III. — Then to young McCarthy, the Father did say:“Now what will you do at the great Judgment Day?For you will be there, at the bar you will stan'The pig as a witness, and Widow Mahan.”“Faith, what will I do?” young McCarthy did say.“An' the pig will be there at the great Judgment Day?Begorre! I'll say to the Widow, 'Asthore,Take back your old pig, for I want it no more'“'An iligant pig in ivery way,Schwate Widow Mahan, plaze take it away.Faith, now it's full grown, just go to the fair,A mighty foine price you'll git for it there.'”
“Yes,” said Uncle Ike, “that's what the rich man will say. After cheating the poor, buncoing the credulous, and 'cornering' his fellows, he will say he is willing to give it back, for he has no further use for it. There's a good moral in that song, Mr. Sweeney, and some of our sordid millionaires ought to hear it.”
Quincy looked at his watch. “The hour is late—for the country, but, fortunately, our hotel keeps open all night.”
Quincy carried Uncle Ike up stairs to his room and told him he would come some day and have a good old-fashioned talk with him.
They walked home slowly, Maude admiring the moonlight night and the cool, scented air. When they reached their own room, after seeing Maude to hers, Alice repeated to her husband her conversation with Uncle Ike.
“You must do something to cheer him up, Quincy. Promise me, won't you?”
“Yes, I promise. I hope I won't forget to perform it as I have in one instance.”
“Why—what?”
“Do you remember that young man at the Town Hall—Arthur Scates? He's in consumption. I told him to come to the State House and I would see that he had proper treatment. He hasn't been—or perhaps he has since I've been away, but I will see him to-morrow.”
Alice looked up at him approvingly. “Quincy, I agree with you that the real value of money is found in the good that can be done with it.”
The next morning, after breakfast, Quincy asked his wife and Maude to accompany him to Mrs. Hawkins' barn.
“I wish I had my saddle horse here,” said Alice.
“So do I,” added Maude. “I did think of bringing him.”
Alice laughed, “Do you know, Maude, sometimes you say the most ridiculous things? How could you bring a horse with you?”
“Easy enough—on a cattle car. Besides, I could have ridden down here if Quincy hadn't been in such a hurry.”
“Alone?”
“No, with Bobby. What better protector can a woman have than a good horse? I shall never remain in danger long if my heels or my horse's will get me away from it.”
“Maude, you're a strange girl,” said Alice. Then she put her arm about her and added—“but one of the best girls in the world.”
By this time they had reached the barn. Two stalls were occupied. Quincy pointed to two side-saddles hanging on the wall.
“As I knew you were both good horse-women, I had these sent up with your riding habits from Eastborough Centre yesterday. I am going to be busy at the store this morning, and I thought you might enjoy a ride.”
Maude threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You are the bestest brother in the world.”
“And the most thoughtful husband,” said Alice as he drew her close to him.
“Well, I'll saddle them and see you mounted.”
A quarter of an hour later Quincy led the horses to the street.
“Don't go down Obed's Hill—it is very steep. Ride along Pettingill Street to the Centre Road, which will bring you to Mason Street, and when you've walked your horses up hill you'll be near the grocery store, where you'll find me.”
They waved a good-bye as they rode off, and Quincy made his way to the grocery store. Mr. Strout came from behind the counter to meet him. Hiram was busy putting order baskets in the gaudily painted wagon.
“I heard as how you were in town, and Hiram said you were at his house last night, but I ain't one of the kind that gits mad if I'm waited on last at table. In music you know we usually begin down low and finish off up high, and visitin' is considerable like music, especially when there's three children and one of 'em a baby.”
His closing words were intended to refer to Hiram's family, but Quincy made no reply.
Mr. Strout was never at a loss for words: “How do you like being Governor?”
“So well that one term is enough. I'm going to Europe later.”
“I mean to go some day. I've heard so many foreigners blow about what they've got over there, I'm kinder anxious to see for myself. If they've got a better grocery store than this, I'll introduce improvements as soon as I get back.”
Hiram having finished his work and dispatched the team, the three partners went into the private office, which was monopolized by Mr. Strout. It contained one desk and two chairs. Hiram brought in an empty nail keg and closed the door.
“We've done twenty per cent. more business this month than same time last year.” Mr. Strout opened a desk drawer. “Will you smoke, Guv'nor?”
Quincy accepted the cigar, and Strout, without offering one to Hiram, was returning the box to the drawer when Hiram, by a quick movement, gained possession of it, and taking out half-a-dozen put them in his pocket.
“That'll even matters up a little, I guess,” he said. Mr. Strout scowled, but catching Quincy's eye, said nothing.
“Would you like to look over the books? I'll have them brought in.”
“Don't trouble yourself to do that,” said Quincy. “I'll examine them at the bookkeeper's desk.”
“Oh, very well,” said Strout. “You'll find them O. K. But now's you're here there's one thing I want to say. Hiram don't agree with me, but he ain't progressive. There's nocrescendoto him. He wants to play in one key all the time. He's—”
Quincy interrupted, “What did you wish to say about the business? We'll drop personalities for the present, at least.”
“Well, our business is growing, but we can do ten times as much with more capital. What I want to do is to start branch stores in Cottonton, Montrose, and Eastborough Centre. We send our teams to all these places, but if we had stores there we'd soon cut the other fellers out, for buying in such large quantities, we could undersell them every time.”
“I'm rather in favour of the branches, but don't go to cutting prices. The other fellow has the same right to a living that we have.”
“Why not let him have what he's got then and not interfere with him?” said Mr. Strout, chewing his cigar vigorously.
“For the reason,” said Quincy, “that we don't keep store to please our competitors, but to serve the public. I believe in low prices in sugar, tea, and coffee, to draw trade. But general cuts in prices are ruinous in the end, for our competitors will cut too, and we shall all lose money.”
“I ain't agin the new stores,” said Hiram, “but I'm teetotally agin chopping prices down on everything and tryin' to beat the other feller.”
“How much money will it require?” asked Quincy. “Have you estimated on rent, fixtures, stock, horses and wagons, stabling, wages and salaries, and sundry expenses?”
“Yes, I've got it all down in black and white, it's in the safe. My estimate, and it is as close as the bark to a tree, is six thousand dollars spot cash.”
“I'll look over your figures,” said Quincy, “and if they seem all right, I'll advance the money on the usual terms, eight per cent., but I must have a four thousand dollar mortgage to cover your two-thirds, for I don't suppose you can put up two thousand apiece.”
“Not this year,” said Strout, as he proceeded to relight his cigar.
The door was thrown open violently and Alice rushed in.
“Oh, Quincy, Maude's horse has run away with her and I'm afraid she's thrown and perhaps killed. I tried to catch up with her but I could not, and I saw nothing else to do but to come and let you know.”
“Which way has she gone?” cried Quincy. “How did it happen?”
“We stopped at 'Zekiel's and had a talk with Huldah, who came down to the gate. Then we went on until we came to the Centre Road. When Maude saw the long straight stretch ahead she cried, 'Let's have a race!' Before I could remonstrate, she gave her horse a sharp cut with the whip. He took the bit in his teeth and bolted. I rode on as fast as I dared to, but when I reached Mason Street she was not in sight.”
“If she had come this way we should have seen or heard her,” said Quincy. “She must have gone towards Eastborough Centre. Come, Alice, I will get the carryall. If she is hurt she will not be able to ride her horse.”
Leading her horse, Quincy and Alice went to the Hawkins House.
“He takes it pretty cool,” said Strout to Hiram. “If she was my sister I'd ring the church hell, make up a party, and go in search of her dead body, for that's what they'll come back with.”
“I don't take no stock in that,” remarked Hiram. “She's used to horses, and she's a mighty bright, independent girl. She'll come home all right.”
“No doubt she's independent enough,” retorted Strout. “That runs in the family. But the horse, it seems, was independent too. Perhaps the Guv'nor will have a boxing match with him for his independence to a Sawyer.”
As Hiram went back into the store he said to himself: “That Strout's only a half-converted sinner anyway. He'll never forget the thrashing that Mr. Sawyer gave his man, Bob Wood.”
Quincy had Alice go to her room, for she was agitated and extremely nervous, and he asked Mrs. Hawkins to look out for her until his return.
With Andrew's help, the carryall was soon ready and Quincy drove to the store. What was his surprise to find Maude there, still on her horse, and apparently uninjured. With her, also on horseback was an attractive girl, a stranger to Quincy.
“I'm all right, Quincy,” Maude cried as he alighted, “but there would have been a funeral but for this young lady.”
Quincy, with hat in hand, bowed to the stranger. “I am deeply grateful for your valuable service, madam. To whom are we indebted for my sister's rescue from death?”
The young lady smiled, showing a set of even, white teeth. “Not so great a service after all. Your sister is a good horsewoman. If she hadn't been, she would have been thrown long before I reached her.”
“But your name, Madam,” persisted Quincy. “Her father will wish to know, and to thank you.”
“My name when in Fernborough is Mrs. Emmanuel Howe. When I'm on the stage, it is Dixie Schaffer. I was born in the South. My father was Col. Hugh Schaffer of Pasquotank County, North Carolina.”
“My father and all of us will feel under great obligations to you.”
“I hope he will not. I have no objections to receiving his thanks in writing, if he is disposed to send them, which I think unnecessary as you are his representative. But kindly caution him not to suggest or send any reward, for it will be returned.” She bowed to Quincy, turned her horse's head and rode away.
As Strout entered the store he said to himself, “Bully for her. She don't bow down to money. She's got brains.”
A few days later, however, Miss Dixie Schaffer was the recipient from the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer of a beautiful gold pendant in the shape of a horseshoe, set with pearls. If one could have glanced at a stub in the lawyer's check book, he would have found the name of a prominent jeweller, and the figures $300. It is needless to add that the gift was not returned to the donor. When Alice saw that Maude had escaped without injury, she soon recovered her equanimity.
“How did it happen, Maude?” asked Quincy. “Alice says you gave the horse a sharp blow.”
“I must have hit her harder than I intended—but I was thinking of the race more than of her. Didn't she run, hurrah-ti-cut, as Mrs. Hawkins says? I was bound I'd keep on her back unless she fell down or ran into something, and I did. I wasn't foolish enough to jump and land on my head.
“When we got to the main road, I didn't know which way to turn—I mean I couldn't think. She settled the matter by turning to the right, which was very fortunate, but I didn't know I was on the road to Dixie.”
“Maude, you're incorrigible,” laughed Alice.
“No, I'm a sensation. I was full of them as I dashed on. But she was a well-bred horse and kept in the middle of the road. Then, to my joy, I saw Dixie ahead. As I went by her I yelled—yes, yelled—'she's running away.'
“Dixie yelled—yes, yelled—'Hold on, I'll catch you.' She did, but we ran more than a mile before she got even with me, grasped my horse's bridle, and pulled her round so quickly that I came near landing in the bushes. And here I am.”
“You must not ride her again,” said Alice.
“That's just what I am going to do. I'm not going to deprive that horse of my company, when it was all my fault. No more whip, she needs only the voice—and little of that.”
“Alice,” said Quincy, “Mr. Strout has invited us to dinner. He will be offended unless his invitation is accepted.”
“I don't feel equal to meeting that man in his own house. I cannot bear him even at long range. Take Maude.”
“I'll go, Quincy. I love these odd characters.”
“He's married and has a little boy,” said Alice.
“Then my love for the father will be invisible—I'll shower my affection upon his offspring.”
Quincy, after introducing his sister to Mr. Strout and his wife, expressed his regret that his wife was so unnerved by the runaway that she was unable to accompany him. Mr. Strout, in turn, expressed his regrets, as did Mrs. Strout, then he added: “Miss Sawyer, we'll have to pay you a commission. The store has been full of folks asking about you, and after I told them all about the runaway and how you were rescued, they had to talk it over, and I sold more than forty cigars and ten plugs of tobacco.”
“How did you know how I was rescued?” asked Maude.
“Well, I heard part and imagined the rest. I had to tell 'em something or lose the trade.”
Mrs. Strout was a very good cook and the dinner was a success.
Strout leaned far back in his chair and Maude assumed a similar position. Quincy looked at her reprovingly, but she did not change her attitude. To her brother's astonishment, she addressed Mr. Strout.
“I suppose you have travelled a great deal, Mr. Strout.”
“Well, yes, I have. Since I got back from the war I've taught music, and as my pupils were too lazy to come to me, I went to them. But speaking of travelling, I was in a runaway once. It had been snowing for about four days without a break and the roads were blocked up. I had to go to Eastborough Centre and I hired a horse I'd never driven before.”
“Didn't you have to put snow-shoes on him?” asked Maude.
“Oh, no, because I waited until the roads were broken out.”
“That's one on me,” acknowledged Maude.
“Well, I nearly tipped over a dozen times, but I got to the Centre where the roads had been cleared. But my sleigh went into a gully and came down on the horse's heels. My, wasn't she off in a jiffy! I held her in the road, the men, and women, and children, and dogs and hens getting out of the way as fast as they could. She was a going lickety-split, and although I wasn't frightened, I decided she'd got to stop.
“I saw a house with an ell, and in the corner the snow was packed up ten feet high. I had an idea. I put all my strength on to one rein, turned her head, and she went into that snow bank out of sight, all but her tail. I got out of the sleigh, sat down on the snow, and laughed till I thought I'd die.”
“And the horse?” queried Maude.
“It took half an hour to dig her out. They say horses are intelligent, but I don't think they know any more than hens.”
“I thought hens were bright,” said Maude. “They say they hide their eggs so we can't poach and boil them.”
“Well, you can judge. When we moved into this house all the doors had glass knobs. I took them off, put them in a box and set them out in the barn. I saw a hen setting, but didn't notice her particularly until one day she got off the nest while I was in the barn, and true as I live, that fool hen had been trying to hatch out those knobs.”
“They said you have a little boy, Mr. Strout,” Maude looked at him inquiringly. “I hope he isn't sick.”
“No, he's all right. But we never let him come to the table when we have company, because he talks too much.”
“What's his name?”
“That's the funny part of it. My wife has lots of relations, and some wanted him named this, and some wanted him named that. So I went to the library and looked at all the names in the dictionary.”
Maude's curiosity was excited. “What did you finally decide upon?”
“Well, we haven't named him yet. We call him No. 3, I being No. 1, and my wife No. 2.”
After their guests had departed, Mrs. Strout asked, “Why didn't you tell Miss Sawyer that our boy's name was same as yours?”
“Why didn't I?” snapped her husband. “Because she was so blamed anxious for me to tell her. Them Sawyers are 'ristocrats. They look down on us common people.”
Mrs. Strout remonstrated. “I thought he was real nice, and she's a lovely girl. Besides, he set you up in business and made you postmaster.”
“And what did he do it for? Just to show the power of money. What did he want of a grocery store except to beat me out of it?”
“But you owned up in your speech at the Town Hall that you'd treated him mean, and that you were his friend.”
“That was official. Do you suppose he means all he says? No! No more than I do. When I get enough money, there won't be but one partner in that grocery store, and his name will be O. Strout.”
At the breakfast table next morning, Maude sat with her head bent over her plate. All were awaiting Olive's advent with the fruit.
“At your devotions, Maude?” asked Alice.
“Yes, I am thanking the Lord that my life was saved by a woman.Shecan't ask me to marry her.”
A trio of “good mornings” greeted the Rev. Mr. Gay as he entered and took his accustomed place at the head of the table. He bowed his head and asked a blessing.
“Why do you ask a blessing, Mr. Gay?”
Mr. Gay looked up, but there was no levity in Maude's eyes.
“It is our duty to thank the Almighty for his goodness in providing for our physical ends.”
“But,” said Maude, “with the exception of the fruit all our food is prepared by man. We couldn't eat it just as it grows.”
“God has given us the necessary intelligence to properly utilize his blessings.”
“But some people starve to death,” said Maude, forsaking the main argument.
“Unfortunately, yes, owing to man's lack of brotherly feeling, or rather, a hap-hazard method of distributing his blessings. It is not God's will that any of his creatures should lack food or raiment.”
“Do you really believe, Mr. Gay, that God takes a personal interest in us? That he sent Mrs. Howe yesterday to save my life?”
“I certainly do, Miss Sawyer.”
“I can't understand it,” said Maude. “I looked upon it simply as a lucky coincidence. But supposing the horse had turned to the left, and stopped of his own accord when he reached that steep hill. What would that prove?”
Quincy and Alice who had listened to the discussion, looked at the clergyman, who hesitated before answering. At last, a smile lighted up his face and he replied: “It would prove that, in that particular case, you did not need the intervention of Heavenly power.”
“I'm not convinced yet,” said Maude. “I am coming to hear you preach to-morrow. Do make it plain to me, please.”
“With God's help, I will try to,” the clergyman answered.
Quincy passed the morning at the grocery, making arrangements for the establishment of the branch stores, Mr. Strout's plans being approved with some material modifications. Strout told his wife that Mr. Sawyer had fixed it so he couldn't get control of the business, but that he would put a flea in his ear some fine day.
“I can't see through it,” said Bessie Strout. “Why have your feelings towards Mr. Sawyer changed so? I think he is a perfect gentleman.”
“So he is. So am I. But we grew on different bushes.” Feeling that he did not wish to confess that jealousy of others' attainments was the real foundation of his hostility, Mr. Strout took his departure. Two hours later Mrs. Strout was delighted at receiving a call from Miss Maude Sawyer and the Governor's wife.
Quincy wished to have a talk with 'Zekiel about Uncle Ike, so he walked over to the old Putnam house. He had asked his wife to accompany him, but she declined.
“That house gives me the shivers,” she had said. “I never can forget the ordeal I went through the day that Aunt Heppy died. I gave the house to 'Zekiel because I never could have lived in it. Maude and I are going to call on Mrs. Strout.”
Quincy found 'Zekiel in the barn, and broached the matter on his mind at once.
“I'm glad you spoke of it,” said 'Zekiel. “I was over to Mandy's yesterday and Uncle Ike wants to come and live with us. Not that he's dissatisfied where he is, for he likes Mandy and the children, and they do everything to make him comfortable—but it's the stairs. He wants to eat with the others; he says he feels like a prisoner cooped up in one room. We have a spare room on the ground floor that old Silas Putnam used to sleep in. I'm only afraid of one thing—'twill be too much care for Huldah. If I could get some one to help her with the work, she'd be glad and willing to look after Uncle Ike.” “We must find some way out of it,” said Quincy, as they parted.
His next visit was to the home of Arthur Scates. He found the young man in bed and in a very weak condition.
“He's had two o' them bleedin' spells,” said his grandmother, “an' las' night I thought sure he was a goner. But I giv him some speerits of ammony and he perked up a little. Yer see, Mr. Sawyer, we're poor, an' it's no use tryin' to cover it up, an' I can't give Arthur the kind of vittles he ought to have. He wants nourishin' things an'”—The old lady's feelings overcame her and she began to cry. “I'm ashamed of myself, but I can't help it. He's my only son's boy, and he's an orphan, an' wuss. I'm sixty years old, but I can do a day's work with any of the young ones, but I can't leave him alone. I should have a conniption fit if I did.”
Quincy thought it advisable to allow the old lady to have her say out before replying.
“Mrs. Scates, I think there are brighter days coming for you.”
“The Lord knows I have prayed hard enough for 'em.” Quincy spoke to Arthur. “I expected to see you in Boston, but I suppose you were in too poor health to come.”
“Tell him the whole truth, Arthur,” said his grandmother—“his health was too poor an' we hadn't any money.”
“Arthur,” said Quincy, “I am going to find a home for you in a sanatorium where you will have the treatment you need and the proper food to build you up. One of these days, if you can repay me, well and good. If not, I can afford to give it. Your voice may make your fortune some day. And, now, Mrs. Scates, I've got some work for you. Mrs. 'Zekiel Pettingill—”
“She that was Huldy Mason,” broke in Mrs. Scates, “she was just the nicest girl in town.”
“Yes,” assented Quincy, “she's going to have an addition to her family—”
“You don't say,” again interrupted Mrs. Scates. “Well, I've nussed a good many—”
“You misunderstand me,” said Quincy quickly. “Her Uncle Ike is coming to live with her, and she needs assistance in her work. You must go and see her at once.”
While she was gone, Quincy explained to Arthur the nature of his coming treatment; how he would have to virtually live out of doors daytimes and sleep with windows and doors open at night. “I will see that you have good warm clothes. I will pay for your board and treatment for a year, and give you money for such things as you may need.”
“I'll try hard to get well so I can repay you,” said Arthur.
“She says she'll take me,” cried Mrs. Scates, as she entered the room—“just as soon as I can come, and here's a big basket of apples and peaches, she sent you, and—” the poor woman was quite out of breath. “I met that minister, Mr. Gay, and he said he was coming up to see you, Arthur.”
“Did you ever go to Mr. Gay's church?” Quincy asked Mrs. Scates.
“Jus' onct, and that was enough. He'll have to leave here sooner or later.”
“What for?”
“Why, he don't believe in no divil—an' ye can't make folks good unless they knows there's a divil.”
Quincy recalled the story of the Scotch woman, a stern Presbyterian, who thought if ten thousand were saved at the final judgment that it would be “muckle many,” and who, when asked if she expected to be one of the elect, replied “Sartainly.” He felt that a theological discussion with Grandma Scates would end in his discomfiture and he wisely refrained.
Quincy reached Mandy Maxwell's just in time for dinner, and, at his request, it was served in Uncle Ike's room.
“This is more cheerful,” said he to Quincy. “I once thought that being alone was the height of enjoyment—and I did enjoy myself very selfishly for a good many years. Has Alice told you of our conversation?”
Quincy nodded.
“I've been thinking about it since and I decided my first move would be to live, if I could, with my own flesh and blood. But while they've got a down-stairs room, it will be too much work for Huldah.”
“That's provided for,” said Quincy. “Mrs. Scates is going to help Huldah.”
“What's to become of her grandson—he's consumptive they tell me.”
“He's going to a sanatorium to get cured.”
“And you are going to pay the bills?”
Quincy nodded again.
“I get a lesson very often. You are using your money to help others, while I've hoarded mine.”
Quincy looked at the speaker inquiringly. Alice had given him to understand that her uncle had used his income for himself.
“I know what you're thinking, Mr. Sawyer. I did tell Alice I had an annuity, but I haven't spent one-tenth of what's coming to me. I arranged to have it put in a savings bank, and I've drawn just as little as I could and get along. I bought a fifty thousand dollar annuity at sixty. I got nine per cent, on my money, besides the savings bank interest. As near as I can figure it out I'm worth about two hundred thousand dollars. I've beat the insurance company bad, and I ain't dead yet. I have all this money, but what good has it done anybody?”
“It can do good in the future, Uncle.”
“I want to leave something to Mandy's boys—not too much—for I'm afraid they'd squander it, and become do-nothings. What shall I do with it?”
“Do you wish me to suggest a public use for your fortune?”
“That's what I've been telling you about it for. You've a good knack of disposing of your own and other folks' money, and I thought you could help me out.”
Quincy did not speak for some time. Finally he said, “Uncle Ike, the Town Hall in Fernborough is but one mile from the centre of the city of Cottonton. That city is peopled, principally, with low-paid cotton mill operatives. Their employers, as a rule, are more intent on dividends than the moral or physical condition of their help. Accidents are common in the mills, many are broken down in health by overwork, and those who become mothers are forced by necessity to resume work in the mills before their strength is restored.”
Uncle Ike shut his teeth with a snap. “That's worse than hoarding money as I've done. Mine may, as you say, do good in the future, but theirs is degrading human beings at the present. I wish I could do something for them, especially the mothers. It's a shametheyhave to suffer.”
“You can do something, Uncle Ike. My suggestion is, that you leave the bulk of your fortune to build a hospital in Fernborough, but provide in your will that the mill operatives of Cottonton, or all its poorer inhabitants, if you so wish it, shall be entitled to free treatment therein.”
“I'll do it,” cried Uncle Ike. “As soon as I get settled at 'Zeke's, I'll send for Squire Rundlett to come and make out my will. You've taken a big load off my mind, Mr. Sawyer.”
As Quincy was mounting Obed's Hill slowly, for it was very steep, he thought to himself—“Getting Uncle Ike to do something practical towards helping others was much better than talking theoretical religion to him.”
When he reached the Hawkins House, Andrew was getting ready to drive to Cottonton to meet the three o'clock express from Boston.
“There's a friend of ours coming down on that train, Andrew—a young man named Merry.” He took out his note book, wrote a few lines, and passed the slip with some money to Andrew.
“You get that—have it covered up so no one can see what it is, and leave it in the barn when you get back.”
Quincy told his wife about Arthur Scates and Uncle Ike.
“I'm going to take Uncle Ike to Mr. Gay's church to-morrow,” he added, “but I didn't say anything about it to-day. I'm not going to give him time to invent excuses.”
Maude did not conceal her pleasure at meeting Harry again. She was a companionable girl, and Mr. Merry was too sensible to think, because a young lady was sociable, that it was any indication that she was falling in love with him.
“Are you going riding this evening, Alice?” Quincy walked to the window. “The sunset is just glorious. There's a purple cloud in the west, the edges of which is bordered with gold. There are rifts in it, through which the sun shows—and now, come quickly, Alice, the sun, a ball of fire, has just sunk below the cloud which seems resting upon it.”
When they turned away from the window, Alice said:
“I don't think I will ride any more. Maude must take the horse I had—he is so gentle. What a pity Mr. Merry cannot go with her for a ride.”
“He can. I sent Andrew for a saddle for him to use.”
“Quincy, you are the most thoughtful man in the world.”
In less than half an hour Maude, with Harry riding the mare, were on their way towards the Centre Road. When they returned, an hour later, there had been no runaway, unless Harry's heart had undergone one. Maude's countenance did not, however, indicate that she had participated in any rescue.
The influx of mill operatives and mechanics from Cottonton in search of a breathing place after a hard day's work, had led to the building up of the territory north of Pettingill Street and east of Montrose Avenue. This fact had led to the erection of the Rev. Mr. Gay's church in the extreme northern part of the town, but near to both Montrose town and Cottonton city.
“We are all coming to your church this morning, Mr. Gay,” said Quincy at breakfast.
“I shall be glad to see you, but you must not expect a city service. The majority, in fact all, of my parishioners are common people, and I use plain language to them.”
“I think simplicity in devotional exercises much more effective than an ornate service,” said Alice.
“Do you have a choir?” asked Maude.
“We can't afford one, but we have good congregational singing.”
“I'm glad of that,” said Maude. “I hate these paid choirs with their names and portraits in the Sunday papers.”
“I shall take the carryall and go for Uncle Ike. It is a beautiful morning and you will all enjoy the walk,” Quincy added.
Uncle Ike, at first, gave a decided negative. “I haven't been inside a church for many a year and it's too late to begin now.”
“That's no argument at all,” said Quincy. “But my principal reason for wishing you to go is so you can see the people that your hospital is going to benefit one of these days.”
“But these preachers use such highfalutin' language, and so many 'firstlies' and 'secondlies' I lose my hold on the text.”
“Mr. Gay is a common, everyday sort of man, does not pose when out of his pulpit, and never talks over the heads of his audience.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I sit with him at table, and I've studied him. Then he told us not to expect a city sermon for he used simple language, and they have congregational singing.”
“Well, I'll go—this once,” said Uncle Ike, and Quincy assisted him in making his preparations. On their way to the church they passed two couples—Alice and Mrs. Hawkins, and Maude and Mr. Merry. Mr. Jonas Hawkins could not leave home for he was afraid the cats would carry off his last brood of chickens. Some fifty had been hatched out, but only a dozen had survived the hot weather, heavy rains, and the many diseases prevalent among chickens.
When Mr. Gay arose to give out the first hymn, Maude said to Mr. Merry, “Why, he looks like a different man. His red hair is a beautiful brown.”
“It's the light from the coloured glass windows,” commented Mr. Merry.
“Then it must be the curtains in Mrs. Hawkins' dining room that colour his hair at home,” retorted Maude.
How grandly rose the volume of tone from scores of throats! Even Uncle Ike's quavering voice joined in.
“All hail the power of Jesus' name,Let nations prostrate fall;Bring forth the royal diadem,And crown Him Lord of all.”
The organ creaked and wheezed somewhat, but so many fresh, young voices softened its discordant tones.
A short prayer, and Mr. Gay began his sermon, if such it can be called.
“MY BRETHREN: My text, to-day is, 'The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.' All nations have a God, even if all the people do not believe in him. The majority in each nation does believe in a God. Are those who do not believe all fools? Unhappily, no. There are many highly educated men and women who deny the existence of God. They claim man is a part of Nature, and Nature is all. They forget the poet who wrote
“'Man is but part of a stupendous whole,Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.'
“Remember, God is the Soul. Each of you has a soul, a spark of the Divinity.
“I can best support my argument by a story—a true one.
“I once knew a young man whom we will call Richard. He had a well-to-do father and was sent to college. When he graduated, his father, a pious man, wished him to study for the ministry. He objected, saying his health was poor. He wished to go into the mountains, he lived in the West, and his father consented.
“He drifted into a mining camp and whatever regard he may have had for religion, soon disappeared. He was not a fool, but, in his heart, he said there was no God.
“With another young man, whom we will call Thomas, he formed a partnership, and they went prospecting for gold,—gold that the God whom they would not acknowledge had placed in the earth.
“They were attacked by Indians and Thomas was killed. Richard was obliged to flee for his life. His food was soon exhausted, he had no water, he had no God to whom he could pray for help.
“He came to a hole in the ground, near a foothill. He got upon his knees and looked down—yes, there was water—not much, but enough for his needs—but it was beyond his reach. He leaned over the edge to gaze upon the life-giving fluid that God has given us, and his hat fell into the well. In his hat was his gold-dust—his fortune—so useless to him then. He forgot his thirst for water in his thirst for gold.
“There was a stout branch of a tree near by. He placed it across the top of the hole. He would drop down into the well, and recover his hat, get a drink of water and draw himself up again. The well did not seem more than six feet deep, and with his arms extended he could easily reach the branch and draw himself up to safety. He dropped into the well, found his hat with its precious gold, drank some of the muddy water which, really, was then more precious to him than the metal, and looked up. He extended his arms but they fell short some six feet of reaching the branch. He had under-estimated the depth of the well—it was fifteen instead of six feet.
“He would clamber up the sides, he would cut steps with his knife and make a ladder. The earth was soft, and crumbled beneath his weight. That mode of escape was impossible. He was a prisoner in a hole with only muddy water to sustain life for a short time, and no prospect of escape.
“Night came on. He looked up at the stars. They seemed no farther away than the top of the well.
“When a child he had been taught to say 'Our Father who art in Heaven,' Did he have a Father in Heaven? Was Heaven where those stars were? Was that Father in Heaven the Being that folks called God?
“He fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke the stars were still shining, but no nearer than before.
“In his loneliness, in his despair, he cried, 'Oh, God, help me!' He covered his face with his hands and wept. He had forsaken the belief of a lifetime. He had acknowledged that there was a God!
“There was a rustling sound above him, and a heavy body fell to the bottom of the well. Some wild animal! He was unarmed with the exception of his hunting-knife. That was slight protection against a savage beast, but he would defend himself to the last.
“He listened. The animal, whatever it was, was breathing, but it did not move. Perhaps it was stunned by the fall, but would soon revive. He would kill it. A few firm blows and the beast was dead. It did not breathe. Its body was losing its warmth. He was safe from that danger.
“He slept again. When he awoke the sun was high. Beside him was the dead body of a mountain lion.
“He drank some more of the muddy water. He was so hungry. Was there no means of escape? Must he die there with that dead lion for a companion?
“He had an inspiration. With his knife he cut the lion's hide into strips. He tied these together until he had a rope. He threw it over the branch and drew himself up. The Earth looked so bright and cheerful. He threw himself upon his knees and thanked God for his deliverance. He was an educated 'fool' no longer. He had found God in that pool of muddy water, and God had sent a lion to deliver him.
“How do I know that the story I have told you is true? Richard returned to his father's home. He went back to college and entered the divinity school. He became a clergyman, and he has preached to you, to-day, from the text, 'The Fool hath said in his heart that there is no God!'”