The Face of the Master

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,Com-ing for to car-ry me home,

The old grey head turned feebly on its hard pillow, and Sally stirred restlessly.

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,Com-ing for to car-ry me home.

Above the song of the brook that seemed like a tender accompaniment to the tinkle of the mandolins the music rose, and old Joe woke from his dream of pain.

I looked o-ver Jordan and what did I seeCom-ing for to car-ry me home? A

band of an-gels com-ing aft-er me,Com-ing for to car-ry me home.

Oh, light of the angels! Oh, rapture of the song! The familiar words brought back so much to the old man's listening soul!

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,Com-ing for to car-ry me home,

The fragrant shower fell around him. He grasped a great white rose that was within reach of his hand and pressed it to his parched lips.

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,Com-ing for to car-ry me home.

Out of the clouds was the chariot coming forhim? Yes—wrapt in celestial glory.

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot.

The song died away, and the singers heard no sound within.

But the tired head fell back upon its pillow with a sigh of infinite content, the chariot came, and Uncle Joe forgot the "misery" and the roses alike in passing from supreme shadow to supreme dawn.

The Face of the Master

In a little town in Italy, there once lived an old violin maker, whose sole pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments which he had made. He had, indeed, a son, or rather a stepson, for his wife had been a pretty widow with this one child when he married her a year before.

Pedro was a dark little fellow, with great deep eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He idolised his mother, but shrank from his father with a feeling of instinctive dislike. Perhaps the old man noticed this, though he was so absorbed in his work and in directing his careless assistants that he seemed entirely oblivious to his surroundings.

The child was errand-boy for the little shop, and all his tasks were patiently and cheerfully done. Occasionally, one of the workmen would pat him on the head, and he distinctly remembered oneday when the lady next door, gave him a piece of candy.

Before he and his mother came to live in the little shop, he had never seen a violin, and even now he could not be said to have heard one, for neither his father nor any of the workmen knew how to play;—they were quite content with putting the bridge in place, leaving the strings to be adjusted in the neighbouring town where the instruments found a ready sale.

One day, the last touch was given to an unusually fine instrument, and in a moment of pride, the old man fitted it with strings. He placed it under his chin and touched the strings softly with the bow. Faulty though the touch was, the answer was melody—a long sweet chord.

Pedro's eyes grew darker, and his little face was fearlessly upturned to the man who held the singer of that wonderful song. In the ecstasy of the moment, his foot touched a valuable piece of wood upon the floor.

Crack! It became two pieces instead of one, and with a curse and a blow, the trembling child was pushed, head foremost, into his own little room. A moment later he heard the key turn in the lock. Paleand frightened, he sank into a corner, but the memory of the sweetness was with him still and in his soul was the dawn of unspeakable light.

All was silent in the shop now, but shortly he heard the busy hum of voices and the old confused sound. Then above the din, the violin sounded again. He listened in wonder. That single chord had been a revelation, and as a sculptor sees in a formless stone the future realisation of a marble dream, so Pedro, guided unerringly by that faulty strain, saw through break and discord, the promise of a symphony.

He fell asleep that night haunted still by that strange sweet sound, and dreamed that it had been his fingers to which the strings had answered.Hisfingers? He awoke with an intense longing in his childish breast. Oh, to touch that dear brown thing! Oh, to hear again the whisper of the music!

Though the sun had risen he was still in a dream, and, mingled with the notes of the lark above his window, was the voice of the violin.

Presently his stepfather appeared in the doorway, and with more than usualunkindness in his tone ordered him away on an errand. Pedro gladly went, and all that day tried ineffectually to conciliate the angry man by patience, gentleness, and obedience. Night came, and though weary, he was sent on a still longer journey. He started with an important message from his father to the home of the man who was to furnish wood for a lot of new violins. He had often been to the shop, but it was late now, the man must have gone home, and his house was much farther away.

He dared not complain, however, and trudged wearily on. But with all his fatigue, his heart was light, for he fancied there might be music in the home toward which he was hastening. Some day, perhaps, he might hear the blessed chords again! He would wait. Through his childish fancy flitted a dream of a symphony—the unthought melody which might be sleeping in those broken chords.

He delivered his message safely, and the man kindly showed him a short cut home. It was very late, and the streets were still, but he was not afraid. He passed house after house that was gayly lighted, and looked longingly at the revelry within,but he hurried onward till he came to a little house in a side street.

Hark! He stopped suddenly. Out of the darkness came the sound of music—was it a violin? Yes, no, it could not be. He crept closer to the cottage. Then a burst of harmony came into his consciousness—long, sweet, silvery notes; a glad rush of sound that brought tears to his eyes—a delicate half hushed whisper, and then the twinkle of a brook, with the twilight gentleness of a shadow. Clearer and stronger the music grew, and the child's breath came in quick, short gasps. The brook was a river now, he could hear the swaying of the trees in the forest; the heart of the wind was in the music, and on it swept in glad resistless cadence, from the brook to the river, then down to the sea. A pause, a long low note, then a glorious vision of blue, as into the rush of the song, there came the sweet, unutterable harmonies of the ocean.

He was in ecstasy; he scarcely dared to move. Oh, could he but see whence the music came! Could he look for a moment only, upon the face of the master! The moon came out from behind a cloud, and the child looked up. At the open windowhe saw an old man with deep-set eyes, a kindly smile, and long white hair that hung down to his shoulders. He held a violin in his hand, but the picture needed not this touch to tell the child who it was that had made this wonderful music, for he felt that he now looked upon the face of the master.

With a sigh, the old man again placed the instrument in position, and drew the bow across the strings. The boy trembled. In slow, measured sweetness the music came—a deep wonderful harmony that held him spellbound. There was a tender cadence that swayed the player's soul, and into the theme crept the passionate pain of one who had loved and lost.

The child knew that the man was suffering—that music like that could only come from an aching heart. With double notes, in a minor key, the master played on; then the violin slipped to the floor unheeded, and the old man laid his head on the window sill, and wept like a child.

Pedro crept away; he could bear no more. The glory had entered into his soul. He went noiselessly to bed, but he heard still that marvellous music and saw again the pain-shadowed face of the master.

Oh, could he but touch the magic strings! Could he but play one note of the wondrous song! An idea seized him—he would try sometime. In a transport of joy he fell asleep, and dreamed all night long of the heavenly strains. He saw the clear deep blue of the ocean, he heard the wind symphonies in the forest, and always, too, before him was that white suffering face.

The next day he was scarcely himself. He moved about as if he still slept, while his eyes were unusually sad and thoughtful. At night he could not sleep, and after making sure that every one else was in deep slumber, he slipped quietly out into the shop. The moon showed him where to go, and at length he picked up the new violin which had taken so long to finish, and which was the finest his father had ever made. Where should he go? Outdoors, assuredly. He went softly out into the moonlight and down to the brook which was some distance from the house.

The silence, the beauty, the witchery of it all, was overwhelming. A gentle breeze swayed the tree tops, and, from the instrument in his hand, drew forth Æolian music. He started, placed it in position,and drew the bow across the wind-swept strings. His touch awakened the sleeping voice, and through his soul surged again the long, sweet chords that had made him glad, and shown him through the broken bits of melody, the grandeur of the symphony. Tenderly, tremblingly, he touched the strings again, and another chord, a minor, struck deep into his heart.

Without thought or knowledge of the art he still blundered on, knowing naught save that it washisfingers that made a wild, delirious, rapturous sound, and seeing only the remembered vision of the master's face.

Conscious of nothing else, he did not see that the sun had risen. Suddenly he looked up. His father stood before him with a strange expression on his face. The terrified child dropped the instrument to ward off a blow, but the father said, with a tremor in his voice: "Is it so, my boy? Are you then a musician? You shall have lessons; I shall give you a violin; we go to-day to see the master. Ah, the music! It is most wonderful!"

The boy was dumb with astonishment. To learn? And who was the master? That afternoon he dressed himself in hisbest garments, which were worn only on festal occasions, and with his father went on the gladdest errand of his life.

The master! Could it be? The child's heart almost stopped beating. Yes, down the little street they turned and went up to the door of the cottage. He could not speak.

Presently he found himself in a plainly furnished little room, and heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and Pedro looked up to see those deep-set eyes that seemed to smile down at him.

The father rose, and bowing low, he said: "Signor, I would like my son to play the violin—you are a teacher—he will be a musician. I have no money, Signor, but if you teach my boy how to play, I will make you a violin—the finest in the world."

The master was about to refuse; his old violin was a good one, and he did not like to teach. He turned away hastily, but he caught a glimpse of the child's uplifted face. His soul was in his eyes, and in their depths the great artist saw an unutterable longing. He was touched. "Child," he said, "would you like to play?"

He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The touch and the kindly tone thrilledhim unspeakably. To play? To hear again that infinite music? Glad tears rushed to his eyes and his only answer was a sob.

"Ah, yes," the man's voice was tender. "You love it; I will teach you. Come to-morrow at this hour and we shall begin."

Pedro went home, wild with delight. To play! To see the master's face! Ah, it was too much! All night long he dreamed of that delicious melody, and the dear old head with its crown of silver hair that seemed like a benediction.

His father gave him a little old violin. To him? Was it all his own? "And when you can play, my boy," he said, "you shall have the 'Beauty'."

Pedro's first lessons were a revelation. His face was a study for a painter, and the teacher saw that he had before him the promise of an artist. He gave himself willingly to the task and soon learned to dearly love his eager pupil.

And Pedro? No task was too hard, no study too difficult, no practice too long and tedious, if he might please his good old friend; and even while he struggled with the difficulties of technique, he never losthope or patience, for before him always like a guiding star, was the serene white face of the master.

So the years went by, and all Italy was being searched for the finest wood that grew—for the sharpest tools. The wood for the master's violin must be well seasoned—it would take a long time—the longer, the better. For centuries the old tree had listened to wind, and river, and bird; the sounds of the forest were interwoven with its fibre, and now it must give up its buried music in answer to the strings of the violin.

The childish stature was changed to that of manhood, and still the teacher found in Pedro a devoted pupil. The youth had developed in many ways, but the artist seemed to be little changed. A little more bent, perhaps, but the same sweet soul.

Pedro had the "Beauty" but the master's violin was not yet finished. He never asked for it, never spoke of it; in the delight of Pedro's achievement and greater promise, perhaps he had forgotten the promise of the old violin maker.

But the old man was growing feeble. A change was coming and the young manfelt it too. He went one day for his lesson, and the housekeeper met him at the door with her finger on her lip. Hush! The teacher was ill. But he would like to see Pedro for a few minutes.

He went in and spoke tenderly to the old friend, whose eyes shone with so much love for his pupil—his boy—as he still called him. Pedro could not stay long—it was too sad, and the tears were choking his utterance. He went home with a sorrow-laden heart.

His father said to him as he entered: "The master's violin is at last finished, my son. See?"

He held up a beautifully fashioned instrument.

"You shall take it to him to-morrow. Ah, its tone! You will play?"

"No, father, I cannot. The master, he is ill—dying—perhaps. Oh! I cannot."

The old violin maker laid the instrument gently in its case. There were tears in his own eyes—"The teacher! Well, we must all die," and he turned to his work.

Night came, and Pedro tossed restlessly on his couch. About midnight there was a rap on the front door of the shop.

He went quietly and opened it. Therewas a messenger from the old housekeeper. The teacher was sinking fast. The physician said he could not last until morning. He was out of pain, and he knew the end was near. Would Pedro come and play for him? The night seemed so long! Pedro dressed himself hurriedly. Oh, if he should be too late! As he went through the shop he passed the table where lay the master's violin. A sob came into his throat as he lifted it from the case. He would play that.

Out into the still street he went with almost breathless haste. The moon shone gloriously, and the air was sweet with spring. He reached the cottage and went softly into the little room at the end of the hall where the man lay, looking like a piece of marble statuary, but still breathing. Pedro bent over him and looked lovingly into his face.

The master spoke with difficulty—"You are come, then, my friend—my boy?" The same old tenderness! Pedro could not answer. "You will play to me? The end is so near, the night seems so long—play to me, my boy."

The feeble man turned his face to the open window, which was on a level with hiscouch. With a sigh of content, he laid his head upon the sill. Pedro started. The position, the moonlight, oh, that far-off night! Again he was a child crouching in the darkness, and in the old ecstasy beneath that very window—he heard again that infinitely sad music, and saw again the white suffering face.

He placed the instrument in position; step by step, unerringly, he followed the notes of the marvellous melody, for was not the musician before him, teaching him how to play it?

The grey head turned towards the player—a strange new light in his eyes. But seeing only the vision of his childhood the young man played on and on, and somehow into the symphony crept all the love and sadness of a life time. As he played he threw his whole soul into the music. Oh, the indescribable sweetness of the master's violin! At last his vision faded, and he saw the massive head drop on the same old sill—he heard once more the sobs that come with tears.

The music ended with a broken chord, and he looked up—to find his friend gazing at him with ineffable happiness. "My boy, where did you learn that? Itis one of my own compositions—I have never written it all down—where—where did you learn it?"

Pedro drew his chair to the couch, and, clasping the withered hand in both his own that were strong and young, and beating with life, he told the story. So long ago that he was but a child, he had heard the artist play it. He had known even then that it was born of sorrow, and to-night that far-off time came back into the moonlight, with the master's face. He had not played from memory only, for the teacher had shown him some of the notes and he had but followed.

The man feebly raised his head and said brokenly: "My boy, you are right; I had a sorrow. You are young, but you will understand."

No longer master and pupil, they were now friend and friend.

"I loved her—the best of all the world. But with the end only, came the peace which had been denied me in life. She loved my music and I played to her when she lay dying. She did not love me as I loved her—I was her friend, always; 'her dear, dear friend,' she used to say.

"But," and the voice grew stronger,"my arms were around her when the angels came—with my kisses on her lips she went to her grave—there are violets there—she loved them so—for thirty years I have watched them. Her heart has blossomed into them, and they come from her to me.

"She was so pure—so sweet—and her last word was for me. Such a little word! With her last strength, she put her arms around me, and drew my face down to hers—such a little word—it was a whisper—Sweetheart! She loved me then—I know she did. Oh, love, could I break the bonds of the grave!" He was silent for a moment. "Now you know—you understand. You will play it again."

The night was deepening toward the dawn. Once more Pedro took the violin—and played the melody, instinct with the old, old story of love and pain. The man's eyes were closed; he lay contentedly and peacefully as a child. As the boy played, the darkness waned, and as he finished, not with a broken chord, but with a minor that some way seemed completion, the first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky.

The master turned to the window again:"See, the day breaks." The sky grew gold and crimson, but a more celestial light seemed to live around the grey head, as if, in rifts of heaven, he saw her waiting for him.

He stretched his trembling hands to the east, and whispered: "Yes, I am coming! Coming! You love me then? Ah, yes! Beyond the sunset—the dawn; I am coming—coming—coming—such a little word—Sweetheart!"

A look of unspeakable rapture; it was transfiguration; then the deep blue eyes were closed upon the scenes of earth. The first ray of the sun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon the couch. The sobbing old housekeeper came toward them, but Pedro motioned her away.

He knelt at the bedside, his own face shining with something of that celestial glow, and man though he was, with quivering lips he kissed again and again the dear white face of the master.

A Reasonable Courtship

When Tom Elliott graduated from Harvard, that power of the mind which is known as reason had become a fetish with him. Every human action, he argued, should be controlled by it. The majority of people were largely influenced by their feelings; he, Thomas Elliott, twenty-six, good-looking, and fairly wealthy, would turn his mental advantages to good account and be guided wholly by his reason.

He explained his theory to an attractive young woman who had gone out on the veranda with him. Partly because her mind was too much occupied with the speaker to comprehend the full purport of his remarks, and partly because her feminine tact forbade opposition to an unimportant thing, Miss Marshall nodded her pretty head in entire assent.

"It is an assured fact," he went on, "that all the unhappiness in the world iscaused by the inability to reason. Married life is miserable just because it is not put on a sensible basis. Any two human beings capable of reasoning would be happy together, if that point were kept constantly in view. Perfect, absolute truthfulness, and constant deductions from it, form the only sure foundation for happiness. Am I right?"

She twisted the corners of her handkerchief. "Yes, I think you are."

Elliott paced back and forth with his hands in his pockets—a symptom of nervousness which women mistake for deep thought; "Belle," he said suddenly, "I have always liked you. You have so much more sense than most girls. I am not going to flatter you, but you are the only woman I ever saw who seemed to be a reasonable being. What I want to ask is, will you try it with me?"

Miss Marshall opened her brown eyes in amazement. Since she left boarding-school, the approach of the Elliott planet had materially confused her orbit. She had often dreamed of the offer of Tom's heart and hand, but for once, the consensus of masculine opinion to the contrary, a woman was surprised by a proposal.

"What on earth do you mean?" she gasped.

"Just this. You and I are congenial, of an equal station in life, and I believe we could be happy together—happier than the average married couple. There's no foolish sentimentality about it; we know each other, and that is enough."

There was a terrific thumping going on in the region where Miss Marshall had mentally located her heart. She took refuge in that platitude of her sex which goads an ordinary lover to desperation.

"This is so sudden, Mr. Elliott! I must take time to consider."

"Very well, take your own time. I'll be a good husband to you, Belle, if you'll only give me the chance."

In the solitude of her "den" Belle Marshall gave the matter serious consideration. Safely intrenched behind a formal proposal, she admitted to herself that she loved him—a confession that no woman ever should make until the Rubicon has been crossed. But even the most love-blinded damsel could not transfigure Elliott's demeanour into that of a lover.

Within her reach, in a secret drawer, was a pile of impassioned letters and a witheredrose; on her desk a photograph of a handsome face, which she had last seen white to the lips with pain. He had called her cruel, and she had smiled faintly at the Harvard pin which she wore, and bade him go.

Then there was another, of whom Belle did not like to think, though she went to his grave sometimes with a remorseful desire to make some sort of an atonement. He was only a boy—and some women know what it is to be loved by a boy.

She compared the pleading of the others with Elliott's business-like offer, and wondered at the severity of fate. Then she wrote a note: "Miss Marshall accepts with pleasure, Mr. Elliott's kind invitation to become his wife," and sent it by a messenger. Before burning her relics, as an engaged girl should, she sat down to look them over once more. With a Spartan-like resolve she at last put every letter and keepsake into the sacrificial flames. When it was over she sighed, for she had nothing left but memory and the business like promise of the morning: "I'll be a good husband to you, Belle, if you'll only give me a chance."

Her note would doubtless be answeredin person, and she donned a pretty white gown, that she might not keep him waiting. She vainly tried to tone down her flushed cheeks with powder. "You are a nice sort of girl," she said to herself, "for a reasonable marriage."

Just then the door-bell rang, and she flew to answer the summons. There was no one else in the house, the coast was clear and she was an engaged girl. She started in surprise, as Elliott walked solemnly on by her, after she had closed the door.

"Nice afternoon," he said.

There was no doubt about it; Miss Marshall had expected to be kissed. Still unable to speak, she followed him into the parlour. He turned to offer her a chair and instantly read her thought. "You need fear nothing of the kind from me," he said in a blundering way, which men consider a high power of tact. "It's not hygienic, and is a known cause of disease. Above all things, let us be sensible."

"You got my note?" she enquired faintly.

"Yes, and I came to thank you for the honour conferred upon me. I assure you,I fully appreciate it—more, perhaps, than I can make you understand."

Throughout his call he was dignified and friendly, but she was in a state of nervous excitement which bordered on hysteria.

"You are nervous and overwrought," he said in a friendly way. "Perhaps I would better go. I'll come again soon, and you shall name the day, and we will make plans for our future."

He shook hands in parting, and Belle ran up-stairs as if her life depended upon it. Once in her own room, she locked the door, then threw herself down among her sofa pillows in a passion of tears.

"A—cause—of—disease—of—disease," she sobbed. "Oh, the—brute!"

She had kept her lips for her husband, and the wound went deep. When she descended the stairs, calm and collected, her eyes were set and resolute, and there was a look around her mouth that boded ill for Mr. Thomas Elliott, of Harvard, '94.

The next day he asked her to drive.

"I don't want to hurry you in the least," he said, "and the time is left to you. Only tell me a little time before, that is all. And Belle, remember this: I amgoing to be perfectly and absolutely truthful with you, and I expect you to be the same with me."

It was not long before she found out that he meant what he said.

"Do I look nice?" she asked him one evening, when they were starting for the theatre.

"I am sorry to say that you do not," answered Elliott. "You've got too much powder on your nose, and that hat is a perfect fright."

Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Offering him her handkerchief she commanded him to "wipe off the powder," and Elliott did so, wondering in a half-frightened way, what the mischief was the matter with Belle.

They were early, and sauntered along the brilliantly lighted street, with plenty of time to look into the shop windows. One firm had filled its largest window with ties of a dashing red.

"I think I'll get one of those," Tom said. "They're stylish just now, and I think it would be becoming, don't you?"

"No, I don't," she answered promptly. "Only a man with a good complexion can wear one of those things!"

Tom had always thought his dark clear skin was one of his best points, and that Belle should insinuate that it wasn't, hurt his pride. Neither spoke until they entered the theatre; then man-like he said the worst thing possible.

"That's a pretty girl over there," inclining his head toward a blond beauty. "I always liked blonds, didn't you?"

Belle was equal to the occasion. "Yes, I always liked blond men; I don't care so much for the girls."

Elliott's lower jaw dropped thoughtfully. He was as dark as Egypt, himself.

Neither enjoyed the play.

"Seeing it a second time has spoiled it for me," Tom said. "I took Miss Davis last week and we both enjoyed it very much."

Belle's stony silence at last penetrated Tom's understanding.

"There's no reason why I shouldn't take another girl to the theatre," he explained, "just because I happen to be engaged to you. It isn't announced yet, and won't be until you are willing. And you know it doesn't change my regard for you in the least to go with any one else. You are welcome to the same freedom."

A great light broke in upon Belle. The next time he called she had gone to play tennis with a Yale man. He saw them laughing and chatting a little way down the street, and the owner of the blue sweater was carrying her racket. Tom was angry, for the Yale man was an insufferable cad, and she had no business to go with him. He would speak to her about it.

On the way home, he wisely decided to say nothing about it. Perhaps Belle wasn't as fully accustomed to being guided by reason as he was, though she was an unusually sensible girl. He must be gentle with her at first; she would grow by degrees.

Acting on this impulse, he took his cherished copy of Spencer'sEthicsand presented it to her.

"You'll like this," he said, "after you have got into it, and it will help you amazingly about reasoning."

A well-developed white arm threw the Spencer vigorously against the side of the house. Elliott was surprised, for a woman like this was utterly outside the pale of his experience. Perhaps she didn't feel well. He put his arm around her.

"What is it, Belle?" he asked anxiously.

The singular phenomena increased in intensity, for Belle jerked away from him, with her eyes blazing.

"How dare you touch me?" she said, and walked like an empress out of the room.

Inside of ten minutes the idea came to Elliott that she did not intend to return until he left the house. Her handkerchief lay on the table, and he picked it up. He looked carefully into the hall, and saw no one. Then the apostle of reason put the handkerchief into his pocket and walked out of the room to the front door, then slowly down the street, still in a brown study. "What could a young woman mean by such vigorous hints of displeasure?" Four years at college had taught him nothing of women and their peculiar ways, and he was evidently on the wrong track. It wasn't reasonable to humour her in such tantrums, but he sent a box of roses by way of a peace offering, and received in return a note which emboldened him to call.

An old-time friendly chat put them on an equal footing again, and Elliott grew confidential.

"Every thought of mine rightfully belongs to you, I suppose," he said one day.

"Every thought of mineisof you," she replied softly, and he watched the colour in her cheeks with a sensation akin to pleasure.

He thought about it in the night afterward. It was nice for a fellow to know that a girl like Belle thought of him often. If it had been a proper thing to do, he wouldn't have minded kissing her when she said it, for he had never seen her look so pretty.

The Yale man had gone back to college and Elliott settled down in business with his father. He and Belle were the best of friends, and he looked forward with increasing pleasure to the day which she had not yet named. He planned a European tour which he was sure would both surprise and please her. He did not intend to mention it until after the ceremony.

Surely no lover ever had a more reasonable and attractive path to travel. Belle was everything that could be desired. When his visits were infrequent, she did not seem to miss him, and—rarest quality in woman!—never asked him any questions as to the way in which he had spent the time away from her.

Tom felt like a pioneer who had emancipatedhis sex by applying the test of reason to every duty and pleasure in life.

The summer waned, and beside the open fire in the long cool evenings she seemed doubly attractive. In a friendly way, he took her hand in his, as they sat in front of the flaming brushwood, then started in surprise.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The queerest thing," Tom answered. "When I touched your hand just now, I felt a funny little quiver run up that arm to my elbow. Did you ever feel a thing like that?"

Belle forsook the path of absolute truth.

"No, how queer!"

"Isn't it?" He took her hand again, but the touch brought no answering thrill. "Must have been my imagination, or a chill," commented Tom.

Alone in her room, Miss Marshall laughed softly to herself.

"Imagination, or a chill! What a dear funny stupid thing a man is!"

Sunday evenings Tom invariably spent with Belle. When he called on the first evening of the following week, he was astonished to find that she had gone to church with the Yale man. Mrs. Marshall explained to him that it was the young man's farewell visit; his mother had been ill and he had been unexpectedly called home, thus giving him a few days with old friends.

He saw them laughing and chatting a little way down the street, and the owner of the blue sweater was carrying her racket.From the Drawing by Dalton Stevens.

"Must be very ill," said Tom ironically, under his breath, as he went back to his cheerless room.

There was a queer tightness somewhere in his chest which he had never felt before and it seemed to be connected in some way with the Yale man. He slept fitfully and dreamed of Belle in a little house, with an open fire in the parlour, where he would be a welcome guest and the alumni of the other colleges would be denied admittance. He was tempted to remonstrate with her, but had no reasonable ground for doing so. They would be married shortly and then the matter would end.

The next time he went to see her, the peculiar tightness appeared in his chest again, and he could hardly answer her cheerful greetings. He noted that she had acquired a Yale pin, which flaunted its ugly blue upon her breast. He trembled violently as he sat down and drops of perspiration stood out on his brow. She was alarmed and brought him a glass ofwater. As she stood over him, the womanly concern in her face touched him not a little, and he threw his arms around her and drew her down to him.

"Kiss me once, Belle," he pleaded hoarsely.

With a violent effort she freed herself.

"It's not hygienic," she explained, "and frequently causes disease."

Tom stared at her in open-mouthed wonder, and soon after took his departure.

Once inside his room, he sat down to close analysis of himself. He had been working too hard, and was temporarily unbalanced. She was quite right in saying that it caused disease; such a thing must not happen. His reason had been impaired by long hours in the office; otherwise he would never have thought of doing such a foolish, unreasonable thing.

In the morning he received a note from her. She had been summoned to the bedside of a sick sister, and would be away from home as long as she was needed.

The next month was a long one for Tom. He was surprised to find how much of his life could be filled by a woman. After they were married there would be no such separations. He wrote regularly andreceived in return such brief notes as her duties permitted her to write. Then, for a week, none came, and he went to her home to see what news had been received there. The servant admitted him, half smiling, and in white house gown, by the open fire he saw Belle. She had never seemed so sweet and womanly, and with a cry he could not repress, he caught her in his arms. She struggled, but in vain, and at last gave her lips willingly to his. In that minute Tom learned more than all his college course had taught him. Utterly unconscious of his own temerity, he kissed her again and again. The little white figure was silent in his arms, and bending low he whispered a word which no reasonable man would ever be caught using.

Her face shining with tears, Belle looked up.

"Tom," she said, "do you love me?"

"Love you!" he said slowly. "Why—I guess—I must."

She laughed happily and he drew her closer.

"Dear little girl," he said tenderly, "do you love me?"

The answer came muffled from his shoulder: "All the time, Tom!"

"All the time! You darling! What an infernal brute I have been!"

He evidently intended to kiss her again, for he tried to lift her chin from his shoulder. Providence has taught women a great deal about such things. Her eyes flashed with mischief as she struggled to release herself.

"You must let me go, Tom; this isn't reasonable at all!"

But his training with the Harvard crew had given him a strength which kept her there.

"Reasonable!" he repeated. "Reasonable be hanged!"

Elmiry Ann's Valentine

"Si," said Mrs. Safford, "didn't Elmiry Ann Rogers come in here to-day to buy a valentine?"

"Yep," replied the postmaster, without interest. "One of them twenty-five cent ones, with lace onto it."

"I thought so," grunted the wife of his bosom.

"How, now, Aureely? Why ain't she a right to buy a valentine if she wants one?"

"She's a fine one to be buyin' sech trash, when everybody in The Corners knows she ain't hardly got enough to keep soul and body together, let alone clothes and valentines. I knowed she'd done it, jest as well as if I'd see her do it, 'cause she aint' missed comin' in on the twelfth of February sence we come here, and that is nigh onto fourteen year."

"Well," said Silas, after a long silence, "what of it?"

"Si Safford! do you mean to tell me you've been postmaster for fourteen year an' ain't never noticed that Elmiry Ann Rogersgetsa valentine every year?"

"No," replied Silas, turning to meet a customer, "I ain't never noticed it."

"Men do be the beatenest," exclaimed Aurelia under her breath.

"Evenin', Mr. Weeks."

"Evenin' Mis' Safford."

"Moderatin' any?"

"Nope, looks like snow, but I reckon it's too cold."

For perhaps ten minutes the two men talked the dull aimless commonplaces of the country store. The single lamp with a reflector behind it, made all three faces unlovely and old. John Weeks was a tall strapping fellow, slightly stooped, and about fifty years old. His hair was grey at the temples, but his eyes had a kindly twinkle that bid defiance to time.

He bought some brown sugar and went out. One could not blame him for seeking other surroundings, for even at its best, the post-office and general store at The Corners was a gloomy place.

Two well-worn steps that creaked noisily were the links between it and thestreet. The door opened by an old-fashioned latch, worn with much handling, and inside, a motley smell greeted the inquiring nostril unwonted to the place.

The curious sickish odour was a compound of many ingredients blended into one by the all-powerful and all-pervading kerosene. The floor, moderately clean, was covered with sand and saw-dust, which was occasionally swept out and replaced by a fresh layer.

On the right, as you went in, was a small show-case filled with bright coloured candies, displayed in the original packages. Other boxes were piled in the window and still others on the shelf. Within a radius of twenty steps one could buy calico, muslin, ruled stationery, or groceries and kerosene, as he might choose.

Once a year, the commonplace merchandise gave way to "Christmas novelties," and during the first two weeks in February the candy show-case was filled with the pretty nonsensical bits of paper called valentines, with a pile of "comics" on top.

Every year on the twelfth of February, as Mrs. Safford had said, Elmiry Ann Rogers came in and bought a valentine.Every year on the fourteenth of February, as the postmaster's keen-eyed wife had noted, Elmiry Ann Rogers had received a valentine. It was no comic, either, such as one might send to an unprepossessing old maid of forty, but a gorgeous affair of lace paper and cupids, in an ornate wrapping, for more than once, Elmiry's trembling fingers had torn the envelop a bit, as if she could not wait until she reached home.

In many a country town, the buyer of the valentines would have been known as "Ol' Mis' Rogers," but The Corners, lazy, rather than tactful, still clung to the name the pretty girl had gone by.

There was little in Elmiry to recall the graceful figure that was wont to appear in pink muslin or red merino at church and prayer meeting, for the soft curves had become angles, the erect shoulders were bent, and the laughing eyes were now filled with a dumb pathetic sadness. Elmiry's hair had once fallen in soft curls about her face, but now it was twisted into a hard little knot at the back of her head. The white dimpled hands were dark and scrawny now, but people still spoke of her as "Elmiry Ann."

The morning of the thirteenth dawned cloudy and cold. The postmaster went out of town on business, and his wife had her hands full. She moved briskly from one part of the store to the other, making change, rectifying mistakes, and attending to the mail.

At noon a crowd of children came in after "comics" and John Weeks stood by, watching aimlessly.

"You want any valentines, Mr. Weeks?" asked Mrs. Safford.

"Reckon not, I've been growed up too long for that."

"Sho, now! You ain't much older 'n Elmiry Ann Rogers, an' she buys one every year. It's a nice one too—twenty-five cents."

"I ain't never sent but one," said Mr. Weeks, after a silence.

"That so? Well, some folks buys 'em right along. Elmiry Ann Rogers gets one every year jest as regler as a tea party."

"Who'd you advise me to send one to?"

"Don't make no difference to us, so we sells 'em," laughed Mrs. Safford. "Stock's runnin' down now, but if there's any lef they can be kep' over. We've had one now for goin' on five year. It's a fiftycent one, an it's pretty too. Elmiry's looked at it every year but I guess it's too expensive."

"Lemme see it."

It was the same size as the others but it had more lace paper on it and more cupids. Weeks was evidently pleased with it and paid the fifty cents without a murmur.

"Makes me feel sorter silly to be buyin' one o' them things," he said awkwardly, "but I'm allers glad to do a favour for a friend an' I'll take it off your hands."

"Much obliged," returned Mrs. Safford. "Who you lowin' to send it to?"

Weeks considered carefully. "I've got a little nephew over to Taylorville," he said, "and I reckon he'd be right pleased with it." Another avalanche of children descended upon the valentine counter and in the confusion he escaped.

Busy as she was, Mrs. Safford found time to meditate upon Elmiry and her romance. "They do say that John Weeks used to set up some with Elmiry," she thought, "and then it was broke off, but there ain't either of 'em married. I sh'd think he'd want a woman to do for him, and poor Elmiry—her little house is mosteat up by the mortgage. The squire was a-sayin' the other day that he thought she'd soon be on the town 'cause she ain't paid the intrust lately. An her a-buyin' valentines! La sakes! Well, it takes all kinds of people to make up a world!"

Early in the afternoon she sorted the mail, as usual, but there was nothing for Elmiry. A strange fact of the case was that the valentine had always come from The Corners. Mrs. Safford began to hope Elmiry would not be disappointed, then the latch clicked, and she came in.

"I want half a pound of dried beef, Mis' Safford," Elmiry said, "an' a quarter of a pound of rice, an' a jug of merlasses, an' a spool of black thread, number sixty."

"Would you mind writin' down your order, Mis' Rogers? I'll send Si over with it when he comes, 'cause I've got to get this mail off in a few minutes an' I ain't got time."

Elmiry seemed disappointed, but wrote her needs on a piece of wrapping paper, using the short blunt pencil which was suspended by a piece of twine from the show-case. Her writing was cramped, old-fashioned, and as distinctive as it was odd.

When Mrs. Safford had time to look at the order, she became greatly excited. "If that ain't the beatenest?" she said to herself. "Who'd have thought it? 'Course, maybe it ain't, but I'm goin' to make sure!"

Late in the afternoon Elmiry came in again, and as before, she was the only customer. "I jest thought I'd take my things, Mis' Safford," she said by way of explanation, "'cause I want to use some merlasses right away and 't ain't no need to trouble Mr. Safford, if you've got time to do 'em up."

"I've got 'em all ready, Elmiry." So Miss Rogers arranged the bundles under her shawl and Mrs. Safford caught sight of something white, held tightly in the dark scrawny hand.

"'T want thread, nor rice," she thought, as Elmiry went out, "and I know 't want her handkerchief. I reckon 'twas her valentine she was lowin' to send away, and didn't, 'cause she thought I'd look. She ain't goin' to fool me though."

Dusk brought the storm which had threatened for two days, and a bitter north wind came with it. In an hour the world was white, and belated foot-fallswere muffled by the snow. At nine the store closed, and at half-past nine, Elmiry Ann Rogers wrapped her threadbare shawl around her and started down the street to the post-office.

It was a difficult journey, for the snow was three inches deep and was still coming down, but Elmiry knew the way so well that she could have gone with her eyes shut, if necessary.

She was stiff with the cold when she got there, and was fumbling with the opening in the door marked "mail" when a deep masculine voice at her elbow startled her into an impulsive little scream.

"Why, Miss Rogers," it said, "what are you doin' here this time o' night?"

"My goodness, Mr. Weeks, how you scairt me!" she answered trembling.

"You shouldn't be out a night like this," he continued, "it ain't fittin'."

"I—I jest come out to mail a letter,—an important letter," said Elmiry weakly.

"Why that's funny—so did I! Strange that we should meet, ain't it? And now, Miss Rogers, I'm goin' to take you home."

"Oh, you mustn't, Mr. Weeks," cried Elmiry in a panic, "I'd feel wicked to takeyou out of your way a night like this, and 't'aint but a few steps anyway."

"Sakes alive! Elmiry, how you talk! I'm a-goin' to take you home and we might as well start. Come."

He slipped her arm through his and turned down the street.

Elmiry felt a burning blush on her cold cheeks, for it had been years, more than she cared to remember, since any one had taken her home.

As they went on, Mr. Weeks did the talking and Elmiry endeavoured to collect her scattered senses. There was something strangely sweet in the feeling that she had a protector, and she wondered dimly how she had ever had the courage to take the trip alone. When they reached her door, she turned to bid him good-night, but he seemed to take no notice of it.

"I guess I'll go in an' set a spell," he remarked. "I'm quite chill." Elmiry had closed the door of the kitchen and turned up the light which was burning dimly before she remembered she had no fire. Mr. Weeks opened the stove door and found the interior dark and cold. Then he looked behind the stove, butthere was neither wood nor coal and the floor was spotlessly clean.

"Why, Elmiry," he said, "I'll go right out and get you an armful of wood. It's been stormin' so you've got out. I'll bring in a lot of it."

"No, no," she cried. "Please don't! It's too late for a fire to-night and in the mornin' it'll be clear! Don't go!"

In her tone there was something more than polite anxiety to save him the effort, and he changed the subject. They talked commonplaces until he felt the cold in spite of his warm clothing. She still wore her shawl and looked pitifully thin and weak.

"Ain't you cold?" he asked.

"No," replied Elmiry with great dignity. "I'm warm-blooded an' most people keep their houses too hot. It ain't healthy."

Mr. Weeks agreed and rose to go. She did not ask him to come again, and he was half-way down the street when he began to wonder about the fire. The light was out, so he went back, very slowly approached the wood-shed by a roundabout way, entered stealthily and struck a match, shading the light with his hand.

On the floor, in the corner, was a verysmall pile of kindlings and the coal-bin was swept clean, no other fuel being in sight.

"It's jest as I thought," he said to himself. "The poor little soul!"

St. Valentine's morning was clear and bright, but enough snow had fallen during the night to obliterate the telltale tracks around the wood-shed. Mrs. Safford was up betimes, eagerly anticipating her husband's peep into the soap box which held chance letters posted after the store had closed. There were two valentines there, both addressed to "Miss Elmiry Ann Rogers, The Corners."

"Sakes alive!" said Mrs. Safford. "Si! Elmiry Ann Rogers has been a-sending herself valentines every year, regler. I wish 't I knew who t' other was from—this is the first time she's had two."

"How'd you know anything about it?"

"Why one on 'em is in the same hand that was on the order she wrote, but t' other looks like a man's hand."

"Aureely," said the postmaster, "you keep still about valentines and everything else you see in the mail, or I'll lose the post-office, and you'll go to jail! TheUnited States government don't stand no foolin'!"

Awed by her husband's stern manner, Mrs. Safford decided to keep still, but she watched Elmiry Ann closely when Silas gave her the valentines. The thin sad face lighted up with pleased surprise, but Elmiry did not stop. She clutched her treasures tightly and hurried out looking younger than she had for years.

When John Weeks came in during the afternoon the Saffords were putting away the valentines. "This fool business is over for another year, John," said the postmaster. "We've sold one we've had for more'n five years. What you steppin' on my feet for, Aureely? Ain't you got room enough in the store to walk?"

"'Scuse me Si, there's the squire comin' in."

"Mornin', Squire."

"Mornin', Si. Has your clocks stopped, so's you don't know it's afternoon? How's biz?"

"Oh, so so. What's new?"

"Nothin', only the selectmen held a meetin' yesterday an' Elmiry Rogers is a-goin' to the poorhouse. She's back in her intrust, and ain't got no prospects,and the Doctor has got to foreclose. They wanted I s'd tell her, but someways, I don't like the idea. She'll be kep' warm and she'll be better off, and she'll have plenty of comp'ny, but I knowed her when she went to school, an' I knowed her mother too. For the sake of auld lang syne I don't want to hurt her."

"Sho now, ain't that too bad?" said both the Saffords together.

Nobody knew just when Mr. Weeks left the store, and Elmiry Ann was startled when she opened the door in response to his vigorous rap. She had not been at home long, and the colour still burned in her cheeks. The valentines lay on the table, presenting a strange contrast to their bleak and commonplace surroundings.

"Why, how do you do?" she exclaimed with a queer little note in her voice. "Will you come in?"

"Yes, I'll come in," he said decisively. He shut the door with a bang and took the trembling frightened woman into his arms.

"Elmiry! You poor little soul! I've wanted you 'most twenty years, an' I ain'tnever had courage to say it 'til now. We've waited too long, an' I want you to come and be my valentine—will you, dear?"

"Why, Mr. Weeks," she cried in astonishment, "what's took you all of a sudden?"

"It's sense, I reckon, Elmiry, an' it's been a long time comin'. I was huffed 'cause you never made no answer to the valentine I sent you, an' I thought you didn't want me, so I just stayed away."

"What valentine?" Elmiry's eyes were very big and fearful.

"Don't you remember that valentine I sent you?—Let's see, it's so long ago—I've most forgot what it was. It said:

Back to Index Next