There was a special reason why Douglas Stanton walked slowly along the road leading from the railway station through the parish of Rixton. It was a warm, beautiful evening, and the magnificent scenery so appealed to him that he had not the heart to hurry. How good it was to be away from the noise and dust of the city! Here he could breathe the pure, fresh air, listen to the music of the birds, and rest his eyes upon meadows, flowers and trees. He felt at home, and the spirit of childhood days possessed him. He longed to wade in every brook he saw, and roll in the grass by the side of the road.
He had walked about five miles and was somewhat tired, as he was carrying a large bag over his shoulder, and his precious violin case under his arm. He was no longer dressed in his clerical garb, but was plain John Handyman in rough work-a-day clothes. He enquired the way from several people he met, and these had looked with curiosity upon the bag and box he was carrying.
"Huntin' for work, eh?" the last man he had accosted asked. "Well,Jake Jukes wants a man in the worst way. Heard him say so last night.He lives about half a mile further on. Ye can't mistake the place, forit's just across the road from the rectory."
"How will I know the rectory when I come to it?" Douglas enquired.
"Oh, ye can't mistake it very well. It is a big house with shutters on the windows, and tall grass all around. It's been closed up for about a year now."
This was just the information Douglas needed, and thanking the man, he moved on his way. Presently, the road dipped into a wooded valley, and part way down the hill, Douglas espied a large barrel overflowing with clear, sparkling water. Stopping, he opened his bag and drew forth a small tin cup. This he filled with water, and then withdrew a short distance among the trees and sat down upon the mossy ground. Mrs. Garton had thoughtfully provided him with a generous lunch, and this he now opened and spread out before him. He was hungry, so the sandwiches and cold meat seemed the best he had ever tasted. There was a piece of pie, as well as cake, for dessert, and what more could a king desire? he asked himself. How delightful it was to lie there and rest in such a quiet place. He was free to come and go as he wished, and not shackled by any rules of conventional life. The whole country was his to wander at will. Why should he not do it? He had only himself to care for, and his strong arms could provide the simple necessities of daily life. Why spend his time in the service of others, when his efforts were either misunderstood or not appreciated? He was tired of being dictated to, and told what to do. He was just as able to look after his own affairs as the Bishop and Dr. Rannage. They did not care a snap for him, neither did the Church, for that matter. He was but a fly on one of the wheels of the great ecclesiastical machine, and counted for nothing.
Such thoughts appealed to Douglas more than ever before, and he meditated upon them as he once more continued on his way. He had been trained to look with suspicion upon people who held such views, but now he realised how attractive they were, and worthy of more careful consideration. Life, after all, was not summed up in the books he had studied, nor in the knowledge he had acquired while at college. No, there was the great pulsing world all around him, and why should he go through it fettered in soul, mind and body?
Thinking thus, he came to the rectory. The gate leading into the yard was closed. This he pushed open, entered, and walked around the house. Signs of neglect and decay were most apparent. The building had not been painted for years, and the shingles on the roof were in a bad condition. Grass and weeds ran riot right up to the very windows. He tried both the front and back doors but they were fastened.
Amidst this scene of desolation, Douglas stood and looked out over the land connected with the rectory. There were several acres, sloping gently to the river about two hundred yards away. Trees lined the shore, and his attention was especially attracted to one large elm which towered gracefully above its fellows. Only a small part of the land surrounding the rectory had been cultivated. The rest, which had been used for pasturage, was covered with small bushes. Several apple trees stood back of the house, but these had not been trimmed for years, and the bark and moss were thick upon their trunks. "My, how I would like to get to work upon this place," Douglas thought, as he moved over toward the small orchard. "They seem to be good trees, and when once well scraped and their tops thinned out, they should bear well. Why, a man with some knowledge of farming could make a comfortable living in a few years on such a place as this."
Near the orchard was a barn, with the two big doors off their hinges, having been injured evidently by the wind. There was nothing in the barn except a pile of old hay lying upon the floor. "That looks good to me," Douglas mused. "I shall have a soft bed to-night, anyway. It is getting dark, and I might as well stay here as anywhere. I wonder what the people of this parish would say if they knew that their future clergyman is occupying the rectory barn. He might have a worse place, though, and perhaps he may before he is through."
Douglas was tired and slept soundly. The night was warm, and his coat was all the covering he needed. It seemed to him that he had been sleeping but a short time when he was awakened by a strange and yet familiar noise. Opening his eyes, he could not for a moment imagine where he was. Before him, and just outside the door, a herd of cattle was trooping past. They were much startled to see a man lying in the barn, and several of them had given vent to coarse bellows as they stood staring in upon him. Presently he heard a man's voice shouting to the cattle to "git along out of that. What's the matter with ye, anyway?" Then a stick was hurled at them, which caused them to scamper away. Soon the man appeared, and when he saw what had caused the commotion among the cattle, he, too, stood and stared in amazement for a few seconds. Then he took several steps forward, and held up the stout stick he was carrying in his hand.
"Hi, what are ye doin' there?" he demanded.
"Haven't you eyes to see for yourself?" Douglas asked in reply.
"But don't ye know that this is private property?"
"That's just the reason I'm here. It's so very private that it suits me fine."
"You have no business sleepin' in this barn."
"I'm not sleeping. I am as wide awake as you are. Do you own this place?"
"No, but I have charge of it. It's Church property, and as I live jist across the road I have been asked to keep an eye over it an' put all intruders off."
Douglas liked the appearance of this fellow, notwithstanding his pugnacious manner. He had an honest face, and bright blue eyes, in whose depths lurked a merry twinkle. He took it for granted that this was Jake Jukes who wanted a farm hand.
"Come and put me off, then," Douglas quietly remarked, as he rose slowly to his feet. "I am anxious for a little excitement. It will give me an appetite for my breakfast."
"Where are you goin' to git it?" the farmer asked.
"At your place."
"At my place!"
"Certainly. You are Jake Jukes, are you not? You want a man to help with your haying, and I am going to stay."
"Great punkins! How d'ye know who I am?" and Jake looked his astonishment.
"Oh, never mind that. Do you want me? That is more important."
"Well, I do need help very bad, but I must know what wages ye want before I hire ye. I can't make an offer until I find out what ye kin do."
"I'll work a week with you for board and lodging. That will give you time to try me out, and then you will know what I am worth. I'll bet almost anything, though, that I am just as good a man as you are."
"Ho, ho," Jake laughed. "As good a man as I am! Ye don't know what ye're sayin'. Would ye like to try a back-hold with me? There isn't a man in the whole parish of Rixton who has been able to put me down yit, though many of 'em have tried."
As a lad at school, and also while at college, Douglas had excelled in wrestling, but for several years he had not engaged in the sport, and was not in proper condition. He knew that if it came to the matter of physical endurance he would have little chance against this sturdy farmer. But it was necessary for him to do something of a worthy nature at the outset of his career in this parish.
"So you think you can put me down, do you?" he asked, as he stepped from the barn out upon the grass. "Well, then, here's your opportunity."
Nothing loath, Jake accepted the challenge, and in a trice the two were locked together in a friendly yet desperate encounter. Douglas soon found that Jake was depending mostly upon his great strength of body to win, and that he was acquainted with hardly any of the tricks of the game. He, therefore, watched his opportunity, at the same time being careful not to allow his opponent to make use of his bear-like crushing grip. This was what Jake was striving for, and he was much worried when he found that he could not carry out the plan which had always proved so effective in the past. He became puzzled, and so confused that ere long he allowed himself to be caught off guard, with the result that his feet went suddenly from under him and he came to the ground upon his hack with a thud. The shock affected his pride more than it did his body, especially when his opponent sat upon him and smiled calmly down into his face.
"Are you satisfied now?" Douglas asked. "You may get up if you are."
"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed, as he scrambled to his feet. "How in the world did ye do it? Ye're the first one who ever put me down, blister me shins if ye ain't."
"Oh, you are an easy mark," Douglas replied. "Why, I didn't half try."
"Ye didn't!" and Jake's eyes and mouth opened wide in amazement. "What could ye have done if ye really tried?"
Douglas was amused at Jake's astonishment.
"Are you willing to hire me now?" he asked. "Perhaps you want some further proof of my ability to hold my own?"
"I don't want to try any more back-holds with ye," Jake ruefully replied, as he rubbed his bruised right shoulder. "Ye've got the cinch on me in that game all right, and I'd like to know how ye did it. But I'll try ye in runnin', and if ye beat me in that ye're a better all round man than I am."
"All right," Douglas laughingly assented. "How far shall we run? I guess we'll have big appetites after all this morning's exercise."
"See that tree?" and Jake pointed to the graceful elm down by the shore. "Let's run down around that an' back to this barn."
"I'm ready," Douglas cried. "One, two, three, go!" he shouted.
They got a fair start and bounded over the field like two greyhounds slipped from the leash. Shoulder to shoulder they ran, and by the time they reached the tree there was not the slightest difference between them. They both strove for the advantage of the upper ground in drawing near the elm, with the result that they nearly collided with each other. With a whoop Jake took the lead in his dash around the tree, with Douglas right at his heels. But at that instant a form leaped suddenly to his feet with a wild cry of fear, and then went down again as the two runners dashed into him, and then sprawled full length forward.
Douglas was first to recover, for Jake had some difficulty in extricating himself from the thicket of tangled bushes into which he had plunged. Standing nearby was the cause of their mishap. He was a tall, lank youth of about seventeen, very thinly clad, and bare-footed. His expression of fear had changed to one of astonishment as he watched the two intruders upon his quietness.
As soon as Jake had scrambled to his feet and saw who it was who had caused the disaster, he rushed straight toward the motionless youth.
"Ye good fer nothin' thing!" he roared, "I'll teach ye to be layin' round here at night. Take that, ye goat!" and he administered a sound box upon the youth's ear.
The lad gave vent to a howl of pain, and tried to get away, but Jake held him in a firm grip and was about to repeat the blow when Douglas interfered.
"Here, let up on that," he ordered, at the same time laying a firm hand upon Jake's arm.
"But he deserves to be thumped," the latter insisted. "He's Empty in name and empty in head, that's what he is. What business has he to be sleepin' behind this tree?"
"He has as much business to be here as we have," Douglas defended, "and don't you dare to touch him again. Take your hands off him, or you'll go down quicker than you did up by the barn."
The memory of his recent defeat was so fresh in Jake's mind that reluctantly he relinquished his hold upon the youth's arm.
"I'll let ye off this time," he growled, "but don't let me ever catch ye hangin' around this place agin."
"I wasn't doin' nuthin'," the lad protested, speaking for the first time.
"Ye've been up to some mischief," Jake charged.
"No, I haven't."
"What have ye been doin', then?"
"Fishin'; that's what I've been doin', and I came here to git a little sleep."
"Where's yer net?"
"Out there," and the lad pointed with his finger across the water."Didn't ye know I was fishin'?"
"Naw, never heard of ye workin' before. Ho, ho, that's a good one! To think of Empty Dempster workin'! What's goin' to happen!"
At that instant the blast of a tin horn fell upon their ears, which caused Jake to start and look across the field.
"Great punkins!" he exclaimed. "It's Susie, an' I fergot all about them cows!"
The neglected cattle had been having a fine time roving at will wherever their fancy led. They had left the uninviting rectory grounds and were revelling in their master's turnip patch when discovered by Mrs. Jukes. When the men at last arrived and dislodged them from this delectable spot, they scampered across the fields, trampling through the young corn and potato patch until they reached the peas, beets and carrots, where they stopped for another feast. Jake was almost in despair. He shouted frantically, waved his arms, and hurled stones at his wayward herd. It was only with the greatest difficulty that the cattle were at last rounded up in the barn-yard, and the gate closed.
Mrs. Jukes had taken an important part in this affair, and now stood facing her crestfallen husband, with her eyes ablaze with anger. The presence of the stranger did not deter her in the least.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "Breakfast has been ready for half an hour, and if it hadn't been for me, the cows would have eaten everything up on the place. Were you asleep?"
"I—I was gettin' a man to help with the work," Jake stammered. "He's here now."
"H'm," and Mrs. Jukes tossed her head. "I guess there wouldn't have been any need for a man to help with the work if the cows had been left much longer. Where did you come from, Empty?" and she turned toward the youth standing near Douglas.
"I was fishin'," the lad replied.
"Had your breakfast yet?"
"Naw."
"Well, come in, then, and have a bite. You've earned it all right this morning. Bring your help in, Jake. I guess there's enough for all."
Mrs. Jukes' anger soon passed, and by the time they reached the house she was in a more pleasant frame of mind. She was a bright, active little body, and Douglas won her friendship at once by the interest he took in her two children, a girl of six and a boy of three. While Mrs. Jukes was busy placing the breakfast upon the table, Douglas had the children on his knees, and was asking them their names and quizzing them about the things in which they were interested. Though very busy, Mrs. Jukes noticed this, and she felt greatly pleased at the attention the stranger paid to her offspring. She noted, as well, his refined face, his gentle manner, and the words he used, for Mrs. Jukes had been a school teacher before she married, and, according to her husband, she had "a great deal of larnin'." She knew enough, at least, to keep Jake in his place, and to make him attend strictly to his work, with the result that their farm was the best cultivated one in the community.
"You sit here, sir," she told Douglas, putting a chair in place. "I'm sorry there isn't more for breakfast. I didn't expect company this morning."
"Why, this is a meal fit for a king," Douglas replied. "It's been years since I've eaten pancakes, ham and gravy. And that bread looks good, too. Did you bake it yourself, Mrs. Jukes?"
"Oh, yes, I do all my own cooking. But that bread isn't as good as I generally make. We just opened a new barrel of flour, and it doesn't seem to be as good as the last we had."
"It's no wonder that you are the best wrestler in the parish," Douglas remarked to Jake.
"Why?" the farmer asked, with his mouth full of pancake.
"Because of what you eat. Wouldn't any one be strong with such food as this?"
"But you put me down, though," Jake acknowledged, "an' you haven't been eatin' sich grub."
"Ah, it wasn't my strength, remember. It was simply a little trick I learned years ago."
"Will ye larn me the trick?" Jake asked. "I'd like to try it on Joe Preston the next time we have a bout together. My, it would surprise him."
"What, were you two wrestling this morning?" Mrs. Jukes enquired.
"Yep, an' he put me down," her husband explained. "Ye should have seen the way he did it, Susie. I struck the ground kerflop, right on my shoulders, an' they are sore yit from the thump."
No one noticed the look of wonder mingled with admiration upon Empty's face as Jake uttered these words. He forgot to eat, as he watched Douglas across the table. Any one who could put down the champion of Rixton was a marvel in Empty's eyes, and worthy of more than a passing notice. He had not forgotten how this stranger had taken his part down by the big elm, and would not let Jake hit him the second time.
Mrs. Jukes was almost as much surprised as Empty. Though she could handle her husband and make him do what she wished, she, nevertheless, had a great admiration for his prowess as a wrestler, and was proud of his standing in the community. It was his local renown which had appealed to her when she was teaching school in Rixton, and had enabled Jake to capture her from his rivals, for Susie Perkins had been greatly admired and sought after by the young men of the place.
"Do you know anything about farm work?" she asked.
"I was brought up on a farm, and should know something about it,"Douglas replied.
"But you haven't done any hard work of late, have you?"
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, I can tell by your hands. They are not hard and rough like Jake's, for instance, and your face is not burnt as if you had been out working in the sun."
Douglas smiled, and held up his hands for inspection.
"Please do not judge by these," he replied, "but rather by my brain, heart and feet. They are all pretty well worn. A week or so in the field will remedy the defects of my face and hands, and make them more like your husband's."
"I'm goin' to try ye out fer a week," Jake remarked, "an' if ye understand hayin' as well as ye do wrestlin' ye're the man fer me."
"Just for my board and lodging," Douglas added.
"Well, that's fer you to say."
"I prefer it that way."
"It's settled, then," and Jake pushed back his chair and rose from the table. "We must do the milkin', and then git into the field. There's a heap of hay to come in to-day, an' we can't dilly-dally."
Douglas soon proved that he was no novice at farm work, and he won Jake's approval by the quick and efficient way he was able to milk. But it was when once out in the field he showed what he could do. Though not hardened to the work, he exhibited his knowledge of mowing with the scythe or the machine, as well as raking and putting up the hay in bunches ready to be hauled in that afternoon.
It was a bright, beautiful day, and Douglas found it good to be out there in the open instead of being shut up in the crowded city. He was almost like a boy in his joy and enthusiasm. Everything appealed to him and brought back memories of other days; the fragrant scent of the new-mown hay, the zig-zagging butterflies, and the birds darting here and there. Though the day was hot and the perspiration at times stood out in beads on his forehead, yet he was more contented than he had been for a long time. "Why did I ever leave the country?" he asked himself. "What life so free and happy as this?" Then the thoughts which had entered his mind the night before came to him once again. "Would it not be better to live in God's open, and rove at will?" he mused. "Why should I be a slave any longer, and conform to a dry ecclesiastical system? Better to follow nature and the dictates of my own heart. What is the use of striving to help others when they do not wish to be helped?"
He found Jake a capital companion. He was not a driver, but an encourager, and when once he saw that a man was doing his best, he was satisfied.
"Ye're all right," he told Douglas that evening after the chores had been done, and they were resting for a while on a log near the house. "I suppose ye feel a little sore?"
"Not yet," Douglas replied, "but I expect to be rather stiff in the morning after to-day's work. It will take me a little while to get hardened up, and then I'm going to have a wrestling bout with you. My, how calm the water is to-night," and he turned his eyes upon the peaceful river away to the left. "I'm going down to have a swim. The last one I had was in the harbour."
"In the harbour!" Jake exclaimed in amazement. "What in the world were ye swimmin' there fer?"
"Oh, I'll tell you some day when I've got nothing else to do. Where's the best place for a swim?"
"Most anywhere, but ye'll find the water extry good down by that old pine tree," and Jake pointed away to the left. "There are no weeds there."
It took Douglas but a few minutes to reach the river, and he walked slowly along the shore. Not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water, and the trees along the bank were mirrored in the clear depths. How good it was to be in such a place where he could think to his heart's content. No sign of human life was here, and the sweet song of a vesper sparrow was the only sound which broke the stillness of the evening. So far, he had not found Rixton to be the terrible place it had been painted, and he was beginning to think that what he had heard was mere legend. He had found the Jukes very agreeable people, at any rate, and he believed that his stay with them would be most pleasant.
Having reached the old pine, he sat down upon the sand and bent forward to unlace his shoes. His attention, however, was suddenly arrested by the sound of violin music to his left. That it was no amateur who was playing he was well aware, but one skilled in the art. At any time such music would have appealed to him, but on an evening like this, and amid such surroundings, the effect was greatly enhanced. For a few minutes he sat and listened, afraid to move lest the charm should be dispelled. The music thrilled his soul with a peculiar feeling of responsibility. It seemed like a passionate cry for help, mingled with a desire for sympathy and understanding. It was quite evident that the unknown minstrel had suffered, and was pouring forth upon the still evening air the deep emotions of the heart. Others might hear differently, but there was only one interpretation he could give to the enchanting sound.
Presently there came to him a desire to see this skilled musician. He was beginning to realise that Rixton, no matter what others might say, was becoming a most interesting place. To encounter in one day a wrestler like Jake Jukes, and a violinist such as he was now hearing, made his coming to the parish really worth while.
Looking along the shore from whence the music came, Douglas could see nothing but trees. Stepping back, however, a few paces, he obtained a better view, and beheld not far away three persons near a large tree which was bending over the water. One was an old man seated upon the ground, with a young girl by his side. He could not distinguish their faces, but they were evidently listening with rapt attention to a young woman who was standing nearby playing upon a violin. Douglas noted with admiration her lithe form, and the graceful poise of her head. So the musician was a woman! It came to him as a surprise, for in his mind he had pictured a man alone on the shore, giving expression to his feelings. He longed to draw nearer, that he might see her better and look into her eyes. A soul and a hand that could produce such music could belong only to a person of more than ordinary beauty, so he imagined. But he knew that if he ventured forth the charm would be broken, and he would be looked upon as an intruder. No, it was better for him to remain where he was that he might listen and adore unseen.
As he stood there and watched, the music suddenly ceased. He saw the girl sitting on the ground rise to her feet, take the old man by the hand, and lead him away. The musician alone remained, and with the violin under her arm she leaned against the tree. Was she tired? Douglas wondered. Why did she not go with the others? He was not left long in doubt, however, for in a few minutes a man emerged from among the trees and approached the waiting woman. Ah, she had remained to meet her lover, and no doubt her music had been meant for him. Perhaps he had been near at hand all the time, waiting a favourable opportunity to speak to her. Was the old man her father who objected to her lover? And was the young girl her sister who was in league with her? These thoughts passed through Douglas' mind as he stood there. It did not seem right that he should be watching these two, and yet there was something which restrained him from going away at once. They did not seem altogether like lovers, for the young woman had stepped back as the man drew near, and kept retreating slightly whenever he approached too close.
Douglas could not hear a word that was being said, but the strange manner of the two interested him greatly. It was evident that they were engaged in an earnest conversation, though the man seemed to be doing most of the talking.
For some time the two stood near the old tree, while the shades of night deepened over the land. At length, they moved away, walking side by side, and soon disappeared among the trees. Douglas' interest was much aroused and he felt that there was some mystery connected with what he had witnessed. He longed to know something about the violinist, where she had learned to play in such a remarkable manner, and the reason of the strange compelling music.
Lost in such thoughts, he forgot all about his intended swim. He left the old pine tree and slowly retraced his steps along the shore. It was dark by the time he reached the house. He felt tired after his day's work, and was glad to go at once to the little bedroom which Mrs. Jukes had prepared for his use.
Weary though he was, Douglas found it difficult to get to sleep. He thought over the various events of the day, and was not altogether dissatisfied with the results. He had made a beginning, anyway, and he hoped that events would so shape themselves that he might soon be able to get to the heart of the Church trouble, whatever it might be. He had not yet spoken to Jake about the matter, thinking it best to wait for a day or two, or until a favourable opportunity should occur.
Then the music he had heard down by the river kept running through his mind, and, try as he might, he could not silence the sound. He saw again that slight, graceful figure standing near the tree, drawing the bow skilfully across the strings of the violin. Where had she learned to play in such a manner? he asked himself. He was surprised that Rixton could produce such a musician. Was she engaged to that young man? he wondered, and, if so, what was the cause of her strange behaviour when they met? It was late when he at last fell asleep, and he dreamed of a herd of wild cattle chasing a beautiful woman through a big field, while he and Jake were unable to go to her assistance.
When he awoke in the morning the rain was pelting down upon the roof overhead. The sound filled him with a sense of deep satisfaction and brought back childhood days when he had listened to the same music in the little room in his old home. He was glad that it was raining, as he was feeling sore after yesterday's work, and he longed for a little rest from the labour of the hay field. Early though it was, Jake was already astir. He heard him making the fire in the kitchen stove, then the rattle of milk pails, and the bang of the door as he left for the barn. Douglas tumbled out of bed, dressed, and in a few minutes was at the stable.
"What! You here?" Jake asked in surprise, as he paused in the act of picking up a milking-stool.
"Certainly, and why not?" Douglas replied.
"Oh, I didn't expect ye to be up so early, that's all. All the hired men I've ever had waited to be called."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Thought I'd let ye sleep, as ye had a hard day of it yesterday. And, besides, it's rainin', so we can't do much to-day."
"Rain or no rain, tired or not tired, I am going to do my share while I'm here," Douglas quietly remarked, as he picked up a pail and a stool. "I don't want you to favour me in the least, though I appreciate your thoughtfulness."
After breakfast, Jake and Douglas went out into the woodhouse to grind a scythe and a cutter-bar.
"We might as well git them done while it's rainin'," Jake had said, "an' there's nuthin' else we kin do this mornin'."
Douglas turned the stone while Jake did the grinding. He was not new to the job, as he had often done it as a boy. Then, it had been a wearisome task, and it seemed to him that the hired man always pressed as hard as he could upon the stone. But now he enjoyed the task, as it was a change from the pitching of hay.
"Have you many near neighbours?" he presently asked.
"Yes, a few," was the reply. "Sandy Barker lives below me, and Caleb Titus jist above. Of course, there's the corner with a whole bunch of houses. It's pretty well settled all along the river."
"Has Caleb Titus much of a family?"
"Naw. Jist himself an' one daughter, Polly."
"Has he a large farm?"
"Not overly large; though he doesn't attend to it. He works in the woods in the winter time, an' scratches the ground a little in the spring, an' tries to raise something, though he doesn't succeed very well. He sold a piece off the front of his place a few years ago to old Andy Strong, an' got a good price for it, so I heard."
"Who is this man Strong?" Douglas enquired.
Jake lifted the scythe from the stone and felt its edge very carefully with his thumb before answering. He seemed to be pondering something, and a peculiar smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.
"I can't jist tell ye who he is," he eventually replied. "He came off an' on to Rixton for several years until at last he settled down here for good with his daughters."
"How many has he?"
"Two; Nell an' Nan. My, they're beauties, an' the young fellers in the whole parish are about crazy over them, especially Nell. She's a wonder, an' looks after everything, the old man included."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Oh, he's blind as a bat, an' as queer a critter as ye ever sot eyes on."
"In what way?"
"Well, he's an unbeliever, an' has a great deal to say about churches, 'ligion, an' parsons. He's down on 'em all. The young fellers hereabouts git him to talk to them, an' make believe they are mighty interested in his views. That is only their excuse fer visitin' the place, so's they kin meet Nell an' Nan. Ho, ho! it's a great joke. The old boy thinks they're listenin' to him, but they don't remember a word he says."
"Do his daughters favour any of them?"
"Not as fer as I know. They are mighty sensible girls, an' put up with the young fellers comin' to their place because it pleases their dad. He likes to express his views, an' they know it."
"Why is Mr. Strong so much down on churches, religion and parsons?"Douglas asked.
"I can't tell ye that. He's got a grouch of some kind, though I never heard him say what it is."
"Did he ever go to church?"
"Not him, though I've seen his daughters there. Nell has played the organ at times, fer she's mighty musical. My, ye should hear her play the fiddle! She makes it fairly talk."
"Where did she learn to play so well?"
"From her dad. He was a perfessor, or something like that years ago, though his playin' is pretty shaky now."
Douglas asked no more questions just then, but went on with his work, and meditated upon what he had heard. Perhaps this old man Strong was really the cause of much of the Church trouble in the parish. Jake might be wrong in his opinion about the young men, and they may have been greatly influenced by the words of the blind professor. He longed to see Strong that he might hear what he had to say, and at the same time to meet his daughters. How he was going to do this, he had not the least idea, though he somehow felt that he would have to wrestle with the unbeliever if he intended to make any headway in Rixton. He had won his first step in the parish as a wrestler, but to contend against firmly rooted opinions was a far more difficult undertaking. It would be all the harder if he should find Strong a stubborn, narrow-minded person, unreasonable, and firmly-settled in his views.
When dinner was over, Jake asked Douglas if he would go to the shoe-maker's for him.
"Two of the traces broke on me the other day," he explained, "an' I haven't had time to git them fixed. Ye'll find Joe Benton's place jist beyond the store."
"Shall I wait until they are mended?" Douglas asked.
"Yes, if ye want to, an' if Joe's able to do them to-day. I think he'll do 'em all right, providin' he doesn't git side-tracked on his hobby."
"What's that?"
"It's 'ligion, that's what 'tis. He's great on the Bible an' Church history. He holds service every Sunday in his house, since we've had no parson."
"Do many attend?"
"Naw. Jist him an' his wife, I guess. But Joe's a good, honest feller, an' ye'll like him. But fer pity's sake, keep him off of 'ligion, if ye expect bring them traces back with ye to-day."
Douglas had no trouble in locating the shoe-maker's shop, where he found Joe Benton busy half-soleing a pair of men's boots. He was a man past sixty, grey-haired, and with a smooth-shaven face. His eyes were what arrested Douglas' attention. They were honest eyes, which looked clear and straight into his. There the old man's soul seemed to be shining forth, so expressive were they. Douglas thought he could read in those clear depths an unattainable longing, mingled with an appealing pathos. When he smiled, his whole face was lighted with a remarkable glory, and he appeared no longer a humble shoe-maker, but an uncrowned king. His rude bench was his throne, and the humble shop his royal palace. So it appeared to Douglas, and he wondered if others were affected in the same way.
"Are you Jake June's hired man, the wrestler?" the shoe-maker asked, after Douglas had told him the purpose of his visit.
"Yes, that's who I am," was the reply. "But how in the world did you hear about our wrestling match?"
"Oh, news travels fast in Rixton, especially if Empty Dempster is the carrier."
Douglas sat down upon a bench and observed Joe intently, as he gave the final touch to a shoe in his lap. Many years had passed since he had watched such work, and he recalled the old shoe-maker he used to know when a lad.
"Can you fix the traces to-day?" he enquired. "If so, I might as well wait for them."
"Yes, I'll mend them at once," and Joe put the finished shoe carefully down by its mate. "I'm not rushed this afternoon."
"You are kept busy as a rule, I suppose?"
"Yes, always mending something. I have been doing it for over thirty years now, and there is never any let-up."
"You must get very tired of it at times."
"No, I can't say I do. It gives me plenty of time to think as I sit here alone in my little shop. I often wish that I could mend everything in life as easily as I can a pair of shoes."
"Why, do you find things out of joint?" Douglas queried. "You haven't seen much of the world, I suppose?"
"I don't have to travel to see the world, sir," and Joe paused in his work and looked earnestly into his visitor's face. "I can see the world right in this parish; that is, as much as I want to see of it."
"And you think there are many things here which need to be mended?"
"I certainly do. My heart is heavy all the time over the sad condition of this parish. The church is closed; the bell is never rung; and the rectory is falling into decay. But they are merely outward signs of the real state of the community. The people do not worship any more, and the children never go to Sunday school. With this spiritual sloth has come a great moral decline, and there are all kinds of sins and evil things committed of which we, as a rule, were free years ago."
"What is the cause of all this?" Douglas enquired.
"There are various reasons. The most important, I suppose, is the lack of the right kind of a clergyman, who would understand the people, and be a real leader. If he could win the sympathy of the majority in this parish, the rest might be overcome."
"But didn't you have good men in the past?"
"Oh, yes, we've always had good men in a way. But of late years the ones we had, as I said, didn't understand the people, and as far as I could see didn't try. They knew nothing about the country ways, and considered themselves above their people. They were always looking for some better field, and made no bones of saying so. They used no tact at all."
"But didn't the people try to help and encourage them?" Douglas asked.He was beginning to feel that Joe was looking all on one side.
"Most of the people did at first, sir, and I think that things would have come around all right if they had been let alone." Joe paused and examined the stitches he had just put in the trace. "But," he continued, "there's an influence in this parish which has to be reckoned with. I'm not going to say what it is, but if you stay here long enough you'll soon find out for yourself."
"And that influence, whatever it is, would make it hard, then, for any clergyman to work here? Is that what I gather from your words?"
"That's just it."
Douglas longed to know what this influence really was, but he felt it would be better not to enquire further just then. No doubt the shoe-maker had some good reason for not telling what he knew. The only thing, therefore, was for him to find out for himself.
"You must miss the services of the Church very much," he at length remarked.
"I do, I certainly do," Joe emphatically replied. "Though I have service in my own house every Sunday morning, yet it doesn't seem just the same as in the House of God."
"Do any of the neighbours come?"
"Not one, though I've often invited them. My wife and I are the only two since Jean left us."
"Is she your daughter?"
"Yes, the youngest, and the last of the girls to go from home. We always had a hymn or two when she was here, for Jean had a fine voice." A far-away look came into the old man's eyes as he uttered these words. There was a gleam of pride, as well, showing how much he thought of this daughter.
"Where is she now?" Douglas asked.
"She's in the city. She's been in the hospital there nigh on to three years, training to be a nurse. We're looking for her home now any day. I hope you'll meet her, sir, for my Jean is a comely girl, and as good as she is beautiful. We have been very lonely without her. She always took such an interest in Church matters, and taught in the Sunday school. The children loved her, and she did so much good. I'm not much use in the place, as I have to stay here all the time just mending things. But, Jean! my, she was a power!"
"May I come to your service next Sunday?" Douglas asked as he rose to go.
Into Joe's eyes leaped a look of pleasure.
"Would you care to come?"
"Indeed I should."
"Can you sing?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then you're doubly welcome. It will be great for us to have a stranger join in our simple service."
As Douglas moved towards the door, his attention was arrested by a picture on the wall of the Good Shepherd rescuing a lamb from a dangerous place. He looked at it for a minute in silence.
"Fine picture, that," Joe remarked, as he rose from his bench and came over to the young man's side. "It means very much to me."
"Yes, I suppose so," Douglas absently replied.
"I was just like that lamb there, once," Joe continued in a voice that was low, yet filled with emotion. "I was the wandering sheep, if ever there was one." Here he paused and gazed intently at the picture. "I like to have it before me as I work. It tells me what I once was, and how much He has done for me. It makes me both thankful and careful, and it gives me a feeling of sympathy for any one who has gone astray."
Douglas walked slowly down the road, wrapped in thought. His conversation with the old shoe-maker had done him a world of good. But Joe's little glimpse of his past life was what affected him most of all. How many other wandering sheep there were in the world, nay, in this very parish, he mused. They were straying, as sheep without a shepherd. Some one must bring them back, and who would that some one be?
It was Sunday morning, and for the first time since coming to Rixton Douglas felt discontented. It was a most beautiful day, with not a ripple ruffling the surface of the river. A great peace and quietness reigned everywhere, and yet there was something lacking. He could not remember when he had awakened to the Day of Rest and found himself unable to attend the service of his Church. It did not seem right, so he mused, as he stood in front of the house looking down upon the neglected church, that he should not minister to the people. And yet he realised that it would upset all his plans if he attempted such a thing now.
He strolled over to the rectory, and walked through the fields. How he longed to repair the building and cultivate the land. He pictured to himself the vegetables he might raise, and how the whole place could be made a most delightful spot. With a suitable housekeeper, he could have a happy home, visiting his people, caring for his garden, and with some spare time for reading and study.
Hitherto, Douglas had not thought much about any one other than a paid house-keeper. But now a feeling stole into his heart that he would like to have some one else to grace the rectory—a wife, who would make it a real home. Of all the women he had met, he could not think of one he would care to marry, or who in turn would wish to be his wife. He smiled at this idea, thinking that he was becoming sentimental. To shake off the notion, he walked rapidly across the fields toward the church. He had not visited it before, but viewed it only at a distance. Everything around the building spoke of neglect. The graveyard was thick with bushes, long grass and weeds. He observed several new-made graves, and wondered what clergyman had conducted the funeral services. The church needed painting, and the roof reshingling. He tried the big front door, but found it fastened. Through one of the side windows he was enabled to obtain a partial view of the interior. The ceiling and walls were stained, and in places the plaster had fallen off and was lying on the floor. The sight saddened him, so sitting down under the shade of a big maple tree he gazed thoughtfully at the church. What labour and high ideals had gone into the erection of that building, he mused, and how the whole parish must have rejoiced when it was completed. He pictured the animated scene on the day of its consecration, and what a crowd must have been present. He thought, too, of the part it had taken in the life of the community during the long years it had been standing there; of the baptisms, weddings, and burials, and how many had been helped by the services in this, their spiritual home. But now it was deserted, the bell rusting overhead, and the door securely locked.
For some time Douglas sat there thinking of such things. Then he rose and moved away. He needed a brisk walk to shake off the feeling of depression that had taken possession of him. Going home to the house, he found Jake stretched out comfortably under the shade of an apple tree. Douglas sat down by his side.
"Been down to the church?" Jake enquired.
"Yes. It's pretty well deserted, isn't it? You must have had several funerals lately. Who attended the services?"
"Oh, a parson from Mapledale fer two of 'em, an' Joe Benton read the service over little Bennie Clark."
"You must feel lost without any service in the church," Douglas remarked.
"Naw, not a bit, though I must say I did like to hear the bell ring. I hain't been to church fer over three years."
"Why?"
"I didn't like the last parson we had, nor the style of them who set themselves up as great Christians."
"What about Joe Benton?"
"Oh, he's all right as fer as he's concerned, an' so is his wife. But what has religion done fer their family, I'd like to know? Their boys are all wild, an' I've heard stories about the girls since they left home."
Jake paused and bit thoughtfully at a blade of grass he was holding in his hand.
"But it ain't the Bentons I'm thinkin' so much about," he continued. "There are others. Look at Mike Gibband, fer instance, an' him a churchwarden, too. Why, he swears like a trooper, an' would do a man a mean trick whenever he could. I could tell ye what he did to poor widder Stanley."
"What was wrong with the last clergyman you had?" Douglas questioned.
"Well, he was mighty stuck up, an' thought it beneath himself to soil his nice white hands at anything. You should have seen the way he kept his barn over there. Why, it was a fright. An' as fer his knowledge of farmin', he didn't know a thing, and as fer as I could see he didn't want to. Bless my soul, he couldn't tell a bean from a pea, nor a carrot from a turnip."
"But a man might not know anything about such things and yet be a good clergyman," Douglas reasoned.
"That's very true," and Jake ran his fingers through his hair. "We would have overlooked sich things if he had been all right as a parson. But he wasn't, fer he used no tact, an' got Si Stubbles down on him, an' so that finished him as fer as this parish is concerned."
"Did all the people follow Mr. Stubbles in disliking the clergyman?"
"Nearly all of them."
"Why was that?"
Jake looked quizzically at his companion before replying. Douglas thought of Joe Benton's action when Stubbles had been mentioned, and his interest was now much aroused.
"I guess ye'll need to understand this parish quite a bit better before ye can git that question answered," Jake explained. "Ye'll have to know more about Si Stubbles, too."
"He rules things here, then?"
"Should say he does."
"So any clergyman who wishes to get along in this parish must keep on the good side of Mr. Stubbles?"
"That's jist it. He must knuckle down to him or git out."
"But why do the people allow that?"
"Allow what?"
"Mr. Stubbles to rule things in such a way?"
"H'm, they can't help it. Why, Si Stubbles owns most of the people in this place, body an' soul. The men work fer him in the woods in the winter time, an' in his mill the rest of the year. They git nearly everything at his store, an' are generally in debt to him, so that's where he has 'em. What Si says goes in this parish, an' any one who bucks him has to git out. Several tried it in the past, but they didn't stay here long. Things got too hot fer 'em. It pays a man to keep on the good side of Si, if he expects to hold on here."
"You must be independent of him, though. You have your farm, and do not look to him for anything."
"Not a bit of it. I'm in his clutches jist as much as the rest of the folks. He buys all of my stuff, an' I haul logs fer him in the winter. It means quite a bit to me. An' besides, if Si should git down on me, why all the rest would do so, too. He's got us all in the same box."
"So, it's chiefly through him, then, that the church is closed in this parish?"
"That's about it."
"But why doesn't some other man come, say a Methodist or Baptist minister? Surely all of the people here do not belong to the Church of England?"
"Most of 'em do, but there's a sprinklin' of Baptists and Methodies, with here an' there a Presbyterian. Their men did come, an' started meetin's. But they didn't stay long when Si once got after 'em. He boasts that he is a loyal member of the Church of England, an' a church warden, so he can't stand any other form of 'ligion."
"Oh, I see," Douglas mused. "It's a case of the dog in the manger."
"Put it any way ye like," Jake replied, as he once more stretched himself out on the grass. "Si Stubbles rules this place, an' I guess will rule it as long as he stays here."
Douglas looked at his watch and rose suddenly to his feet. It was later than he had imagined.
"I'm going for a walk," he said, "and will not be back for dinner."
"Where will ye git anything to eat?" Jake asked.
"Oh, I'll pick up a bite somewhere. But if I don't, I won't starve, asI had such a good breakfast."
Douglas walked rapidly up the road, for he wanted to be in time for the service at the shoe-maker's, and he had only a quarter of an hour to get there. He saw, in passing, what he supposed was the Stubbles' home. It was a large house with the grounds well kept, and surrounded by fine trees. He observed several people upon the spacious verandah, who watched him as he went by. He longed to see Stubbles, that he might judge for himself what kind of a man he was. Perhaps he was not such a terrible person, after all, and one with a little common sense and tact might handle him all right.
When Douglas reached Joe's place, he was surprised to find the door of his little shop partly open. Peering in, he saw the old man in his accustomed place, with his head buried in his hands. Thinking that he might be sick, Douglas entered and asked him what was the matter. Somewhat startled, Joe lifted his head and Douglas was shocked at the haggard expression, upon his face, and the look of wretched misery in his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder."Are you ill?"
"Jean's coming home," was the low reply.
"So you told me. Isn't that good news?"
"Ah, but she's coming not as I expected. She's coming home for repairs."
"For repairs! I do not understand."
"Read that, then," and Joe handed him a letter, all soiled with tears."It's from Jean herself."
It took Douglas but a few minutes to read the scrawl, and grasp the meaning. It told of failure in the city, and that she was coming home to the care of her parents. It was easy for Douglas to read between the lines, and he knew that more was contained there than appeared on the surface.
"She's coming to-morrow," the old man moaned. "My Jean coming home for repairs!" His body shook from the vehemence of his emotion, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Perhaps she is only sick, and needs home care," Douglas soothed, though in his heart he well knew it was worse than that.
Joe made no reply, but sat very still looking straight before him. His eyes were fixed upon the picture of the Good Shepherd saving the wandering lamb. A struggle was evidently going on in his mind, and it seemed that he needed that scene to help him. At length he rose slowly from the bench, and turned toward a door on the right.
"We will have service now," he quietly remarked. "We would consider it an honour to have you join us."
Douglas followed him through the kitchen into a little room beyond, where Mrs. Benton was sitting rocking herself in a splint-bottom chair. She arose as they entered, and held out her hand to the visitor. She was a small woman, dressed in plain clothes. But Douglas had eyes only for her face which, though wrinkled and care-worn, bore an expression of great sweetness, and her eyes shone with loving sympathy. She had been weeping, but she hastily brushed away her tears with the corner of her apron, as she bade the stranger welcome and offered him a chair.
On a little table rested two well-worn volumes, a Bible and a Prayer Book. Here the shoe-maker took his stand and reverently began to read the service. His voice was low, though distinct, and he seemed to feel deeply every word he uttered. Never had Douglas been so impressed by any service. He knew how the hearts of these two people were bleeding, and yet here they were taking their sorrow to the Master and laying it at His feet.
"Would you mind reading the lesson?" Joe asked, handing Douglas the opened Bible. "That is the chapter," and he placed his finger upon the page. "My eyes seem a bit dim of late."
A feeling of compunction smote Douglas' heart as he took the Book and began to read. What a deceiver he was, and what would these two sincere people think if they knew who he really was? Was he right in coming to Rixton in such a guise? he asked himself. Would it not have been better and more manly to have come in his official capacity instead of as a spy? But the thought of the failure of his predecessors somewhat soothed his troubled conscience. If the majority of the people were like the Bentons, it would be different. There was a disease of some kind in the parish, and as a physician of souls he felt that it was necessary for him to understand what it was before he could expect to effect a cure.
When the service was over, Douglas rose to go.
"Won't you stay and have a bite with us?" Joe asked.
"Please do stay," Mrs. Benton pleaded. "We are lonely to-day, and it is so nice to have you with us."
Knowing that they were sincere in their request, Douglas remained, and joined them in their humble repast. They sat and talked for a long time when the meal was finished, and Douglas learned much about the history of the Benton family, especially Jean. Being the youngest, and the last to leave home, she was very dear to them. No further reference was made to the letter they had received, nor of her home-coming. They dwelt upon her life as a child, and the part she had taken in the Sunday school, and other Church work in the parish. But it was quite easy for Douglas to see that their hearts were almost broken, and the pathetic look in their eyes told more than many words of the thoughts the lips could not express.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Douglas bade the Bentons good-by and walked slowly down the road. He had many things to consider, and he wished to be off somewhere by himself. His visit to the shoe-maker's had been like a benediction, and the wonderful faith he had witnessed there, combined with the words of brave courage to which he had listened, rebuked his doubts and fears. He had been strongly tempted to give up and run away from what he knew to be his duty. He had planned to live only for himself, and wander wherever his spirit might lead. But now a longing came upon him to stay and help those two old lonely people, and comfort them in their time of need. It was the first link which was to bind him to this parish, the golden link of divine sympathy. Little did he realise that afternoon what the next link would be in his life's mystic chain.
It was a hot day and the river looked alluring and refreshing. He thought of the big tree down by the shore, and of its cooling shade. He decided to spend the rest of the afternoon there, alone with his thoughts and his violin. There was something in his soul which he could express only upon his beloved instrument. He had played very little since coming to Rixton. Twice he had amazed the Jukes' children with lively airs, and one evening he had played for their parents. He smiled to himself as he thought of its soothing effect upon Jake who had fallen asleep in his chair.
There was no sign of life in the house as he entered. Mrs. Jukes and the children had gone to visit a neighbour, and Jake was sound asleep upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Going at once to his little room, Douglas took his violin out of its case, and, carrying it under his arm, he slipped quietly out of the house and made his way swiftly down over the fields toward the river.
He was very hot and it was refreshing to sit under the shade of the tree with his back against the big ice-scarred trunk. In fact, he was so comfortable that he had no inclination to play upon his violin which was lying by his side. It was good to sit there and think. Again the old lure of the freedom of a wandering life swept upon him, and the impression the Bentons had made gradually diminished. His eyes followed several swallows as they darted here and there. What a happy free-from-care life they must lead, he mused. They come and go at will, and in a few weeks they will be speeding away to the sunny southland. Why should the birds have privileges greater than human beings?
And as he sat there a drowsiness stole over him which he made no effort to resist. In a few minutes the world of sight and sound was blotted out, and he slept. He awakened with a start and looked around. Then he glanced at his watch and found that it was four o'clock, and that he must have been asleep for about half an hour. What was it that aroused him? he wondered. No one was in sight, and he could hear nothing. A sense of loneliness suddenly took possession of him. Almost mechanically, he picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings. At first, he played several old familiar hymns, but ere long he drifted off into dreamland to the varying fancies of heart and mind. On and on he played, unheeding time and place. The music varied, now soft and low, and again rising to grand triumphant strains.
At length he paused, and looked quickly around. A feeling possessed him that he was being watched. Neither was he mistaken, for a girl at once stepped forth from behind a clump of bushes and advanced toward him. He felt sure he had seen her before, but just where he could not at the moment remember. She was very beautiful, and her face glowed with animation, and her eyes sparkled with delight.
"Oh, I heard you," she laughingly began. "You thought you were alone, did you?"
"I certainly did," Douglas replied. "But I am delighted to see you, asI was getting tired of my own company. Do you like music?"
"I like yours, oh, so much! I can never forget the first time I heard you play."
"Heard me play!" Douglas repeated in surprise. "When was that?"
"Why, don't you remember?" and the girl's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "It was that awful night in the city when my father was playing, and you came and took the violin from him, and——"
"You don't mean to tell me that you are that girl?" Douglas interrupted, as he leaped to his feet. "Why, yes, you are the very same though not so pale and frightened. I knew I had seen you somewhere before, but could not remember just where."
"Isn't it funny!" and the girl's silvery laugh rang out. "How in the world did you happen to come here?"
"Oh, I'm working for Jake Jukes, that's all."
"I know that. You're the man who put him on his back. My, you must be a great wrestler!"
"Why, who told you about that?" Douglas smilingly questioned.
"Empty, of course. He knows everything that goes on in this place."
"And tells it, too?"
"Why, yes. He's as good as a newspaper. Nell says we wouldn't know what is going on but for Empty."
"Who is Nell?"
"She's my sister, and she's reading to daddy now, in front of the house. You must come with me at once and see her, for I've told her about you a thousand times."
"About me!"
"Yes. How you played on the street, and were so good to us. And daddy will be so glad to meet you, too, for he has been feeling so badly ever since that night that he didn't thank you for your kindness."
The girl's face was flushed with excitement, and she was anxious to rush off to tell of the great discovery she had made. But she wished to take her prize with her, and Douglas was nothing loath to go, as he longed to meet the old man he had seen in the city. He believed that he was Andy Strong, of whom Jake had spoken, and who had "a great deal to say about churches, 'ligion an' parsons," and who was "down on 'em all." He felt that he must be prepared for another wrestling match far different from his bout with Jake. He might find in this blind musician an able opponent, and it would be well for him to be on his guard.
The girl was delighted when Douglas, tucking his violin under his arm, walked along by her side. She was an excellent companion and chatted incessantly.
"This is where we skate in the winter," she told him, pointing to the river. "Oh, it is such fun when the ice is good. The boys come at night and build great fires and we skate around them."
"Do you go to school?" Douglas asked when the girl paused an instant.
"Not now. You see, I have to help Nell, and that takes much of my time. But daddy teaches me. He is a great scholar, and knows most everything. He was a college professor before he became blind."
"Was he?" Douglas asked in surprise. "At what college?"
"Passdale; and it was such a lovely place. My dear mother died when we were there. I was only a little girl when we left, but I remember it well. Nell was at college when father became blind, and she felt so badly about coming away before she could graduate."
"And have you lived here ever since?"
"Oh, yes. There is no other place for us to go."
"Do you like it?"
"Sure. I am happy wherever daddy and Nell are. We have such great times together. But here we are right at the house. It wasn't far, was it?"
Douglas did not reply for he was held spell-bound by the beautiful and interesting scene before him. In a comfortable arm-chair sat the blind musician listening intently to what his daughter was reading. She was seated upon the ground by his side, with a book lying in her lap. It was only for an instant, however, that Douglas was privileged to watch her unobserved, but it was sufficient for him to note the rare charm of her face and form.
"Oh, daddy! Nell!" the girl cried as she rushed forward. "You can't guess who is here?"
At these words the fair reader lifted her head and her eyes rested upon the stranger.
"It's the man who played for us in the city," the girl explained."Isn't it wonderful that I have found him!"
An expression of pleasure swept over the young woman's face, as she at once rose to her feet and held out her hand.
"Any one who has befriended my father and sister is welcome here," she quietly remarked. "Father," and she turned partly around, "this is the man you have told us so much about. Nan has brought him to see you."