"Other refuge have I none,Hangs my helpless soul on Thee:Leave, ah! leave me not alone,Still support and comfort me;All my trust on Thee is stayed;All my help from Thee I bring;Cover my defenceless headWith the shadow of Thy wing."
Then the hymn changed—hope displaced hopelessness, faith surmounted fear.
"Plenteous grace with Thee is found,Grace to cleanse from every sin;Let the healing streams abound,Make and keep me pure within;Thou of life the fountain art,Freely let me take of Thee:Spring Thou up within my heart,Rise to all eternity."
The people in that rose-scented church heard the old hymn sung as they had never heard it sung before. A subdued hum of approval swept over the church as the girl sat down. She felt that she had sung well; her heart was in a tumult of happiness. She was glad when one man rose and lifted his hands in benediction.
Again the organ throbbed with glad melodies. The eager crowd fell into line and walked slowly to the altar to lay their roses there. Children with half withered blossoms, maidens with bunches of crimson flowers, here and there a stranger with gorgeous hot-house roses, older men and women with the products of the gardens of the little town—all moved to the spot where lay a bank of fragrant roses and placed their tributes there.
Phœbe added her roses to the others on the altar and left the church. Friends and acquaintances stopped to tell her how well she sang. But the words that one short year ago would have filled her with overwhelming pride in her own talent were soon crowded from her thoughts and there reigned there the words of thespeaker, "No man has reached true greatness save he serves." She had learned great things at that Feast of Roses service. She had looked deep into her own heart and on its throne she had found David.
He was waiting for her outside the church.
"You sang fine, Phœbe," he told her as they went down the street together.
"Yes? I'm glad you liked it."
Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of the thoughts lying deepest in the heart of each.
Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phœbe reached home.
"Well," greeted the aunt, "did you come once! We thought that Feast of Roses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long and supper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?"
"Yes," the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chair to the table.
"Now," cautioned the aunt, "put your apron on! That light goods in your dress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spill red-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled."
"I forgot." Phœbe took a blue gingham apron from a hook behind the kitchen door. "There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug."
"Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high since the war!"
"Tell me about the Feast of Roses," said the father. "Was the church full?"
"Packed! It was a beautiful service."
"Well," spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people. Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it? It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess she's glad it's over for another year."
David Ebyhad spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh country air.
"Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for me!"
Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle.
"Here, David, I'm on the porch," came his mother's voice.
"Mommie," he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd be looking for me."
Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother sob. "Oh, mother," he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Or are you only glad to see me?"
"Glad," she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench, Davie."
"Why—I didn't notice it first—you're wearing dark glasses again! Are your eyes worse?"
"Sit down, Davie, sit down," she said nervously. "That's right," she added as he sat beside her and put one arm about her.
"Now tell me," he said imperiously. "Are you sure you're all right? You're not worrying about me?"
"No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I must tell you—I wish I didn't have to—don't be scared—it's just about my eyes."
"Tell me! Are they worse?"
She laid her hand on his knees. "Don't get excited—but—I can't see."
"Can't see!" He repeated the words as though he could not understand them. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face in the semi-darkness of the porch. "Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?"
She nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, it's come. I'm blind."
The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder in his ears. "Mother," he cried again, "you can't be blind!"
"But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day. I could hardly see your face this morning when you went."
"And I went away and you stayed here and went blind!" He broke into sobs and she allowed him to cry it out as they sat together in the darkness.
"Come," she said at length, "now you mustn't takeon so. It's not as awful as you think. I said to Phares to-day that I'm almost glad it's here, for it was awful to know it's coming."
"But it's awful," he shuddered. "Come in to the light and let me see you—but oh, you can't see me!"
"Yes I can." She reached a hand to his face. "This is the way I see you now. The same mouth and chin, the same mole on your left cheek—that's good luck, Davie—the same nose with its little turn-up."
"Mommie"—he grabbed her hands and kissed them—"there's not another like you in the whole world! If I were blind I'd be groaning and moaning and making life miserable for everybody near me, and here you are your same cheerful self. You're the bravest of 'em all!"
"But you mustn't think that I haven't rebelled against this, that I haven't cried out against it! I've had my hours of weakness and tears and rebellion."
"And I never knew it."
"No. Each one goes to Gethsemane alone."
"But isn't it almost more than you can bear—to be blind?"
"It's dreadful at first. I stumble so and every little sill and rug seems a foot high. But I'll soon learn."
"Is there nothing to do? What did Dr. Munster say about your eyes when we were down to see him?"
"He told me then I'd be blind soon. And he said the only thing might save my sight or bring it back was a delicate operation that would be a big risk, for itprobably wouldn't help at any rate. So I'm not thinking of ever trying that. Now I don't want you to think I'm brave about it. I've cried all my tears a month ago, so don't put me on any pedestal. It seems hard not to see the people I love and all the beautiful things around me, but I'm glad I have the memory of them. I'm glad I know what a rainbow is, and a sunset."
"Yes, but I think it's awful to know what they look like and never see them again. I can't, just can't, realize that you're blind!"
"You will when you come back from war and have to fetch and carry for me. Your Aunt Mary and Phares are just lovely about it and willing to help in every way. I was going to live over with them at any rate."
"I wish I could stay with you, mommie. You need me, but I guess Uncle Sam needs me too. I'm to go soon, you know."
"You go, even if I am blind. I'm not helpless. It will be awkward for a while but there are many things I can do. I can knit without seeing."
"You're a wonder! But is there no hope?"
"Hope," she repeated softly. "No hope of the kind you mean, except that very severe operation that would cost big money and then perhaps not help. But this world isn't all. I've always liked that part of Isaiah, 'The eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing.' I know now what it'll mean to us. Itseems like the afflicted will have a special joy in that time."
David was silent for a moment; his mother's words stirred in him emotions too great for ready words.
Presently she continued, "But, Davie, this isn't heaven yet! And I'm concerned just now about helping myself to live the rest of this life the best way I can. I can knit like a machine and I like to knit socks——"
The remainder was left unsaid for the strong arms of her boy surrounded her and held her close while his lips were pressed upon her forehead.
"Such a mother," he breathed, as if the touch of her forehead bestowed a benediction upon him. "Such a mother!"
In the morning he brought the news to the Metz farmhouse.
"Blind?" Phœbe cried.
David nodded.
"Blind! Mother Bab blind? Oh, it's too awful!"
"My goodness," Aunt Maria said with genuine sorrow, "now that's too bad! Her blind and you goin' off to war soon!"
"I'm going up to see her," said Phœbe, and went off with David.
Mother Bab heard the girl's step and called gaily, "Phœbe, is that you? I declare, it sounds like you!"
Phœbe ran to the room where Mother Bab sat alone. The girl could not speak at first; she twined her arms about the woman while her heart ached with its poignant grief. Again it was the afflicted one who turnedcomforter. "Come, Phœbe, you mustn't cry for me. Laugh like you always did when you came to see me."
"Laugh! Oh, Mother Bab, I can't laugh!"
"But, Phœbe, I'll want you to come up to see me every day when you can and you surely can't cry every time and be sad, so you might as well begin now to be cheerful."
"But, Mother Bab, can't something be done?"
"Dr. Munster, the big doctor I saw in Philadelphia, said that only a big operation might help me, but he's not sure that even it would do any good. And, of course, we have no money for it and at my age it doesn't matter so much."
Later, as Phœbe walked down the hill again, she kept revolving in her mind what Mother Bab had said about the operation. An inspiration suddenly flashed to her. The wonder of it made her stand still in the road.
"I know! I'll buy sight for Mother Bab! I will! I must! If it's only money that's necessary, if there's any wonderful doctor can operate on her eyes and make her see again she's going to see! Oh, glory! What a happy thought! I'm the happiest girl since that idea came to me! The money I meant to spend on more music lessons next winter will be put to better use; it will give Mother Bab a chance to see again! Why, I'd rather have herseethan be able to call myself the greatest singer in the world! But she'll never let me spend so much money for her. I know that. I'll have to make her believe the operation will be free. I can fool her in that, dear, innocent, trusting MotherBab! She'd believe me against half the world. But I'm afraid I can't fool David so easily. I must wait till he goes, then I'll write to Dr. Munster and start things going!"
Phœbewas glad when David came to her with the news that he had been accepted for the navy and was going to Norfolk.
"That's so far away he won't come home soon," she thought. "It'll give me a chance to arrange for the operation. I hope he goes soon. That's a dreadful thing to say! The days are all too short for Mother Bab, I know."
If the days seemed Mercury-shod to the blind mother she did not complain.
"It's hard to let you go," she said to her boy, "but it would be harder to see you a slacker. Phœbe is going to read to me now when you go. She'll be up here often."
"Yes, that makes it easier for me to go, mommie."
"Don't you worry about me. Phœbe will be good company for me and she'll write my letters for me. We'll send you so many you'll be busy reading them."
"I'm going to make her promise that," he declared with a laugh.
He exacted the promise as Mother Bab and Phœbe stood with him and waited for the train to carry him away. "Mother, you and Phœbe must take me to thetrain," he had said. "I want you to be the last picture I see as the train pulls out." Phœbe had assented, though she thought ruefully of the deficiency of the English language, which has but one form for singularyouand pluralyou. She wondered whether he included her in the picture he wanted to cherish in his memory. Now, when he was going away from her she knew that she loved her old playmate, that he was the one man in the world for her. She loved David, she would always love him! She wanted to run to him and tell him so, but centuries of restriction had bequeathed to her the universal fear of womanhood to reveal a love that has not been sought. She felt that in all her life she had never wanted anything so keenly as she wanted to hear David Eby tell her that he loved her, that her face would be with him in whatever circumstances the future should place him. But David could not read the heart of his old playmate, and while his own heart cried out for its mate his words were commonplace.
"Mother has promised that I'm to have so many letters that I can't read them all. As you're to be private secretary, you'll have to promise to carry out her promise."
"David," she met him with equal jest, "you have as many promises in that sentence as a candidate for political office."
"But I want them better kept than that," he said, laughing. "Will you promise, Phœbe?"
"Promise what?" she asked, the levity fading suddenly.
"To write often for mother."
"Yes—I promise to write often for Mother Bab," she said, and the man could not know the effort the simple words cost her. "Oh, Davie," she thought, "it's not for Mother Bab alone I want to write to you! I want to write youmyletters, letters of a girl to the man she loves. How blind you are!"
The moment was becoming tense. It was Mother Bab who turned the tide into a normal channel. "Now, don't you worry, Davie. I can make Phœbe mind me."
The train whistled. Phœbe drew a long breath and prayed that the train would make a short stop and speed along for she could not endure much more. She looked at Mother Bab. The hysteria was turned from her. She knew she would have to be brave for the sake of the dear mother.
"I'll take care of Mother Bab, David," she promised as the train drew in, "and I'll write often."
"Phœbe, you're an angel!" He grasped both hands in his for a long moment. Then he turned to his mother, folded her in his arms and kissed her.
"There he is," Phœbe cried as the train moved. She was eyes for Mother Bab. "Turn to the right a bit and wave; that's it! He's waving back—— Oh, Mother Bab, he's waving that box of sand-tarts Aunt Maria gave him! They'll be in pieces!"
"Sand-tarts," said the other, still waving to the boy she could not see. "Well, he'll eat them if they are broken. Davie is crazy for cookies."
"I'm going to need you more than ever now, Phœbe," Mother Bab said as they started home."Aunt Mary and Phares are so busy and I feel it's so lovely of them to have me there when I can do so little to help, that I don't want to make them more trouble than I must. So if you'll take care of the writing to David for me I'll be glad." Ah, blind Mother Bab, you had splendid vision just then!
"I'll write for you. I'll love to do it. Mother Bab——" She hesitated. Should she broach the subject of the operation now? Perhaps it would be kind to divert the thoughts of the mother from the recent parting. "Mother Bab, I've thought about what you said, and I think you should have that operation. The doctor said there was a chance."
"Ach, a very slim one. One chance in—I don't know how many!"
"But a chance!"
"Yes"—the woman thought a moment—"but it would cost lots of money, I guess. I didn't ask the doctor, but I know operations are dear. I have fifty dollars saved, but that wouldn't go far."
"But don't you know," the girl said guilelessly, "that all big hospitals have free rooms and do lots of work for nothing? Many rich people endow rooms in hospitals. If you could get into one like that and pay just a little, would you go?"
A light seemed to settle upon the face of the blind woman. "Why," she answered slowly, "why, Phœbe, I never thought of that! I didn't remember—why, I guess I would—yes, of course! I'd go and make a fight for that one chance!"
"I knew you'd be brave! You'll have that operation, Mother Bab! I'll write to Dr. Munster right away. But don't you let Phares write and tell David. We'll surprise him!"
"Ach, but won't he be glad if I can see when he comes home!"
"Won't he though! I'll make all the arrangements; don't you worry about it at all."
"My, you're good to me, Phœbe!"
"Good—after all you've done for me!"
"Good," she thought after Mother Bab had been left at the home of Phares and Phœbe turned homeward. "She calls me good the first time I deceive her. I've begun that tangled web and I know I'll have to tell a whole pack of lies before I'm through with it."
Phœbelost no time in carrying out her plans. When she mentionedtheoperation to Phares Eby he looked dubious.
"I'm afraid it's no use," he said gravely. "Those operations very often fail."
"But there's a chance, Phares! If it were your eyes wouldn't you snatch at any meagre chance?"
"Why, I guess I would," he admitted, wondering at her insight into human nature and admiring her devotion to the blind woman.
Aunt Maria also was sceptical. "Ach, Phœbe, it vonders me now that Barb'll spend all that money for carfare and to stay in the city and then mebbe it's all for nothin'. There was old Bevy Way and a lot of old people I knowed went blind and they died blind. When abody gets so old once it seems the doctors can't do much. I guess it just is to be."
"Oh, Aunt Maria," Phœbe said hotly, "I don't believe in that is-to-be business! Not until you've done all you can to make things better."
"Well, mebbe, for all, it's worth tryin'. I guess if it was my eyes I'd do most anything to get 'em fixed again."
Mother Bab said little about the hopes Phœbe hadraised, but the girl knew how the woman built upon having sight for a glad surprise for David.
"I'm afraid the fifty dollars won't reach," she said the day before they were to take the trip to Philadelphia.
"Don't worry about that. Those big doctors usually have hearts to match. I told you there are generous people who give lots of money to hospitals."
"And I guess the hospitals pay the doctors then," offered the woman.
"I guess so," Phœbe agreed. Her conscience smote her for the deception she was practicing on the dear white-capped woman. "But what's the use of straining at every little gnat of a falsehood," she thought, "when I'm swallowing camels wholesale?"
She managed to secure a short interview with Dr. Munster before the examination of Mother Bab's eyes.
"I want to ask you what the operation is going to cost, hospital charges and all," she said frankly.
"At least five hundred dollars."
Phœbe's year in the city had taught her many things. She showed no surprise at the amount named. "That will be satisfactory, Dr. Munster. But I want to ask you, please don't tell Moth—Mrs. Eby anything about it. I—it's to be paid by a friend. I know Mrs. Eby would almost faint if she knew so much money was going to be spent for her. She knows that many hospitals have free rooms and thinks some operations are free. I left her under that impression. You understand?"
The big doctor understood. "Yes, I see. Well,we'll run this one chance to cover and make a fight. I wish I could promise more," he said.
"Thank you. I know you'll succeed. I'm sure she'll see again!"
True to his promise Dr. Munster answered Mother Bab so tactfully that she came out of his office feeling that "the physician is the flower of our civilization, that cheerfulness and generosity are a part of his virtues."
The optimism in Phœbe's heart tinged the blind woman's with its cheery faith. "I figure it this way," the girl said; "we'll do all we can and then if we fail there's time enough to be resigned and say it's God's will."
"Phœbe, you're a wonderful girl! Your name meansshining, and that just suits you. You're doing so much for me. Why, you didn't even want to let me pay your carfare down here!"
The girl winced again. "I must learn to wince without showing it," she thought, "for after she sees she'll keep saying such things and I can't spoil it all by letting her know the truth."
Perhaps the optimistic words of Phœbe rang in the ears of the big doctor as he bent over Mother Bab's sightless eyes and began the tedious operation. His hands moved skilfully, with infinite precision, cutting to the infinitesimal fraction of an inch.
Afterward, when Mother Bab had been taken away, he sought Phœbe. "I hope," he said, "that your faith was not unwarranted, though I can't promise anything yet."
"Oh, I'm surer now than ever!" the girl said happily.
But at times, in the days of waiting, her heart ached. What if the operation had failed, what if Mother Bab would have to bear cruel disappointment? All the natural buoyancy of the girl's nature was required to bear her through the trying days of waiting. With the dawning of the day upon which the bandage should be removed and the truth known Phœbe's excitement could not be restrained.
"I can't wait!" she exclaimed. "I want to be right there when he takes it off. I want you to see me first, since David isn't here."
Long after that day it seemed to her that she could hear Mother Bab's glad, sweet voice saying, "I can see!"
"I can see!" The words were electric in their effect. Phœbe gave an ecstatic "Oh!" then hushed as her lips trembled.
"You win," the big doctor said to her.
"Oh, no, not I! You! But I knew she'd see again!"
"She sees again, but," he cautioned, "Mrs. Eby, there must be no reading or sewing or any close work to strain your eyes."
"Oh, doctor, it's enough just to see again! I can do without the reading and writing, for Phœbe, here, does all that for me. And I'll not miss the sewing. I'm glad I can potter around the garden again and plant flowers andseethem and"—her voice broke—"I think it's wonderful there are men like you in the world!"
Thenews of the operation spread quickly and with it spread the interesting information that Mother Bab was keeping her sight as a surprise for David. So it happened that no letters to him contained the news, that even the town paper refrained from printing the item of heart interest and David's surprise was unspoiled.
His letters to Mother Bab were long and interesting and always required frequent re-reading for the mother.
"I wanted to read that letter awful bad," she confessed to Phœbe one day, "but I didn't. I'm not taking any chances with my eyes. I'm too glad to be able to see at all. The letter came this morning and Phares read it for me, but I want to hear it again. Will you read it, Phœbe? Did David write to you this week yet?"
"No." The girl felt the color surging to her cheeks. "He doesn't write to me very often. He knows I read your letters."
"Ach, yes. I guess he's busy, too. It's a big change for him to be learning to be a sailor when he always had his feet on dry land. But read the letter; it's a nice big one."
Phœbe's clear laughter joined Mother Bab's at one paragraph: "Do you remember the blue sailor suits you used to make for me when I was a tiny chap? And once you made me a real tam and I was proud as a peacock in it. Well, since I'm here and wearing a sailor suit I feel like a masculine edition of Alice in Wonderland when she felt herself growing bigger and bigger and I wonder sometimes if I'll shrink back again and be just that little boy."
Another portion of the letter set Phœbe's voice trembling as she read, "I must tell you again, mother, how thankful I am that you made it so much easier for me to go than I dreamed it could be. You are so fine about it. With a mother as plucky as you I can't very well be a jelly-fish. It's great to have a mother one has to reach high to live up to."
"Just like David," said Phœbe as she laid the letter aside. "Of course I think war is dreadful, but the training is going to do wonders for many of the men."
"Yes," said the white-capped woman. "Out of it some good will come. Selfishness is going to be erased clean from the souls of many people by the time war is over."
"But we must pay a big price for all we gain from it."
"Yes—I wonder—I guess Davie will be going over soon. He said, you know, that if we don't hear from him for a while not to worry. I guess that means he thinks he'll be going over."
When, at length, news came from the other side it was Phœbe who was the bringer of the tidings.
"Oh, Mother Bab," she cried breathlessly one day in autumn as she ran back from the gate after a visit from the postman, "it's a letter from France!"
Phares Eby and his mother ran at the news and the four stood, an eager group, as Phœbe opened the letter.
"Read it, Phœbe! He's over safely!" Mother Bab's voice was eager.
"I—I can't read it. I'm too excited. I can't get my breath. You read it, Phares."
The preacher read in his slow, calm way.
"Somewhere in France."Dear Mother:"You see by the heading I'm safe over here. I can't tell you much about the trip—no use wearing out the censor's pencils. The sea's wonderful, but I like dry land better. I'm on dry land now, in a quaint French village where the streets run up hill and the people wear strange costumes. The women wash their clothes by beating them on stones in the brook—how would the Lancaster County women like that?"
"Somewhere in France.
"You see by the heading I'm safe over here. I can't tell you much about the trip—no use wearing out the censor's pencils. The sea's wonderful, but I like dry land better. I'm on dry land now, in a quaint French village where the streets run up hill and the people wear strange costumes. The women wash their clothes by beating them on stones in the brook—how would the Lancaster County women like that?"
It was a long, chatty letter and it warmed the heart of the mother and interested Phœbe and the others who heard it.
"He's a great David," the preacher said as he handed the letter to Phœbe. "I suppose you'll have to read it over and over to Aunt Barbara."
He looked at the girl as he spoke. Her high color and shining eyes spoke eloquently of her interest in the letter. "Ah," he thought, "I believe she stilllikes Davie best. I'm sure she does."
The preacher had been greatly changed by the eventsof the past year. He would always be a bit too strict in his views of life, a bit narrow in many things. Nevertheless, he was changed. He was less harsh in his opinions of others since he had seen and heard how thousands who were not of his religious faith had gone forth to lay down their lives that the world might be made a decent place in which to live. He, Phares Eby, preacher, had formerly denounced all that pertained to actors and the theatre, yet tears had coursed down his cheeks as he had read the account of a famous comedian who had given his only son for the cause of freedom and who was going about in the camps and in the trenches bringing cheer to the men. As the preacher read that he confessed to himself that the comedian, familiar as he was with footlights, was doing more good in the world than a dozen Phares Ebys. That one incident swept away some of the prejudice of the preacher. He knew he could never sanction the doings so many people indulge in but he felt at the same time that those same pleasures need not have a damning influence upon all people.
Phœbe noted the change in him. She felt like a discoverer of hidden treasure when she heard of the influence he was exerting in behalf of the Red Cross and Liberty Loans. But she was finding hidden treasures in many places those days. Strenuous, busy days they were but they held many revelations of soul beauty.
Every link with Phœbe's former life in Philadelphia was broken save the one binding her to Virginia. That friendship was too precious to be shattered. Thecountry girl had written a long letter to the city girl, telling of the decision to give up the music lessons. "My dear, dear friend," she wrote frankly, "you tried to keep me from being hurt, but I wouldn't see. How I must have worried you and how foolish I was! I know better now. I do not regret my winter in the city and I do appreciate all you did for me, but I am happy to be back on the farm again. I'm afraid I tried to be an American Beauty rose when I was meant to be just some ordinary wild flower like the daisy or even the common yarrow. I owe so much to you. We must always be friends."
One day in late summer Phœbe fairly radiated joy as she hurried up the hill and ran down the road to the garden where Mother Bab was gathering larkspur seeds.
"Oh, Mother Bab, I've such good news about Granny Hogendobler and Old Aaron!"
"Come in, tell me!"
"I've been to town and stopped to see Granny. You know Old Aaron and their boy Nason fell out years ago about something the boy said about the flag and was too stubborn to take back."
"Yes, I know."
"It was foolishness on the part of the father, of course, for he should have known boys say things they don't mean. Well, the two kept on acting all these years like strangers. The old man grew bitter. Last year when the boys went to Mexico he said that if he had a son instead of a blockhead he'd be sending a boy to do his share down there. It almost killed him tothink of his boy sitting back while others went and defended the flag. Well, Granny said yesterday she was in the yard and she heard the gate click. She didn't pay any attention for she knew Old Aaron was in the front yard under the arbor. But then she heard a cry and ran to see, and there was Old Aaron with his arms around a big fellow dressed in a soldier uniform, and when the man turned his head it was Nason! Granny said it was the greatest day in their lives and paid up for all the unhappy days when Old Aaron was cross and said mean things about Nason. Nason had just a day to stay, but they made a day of it. Granny said, 'I-to-goodness, but we had a time! Aaron wanted to kill a chicken, for Nason likes chicken so much, but I knew that Aaron was so excited he'd like as not only cripple the poor thing, so I said I'd kill it while they talked. I made stuffing with onions in, like Nason likes, and I had just baked a snitz pie and I tell you we had a good dinner. But I bet them two didn't know what they ate, for they were all the time talking about the war and bombs and Gettysburg and France till I didn't know what they meant.'"
"My, I'm glad for Granny and Old Aaron," Mother Bab said.
"And what do you think!" Phœbe went on. "They are changing the name of Prussian Street, and some are talking of changing the name of the town, but I hope they won't do that."
"No, it would be strange to have to call it something else after all these years."
"I think it's a grand joke," said Phœbe, "that thislittle town was founded by a German and yet the town is strong American and doing its best to down the Potsdam gang. The people of Lancaster County are loyal to Old Glory and I'm glad I belong here."
She appreciated her goodly heritage, not with any Pharisaical exultation but with honest gratitude.
"I have learned many things, Mother Bab, and this is one of the big things I've learned lately: to be everlastingly thankful to Providence for setting me down on a farm where I could spend a childhood filled with communications with nature. I never before realized what blessings I've had all the years of my life. Why, I've had chickens to play with and feed, cows and wobbly calves to pet, birds to love and learn about, clear streams to wade in and float daisies on, meadows to play in, hills to run down while the dust went 'spif' under my bare feet. And I've had flowers, thousands of wild flowers, to find and carry home or, if too frail to bear carrying home, like the delicate spring beauty and the bluet, just to look at and admire and turn again to look at as I went out of the woods. My whole childhood has been a wonderful one but I was too blind to see the wonder of it. I see now! But, Mother Bab, I don't see, even yet, that I should wear plain clothes. I've been thinking about it lately. I do believe, though, that the plain way is a good way. Many people enjoy the simple service of the meeting-house more than they would enjoy a more complex form of worship. I feel so restful and peaceful when I'm in a meeting-house, so near to the real things, the things that count."
Mother Bab answered only a mild "Yes," but her heart sang as she thought, "I believe she'll be plain some day, she and David. Perhaps they'll come together. But I'll not worry about them; I know their hearts are right."
AnotherJune came with its roses and perfume, but there was no Feast of Roses in Greenwald that June of 1918. Phœbe regretted the fact, for she felt that even in a war-racked world, with the multiple duties and anxiety and suffering of many of its people, there should still be time for a service as beautiful and inspiring as the Feast of Roses.
But all thoughts of it or similar omissions were crowded into the background one day when the news came to Mother Bab that David had been wounded in France.
The official telegram flashed over the wire and in due time came a letter with more satisfying details. The letter was characteristic of David: "I suppose you heard that the Boche got me, but he didn't get all of me, just one leg. What hurts me most is the fact that I didn't get a few Huns first or do some real thing for the cause before I got knocked out. I know you'll feel better satisfied if I tell you all about it. Several of the other boys and I left the town where we were stationed and went to Paris for a few days. It was our first pleasure trip since we came to this side. We gazed upon the things we studied about in school—Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and so forth. Later we went to a railroad station where refugees were coming in, fleeing from the invading Huns. I can't ever forget that sight! Women and children they were, but such women and children! Women who had gone through hell and children who had seen more horror in their few years that we can ever dream possible. Terror and suffering have lodged shadows in their eyes till one wonders if some of them will ever smile or laugh again. Many of them were wounded and in need of medical care. They carried with them their sole possessions, all of their belongings they could gather and take with them as they rushed away from the hordes of the enemy soldiers. We helped to place them into Red Cross vans to be taken to a safe place in the southern part of the country. As we were putting them into the vans the signal came that an air raid was on. The subways are places for refuge during the raids, so we hurried them out of the vans and into subways. They all got in safely but I was a bit too slow. I got knocked out and my right leg was so badly splintered that I'm better off without it. The thing worries me most is that I'll be sent home out of the fight before I fairly got into it."
"Oh, Mother Bab," Phœbe said sobbingly, "his right leg's gone!"
"It might be worse. But—I wish I could be with him."
"But isn't it just like him," said Phœbe proudly, "to write as though it was carelessness caused the accident, when we know he got others to safety and neverthought of himself. He was just as brave as the boys who fight."
"Yes. There is still much to be thankful for. Many mothers will get sadder news than mine. You must write him a long letter."
It was a long letter, indeed, that the mother dictated to her boy. When it was written Phœbe added a little postscript, "David, I'm mighty proud of you!" To this he responded, "Thank you for your pride in me, but don't you go making a hero of me; I can't live up to that when I get home. Guess I'll be sent back as soon as my leg is healed. Uncle Sam has no need of me here since I bungled things and left a leg in Paris. I'll have to do the rest of my bit on the farm. I wasn't a howling success as a farmer when I had two legs, but perhaps my luck has turned. I'm going to raise chickens and do my best to make the little farm a paying one."
"He's the same cheerful David," thought the girl, "and we'll have to keep cheerful about it, too."
But it was no easy matter to continue steadfast in cheerfulness during the long days of the summer. Phœbe and Mother Bab shared the anxiety of many others as the news came that the armies of the enemy were pushing nearer to Paris, nearer, and nearer, with the Americans and their allies fighting like demons and contesting every inch of the ground. A fear rose in Phœbe—what if the Germans should reach Paris, what if they should win the war! "But it can't be!" she thought.
Her confidence was not unwarranted. Soon camethe turn of the tide and the German drive was checked. One July day shrieking whistles, frenzied ringing of bells, impromptu parades and waving flags, spread the news that "America's contemptible little army" was helping to push the Germans back, back!
"It's the beginning of the end for the Germans," said Phœbe jubilantly as she ran to Mother Bab with the news. "If they once start running they'll sprint pretty lively. We'll have to tell David about the excitement in town when the whistles blew—but, ach, I forgot! He won't think that was much excitement after he's been inrealexcitement."
Mother Bab laughed with the girl. "But we'll have lots to tell him when he comes back," she said. "And won't he be glad I can see!"
Itwas October of 1918 when David Eby alighted from the train at Greenwald and started out the country road to his home. He could not resist the temptation to run into the yard of the gray farmhouse and into the kitchen where Aunt Maria and Phœbe were working.
"David!"
"Why, David!"
The cries came gladly from the two women as he bounded over the sill and extended his hand, first to the older woman, then to Phœbe.
"I just had to stop in here for a minute! Then I must run up the hill to mother. This place looks too good to pass by. How are you? You're both looking fine."
"Ach, we're well," Aunt Maria had to answer, Phœbe remaining speechless. "But why, David! You got two legs and no crutches! I thought you lost a leg."
"I did," he said, smiling, "but Uncle Sam gave me another one."
"Why, abody'd hardly know it. Ain't, Phœbe, hejust limps a little? Now I bet your mom'll be glad to see you—to have you back again, I mean."
"Yes. I can't wait to get up the hill. I must go now. I'll be down later, Phœbe," he added.
"All right," she said quietly.
"Ach, Phœbe," Aunt Maria exclaimed after he left, "did you hear me? I almost give it away that his mom can see. Abody can be awful dumb still! But won't he be glad when he knows that she ain't blind! She can see him again. Ach, Phœbe, it's lots of nice people in the world, for all. It makes abody feel good to know them two are havin' a happy time."
"I'm so glad for both I could sing."
"Go on," said the woman; "I'm glad too, and I believe I could help you to holler."
As David climbed the hill by the woodland he thought musingly, "Strikes me Phœbe didn't seem extra glad to see me. Perhaps she was just surprised, perhaps my being crippled changed her. Oh, Phœbe, I want you more than ever! I wonder—is it some nerve to ask you to marry a cripple?"
However, all disquieting thoughts were forgotten as he reached the summit of the hill and saw his boyhood home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle. At the sound of it Mother Bab ran to the door.
"It's David come home!" she cried, her renewed eyes turned to the road, her hands outstretched.
"I'm back, mommie!" he called before his running feet could take him to her. But as he held her again to his heart there were no words adequate for thegreeting. Their joy was great enough to be inarticulate for a while.
"But, Davie," the mother said after a long silence, "you come running! You have no crutches!"
"Why, mommie!" There was questioning wonder in his voice. "How do you know? You couldn't see! You are blind!"
"Oh, Davie, not any more! I can see!"
"You can see?" He put a hand at each side of the white-capped head and looked into her eyes. They were not the dull, half-staring eyes of blindness but eyes lighted by loving recognition.
Again words failed him as he swept her into his arms. But he could not long be silent. "Tell me," he cried. "I must know! What miracle—who—how—who did it? When?"
"Oh, Davie, you're not changed a bit! Same old question box! But I'll tell you all about it."
Throughout the story Mother Bab told ran the name of Phœbe. "Phœbe planned it all, Phœbe made the arrangements with the doctor, Phœbe took me down to Philadelphia, Phœbe was there when I found I could see"—it was Phœbe, Phœbe, till the man felt his heart singing the name.
"Isn't she going on with her music lessons?" he asked. "I was afraid she'd be in the city when I got back."
"She's given them up. It ain't like her to begin a thing and get tired of it so soon. All at once after we came back from Philadelphia she said she had enough of music, she was tired of it, and was going to stay athome and be useful. I'm glad she's not going off again, for it gets lonesome without her. You stopped to see her on the way up?"
"Yes, just a minute. I'm going down again later. She hardly said two words to me."
"You took her by surprise, I guess. Give her a chance and she'll ask you a hundred questions."
But when he paid the promised visit to Phœbe he was again disappointed by her lack of the old comradely friendliness. She shared his joy at Mother Bab's restored sight but when he began to thank her for her part in it she disclaimed all credit and asked questions to lead him from the subject of the operation. The girl seemed interested in all he said yet there was a restraint in her manner. For the first time in his life David was baffled by her attitude. As he climbed the hill again he thought, "Now, what's the matter with Phœbe? Was she or wasn't she glad to see me? I couldn't tell her I love her when she acts like that! And I'm a cripple, and she's beautiful—— Oh, my mind's in a muddle! But one thing's clear—I want Phœbe Metz for my wife."
Thenext morning Phares Eby called David, "Wait, I want to see you. I—David," the preacher began gravely, "perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but I really think I ought. Do you know all Phœbe did for your mother while you were gone?"
"Why, yes. Mother told me. Phœbe was lovely to her. She's been great! Writing her letters and doing ever so many kind things for her."
"I know—but—I guess you don't know all she did. That story about a great doctor operating for charity didn't quite please me. I thought as long as it was in the family I'd pay him for what he did. So I wrote to him and his secretary wrote back that the bill had been paid by a check signed by Phœbe Metz—the bill had been five hundred dollars. I guess that explains her giving up the music lessons. What a girl she is to make such a sacrifice! She don't know that I know, but I felt I ought to tell you."
"Five hundred dollars! Phœbe did that for us—she paid it? Oh, Phares, I'm glad you told me! I'm going to find her right away and thank her! You're a brick for telling me!"
The preacher smiled as David turned and ran down the hill, but preachers are only human—he felt a pangof pain as he went back to his work in the field while David went to find Phœbe.
David forgot for the time that he was crippled as he ran limping over the road. Dressed in his working clothes, his head bare to the October sunlight, he hurried to the gray farmhouse.
"Phœbe here?" he asked Aunt Maria.
"What's wrong? Anything the matter at your house?" she asked.
"No. Nothing's wrong. Where's Phœbe?"
"Ach, over at the quarry again for weeds or something like she brings home all the time."
"All right." He turned to the gate. "I'll find her."
He half ran up the sheltered road to the old stone quarry.
"Phœbe," he cried when he caught sight of her as she stooped to gather goldenrod that fringed the woods.
"Why, David, what's the matter?" she asked as she stood erect and faced him.
"You angel!" he cried, taking her hands in his and spilling the goldenrod over the ground. "You angel!" he said again, and the full gratitude of his heart shone from his eyes. "You bought Mother Bab's sight! You gave up the music lessons that she might see!"
"How d'you know?" she challenged.
"Oh, I know!" He told her briefly. "That's all true, isn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I can't lie out of it now, I guess. Though I've lied like a trooper about it already. But you needn't get excited about it. Mother Bab's earned more than that from me!"
"Oh, Phœbe!" The man could hardly refrain from taking her in his arms. "You're an angel! To sacrifice all that for us—it's the most unselfish thing I've ever heard of! You gave her sight so she could see me. I came right down to bless you and to thank you."
Other words sought utterance but he fought them back. Phœbe must have read his heart, for she looked up suddenly and asked, "And you came all the way down here just to say thank you! There's nothing else——"
Then, half-ashamed and startled at her forwardness, her gaze dropped.
But the words had worked their magic. "Thereissomething else!" David cried, exulting. "I can't wait any longer to tell you! I love you!"
He held out his arms and as she smiled into his face his arms enfolded her and he knew that she loved him. But he wanted to hear the sweet words from her lips. "Is it so?" he asked. "You do care for me, you'll marry me?"
"Oh, Davie, did you think I could live the rest of my life without you? Did you think I could love you any less because you're crippled?"
He flushed. "It seemed like working on your sympathy to ask you."
"And if you hadn't asked me, Davie," she began.
"Yes, go on. If I hadn't asked you——"
"Ishould have askedyou!"
They both laughed at that, but a moment later were serious as he said, "Just the same, Phœbe, it seems presumptuous for a maimed man to ask a girl like you to marry him. You are beautiful and you have a wonderful voice—and you've done such wonderful things for Mother Bab and me. You have sacrificed so much——"
"Stop, David!" she cried, her voice ominously tearful. "David, don't hurt me like that! Do you love me?"
"I do." His words had all the solemnity of a marriage vow.
"You know I love you?"
"I do."
"Then, David, can't you see that we love each other not only in prosperity but in misfortunes as well?"
"What a big heart you have, dear, what a woman's heart! I have two wonderful women in my life, Mother Bab and you."
Phœbe felt the delicacy and magnitude of the tribute. "I'm happy, Davie," she said softly. "I feel so safe with you—no doubts, no fears."
"Just love," he added.
"Just love," she repeated.
"Then, Phœbe"—how she loved the name from his lips—"you'll marry me?" He said it as though he could not quite believe his good fortune. "Then youwillmarry me?"
"Yes, if you want."
"If I want! Oh, Phœbe, Phœbe, I have always wanted it!"