The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDorianThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: DorianAuthor: Nephi AndersonRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12684]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Kevin Handy and PG Distributed Proofreaders*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORIAN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: DorianAuthor: Nephi AndersonRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12684]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Kevin Handy and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Title: Dorian
Author: Nephi Anderson
Author: Nephi Anderson
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12684]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Kevin Handy and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORIAN ***
Produced by Kevin Handy and PG Distributed Proofreaders
By
Nephi Anderson
Author of "Added Upon," "Romance of A Missionary," etc.
"The Keys of the Holy Priesthood unlock the Door of Knowledge and let you look into the Palace of Truth."
Salt Lake City, Utah
1921
Other books by Nephi Anderson.
"ADDED UPON"—A story of the past, the present, and the future stages of existence.
"THE CASTLE BUILDER"—The scenes and incidents are from the "Land of theMidnight Sun."
"PINEY RIDGE COTTAGE"—A love story of a Mormon country girl.Illustrated.
"STORY OF CHESTER LAWRENCE"—Being the completed account of one who played an important part in "Piney Ridge Cottage."
"A DAUGHTER OF THE NORTH"—A story of a Norwegian girl's trials and triumphs. Illustrated.
"JOHN ST. JOHN"—The story of a young man who went through the soul-trying scenes of Missouri and Illinois.
"ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY"—A story of English life and missionary experiences. Illustrated.
"MARCUS KING MORMON"—A story of early days in Utah.
"THE BOYS OF SPRINGTOWN"—A story about boys for boys and all interested in boys. Illustrated.
Dorian Trent was going to town to buy himself a pair of shoes. He had some other errands to perform for himself and his mother, but the reason for his going to town was the imperative need of shoes. It was Friday afternoon. The coming Sunday he must appear decently shod, so his mother had told him, at the same time hinting at some other than the Sunday reason. He now had the money, three big, jingling silver dollars in his pocket.
Dorian whistled cheerfully as he trudged along the road. It was a scant three miles to town, and he would rather walk that short distance than to be bothered with a horse. When he took Old Nig, he had to keep to the main-traveled road straight into town, then tie him to a post—and worry about him all the time; but afoot and alone, he could move along as easily as he pleased, linger on the canal bank or cut cross-lots through the fields to the river, cross it on the footbridge, then go on to town by the lower meadows.
The road was dusty that afternoon, and the sun was hot. It would be cooler under the willows by the river. At Cottonwood Corners, Dorian left the road and took the cut-off path. The river sparkled cool and clear under the overhanging willows. He saw a good-sized trout playing in the pool, but as he had no fishing tackle with him, the boy could only watch the fish in its graceful gliding in and out of sunshine and shadow. A robin overhead was making a noisy demonstration as if in alarm about a nest. Dorian sat on the bank to look and listen for a few moments, then he got up again.
Crossing the river, he took the cool foot-path under the willows. He cut down one of the smoothest, sappiest branches with which to make whistles. Dorian was a great maker of whistles, which he freely gave away to the smaller boys and girls whom he met. Just as it is more fun to catch fish than to eat them, so Dorian found more pleasure in giving away his whistles than to stuff them in his own pockets. However, that afternoon, he had to hurry on to town, so he caught no fish, and made only one whistle which he found no opportunity to give away. In the city, he attended to his mother's errands first. He purchased the few notions which the store in his home town of Greenstreet did not have, checking each item off on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil. Then, there were his shoes.
Should he get lace or button, black or tan? Were there any bargains in shoes that afternoon? He would look about to see. He found nothing in the way of footwear on Main street which appealed to him. He lingered at the window of the book store, looking with envious eyes at the display of new books. He was well known by the bookseller, for he was a frequent visitor, and, once in a while, he made a purchase; however, to day he must not spend too much time "browsing" among books. He would, however, just slip around to Twenty-fifth street and take a look at the secondhand store there. Not to buy shoes, of course, but sometimes there were other interesting things there, especially books.
Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the sidewalk in front of this second-hand store was a lot of books, a hundred or more—books of all kind—school books, history, fiction, all of them in good condition, some only a little shopworn, others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly looked them over. Here were books he had read about, but had not read—and the prices! Dickens' "David Copperfield", "Tale of Two Cities", "Dombey and Son", large well-printed books, only a little shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackeray's "Vanity Fair", twenty-five cents; books by Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian had, of course, read "Robinson Crusoe" but he had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two volumes, new, fifty cents each! Dorian turned the leaves. A man stepped up and also began handling the books. Yes, here were bargains, surely. He stacked a number together as if he desired to secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped the other volume of the Conquest under his arm and made as if to gather a number of other books under his protection. He must have some of these before they were all taken by others. The salesman now came up to him and asked:
"Find something you want?"
"O, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian.
"They're bargains."
Dorian needed not to be told that.
"They're going fast, too."
"Yes, I suppose so."
His heart fell as he said it, for he realized that he had no money to buy books. He had come to town to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly falling to pieces, but they might last a little longer. If he bought the "Conquest of Peru" he would still have two dollars left. Could he buy a pair of shoes for that amount? Very likely but not the kind his mother had told him to get, the kind that were not too heavy or "stogy" looking, but would be "nice" for Sundays. He held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens and Thackeray were still protectingly within his reach. What could he do?
Down there in Peru there had been a wonderful people whom Pizarro, the bad, bold Spaniard had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about it all vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was the whole story, beautifully and minutely told. He must have these books. This bargain might never come again to him. But what would his mother say? She herself had added the last half dollar to his amount to make sure that he could get the nicer kind.
"Well, sir, how many of these will you have?" asked the salesman.
"I'll—I'll take these two, anyway"—meaning Prescott's Conquest—"and let me see", he looked hungrily over the titles—"And this one 'David Copperfield'." It was hard to select from so many tempting ones. Here was one he had missed: "Ben Hur"—, a fine new copy in blue and gold. He had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole story was as interesting as that, he must have it. He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his hand touched lovingly a number of other books, but he resisted the temptation, and said: "That's all—this time."
The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper and handed the package to Dorian who paid for them with his two silver dollars, receiving some small silver in change. Then, with his package under his arm, the boy walked on down the street.
Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what he had done. How could he face his mother? How could he go home without shoes? Books might be useful for the head, but they would not clothe the feet. He jingled the coins in his pocket as he walked on down to the end of the business section of the city. He could not buy any kind of shoes to fit his big feet for a dollar and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do but to go home, and "face the music", so he walked on in a sort of fearsome elation. At a corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to books, Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy some candy for the twenty cents. He went into the store and took his time looking at the tempting display, finally buying ten cents worth of chocolates for himself and ten cents worth of peppermint lozenges for his mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, was very much a child; he did many childish things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man; the child in him and the man in him did not seem to merge into the boy, but were somewhat "separate and apart," as the people of Greenstreet would say.
Dorian again took the less frequented road home. The sun was still high when he reached the river. He was not expected home for some time yet, so there was no need for hurry. He crossed the footbridge, noticing neither birds nor fish. Instead of following the main path, he struck off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny grass plat in the shade of a tree by the river. He sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of wavy, rusty-colored hair. Then he untied his package of books and spread his treasures before him as a miser would his gold. He opened "David Copperfield", looked at the frontispiece which depicted a fat man making a very emphatic speech against someone by the name of Heep. It must all be very interesting, but it was altogether too big a book for him to begin to read now. "Ben Hur" looked solid and substantial; it would keep until next winter when he would have more time to read. Then he picked up the "Conquest", volume one. He backed up against the tree, settled himself into a comfortable position, took from his paper bag a chocolate at which he nibbled contentedly, and then away he went with Prescott to the land of the Inca and the glories of a vanished race!
For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he closed his book, wrapped up his package again, and went on his homeward way.
The new canal for which the farmers of Greenstreet had worked and waited so long had just been completed. The big ditch, now full of running water, was a source of delight to the children as well as to the more practical adults. The boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and sported in the cool stream. Near the village of Greenstreet was a big headgate, from which the canal branched into two divisions. As Dorian walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he saw a group of children at play near the headgate. They were making a lot of robust noise, and Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always interested in the children, being more of a favorite among them than among the boys of his own age.
"There's Dorian," shouted one of the boys. "Who are you going to marry?"
What in the world were the youngsters talking about, thought the young man, as the chattering children surrounded him.
"What's all this?" asked Dorian, "a party?"
"Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; we're just taking a walk by the canal to see the water; my, but it's nice!"
"What, the party or the water?"
"Why, the water."
"Both" added another.
"We've all told who we're going to marry," remarked a little rosy-faced miss, "all but Carlia, an' she won't tell."
"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You wouldn't have her tell a fib, would you?"
"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us."
"She's just stubborn."
She who was receiving these criticisms seemed to be somewhat older and larger than her companions. Just now, not deigning to notice the accusation of her friends, she was throwing sticks into the running water and watching them go over the falls at the headgate and dance on the rapids below. Her white party dress was as yet spotless. She swung her straw hat by the string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not the least discomposed by the teasing of the other children, neither by Dorian's presence. This was her party, and why should not she do and say what she pleased.
Carlia now led the way along the canal bank until she came to where a pole spanned the stream. She stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure footbridge, then turning to her companions, said:
"I can back you out."
"How? Doin' what?" they asked.
"Crossing the canal on the pole."
"Shucks, you can't back me out," declared one of the boys, at which he darted across the swaying pole, and with a jump, landed safely across. Another boy went at it gingerly, and with the antics of a tight-rope walker, he managed to get to the other side. The other boys held back; none of the girls ventured.
"All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the other bank.
The girl stood looking at the frail pole.
"Come on, it's easy," they encouraged.
Carlia placed her foot on the pole as if testing it. The other girls protested. She would fall in and drown.
"You dared us; now who's the coward," cried the boys.
Carlia took a step forward, balanced herself, and took another. The children stood in spell-bound silence. The girl advanced slowly along the frail bridge until she reached the middle where the pole swayed dangerously.
"Balance yourself," suggested the second boy.
"Run," said the first.
But Carlia could neither balance nor run. She stood for a moment on the oscillating span, then threw up her hands, and with a scream she plunged into the waters of the canal.
No thought of danger had entered Dorian's mind as he stood watching the capers of the children. If any of them fell in, he thought, they would only get a good wetting. But as Carlia fell, he sprang forward. The water at this point was quite deep and running swiftly. He saw that Carlia fell on her side and went completely under. The children screamed. Dorian, startled out of his apathy, suddenly ran to the canal and jumped in. It was done so impulsively that he still held on to his package of books. With one hand he lifted the girl out of the water, but in her struggles, she knocked the bundle from his hand, and the precious books splashed into the canal and floated down the stream. Dorian made an effort to rescue them, but Carlia clung so to his arms that he could do nothing but stand and see the package glide over the falls at the headgate and then go dancing over the rapids, even as Carlia's sticks had done. For a moment the young man's thoughts were with his books, and it seemed that he stood there in the canal for quite a while in a sort of daze, with the water rushing by his legs. Then mechanically he carried the girl to the bank and would have set her down again with her companions, but she clung to him so closely and with such terror in her eyes that he lifted her into his arms and talked reassuringly to her:
"There, now," he said, "you're only a bit wet. Don't cry."
"Take me home. I—I want to go home," sobbed the girl.
"Sure," said Dorian. "Come on everybody."
He led the way, and the rest of the children followed.
"I suppose the party's about over, anyway," suggested he.
"I—I guess so."
They walked on in silence for a time; then Carlia said:
"I guess I'm heavy."
"Not at all", lied the young man bravely, for she was heavier than he had supposed; but she made no offer to walk. By the time they reached the gate, Carlia was herself again, and inclined to look upon her wetting and escape as quite an adventure.
"There," said Dorian as he seated the girl on the broad top of the gate post; "I'll leave you there to dry. It won't take long."
He looked at his own wet clothes, and then at his ragged, mud-laden shoes. He might as well carry the girl up the path to her home, but then, that was not necessary. The day was warm, there was no danger of colds, and she could run up the path in a few minutes.
"Well, I'll go now. Goodby," he said.
"Wait a minute—Say, I'm glad you saved me, but I'm sorry you lost your package. What was in it?"
"Only books."
"I'll get you some more, when I get the money, yes I will. Come here and lift me down before you go."
He obeyed. She put a wet arm about his neck and cuddled her dark, damp curls against his russet mop. He lifted her lightly down, and then he slipped a chocolate secretly into her hand.
"Oh girls," exclaimed one of the party, "I know now."
"Know what?" asked Carlia.
"I know who you are going to marry."
"Who?"
"You're going to marry Dorian."
The disposition to lie or evade never remained long with Dorian Trent; but that evening as he turned into the lane which led up to the house, he was sorely-tempted. Once or twice only, as nearly as he could remember, had he told an untruth to his mother with results which he would never forget. He must tell her the truth now.
But he would put off the ordeal as long as possible. There could be no harm in that. Everything was quiet about the house, as his mother was away. He hurriedly divested himself of his best clothes and put on his overalls. He took the milk pail and hung it on the fence until he brought the cows from the pasture. After milking, he did his other chores. There were no signs of mother. The dusk turned to darkness, yet no light appeared in the house. Dorian went in and lighted the lamp and proceeded to get supper.
The mother came presently, carrying a bag of wool. "A big herd of sheep went by this afternoon," she explained, "and they left a lot of fine wool on the barbed-wire fences. See, I have gathered enough for a pair of stockings." She seated herself.
"You're tired," said Dorian.
"Yes."
"Well, you sit and rest; I'll soon have the supper on the table." This was no difficult task, as the evening meal was usually a very simple one, and Dorian had frequently prepared it. This evening as the mother sat there quietly she looked at her son with admiring eyes. What a big boy he was getting to be! He had always been big, it seemed to her. He had been a big baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big young man. He had a big head and big feet, big hands. His nose and mouth were big, and big freckles dotted his face—yes, and a big heart, as his mother very well knew. Along with his bigness of limb and body there was a certain awkwardness. He never could run as fast as the other boys, and he always fumbled the ball in their games though he could beat them swimming. So far in his youthful career he had not learned to dance. The one time he had tried, his girl partner had made fun of his awkwardness, so that ended his dancing. But Dorian was not clumsy about his mother's home and table. He handled the dishes as daintily as a girl, and the table was set and the food served in a very proper manner.
"Did you get your shoes, Dorian?"
Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was not at all hot.
"Mother, sit up; supper is ready."
They both drew up their chairs. Dorian asked the blessing, then became unusually solicitous in helping his mother, continually talking as he did so.
"That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in the canal, this afternoon," he told her, going on with the details. "She's a plucky little thing. Ten minutes after I had her out of the canal, she was as lively as ever."
The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did not interrupt him. After they had eaten, he forced her to take her rocking-chair while he cleared the table and washed the few dishes. She asked no more questions about shoes, but leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Dorian thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fearing that it might lead to more questions, he did not.
Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work had bent her back and roughened her hands. Her face was pleasant to look upon, even if there were some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the temples. She closed her eyes as if she were going to sleep.
"Now, mother, you're going to bed", said Dorian. "You have tired yourself out with this wool picking. I thought I told you before that I would gather what wool there was."
"But you weren't here, and I could not stand to see the wind blowing it away. See, what a fine lot I got." She opened her bundle and displayed her fleece.
"Well, put it away. You can't card and spin and knit it tonight."
"It will have to be washed first, you foolish boy."
Dorian got his mother to bed without further reference to shoes. He went to his own room with a conscience not altogether easy. He lighted his lamp, which was a good one, for he did a lot of reading by it. The electric wires had not yet reached Greenstreet. Dorian stood looking about his room. It was not a very large one, and somewhat sparsely furnished. The bed seemed selfishly to take up most of the space. Against one wall was set some home-made shelving containing books. He had quite a library. There were books of various kinds, gathered with no particular plan or purpose, but as means and opportunity afforded. In one corner stood a scroll saw, now not very often used. Pictures of a full-rigged sailing vessel and a big modern steamer hung on the wall above his books. On another wall were three small prints, landscapes where there were great distances with much light and warmth. Over his bed hung an artist's conception of "Lorna Doone," a beautiful face, framed in a mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a dreamy look in her eyes.
"That's my girl," Dorian sometimes said, pointing to this picture. "No one can take her from me; we never quarrel; and she never scolds or frowns."
On another wall hung a portrait of his father, who had been dead nine years. His father had been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer. Eventually, this longing had been realized in the purchase of the twenty acres in Greenstreet, at that time a village with not one street which could be called green, and without a sure water supply for irrigation, at least on the land which would grow corn and potatoes and wheat. To be sure, there was water enough of its kind down on the lower slopes, besides saleratus and salt grass and cattails and the tang of marshlands in the air. Schoolmaster Trent's operations in farming had not been very successful, and when he died, the result of his failure was a part of the legacy which descended to his wife and son.
Dorian took a book from the shelf as if to read; but visions intruded of some beautiful volumes, now somewhere down the canal, a mass of water-soaked paper. He could not read. He finished his last chocolate, said his prayers, and went to bed.
Saturday was always a busy day with Dorian and his mother; but that morning Mrs. Trent was up earlier than usual. The white muslin curtains were already in the wash when Dorian looked at his mother in the summer kitchen.
"What, washing today!" he asked in surprise. Monday was washday.
"The curtains were black; they must be clean for tomorrow."
"You can see dirt where I can't see it."
"I've been looking for it longer, my boy. And, say, fix up the line you broke the other day."
"Sure, mother."
The morning was clear and cool. He did his chores, then went out to his ten-acre field of wheat and lucerne. The grain was heading beautifully; and there were prospects of three cuttings of hay; the potatoes were doing fine, also the corn and the squash and the melons. The young farmer's heart was made glad to see the coming harvest, all the work of his own hands.
For this was the first real crop they had raised. For years they had struggled and pinched. Sometimes Dorian was for giving up and moving to the city; but the mother saw brighter prospects when the new canal should be finished. And then her boy would be better off working for himself on the farm than drudging for others in the town; besides, she had a desire to remain on the spot made dear by her husband's work; and so they struggled along, making their payments on the land and later on the canal stock. The summit of their difficulties seemed now to have passed, and better times were ahead. Dorian looked down at his ragged shoes and laughed to himself good-naturedly. Shucks, in a few months he would have plenty of money to buy shoes, perhaps also a Sunday suit for himself, and everything his mother needed. And if there should happen to be more book bargains, he might venture in that direction again.
Breakfast passed without the mention of shoes. What was his mother thinking about! She seemed uncommonly busy with cleaning an uncommonly clean house. When Dorian came home from irrigating at noon, he kicked off his muddy shoes by the shanty door, so as not to soil her cleanly scrubbed floor or to stain the neat home-made rug. There seemed to be even more than the extra cooking in preparation for Sunday.
The mother looked at Dorian coming so noiselessly in his stocking feet.
"You didn't show me your new shoes last night," she said.
"Say, mother, what's all this extra cleaning and cooking about?"
"We're going to have company tomorrow."
"Company? Who?"
"I'll tell you about it at the table."
"Do you remember," began the mother when they were seated, "a lady and her little girl who visited us some two years ago?"
Yes, he had some recollection of them. He remembered the girl, specially, spindle-legged, with round eyes, pale cheeks, and an uncommonly long braid of yellow hair hanging down her back.
"Well, they're coming to see us tomorrow. Mrs. Brown is an old-time friend of mine, and Mildred is an only child. The girl is not strong, and so I invited them to come here and get some good country air."
"To stay with us, mother?" asked the boy in alarm.
"Just to visit. It's terribly hot in the city. We have plenty of fresh eggs and good milk, which, I am sure is just what the child needs. Mrs. Brown cannot stay more than the day, so she says, but I am going to ask that Mildred visits with us for a week anyway. I think I can bring some color into her cheeks."
"Oh, gee, mother!" he remonstrated.
"Now, Dorian, be reasonable. She's such a simple, quiet girl. She will not be in the way in the least. I want you to treat her nicely."
Dorian had finished his dinner and was gazing out of the window. There was an odd look on his face. The idea of a girl living right here with them in the same house startled and troubled him. His mother had called her a little girl, but he remembered her as being only a year or two younger than he. Gee!
"That's why I wanted you to get a pair of decent shoes for tomorrow," said the mother, "and I told you to get a nice pair. I have brushed and pressed your clothes, but you must get a new suit as soon as possible. Where are your shoes! I couldn't find them."
"I—didn't get any shoes, mother."
"Didn't get any! Why not?"
"Well, you see—I didn't know about these visitors coming, mother, and so I—bought some books for most of my money, and so; but mother, don't get mad—I—"
"Books? What books? Where are they?"
And then Dorian told her plainly the whole miserable story. At first the mother was angry, but when she saw the troubled face of her boy, she relented, not wishing to add to his misery. She even smiled at the calamitous ending of those books.
"My boy, I see that you have been sorely tempted, and I am sorry that you lost your books. The wetting that Carlia gave you did no harm … but you must have some shoes by tomorrow. Wait."
The mother went to the bureau drawer, opened the lid of a little box, drew from the box a purse, and took from the purse two silver dollars. She handed them to Dorian.
"Go to town again this afternoon and get some shoes."
"But, mother, I hate to take your money. I think I can black my old ones so that they will not look so bad."
"Blacking will not fill the holes. Now, you do as I say. Jump on Nig and go right away."
Dorian put the money in his pocket, then went out to the yard and slipped a bridle on his horse, mounted, and was back to the house.
"Now, Dorian, remember what I say. Get you a nice pair, a nice Sunday pair."
"All right, mother, I will."
He rode off at a gallop. He lingered not by creeks or byways, but went directly to the best shoe store in the city, where he made his purchase. He stopped neither at book store or candy shops. His horse was sweating when he rode in at the home yard. His mother hearing him, came out.
"You made quick time," she said.
"Yes; just to buy a pair of shoes doesn't take long."
"You got the right kind?"
"Sure. Here, look at 'em." He handed her the package.
"I can't look at them now. Say, Dorian—" she came out nearer to him—"They are here."
"Who, mother?"
"Mrs. Brown and her daughter. They got a chance to ride out this afternoon, so they did not wait until tomorrow. Lucky I cleaned up this morning. Mildred is not a bit well, and she is lying down now. Don't make any more noise than you can help."
"Gee—but, mother, gosh!" He was very much disturbed.
"They are dear, good people. They know we are simple farmers. Just you wash yourself and take off those dirty overalls before you come in. And then you just behave yourself. We're going to have something nice for supper. Now, don't be too long with your hoeing or with your chores, for supper will be early this evening."
Dorian hoed only ten rows that afternoon for the reason that he sat down to rest and to think at the end of each row. Then he dallied so with his chores that his mother had to call him twice. At last he could find no more excuses between him and the strange company. He went in with much fear and some invisible trembling.
About six o'clock in the afternoon, Mildred Brown went down through the fields to the lower pasture. She wore a gingham apron which covered her from neck to high-topped boots. She carried in one hand an easel and stool and in the other hand a box of colors. Mildred came each day to a particular spot in this lower pasture and set up her easel and stool in the shade of a black willow bush to paint a particular scene. She did her work as nearly as possible at the same time each afternoon to get the same effect of light and shade and the same stretch of reflected sunlight on the open water spaces in the marshland.
And the scene before her was worthy of a master hand, which, of course, Mildred Brown was not as yet. From her position in the shade of the willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands toward the west. Nearby, at the edge of the firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew luxuriously, now crowned with large, glossy-brown "cat-tails." The flats to the left were spotted by beds of white and black saleratus and bunches of course salt grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the sun, winding in and out among reeds, and at this hour every clear afternoon, shining with the undimmed reflection of the burning sun. The air was laden with salty odors of the marshes. A light afternoon haze hung over the distance. Frogs were lazily croaking, and the killdeer's shrill cry came plaintively to the ear. A number of cows stood knee-deep in mud and water, round as barrels, and breathing hard, with tails unceasingly switching away the flies.
Dorian was in the field turning the water on his lucerne patch when he saw Mildred coming as usual down the path. He had not expected her that afternoon as he thought the picture which she had been working on was finished; but after adjusting the flow of water, he joined her, relieving her of stool and easel. They then walked on together, the big farm boy in overalls and the tall graceful girl in the enveloping gingham.
Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days, by which time Dorian had about gotten over his timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not been difficult. The girl was not a bit "stuck up," and she entered easily and naturally into the home life on the farm. She had changed considerably since Dorian had last seen her, some two years ago. Her face was still pale, although it seemed that a little pink was now creeping into her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and blue; her hair was now done up in thick shining braids. She talked freely to Dorian and his mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent been able to find his tongue in the presence of a girl nearly his own age.
The two stopped in the shade of the willow. He set up the easel and opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.
"Thank you," she said to him. "Did you get through with your work in the field?"
"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. I got through shocking the wheat some time ago."
"Is there a good crop! I don't know much about such things, but I want to learn." She smiled up into his ruddy face.
"The wheat is fine. The heads are well developed. I wouldn't be surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre."
"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the palette.
Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.
"I thought you finished that picture yesterday," he said.
"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another hour on it. The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I want to put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can."
The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where he could see her at work. He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make a beautiful picture out of such a commonplace thing as a saleratus swamp. But then, he was beginning to think that this girl was capable of endless wonders. He had met no other girl just like her, so young and so beautiful, and yet so talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet so simple in manner of her life; so high born and bred, and yet so companionable with those of humbler station.
The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red on to her palette. She gazed for a moment at the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she asked:
"Do you think I dare put a little more red in my picture?"
"Dare?" he repeated.
The young man followed the pointing finger of the girl into the flaming depths of the sky, then came and leaned carefully over the painting.
"Tell me which is redder, the real or the picture?" she asked.
Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The sky is redder," be decided.
"And yet if I make my picture as red as the sky naturally is, many people would say that it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway." Then she carefully laid on a little more color.
"Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more intense than any representation of nature."
She worked on in silence for a few moments, then without looking from her canvas, she asked: "Do you like being a farmer?"
"Oh, I guess so," he replied somewhat indefinitely. "I've lived on a farm all my life, and I don't know anything else. I used to think I would like to get away, but mother always wanted to stay. There's been a lot of hard work for both of us, but now things are coming more our way, and I like it better. Anyway, I couldn't live in the city now."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't seem able to breathe in the city, with its smoke and its noise and its crowding together of houses and people."
"You ought to go to Chicago or New York or Boston," she replied. "Then you would see some crowds and hear some noises."
"Have you been there?"
"I studied drawing and painting in Boston. Next to farming, what would you like to do?"
He thought for a moment—"When I was a little fellow—"
"Which you are not," she interrupted as she changed brushes.
"I thought that if I ever could attain to the position of standing behind a counter in a store where I could take a piece of candy whenever I wanted it, I should have attained to the heights of happiness. But, now, of course—"
"Well, and now?"
"I believe I'd like to be a school teacher."
"Why a teacher?"
"Because I'd then have the chance to read a lot of books."
"You like to read, don't you? and you like candy, and you like pictures."
"Especially, when someone else paints them."
Mildred arose, stepped back to get the distance for examination. "I don't think I had better use more color," she commented, "but those cat-tails in the corner need touching up a bit."
"I suppose you have been to school a lot?" he asked.
"No; just completed the high school; then, not being very strong, mother thought it best not to send me to the University; but she lets me dabble a little in painting and in music."
Dorian could not keep his eyes off this girl who had already completed the high school course which he had not yet begun; besides, she had learned a lot of other things which would be beyond him to ever reach. Even though he were an ignoramus, he could bask in the light of her greater learning. She did not resent that.
"What do you study in High School!" he asked.
"Oh, a lot of things—don't you know?" She again looked up at him.
"Not exactly."
"We studied algebra and mathematics and English and English literature, and French, and a lot of other things."
"What's algebra like?"
"Oh dear, do you want me to draw it?"
"Can you draw it?"
"About as well as I can tell it in words. Algebra is higher mathematics; yes, that's it."
"And what's the difference between English and English literature?"
"English is grammar and how sentences are or should be made. English literature is made up mostly of the reading of the great authors, such as Milton and Shakespeare,"
"Gee!" exclaimed Dorian, "that would be great fun."
"Fun? just you try it. Nobody reads these writers now only in school, where they have to. But say, Dorian"—she arose to inspect her work again. "Have I too much purple in that bunch of salt-grass on the left? What do you think?"
"I don't see any purple at all in the real grass," he said.
"There is purple there, however; but of course, you, not being an artist, cannot see it." She laughed a little for fear he might think her pronouncement harsh.
"What—what is an artist?"
"An artist is one who has learned to see more than other people can in the common things about them."
The definition was not quite clear to him. He had proved that he could see farther and clearer than she could when looking at trees or chipmunks. He looked critically again at the picture.
"I mean, of course," she added, as she noted his puzzled look, "that an artist is one who sees in nature the beauty in form, in light and shade, and in color."
"You haven't put that tree in the right place," he objected! "and you have left out that house altogether."
"This is not a photograph," she answered. "I put in my picture only that which I want there. The tree isn't in the right place, so I moved it. The house has no business in the picture because I want it to represent a scene of wild, open lonesomeness. I want to make the people who look at it feel so lonesome that they want to cry!"
She was an odd girl!
"Oh, don't you understand. I want them only to feel like it. When you saw that charcoal drawing I made the other day, you laughed."
"Well, it was funny."
"That's just it. An artist wants to be able to make people feel like laughing or crying, for then he knows he has reached their soul."
"I've got to look after the water for a few minutes, then I'll come back and help you carry your things," he said. "You're about through, aren't you?"
"Thank you; I'll be ready now in a few minutes. Go see to your water.I'll wait for you. How beautiful the west is now!"
They stood silently for a few moments side by side, looking at the glory of the setting sun through banks of clouds and then down behind the purple mountain. Then Dorian, with shovel on shoulder, hastened to his irrigating. The blossoming field of lucerne was usually a common enough sight, but now it was a stretch of sweet-scented waves of green and purple.
Mildred looked at the farmer boy until he disappeared behind the willow fence, then she began to pack up her things. Presently, she heard some low bellowing, and, looking up, she saw a number of cows, with tails erect, galloping across the fields. They had broken the fence, and were now having a gay frolic on forbidden grounds. Mildred saw that they were making directly for the corner of the pasture where she was. She was afraid of cows, even when they were within the quiet enclosure of the yard, and here was a wild lot apparently coming upon her to destroy her. She crouched, terror stricken, as if to take shelter behind the frail bulwark of her easel.
Then she saw a horse leap through the gap in the fence and come galloping after the cows. On the horse was a girl, not a large girl, but she was riding fearlessly, bare-back, and urging the horse to greater strides. Her black hair was trailing in the wind as she waved a willow switch and shouted lustily at the cows. She managed to head the cows off before they had reached Mildred, rounding them up sharply and driving them back through the breach into the road which they followed quietly homeward. The rider then galloped back to the frightened girl.
"Did the cows scare you?" she asked.
"Yes," panted Mildred. "I'm so frightened of cows, and these were so wild."
"They were just playing. They wouldn't hurt you; but they did look fierce."
"Whose cows were they?"
"They're ours. I have to get them up every day. Sometimes when the flies are bad they get a little mad, but I'm not afraid of them. They know me, you bet. I can milk the kickiest one of the lot."
"Do you milk the cows?"
"Sure—but what is that?" The rider had caught sight of the picture."Did you make that?"
"Yes; I painted it."
"My!" She dismounted, and with arm through bridle, she and the horse came up for a closer view of the picture. The girl looked at it mutely for a moment. "It's pretty" she said; "I wish I could make a picture like that."
Mildred smiled at her. She was such a round, rosy girl, so full of health and life and color. Not such a little girl either, now a nearer view was obtained. She was only a year or two younger than Mildred herself.
"I wish I could do what you can," said the painter of pictures.
"I—what? I can't do anything like that."
"No; but you can ride a horse, and stop runaway cows. You can do a lot of things that I cannot do because you are stronger than I am. I wish I had some of that rosy red in your cheeks."
"You can have some of mine," laughed the other, "for I have more than enough; but you wouldn't like the freckles."
"I wouldn't mind them, I'm sure; but let me thank you for what you did, and let's get acquainted." Mildred held out her hand, which the other took somewhat shyly. "Don't you have to go home with your cows?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Then we'll go back together." She gathered her material and they walked on up the path, Mildred ahead, for she was timid of the horse which the other led by the bridle rein. At the bars in the corner of the upper pasture the horse was turned loose into his own feeding ground, and the girls went on together.
"You live near here, don't you?" inquired Mildred.
"Yes, just over there."
"Oh, are you Carlia Duke?"
"Yes; how did you know?"
"Dorian has told me about you."
"Has he? We're neighbors; an' you're the girl that's visiting with theTrent's?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm glad to meet you. Dorian has told me about you, too."
Thus these two, meeting for the first time, went on chatting together; and thus Dorian saw them. He had missed Mildred at the lower pasture, and so, with shovel again on shoulder, he had followed up the homeward path. The girls were some distance ahead, so he did not try to overtake them. In fact, he slackened his pace a little, so as not to get too close to them to disturb them; but he saw them plainly walk close together up the road in the twilight of the summer evening, the tall, light-haired Mildred, and the shorter, dark-haired Carlia; and the child in Dorian seemed to vanish, and the man in him asserted himself in thought and feelings which it would have been hard for him to describe in words.
Indian summer lay drowsily over the land. It had come late that season, but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent. The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.
Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work. He did not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of the season. He let them rest frequently, especially at the end of the furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds.
Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that afternoon, so he thought. The summer's work was practically over: the wheat had been thrashed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were in the pit; the corn stood in Indian wigwam bunches in the yard; the fruit and vegetables, mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient for their simple needs. They were well provided for the winter; and so Dorian was happy and contented as everyone in like condition should be on such an Indian summer afternoon.
Mildred Brown's visit to the farm had ended some weeks ago; but only yesterday his mother had received a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her daughter might not come again. Her former visit had done her so much good, and now the beautiful weather was calling her out into the country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that Indian summer should "waste its sweetness on the desert air of the city."
"What do you say?" Mrs. Trent had asked Dorian.
"Why—why—of course, mother, if she doesn't make too much work for you."
And so Mildred had received the invitation that she was very welcome to come to Greenstreet and stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she would be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She would draw and paint, and then in the soft evening dusk she would play some of those exquisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not like people to speak of her beloved instrument as a fiddle, and he remembered how she had chastised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she would again enter into their daily life. Her ladylike ways, her sweet smile, her golden beauty would again glorify their humble home. Why, if she came often enough and remained long enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow, as she had threatened to do. At the thought, the boy on the grass by the nodding horses, laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but whether he preferred the somewhat nervous happiness of Mildred's presence or the quiet longing happiness of her absence, he could not tell.
The plain truth of the matter was, that Dorian had fallen deeply in love with Mildred. This statement may be scoffed at by some people whose eyes have been dimmed by age so that they cannot see back into that time of youth when they also were "trailing clouds of glory" from their heavenly home. There is nothing more wholesomely sweet than this first boy and girl affection. It is clean and pure and undefiled by the many worldly elements which often enter into the more mature lovemaking.
Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's life did not differ from like incidents in many lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian at this time never admitted to himself that he was in love with the girl. He sensed very well that she was far above him in every way. The thought that she might ever become his wife never obtained foothold in him more than for a fleeting moment: that was impossible, then why think of it. But there could be no harm in loving her as he loved his mother, or as he loved the flowers, the clear-flowing water, the warm sun and the blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up to her as he did to the stars at night. He could also strive to rise to her level, if that were possible. He was going to the High school the coming winter, then perhaps to the University. He could get to know as much of school learning as she, anyway. He never would become a painter of pictures or a musician, but surely there were other things which he could learn which would be worth while.
There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still lay on the grass, his one-time effort to ask a girl to a dance. He recalled what care he had taken in washing and combing and dressing, how he had finally cut cross-lots to the girl's home for fear of being seen, for surely he had thought, everybody must know what he was up to!—how he had lingered about the back door, and had at last, when the door opened, scudded back home as fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the finest girl he had ever seen was chumming with him, and he was not afraid, that is, not very much afraid.
When Mildred had packed up to go home on the occasion of her former visit she had invited Mrs. Trent to take her pick of her drawings for her own.
"All but this," Mildred had said. "This which I call 'Sunset in theMarshland' I am going to give to Dorian."
The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. There was a panel in crayon which the artist said was the big cottonwood down by the Corners. Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have known it, but then, she added apologetically, she never had an eye for art. There was a winter scene where the houses were so sunk into the earth that only the roofs were visible. (Mrs. Trent had often wondered why the big slanting roofs were the only artistic thing about a house). Another picture showed a high, camel-backed bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen the bridge because of its pretty colors.
"Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" Mildred had asked.
They had gone into his room. Mildred had looked about.
"The only good light is on that wall." She had pointed to the space occupied by Dorian's "best girl."
And so Lorna Doone had come down and Mildred's study of the marshlands glowed with its warmer colors in its place.
The plowboy arose from the grass. "Get up there," he said to his horses."We must be going, or there'll be very little plowing today."
Carlia Duke was the first person to greet Mildred as she alighted at the Trent gate. Carlia knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred put her arm about her friend and kissed her, somewhat to the younger girl's confused pleasure. The two girls went up the path to the house where Mrs. Trent met them.
"Where's your baggage?" asked the mother of the arrival, seeing she carried only a small bag and her violin case.
"This is all. I'm not going to paint this time—just going to rest, mother said, so I do not need a lot of baggage."
"Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia. Dinner is about ready, an' you'll stay."
By a little urging Carlia remained, and pretty soon, Dorian came stamping in to be surprised.
"Yes; we're all here," announced Carlia, as she tossed her black curls and laughed at his confusion.
"I see you are," he replied, as he shook hands with Mildred. After which ceremony, it did not just look right to slight the other girl, so he shook hands with her also, much to her amusement.
"How do you do, Mr. Trent" she said.
"Carlia is such a tease," explained the mother.
"For which I like her," added Mildred.
"We all do. Even Dorian here, who is usually afraid of girls, makes quite a chum of her."
"Well, we're neighbors," justified the girl.
After dinner Carlia took Mildred home with her. It was not far, just around the low ridge which hid the house from view. There Mildred met Pa Duke, Ma Duke and Will Duke, Carlia's older brother. Pa Duke was a hard-working farmer, Ma Duke was likewise a hard-working farmer's wife, and Will Duke should have been a hard-working farmer's boy, but he was somewhat a failure, especially regarding the hard work part. Carlia, though so young, was already a hardworking farmer girl, with no chance of escape, as far as she could see, from the hard-working part. The Duke house, though clean and roomy, lacked the dainty home touches which mean so much. There were no porch, no lawn, no trees. The home was bare inside and out.
In deference to the "company" Carlia was permitted to "visit" with her friend that afternoon. Apparently, these two girls had very little in common, but when left to themselves they found many mutual interests.
Toward the close of the afternoon, Dorian appeared. He found the girls out in the yard, Carlia seated on the topmost pole of the corral fence, and Mildred standing beside her.
"Hello girls," Dorian greeted. "I've come to give you an invitation."
"What, a party!" exclaimed Carlia, jumping down from her perch.
"Not a dancing party, you little goose—just a surprise party."
"On who?"
"On Uncle Zed."
"Uncle Zed. O, shucks!"
"Well, of course, you do not have to go," said Dorian.
"I think you're mean. I do want to go if Mildred is going."
"I don't know Uncle Zed," said Mildred, "but if Mrs. Trent and Dorian wish me to go, I shall be pleased; and of course, you will go with us."
"She's invited," repeated Dorian. "It's Uncle Zed's seventy-fifth birthday. Mother keeps track of them, the only one who does, I guess, for he doesn't do it himself. We're just going down to visit with him this evening. He's a very fine old man, is Uncle Zed," this last to Mildred.
"Is he your uncle?"
"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no one in particular. He's all by himself, and has no folks?"
Just before the dusk of the evening, the little party set out for the home of Zedekiah Manning, generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He lived about half a mile down the road in a two-roomed log house which had a big adobe chimney on one side. His front yard was abloom with the autumn flowers. The path leading to his door was neatly edged by small cobble stones. Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and climbed over the wall nearly to the low roof.
Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well, well," he exclaimed, "come right in. I'll light the lamp." Then he assisted them to find seats.
Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom she found to be a little frail old man with clean white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face. He sat down with his company and rubbed his hands in a way which implied: "And what does all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall, back of his own chair, was nearly covered with books, and a number of volumes lay on the table. The room was furnished for the simple needs of the lone occupant. A fire smouldered in the open grate.
"Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?" inquired Mrs. Trent.
"Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my memory is not so good as it used to be."
"Your memory never was good regarding the day of the year you were born."
"Day when I was born? What, has my birthday come around again? Well, sure; but I had quite forgotten. How these birthdays do pile up on one."
"How old are you today?" asked Dorian.
"How old? Let me see. I declare, I must be seventy-five."
"Isn't he a funny man," whispered Carlia to Mildred, who appeared not to hear the comment, so interested was she in the old man.
"And so you've come to celebrate," went on Uncle Zed, "come to congratulate me that I am one year nearer the grave."
"Now, Uncle Zed, you know—"
"Yes; I know; forgive me for teasing; I know why you come to wish me well. It is that I have kept the faith one year more, and that I am twelve months nearer my heavenly reward. That's it, isn't it?"
Uncle Zed pushed his glasses up on his forehead to better see his company, especially Mildred. Mrs. Trent made the proper introduction, then lifted the picnic basket from the table to a corner.
"We're just going to spend an hour or so with you," explained Mrs. Trent. "We want you to talk, Mildred to play, and then we'll have a bite to eat. We'll just sit about your grate, and look into the glow of the fire while you talk." However, Dorian and Mildred were scanning the books.
"What's this set?" the young girl asked.
Dorian bent down to read the dim titles. "The Millennial Star" he said.
"And here's another set."
"The Journal of Discourses" he replied.
"My, all sermons? they must be dry reading."
Uncle Zed heard their conversation, and stepped over to them. "Are you also interested in books?" he asked. "Dorian and I are regular book-worms, you know."
Oh, yes, she was interested in books.
"But there are books and books, you know," went on Uncle Zed. "You like story books, no doubt. So do I. There's nothing better than a rattling good love story, eh, young lady?"
Mildred hardly knew just how to take this remark, so she did not reply.
"Here's the most wonderful love story ever written." He took from the shelf a very ordinary looking volume, called the "Doctrine and Covenants." Carlia and Mrs. Trent now joined the other three. They also were interested.
"You wouldn't be looking in the 'Doctrine and Covenants' for love stories, would you; but here in the revelation on the eternity of the marriage covenant we find that men and women, under the proper conditions and by the proper authority, may be united as husbands and wives, not only for time, but for eternity. Most love stories end when the lovers are married; but think of the endlessness of life and love under this new and everlasting covenant of marriage—but I mustn't preach so early in the evening."
"But we like to hear it, Uncle Zed," said Dorian.
"Indeed, we do," added Mildred. "Tell us more about your books."
"Here is one of my precious volumes—Orson Pratt's works. When I get hungry for the solid, soul-satisfying doctrines of the kingdom, I read Orson Pratt. Parley Pratt also is good. Here is a book which is nearly forgotten, but which contains beautiful presentations of the gospel, 'Spencer's Letters'. Dorian, look here." He handed the young man a small, ancient-looking, leather bound book. "I found it in a second-hand store and paid fifteen cents for it. Yes, it's a second edition of the 'Doctrine and Covenants,' printed by John Taylor in Nauvoo in 1844. The rest of my collection is familiar to you, I am sure. Here is a complete set of the 'Contributor' and this is my 'Era' shelf, and here are most of the more modern church works. Let us now go back to the fire."
After they were again seated, Mildred asked him if he had known BrighamYoung. She always liked to hear the pioneers talk of their experiences.
"No" replied Uncle Zed, "I never met President Young, but I believe I know him as well as many who had that pleasure. I have read everything that I could get in print which Brigham Young ever said. I have read all his discourses in those volumes. He was not a polished speaker, I understand, and he did not often follow a theme; but mixed with the more commonplace subjects of irrigation, Indian troubles, etc., which, in his particular day had to be spoken of, are some of the most profound gospel truths in any language. Gems of thought shine from every page of his discourses."
Carlia was nodding in a warm corner. Uncle Zed rambled on reminiscently until Mrs. Trent suddenly arose, spoke sharply to Carlia, and lifted the basket of picnic on to the table.
"We'll have our refreshments now," she said, "and then we must be going.Uncle Zed goes early to bed, and so should we."
The table was spread: roast chicken, brought by Carlia; dainty sandwiches, made by Mildred; apple pie from Mrs. Trent's cupboard; a jar of apricot preserves, suggested by Dorian. Uncle Zed asked a blessing not only on the food, but on the kind hands which had provided it. Then they ate heartily, and yet leaving a generous part to be left in Uncle Zed's own cupboard.
Then Dorian had a presentation to make. He took from the basket a small package, unwrapped it, and handed a book to the man who was seventy-five years old.
"I couldn't do much by way of the eats," said Dorian, "so my present is this."
"'Drummond's Natural Law in the Spiritual World'" read Uncle Zed. "Why,Dorian, this is fine of you. How could you guess my wishes so nicely.For a long time, this is just the book I have wanted."
"I'm glad. I thought you'd like it."
"Fine, fine," said the old man, fondling the volume as he would some dear object, as indeed, every good book was to him.
Then Mildred got out her violin, and after the proper tuning of the strings, she placed it under her shapely chin. She played without music some of the simple heart melodies, and then some of the Sunday School songs which the company softly accompanied by words.