JUDE.

Gopher Hill had determined that it could not endure Jude any longer.

The inhabitants of Gopher Hill possessed an unusual amount of kindness and long-suffering, as was proved by the fact that Chinamen were allowed to work all abandoned claims at the Hill. Had further proof been necessary, it would have been afforded by the existence of a church directly beside the saloon, although the frequenters of the sacred edifice had often, during week-evening meetings, annoyed convivial souls in the saloon by requesting them to be less noisy.

But Jude was too much for Gopher Hill. No one molested him when he first appeared, but each citizen entered a mental protest within his own individual consciousness; for Jude had a bad reputation in most of the settlements along Spanish Creek.

It was not that he had killed his man, and stolen several horses and mules, and got himself into a state of most disorderly inebriation, for, in the opinion of many Gopher Hillites, these actionsmighthave been the visible results of certain virtuous conditions of mind.

But Jude had, after killing a man, spent the victim's money; he had stolen from men who had befriended him; he had jumped claims; he had denied his score at the storekeeper's; he had lied on all possible occasions; and had gambled away money which had been confided to him in trust.

One mining camp after another had become too hot for him; but he never adopted a new set of principles when he staked a new claim, so his stay in new localities was never of sufficient length to establish the fact of legal residence. His name seemed to be a respectable cognomen of Scriptural extraction, but it was really a contraction of a name which, while equally Scriptural and far more famous, was decidedly unpopular—the name of Judas Iscariot.

The whole name had been originally bestowed upon Jude, in recognition of his success in swindling a mining partner; but, with an acuteness of perception worthy of emulation, the miners determined that the length of the appellation detracted from its force, so they shortened it to Jude.

As a few of the more enterprising citizens of Gopher Hill were one morning discussing the desirableness of getting rid of Jude, and wondering how best to effect such a result, they received important foreign aid.

A man rode up to the saloon, dismounted, and tacked on the wall a poster offering one thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of a certain person who had committed an atrocious murder a month before at Duck Run.

The names andaliasesof the guilty person were unfamiliar to those who gathered about the poster, but the description of the murderer's appearance was so suggestive, that Squire Bogern, one of the bystanders, found Jude, and requested him to read the poster.

"Well, 'twasn'tmedone it," sulkily growled the namesake of the apostolic treasurer.

"Ther' hain't nobody in Gopher that 'ud take a feller up fur a reward," replied the squire, studiously oblivious of Jude's denial; "but it's a nice mornin' fur a walk. Ye can't miss the trail an' git lost, ye know. An', seein' yer hevn't staked any claim, an' so hain't got any to dispose of, mebbe yer could git, inside of five minutes."

Jude was accustomed to "notices to quit," and was able to extract their import from any verbiage whatever, so he drank by and to himself, and immediately sauntered out of town, with an air of bravado in his carriage, and a very lonesome look in his face.

Down the trail he tramped, past claims whose occupants knew him well enough, but who, just as he passed, found some excuse for looking the other way.

He passed through one camp after another, and discovered (for he stopped at each saloon) that the man on horseback had preceded him, and that there seemed a wonderful unanimity of opinion as to the identity of the man who was wanted.

Finally, after passing through several of the small camps, which were dotted along the trail, a mile or two apart, Jude flung himself on the ground under a clump of azaleas, with the air of a man whose temper had been somewhat ruffled.

"I wonder," he remarked, after a discursive, fitful, but very spicy preface of ten minutes' duration, "why they couldn't find somethin' Iheddone, instead of tuckin' some other feller's job on me? Ihevhad difficulties, but this here one's just one more thanIknows on. Like 'nuff some galoot'll be mean 'nuff to try to git that thousand. I'd try it myself, ef I wuz only somebody else. Wonder why I can't be decent, like other fellers. 'Twon't pay to waste time thinkin' 'bout that, though, fur I'll hev to make a livin' somehow."

Jude indulged in a long sigh, perhaps a penitential one, and drew from his pocket a well-filled flask, which he had purchased at the last saloon he had passed.

As he extracted it, there came also from his pocket a copy of the poster, which he had abstracted from a treeen route.

"Thar 'tis again!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Can't be satisfied showin' itself ev'rywhar, but must come out of my pocket without bein' axed. Let's see, p'r'aps it don't mean me, after all—'One eye gone, broken nose, scar on right cheek, powder-marks on left, stumpy beard, sallow complexion, hangdog look.'I'dgive a thousand ef I had it to git the feller that writ that; an' yit it means me, an' no dodgin'. Lord, Lord! what 'ud the old woman say ef she wuz to see me nowadays?"

He looked intently at the flask for a moment or two, as if expecting an answer therefrom, then he extracted the cork, and took a generous drink. But even the liquor failed to help him to a more cheerful view of the situation, for he continued:

"Nobody knows me—nobody sez, 'Hello!'—nobody axes me to name my bitters—nobody even cusses me. They let me stake a claim, but nobody offers to lend me a pick or a shovel, an' nobody ever comes to the shanty to spend the evenin', 'less it's a greenhorn. Curse 'em all! I'll make some of 'em bleed fur it. I'll git their dust, an' go back East; ther's plenty of folkstharthat'll be glad to see me, ef I've got the dust. An' mebbe 'twould comfort the old woman some, after all the trouble I've made her. Offer rewards fur me, do they? I'll give 'em some reason to do it. I hain't afeard of the hull State of Californy, an'—Good Lord! what's that?"

The gentleman who was not afraid of the whole State of California sprang hastily to his feet, turned very pale, and felt for his revolver, for he heard rapid footsteps approaching by a little path in the bushes.

But though the footsteps seemed to come nearer, and very rapidly, he slowly took his hand from his pistol, and changed his scared look for a puzzled one.

"Cryin'! Reckon I ain't in danger from anybody that's bellerin'; but it's the fust time I've heerd that kind of a noise intheseparts. Must be a woman. Sounds like what I used to hear to home when I got on a tear;'tisa woman!"

As he concluded, there emerged from the path a woman, who was neither very young nor very pretty, but her face was full of pain, and her eyes full of tears, which signs of sorrow were augmented by a considerable scare, as she suddenly found herself face to face with the unhandsome Jude.

"Don't be afeard of me, marm," said Jude, as the woman retreated a step or two. "I'm durned sorry for yer, whatever's the matter. I've got a wife to home, an' it makes me so sorry to hear her cry, that I get blind drunk ez quick ez I ken."

This tender statement seemed to reassure the woman, for she looked inquiringly at Jude, and asked:

"Have ye seen a man and woman go 'long with a young one?

"Nary," replied Jude. "Young one lost?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the woman, commencing to cry again; "an' a husban', too. I don't care much forhim, for he's a brute, but Johnny—blessed little Johnny—oh, oh!"

And the poor woman sobbed pitifully.

Jude looked uneasy, and remembering his antidote for domestic tears, extracted the bottle again. He slowly put it back untasted, however, and exclaimed:

"What does he look like, marm?—the husband I mean. I never wanted an excuse to put a hole through a feller ez bad ez I do this mornin'!"

"Don't—don't hurt him, for God's sake!" cried the woman. "He ain't a good husband—he's run off with another woman, but—but he's Johnny's father. Yet, if you could get Johnny back—he's the only comfort I ever had in the world, the dear little fellow—oh, dear me!"

And again she sobbed as if her heart was broken.

"Tell us 'bout 'em. Whar hev they gone to? what do they luk like? Mebbe I ken git him fur yer," said Jude, looking as if inclined to beat a retreat, or do anything to get away from the sound of the woman's crying.

'Get him—get Johnny!'"Get him—get Johnny!" cried the woman,falling on her knees, and seizing Jude's hand.

"Get him—get Johnny?" cried the woman, falling on her knees, and seizing Jude's hand. "I can't give you anything for doin' it, but I'll pray for you, as long as I've got breath, that God may reward you!"

"I reckon," said Jude, as he awkwardly disengaged his hand, "that prayin' is what'll do me more good than anythin' else jest now. Big feller is yer husband? An' got any idee whar he is?"

"Heisa big man," replied the woman, "and he goes by the name of Marksey in these parts; and you'll find him at the Widow Beckel's, across the creek. Killherif you like—I hopesomebodywill. But Johnny—Johnny has got the loveliest brown eyes, and the sweetest mouth that was ever made, and—"

"Reckon I'll judge fur myself," interrupted Jude, starting off toward the creek, and followed by the woman. "I know whar Wider Beckel's is, an'—an' I've done enough stealin', I guess, to be able to grab a little boy without gittin' ketched. Spanish Crick's purty deep along here, an' the current runs heavy, but—"

The remainder of Jude's sentence was left unspoken, for just then he stepped into the creek, and the chill of the snow-fed stream caused him to hold his breath.

"Remember you aint to hurthim!" screamed the woman; "nor her, neither—God forgive me. But bring Johnny—bring Johnny, and God be with you."

The woman stood with clasped hands watching Jude until he reached the opposite bank, shook himself, and disappeared, and then she leaned against a tree and trembled and cried until she was startled by hearing some one say:

"Beg pardon, madame, but have you seen any one pass?"

The woman raised her head, and saw a respectable, severe looking man, in clothing rather neater than was common along Spanish Creek.

"Only one," she replied, "and he's the best man livin'. He's gone to get Johnny—he won't be gone long."

"Your husband, ma'am?"

"'Oh, no, sir; I never saw him before."

"One eye gone; broken nose; scar on right cheek; powder-marks on left—"

"Yes, sir, that's the man," said the wondering woman.

"Perhaps you may not have seen this?" said the man handing her one of the posters describing Jude.

Then he uttered a shrill whistle.

The woman read the paper through, and cried:

"It's somebody else—itmustbe—no murderer would be so kind to a poor, friendless woman. Oh, God, have I betrayed him?Don'ttake him, sir—it must be somebody else. I wish I had money—I would pay you more than the reward, just to go away and let him alone."

"Madame," replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, "I could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward. It is the price of blood. But I am a minister of the gospel, ma'am, and in this godless generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is vindicated. My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different motives."

"You just bet high on that!" exclaimed one of the two men who had approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian. "Half a' thousan' 's more'n I could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had. Parson he is a fool, butwe, hain't no right to grumble 'bout it, seein' we git his share—hey, Parleyvoo?"

"You speak truly, Mike," replied his companion, a rather handsome looking Frenchman, of middle age. "And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the labor. Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such ungentle a manner."

"God's worst curses on all of you!" cried the woman, with an energy which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and power, "if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman has ever found in the world!"

Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two: but the ex-minister maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed:

"Poor fools! It is written, 'The curse, causeless, shall not fall.' And yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in your misfortunes, whatever they may be."

"Then let him alone!" cried the woman. "My only child has been stolen away from me—dear little Johnny—and the man offered to go get him. And you've made me betray him. Oh, God curse you all!"

"Madame," replied the still imperturbable parson, "the crime of blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you were doing."

The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to the parson he would abandon the chase.

"It is useless," said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to the woman, "for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the blood of Glorieaux."

"Then I'll git the hull thousand," growled Mike, "an' I'll need it, too, if I've got to stand this sort of thing much longer."

A confused sound of voices on the other side of the creek attracted the attention of the men, and caused the woman to raise her head. A moment later Jude appeared, with a child in his arms, and plunged into the water.

"Now we'll have him!" cried the parson; "and you, madame, will have your child. Be ready to chase him, men, if he attempts to run when he gets ashore."

"Go back! go back!" screamed the woman. "They are after you, these men. Try to—"

The law-abiding parson placed his hand over the woman's mouth, but found himself promptly flying backward through space, while Mike roared:

"Touch a woman, will yer? No thousand dollars nor any other money, 'll hire me to travel with such a scoundrel. Catch him yerself, if yer want ter,"

"But if you do," said Glorieaux, politely, as he drew his revolver, "it will be necessary for Glorieaux to slay the Lord's anointed."

"Follered, by thunder!" said Mike.

It was true. During the few seconds which had been consumed in conversation, Jude got well into the creek. He had not seemed to hear the woman's warning; but now a greater danger threatened him, for on the opposite bank of the creek there appeared a man, who commenced firing at Jude's head and the small portion of his shoulders that was visible.

"The monster. Oh, the wretch!" screamed the woman. "He may hit Johnny, his only son! Oh, God have mercy on me, and save my child!"

A shot immediately behind her followed the woman's prayer, and Glorieaux exclaimed, pointing to the opposite bank, where Marksey was staggering and falling:

"Glorieaux gathered from your words that a divorce would be acceptable, madame. Behold, you have it!"

"Pity nobody didn't think of it sooner," observed Mike, shading his eyes as he stared intently at Jude, "for there's a red streak in the water right behind him."

The woman was already standing at the water's edge, with hands clasped in an agony of terror and anxiety. The three men hastened to join her.

"Wish I could swim," said Mike, "for he's gettin' weak, an' needs help."

The parson sprang into the water, and, in spite of the chill and the swift current, he was soon by Jude's side.

"Take the young un," gasped Jude, "for I'm a goner."

"Put your hand on my shoulder," said the parson. "I can get you both ashore."

'"Tain't no use," said Jude, feebly; "corpses don't count for much in Californy."

"But your immortal part," remonstrated the parson, trying to seize Jude by the hand which held little Johnny.

"God hev mercy on it!" whispered the dying man; "it's the fust time He ever had an excuse to do it."

Strong man and expert swimmer as the ex-minister was, he was compelled to relinquish his hold of the wounded man; and Jude, after one or two fitful struggles against his fate, drifted lifeless down the stream and into eternity, while the widowed mother regained her child. The man of God, the chivalrous Frenchman and the brutish Mike slowly returned to their camp; but no one who met them could imagine, from their looks, that they were either of them anything better than fugitives from justice.

Down the Stream.

A LOVE OF A COTTAGE.

We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia announced that her heart was set upon keeping house.Myheart sank within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married life is, that when Sophronia's heart is set upon anything, the protests I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my own consciousness. Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still lower. Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings. I delight in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety. But when any of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous, absent-minded, and uncompanionable. What, then, would bemyfate, after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were within twenty miles of New York. But Sophronia had decided that it was to be—and I,

"Mine not to make reply; Mine not to reason why; Mine but to do or die."

By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the full measure of the fate I feared. Sophronia has a highly imaginative nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers. So when I bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia's interest was excited in exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves. Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air. Rutherford Park—well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the scene in Mrs. Somebody's novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned name. Villa Valley—

"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was christened Peter, butMissSophronia never looked encouragingly upon me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious—how absolutely enchanting it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don't you know?"

I didnotpreviously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning, abundantly confirmed Sophronia's intuition regarding brooks and lakes, by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day, with a letter to the agent's resident partner.

It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent's carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed four hundred dollars.

"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name is enchanting."

The house itself did not support Sophronia's impression. It stood very near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors, in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington's headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.

"A Perfect Snuggery" did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation forcibly suggested a chicken coop.

"Charming Swiss Cottage" seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which objectionable matter had not been removed. "The House in the Woods" was approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.

"Silver Lake!" exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had penciled from the agent's descriptive list. "That, I am sure, will suit us. Don't you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at Villa Valley?"

I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature's most impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise—or, perhaps, of warning.

"Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream—a fateful dream."

"New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.

"I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis; "it looks to be entirely new."

"'Tis, ma'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn't been on a month."

"So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster—no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls—no tender romances have been woven under its eaves—no wistful yearnings—no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life—no—"

"I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma'am, but I believe I've got the very house you're looking for. How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall—"

"Exquisite—charming—enchanting—paradisaical—divine!" murmured Sophronia.

"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.

This latter bit of information arousedmystrongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once.

The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitæs, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:

"My ideal!"

Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:

"Enough! We take it!"

"Hadn't you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested.

"Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate, "my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are never disunited, nor are—"

"I don't believe I've got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps we can get in through one of the windows."

The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again Sophronia's arm encircled me, and she murmured:

"Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"

"It's a good way from the station, pet," I ventured to remark.

Sophronia's enthusiasm gave place to scorn; she withdrew her affectionate demonstration, and replied:

"Spoken like a real man! The practical, always—the ideal, never! Once I dreamed of the companionship of a congenial spirit, but, alas! 'A good way from the station!' WereIa man, I would, to reside in such a bower, plod cheerily over miles of prosaic clods."

"And you'd get your shapely boots most shockingly muddy," I thought, as the agent opened one of the front windows and invited us to enter.

"French windows, too!" exclaimed Sophronia; "oh Pierre! And see that exquisite old mantel; it looks as if it had been carved from ebony upon the banks of one of the Queen of the Adriatic's noiseless by-ways. And these tiny rooms, how cozy—how like fairy land! Again I declare, we will take it! Let us return at once to the city—how I loathe the thought of treading its noisy thoroughfares again!—and order our carpets and furniture."

"Are you sure you won't be lonesome here, darling?" I asked. "It is quite a distance from any neighbors."

"A true woman is never lonesome when she can commune with Nature," replied Sophronia. "Besides," she continued, in a less exalted strain, "I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."

The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture, pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile. Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the agent.

"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at Villa Valley. I should like to see them."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I'll drive you past them as you go to the train."

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn't the house damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of these queries affected Sophronia's spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

"Two stations?" I inquired.

"Yes," said he; "and one's as near to your house as the other."

"Yourhouse," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my not heavily covered ribs—"yourhouse! Oh, Pierre! does not the dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"

"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia's mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn't it? Very healthy, though, they say."

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us. Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the shore of which was a rolling-mill.

"Here's the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And here's the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose and whispered: "Dellwild! Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod't you thig so?"

During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture stores, andbric-a-bracshops. The agent was very kind; he sent a boy to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any of our goods. Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to Villa Valley, three double-truck loads of furniture preceding us by way of the turnpike. I had thoughtfully ordered quite a quantity of provisions put into the house, in advance of our arrival. Hiring a carriage at the station, and obtaining the keys of the agent, we drove to our residence. Sophronia, to use her own expression, 'felt as she imagined Juno did, when first installed as mistress of the rosy summit of the divine mount; while I, though scarcely in a mood to compare myself with Jove, was conscious of a new and delightful sense of manliness. The shades and curtains were in the windows, the sun shone warmly upon them, and a bright welcome seemed to extend itself from the whole face of the cottage. I unlocked the door and tenderly kissed my darling under the lintel; then we stepped into the parlor. Sophronia immediately exclaimed:

"Gracious!"

The word that escapedmylips, I shrink from placing upon the printed page. A barrel of flour, one of sugar, another of corned beef, and a half-barrel of molasses, a box of candles, a can of kerosene oil, some cases of canned fruits, a box of laundry soap, three wash-tubs, and a firkin of butter—all these, and many other packages, covered the parlor floor, and sent up a smell suggestive of an unventilated grocery. The flour had sifted between the staves of the barrel, the molasses had dripped somewhat, the box of soap had broken open and a single bar had been fastened to the carpet by the seal of a boot-heel of heroic size. Sophronia stepped into little pools of molasses, and the effect seemed to be that the carpet rose to bestow sweet clinging kisses upon the dainty feet of the loveliest of her sex.

"Horrible!" ejaculated Sophronia.

"And here come the trucks," said I, looking out of the window, "and the one with the parlor furniture is in front."

Fortunately, the truckmen were good-tempered and amenable to reason, expressed by means of currency; so we soon had the provisions moved into the kitchen. Then the senior truckman kindly consented to dispose of an old tarpaulin, at about twice the price of a piece of velvet carpet of similar size, and this we spread upon the parlor floor while the furniture should be brought in. Sophronia assumed the direction of proceedings, but it soon became evident that she was troubled.

"The room, evidently, was not arranged for this furniture," said she.

And she spoke truthfully. We had purchased a lounge, a large centre-table, anetagere, a Turkish chair, two reception chairs, four chairs to match the lounge, a rocker or two, an elegant firescreen, and several other articles of furniture, and there was considerable difficulty experienced, not only in arranging them, but in getting them into the parlor at all. Finally, the senior truckman spoke:

A bright welcome from the cottage.A bright welcome seemed to extend itself fromthe whole face of the cottage.

"The only way to git everythin' in, is to fix 'em the way we do at the store—set 'em close together."

He spoke truly; and Sophronia, with a sigh, assented to such an arrangement, suggesting that we could rearrange the furniture afterward, and stipulating only that the lounge should be placed in the front of the room. This done, there were three-and-a-half feet of space between the front of the lounge and the inside of the window-casings.

We can, at least, sit upon it and lose our souls in the dying glories of the sun upon the eternal hills, and—"Gracious, Pierre, where's the piano to go?"

Sure enough; and the piano was already at the door. The senior truckman cast his professional eye at the vacant space, and spoke:

"You can put it right there," said he. "There won't be no room fur the stool to go behind it; but if you put the key-board to the front, an' open the winder, you can stand outdoors an' play."

Sophronia eyed the senior truckman suspiciously for a moment, but not one of his honest facial muscles moved, so Sophronia exclaimed:

"True. And how romantic!"

While the piano was being placed I became conscious of some shocking language being used on the stairway. Looking out I saw two truckmen and the headboard of our new bedstead inextricably mixed on the stairs.

"Why don't you go on?" I asked.

The look which one of the truckmen gave me I shall not Forget until my dying day; the man's companion remarked that when (qualified) fools bought furniture for such (doubly qualified) houses, they ought to have brains enough to get things small enough to get up the (trebly qualified) stairs.

I could not deny the logic of this statement, impious as were the qualifying adjectives which were used thereupon. But something had to be done; we could not put the bedstead together upon the stairway and sleep upon it there, even were there not other articles of furniture imperatively demanding a right of way.

"Try to get it down again," said I.

They tried, and, after one mighty effort, succeeded; they also brought down several square yards of ceiling plaster and the entire handrail of the stair.

"Think the ceilings of these rooms is high enough to let that bed stand up?" asked the senior truckman.

I hastily measured the height of the ceilings, and then of the bedstead, and found the latter nearly eighteen inches too high. Then I called Sophronia: the bedstead was of her selection, and was an elegant sample of fine woods and excessive ornamentation. It was a precious bit of furniture, but time was precious, too. The senior truckman suggested that the height of the bedstead might be reduced about two feet by the removal of the most lofty ornament, and that a healthy man could knock it off with his fist.

"Let it be done," said Sophronia. "What matter? A king discrowned is still a king at heart."

The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the bedstead filled its appointed place. The remaining furniture followed as fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold. We also deposited in the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.

At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the roof of the cottage, and remarked:

"It's none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things spiled. I'd watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained."

I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which was presented by Sophronia's outstretched arms.

"Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed; "at last we are in our own home! No uncongenial spirits about us—no one to molest or annoy—no unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work of her free, divine hands."

A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice which accompanied it remarked:

"Didn't they bring in any stove, ma'am?"

Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered:

"No!" looking very blank at the same time.

"Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?" asked the girl.

"In the range, of course," said Sophronia.

Our domestic's next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what was her nationality:

"An' do ye think that I'd ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the house? Dhivil a bit!"

"Never mind, dear," said I soothingly; "I'm an old soldier; I'll make a fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot biscuit as you ever tasted. And I'll order a stove the first thing in the morning."

Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased. Then I asked the domestic to get some water while I should make the fire. The honest daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor cistern on the premises.

Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia's hearing, that we were a couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent had told the truth. But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked me for my want of faith in the agent.

"Pierre," said she, "it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with falsehood upon the word of a menial. I know that agent tells the truth, for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to the Presbyterian Church."

Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself. But if either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not find the slightest outward evidence of it. Finally, to be thorough, I paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.

While at this work, I was approached by a gentleman, who seemed to come from a house two or three hundred yards off.

"Moved into the cottage, it seems," said he.

"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the place? The agent said there was excellent water here, but I can't find it."

"He meant there was good water in my well, where all occupants of the cottage have drawn water for several years. The well belonging to your place was covered up when the road was cut through, a few years ago, and neighbor Hubbell—well,Idon't say anything against him—neighbors must be neighborly, but folksdosay he's too stingy to dig a new well. That's the reason the cottage hasn't been occupied much for the last few years. But everybody is welcome to draw from my well—come along."

I followed the kind-hearted man, but I wished that the liquid depth of the agent's blue eyes had a proper parallel upon the estate which he had imposed upon me. I returned as full of wrath as my pail was of water, when, across the fence, I saw Sophronia's face, so suffused with tender exaltation, that admiration speedily banished ill nature.

But it was for a brief moment only, for Sophronia's finely-cut lips parted and their owner exclaimed:

"Oh, Pierre! What a charming pastoral picture—you and the pail, and the lawn as a background! I wish we might always have to get water from our neighbor's, well."

We retired early, and in the delightful quiet of our rural retreat, with the moon streaming through our chamber window, Sophronia became poetic, and I grew too peaceful and happy even to harbor malice against the agent. The eastern sun found his way through the hemlocks to wake us in the morning, and the effect was so delightfully different from the rising bell of the boarding-house, that when Sophronia indulged in some freedom with certain of Whittier's lines, and exclaimed:

"Sad is the man who never seesThe sun shine through his hemlock trees"

I appreciated her sentiment, and expressed my regard in a, loving kiss. Again I made a fire out of doors, boiled coffee, fried ham and eggs, made some biscuit, begged some milk of our neighbor, and then we had a delightful little breakfast. Then I started for the station.

"Don't forget the stove, dear," said Sophronia, as she gave me a parting kiss; "and be sure to send a butcher, and baker, and grocer, and—"

Just then our domestic appeared and remarked:

"Arah ye may as well get another girl; the likes ai me isn't goin' to bring wather from half-a-mile away."

Sophronia grew pale, but she lost not an atom of her saintly calmness; she only said, half to herself:

"Poor thing! she hasn't a bit of poetry in her soul."

When I returned in the evening, I found Sophronia in tears. The stove men had not quite completed their work, so Sophronia and her assistant had eaten nothing but dry bread since breakfast. The girl interrupted us to say that the stove was ready, but that she couldn't get either coal or wood, and would I just come and see why? I descended five of the cellar stairs, but the others were covered with water, and upon the watery expanse about me floated the wagon-load of wood I had purchased. The coal heap, under a window fifteen feet away, loomed up like a rugged crag of basaltic rock. I took soundings with a stick and found the water was rather more than two feet deep. Fortunately, there were among my war relics a pair of boots as long as the legs of their owner, so I drew these on and descended the stairs with shovel and coal scuttle. The boots had not been oiled in ten years, so they found accommodation for several quarts of water. As I strode angrily into the kitchen and set the scuttle down with a suddenness which shook the floor, Sophronia clapped her hands in ecstasy.

"Pierre," she exclaimed, "you look like the picture of the sturdy retainers of the old English barons. O, I do hope that water won't go away very soon. The rattling of the water in your boots makes your stepsoimpressive."

I found that in spite of the hunger from which she had suffered, Sophronia had not been idle during the day. She had coaxed the baker's man to open the cases of pictures, and she and the domestic had carried each picture to the room in which it was to hang. The highest ceiling in the house was six and a half feet from the floor, whereas our smallest picture measured three feet and a half in height. But Sophronia's art-loving soul was not to be daunted; the pictures being too large to hang, she had leaned them against the walls.

"It's such an original idea," said she; "and then, too, it gives each picture such an unusual effect—don't you think so?"

I certainly did.

We spent the evening in trying to make our rooms look less like furniture warehouses, but succeeded only partly. We agreed, too, that we could find something for painters and kalsominers to do, for the ceilings and walls were blotched and streaked so much that our pretty furniture and carpets only made the plastering look more dingy. But when again we retired, and our lights were put, and only soft moonbeams relieved the darkness, our satisfaction with our new house filled us with pleasant dreams, which we exchanged before sleeping. After falling asleep, I dreamed of hearing a wonderful symphony performed by an unseen orchestra; it seemed as if Liszt might have composed it, and as if the score was particularly strong in trombones and drums. Then the scene changed, and I was on a ship in a storm at sea; the gale was blowing my hair about, and huge rain-drops occasionally struck my face. Sophronia was by my side; but, instead of glorying with me in meeting the storm-king in his home, she complained bitterly of the rain. The unaccountable absence of her constitutional romanticism provoked me, and I remonstrated so earnestly, that the effort roused me to wakefulness. But Sophronia's complaining continued. I had scarcely realized that I was in a cottage chamber instead of on a ship's deck, when Sophronia exclaimed:

"Pierre, I wonder if a shower-bath hasn't been arranged just where our bed stands? because drops of water are falling in my face once in a while. They are lovely and cool, but they trickle off on the pillow, and that don't feel nice."

I lit a candle, and examined the ceiling; directly over Sophronia's head there was a heavy blotch, from the centre of which the water was dropping.

"Another result of taking that liquid blue-eyed agent's word," I growled, hastily moving the bed and its occupant, and setting the basin on the floor to catch the water and save the carpet.

"Why, Pierre!" exclaimed Sophronia, as I blew out the light, "how unjust you are. Who could expect an agent to go over the roof like a cat, and examine each shingle? Gracious! it's dropping here, too!"

Again I lighted the candle and moved the bed, but before I had time to retire Sophronia complained that a stream was trickling down upon her feet. The third time the bed was moved water dropped down uponmypillow, and the room was too small to re-locate the bed so that none of these unauthorized hydrants should moisten us. Then we tried our spare chamber, but that was equally damp.

Suddenly I bethought myself of another war relic; and, hurrying to an old trunk, extracted an india-rubber blanket. This, if we kept very close together, kept the water out, but almost smothered us. We changed our positions by sitting up, back to back, and dropping the rubber blanket over our heads. By this arrangement the air was allowed to circulate freely, and we had some possibilities of conversation left us; but the effect of the weight of the blanket resting largely upon our respective noses was somewhat depressing. Suddenly Sophronia remarked:

"Oh, Pierre! this reminds me of those stories you used to tell me, of how you and all your earthly treasures used to hide under this blanket from the rain!"

The remark afforded an opportunity for a very graceful reply, but four hours elapsed before I saw it. Sophronia did not seem hurt by my negligence, but almost instantly continued:

"It would be just like war, if there was only some shooting going on. Can't you fire your revolver out of the window, Pierre?"

"I could," I replied, "if that blue-eyed agent was anywhere within range."

"Why, Pierre, I think you're dreadfully unjust to that poor man.Hecan't go sleeping around in all the rooms of each of his cottages every time there's a rainstorm, to see if they leak. Besides—oh, Pierre! I've a brilliant idea! It can't be wet down-stairs."

True. I was so engrossed by different plans of revenge, that I had not thought of going into the parlor or dining-room to sleep. We moved to the parlor; Sophronia took the lounge, while I found the floor a little harder than I supposed an ex-soldier could ever find any plane surface. It did not take me long, however, to learn that the parlor-floor wasnota plane surface. It contained a great many small elevations which kept me awake for the remainder of the night, wondering what they could be. At early dawn I was as far from a satisfactory theory as ever, and I hastily loosened one end of the carpet and looked under. The protuberances were knots in the flooring boards. In the days when the sturdy patriots of New Jersey despised such monarchical luxuries as carpets, the soft portions of these boards had been slowly worn away, but the knots—every one has heard the expression "as tough as a pine knot." Fortunately, we had indulged in a frightfully expensive rug, and upon this I sought and found a brief period of repose and forgetfulness.

While we were at the breakfast-table our girl appeared, with red eyes and a hoarse voice, and remarked that now shemustleave; she had learned to like us, and she loved the country, but she had an aged parent whose sole support she was, and could not afford to risk her life in such a house.

"Let her go," said Sophronia. "If variety is the spice of life, why shouldn't the rule apply to servants?"

"Perhaps it does, my dear," I replied; "but if we have to pay each girl a month's wages for two or three days of work, the spice will be more costly than enjoyable—eh?"

Immediately after breakfast I sought the agent. I supposed he would meet me with downcast eyes and averted head, but he did nothing of the kind; he extended his hand cordially, and said he was delighted to see me.

"That roof," said I, getting promptly to business, "leaks—well, it's simply a sieve. And you told me the house was dry."

"So the owner toldme, sir; of course you can't expect us to inspect the hundreds of houses we handle in a year."

"Well, however that may be, the owner is mistaken, and he must repair the roof at once."

The agent looked thoughtful. "If you had wished the landlord to make necessary repairs, you should have so stipulated in the lease. The lease you have signed provides that all repairs shall be made at your own expense."

"Did the landlord draw up the lease?" I asked, fixing my eye severely upon the agent's liquid orbs. But the agent met my gaze with defiance and an expression of injured dignity.

"I asked you whether you would have the usual form of lease," said the agent, "and you replied, 'Certainly.'"

I abruptly left the agent's presence, went to a lumber yard near by, and asked where I could find the best carpenter in town. He happened to be on the ground purchasing some lumber, and to him I made known my troubles, and begged him to hasten to my relief. The carpenter was a man of great decision of character, and he replied promptly, ciphering on a card in the meantime:

"No you don't. Every carpenter in town has tried his hand on that roof, and made it worse than before. The only way to make it tight is to re-shingle it all over. That'll cost you $67.50, unless the scantling is too rotten to hold the nails, in which case the job'll cost you $18.75 more. I guess the rafters are strong enough to hold together a year or two longer."

I made some excuse to escape the carpenter and his dreadful figures, and he graciously accepted it; doubtless the perfect method in which he did it was the result of frequent interviews with other wretched beings who had leased the miserable house which I had taken into my confidence. I determined to plead with the landlord, whose name I knew, and I asked a chance acquaintance on the train if he knew where I could find the proprietor of my house.

"Certainly," said he; "there he is in the opposite seat but one, reading a religious weekly."

I looked; my heart sank within me, and my body sank into a seat. A cold-eyed, hatchet-faced man, from whom not even the most eloquent beggar could hope to coax a penny. Of what use would it be to try to persuade him to spend sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents on something whichIhad agreed to take care of.Somethinghad to be done, however, so I wasted most of the day in consulting New York roofers. The conclusion of the whole matter was that I spent about thirty dollars for condemned "flies" from "hospital" tents, and had these drawn tightly over the roof. When this was done the appearance of the house was such that I longed for an incendiary who would compel me to seek a new residence; but when Sophronia gazed upon the roof she clapped her hands joyfully, and exclaimed:

"Pierre, it will bealmostas nice as living in a tent, to have one on the roof; itlooksjust the same, you know, until your eyes get down to the edge of it."

There was at least one comfort in living at Villa Valley: the people were very intelligent and sociable, and we soon made many pleasant acquaintances. But they all had something dreadful to suggest about our house. A doctor, who was a remarkably fine fellow, said he would be glad of my patronage, and didn't doubt that he would soon have it, unless I had the cellar pumped out at once. Then Mrs. Blathe, the leader of society in the village, told my wife how a couple who once lived in our cottage always had chills, though no one else at Villa Valley had the remotest idea of what a chill was. The several coal dealers in the village competed in the most lively manner for our custom, and when I mentioned the matter, in some surprise, to my grocer, he remarked thattheyknew what houses needed most coal to keep them warm the year through, and worked for custom accordingly. A deacon, who was sociable but solemn, remarked that some of his most sweetly mournful associations clustered about our cottage—he had followed several of its occupants to their long homes.

And yet, as the season advanced, and the air was too dry to admit of dampness anywhere, and the Summer breezes blew in the windows and doors whole clouds of perfume from the rank thickets of old-fashioned roses which stood about the garden, we became sincerely attached to the little cottage. Then heavy masses of honeysuckles and vines which were trained against the house, grew dense and picturesque with foliage, and Sophronia would enjoy hours of perfect ecstasy, sitting in an easy-chair under the evergreens and gazing at the graceful outlines of the house and its verdant ornaments.

But the cellar was obdurate. It was pumped dry several times, but no pump could reach the inequalities in its floor, and in August there came a crowd of mosquitoes from the water in these small holes. They covered the ceilings and walls, they sat in every chair, they sang accompaniments to all of Sophronia's songs, they breakfasted, dined, and supped with us and upon us. Sophronia began to resemble a person in the first stages of varioloid, yet that incomparable woman would sit between sunset and dusk, looking, through nearly closed eyes, at the walls and ceiling, and would remark:

"Pierre, when you look at the walls in this way, the mosquitoes give them the effect of being papered with some of that exquisite new Japanese wall-paper, with its quaint spots; don't you think so?"

Finally September came, and with it the equinoctial storm. We lay in bed one night, the wind howling about us, and Sophronia rhapsodising, through the medium of Longfellow's lines, about

"The storm-wind of the Equinox,"

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