but this gets me." He swore again, as if to impress Dorian with the true condition of his feelings. Then he went at the machinery again with pliers and wrenches, after which he vigorously turned the crank. The engine started with a wheeze and then a roar. The driver leaped into the car and brought the racing engine to a smoother running. "The cursed thing" he remarked, "why couldn't it have done that an hour ago. O, say, excuse me, have you just been at the house up the road?"
"The Duke house? yes."
"Is the old man—is Mr. Duke at home?"
"Yes; he's at home."
"Thank you." The car moved slowly up the road until it reached the Duke gate where it stopped; but only for a moment, for it turned and sped with increasing hurry along the road leading to the city.
Dorian stood and watched it until its red light disappeared. He wondered why the stranger wanted to know why Mr. Duke was at home, then on learning that he was, why he turned about as if he had no business with him.
Later, Dorian learned the reason.
Dorian was twenty-one years old, and his mother had planned a little party in honor of the event. The invited guests were Uncle Zed, Bishop Johnson and wife, the teacher of the district school, and Carlia Duke. These arrived during the dusk of the evening, all but Carlia. They lingered on the cool lawn under the colored glow of the Chinese lanterns.
Mrs. Trent realized that it would be useless to make the party a surprise, for she had to have Dorian's help in hanging out the lanterns, and he would necessarily see the unusual activity in front room and kitchen. Moreover, Dorian, unlike Uncle Zed, had not lost track of his birthdays, and especially this one which would make him a full-fledged citizen of these United States.
The little party chatted on general topics for some time until Mrs. Trent, in big white apron, announced that supper was ready, and would they all come right in. Mrs. Trent always served her refreshments at the regular supper time and not near midnight, for she claimed that people of regular habits, which her guests were, are much better off by not having those habits broken into.
"Are we all here?" she asked, scanning them as they passed in. "All butCarlia," she announced. "Where's Carlia?"
No one knew. Someone proffered the explanation that she was usually late as she had so many chores to do, at which the Bishop's wife shook her head knowingly, but said nothing.
"Well, she'll be along presently," said Mrs. Trent. "Sit down all of you. Bishop, will you ask the blessing?"
The hostess, waitress, and cook all combined in the capable person of Mrs. Trent, sat at the table with her party. Everything which was to be served was on the table in plain sight, so that all could nicely guage their eating to various dishes. When all were well served and the eating was well under way, Mrs. Trent said:
"Brothers and sisters, this is Dorian's birthday party. He has been a mighty good boy, and so—"
"Mother," interrupted the young man.
"Now, you never mind—you be still. Dorian is a good boy, and I want all of you to know it."
"We all do, Sister Trent," said the Bishop; "and it is a good thing to sometimes tell a person of his worthiness to his face."
"But if we say more, he'll be uncomfortable," remarked the mother, "so we had better change the subject. The crops are growing, the weather is fine, and the neighbors are all right. That disposes of the chief topics of conversation, and will give Uncle Zed a chance. He always has something worth listening to, if not up his sleeve, then in his white old head. But do not hurry, Uncle Zed; get through with your supper."
The old man was a light eater, so he finished before the others. He looked smilingly about him, noting that those present were eager to listen. He took from his pocket a number of slips of paper and placed them on the table beside his plate. Then he began to talk, the others leisurely finishing their dessert.
"The other evening," he said, "Dorian and I had a conversation which interested us very much, and I think it would interest all of us here. I was telling him my experience in my search for God and the plan of salvation, and I promised him I would read to him some of the things I found. Here is a definition of God which did not help me very much." He picked up one of the slips of paper and read: "'God is the integrated harmony of all potentialities of good in every actual and possible rational agent.' What do you think of that?"
The listeners knitted their brows, but no one spoke. Uncle Zed continued: "Well, here is a little more. Perhaps this will clear it up: 'The greatest of selves, the ultimate Self of the universe, is God…. My God is my deeper self and yours too. He is the self of the universe, and knows all about it…. By Deity we mean the all-controling consciousness of the universe, as well as the unfathomable, all unknowable, and unknowable abyss of being beyond'."
Uncle Zed carefully folded his papers and placed them back in his pocket. He looked about him, but his friends appeared as if they had had a volley of Greek fired at them. "Well" he said, "why don't some of you say something?"
"Please pass the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent.
When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed continued: "There is some truth in these definitions. God is all that which they try to express, and vastly more. The trouble is these men talk about the attributes of God, and confound these with the being and personality of the Great Parent. I may describe the scent of the rose, but that does not define the rose itself. I cannot separate the rose from its color or form or odor, any more than I can divorce music from the instrument. These vague and incomplete definitions have had much to do with the unbelief in the world. Tom Paine wrote a book which he called the 'Age of Reason' on the premise that reason does away with God. Isn't that it, Dorian?"
"All agnostic writers seem to think that there is no reason in religion, and at times they come pretty near proving it too," replied Dorian.
"That is because they base their arguments on the religions of the world; but the restored gospel of Jesus Christ rests largely on reason. Why, I can prove, contrary to the generally accepted opinion, by reason alone that there must be a God."
"We shall be glad to hear it," said the school teacher. The eating was about over, and so they all sat and listened attentively.
"We do not need to quote a word of scripture," continued Uncle Zed. "All we need to know is a little of the world about us, a little of the race and its history, and a little of the other worlds out in space, all of which is open to anybody who will seek it. The rest is simply a little connected thought. Reason tells me that there can be no limits to time or space or intelligence. Time always has been, there can be no end to space, and intelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limitless time and space and intelligence to work with, what have we? The human mind, being limited, cannot grasp the limitless; therefore, we must make arbitrary points of beginning and ending. Now, let us project our thought as far back into duration as we can—count the periods by any thinkable measurements, years, centuries, ages, aeons, anything you please that will help. Have we arrived at a point when there is no world, no life, no intelligence? Certainly not. Somewhere in space, all that we see here and now will be seen to exist. Go back from this point to a previous period, and then count back as far as you wish; there is yet time and space and intelligence.
"There is an eternal law of progress which holds good always and everywhere. It has been operating all through the ages of the past. Now, let us take one of these Intelligences away back in the far distance past and place him in the path of progress so that the eternal law of growth and advancement will operate on him. I care not whether you apply the result to Intelligences as individuals or as the race. Given time enough, this endless and eternal advancement must result in a state of perfection that those who attain to it may with truth and propriety be called Gods. Therefore, there must be a God, yes, many Gods living and reigning throughout the limitless regions of glorified space.
"Here is corroborative evidence: I read in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88: 'All kingdoms have a law given; and there are many kingdoms; for there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no space, either a greater or a lesser kingdom. And unto every kingdom is given a law; and unto every law there are certain bounds also and conditions.'
"There is a hymn in our hymn book in which W.W. Phelps expresses this idea beautifully. Let me read it:
'If you could hie to Kolob,In the twinkling of an eye,And then continue onward,With that same speed to fly.
'Do you think that you could ever,Through all eternity,Find out the generationWhere Gods began to be?
'Or see the grand beginningWhere space did not extend?Or view the last creation,Where Gods and matter end?
'Methinks the Spirit whispers:No man has found "pure space,"Nor seen the outside curtains,Where nothing has a place.
'The works of God continue,And worlds and lives abound;Improvement and progressionHave one eternal round.
'There is no end to matter,There is no end to space,There is no end to spirit,There is no end to race.
'There is no end to virtue,There is no end to might,There is no end to wisdom,There is no end to light.
'There is no end to union,There is no end to youth,There is no end to priesthood,There is no end to truth.
'There is no end to glory,There is no end to love,There is no end to being,Grim death reigns not above.'
"The Latter-day Saints have been adversely criticized for holding out such astounding hopes for the future of the human race; but let us reason a little more, beginning nearer home. What has the race accomplished, even within the short span of our own recollection? Man is fast conquering the forces of nature about him, and making these forces to serve him. Now, we must remember that duration extends ahead of us in the same limitless way in which it reaches back. Give, then, the race today all the time necessary, what cannot it accomplish? Apply it again either to an individual or to the race, in time, some would attain to what we conceive of as perfection, and the term by which such beings are known to us is God. I can see no other logical conclusion."
The chairs were now pushed back, and Mrs. Trent threw a cloth over the table just as it stood, explaining that she would not take the time from her company to devote to the dishes. She invited them into Dorian's little room, much to that young man's uneasiness.
His mother had tidied the room, so it was presentable. His picture, "Sunset in Marshland" had been lowered a little on the wall, and directly over it hung a photograph of Mildred Brown. To Dorian's questioning look, Mrs. Trent explained, that Mrs. Brown had sent it just the other day. Dorian looked closely at the beautiful picture, and a strange feeling came over him. Had Mildred gone on in this eternal course of progress of which Uncle Zed had been speaking? Was she still away ahead of him? Would he ever reach her?
On his study table were a number of books, birthday presents. One was from Uncle Zed's precious store, and one—What? He picked it up—"David Copperfield." He opened the beautiful volume and read on the fly leaf: "From Carlia, to make up a little for your loss." He remembered now that Carlia, some time before, had asked him what books were in the package which had gone down the canal at the time when he had pulled her out of the water. Carlia had not forgotten; and she was not here; the supper was over, and it was getting late. Why had she not come?
The party broke up early, as it was a busy season with them all. Dorian walked home with Uncle Zed, then he had a mind to run over to Carlia's. He could not forget about her absence nor about the present she had sent. He had never read the story, and he would like to read it to Carlia. She had very little time, he realized, which was all the more reason for his making time to read it to her.
As every country boy will, at every opportunity, so Dorian cut crosslots to his objective. He now leaped the fence, and struck off through the meadow up into the corn field. Mr. Duke had a big, fine field that season, the growing corn already reaching to his shoulder. The night was dark, save for the twinkling stars in the clear sky; it was still, save for the soft rustling of the corn in the breeze.