 CHAPTER 7 Unseen Connections A worthless heap it was, strings, of course, and the pitiful remains of a jackknife and a little milk-soaked book about two inches square. This book Miss Putnam picked out from the rest with the tips of her fingers and a distrustful air. Tramps always carried with them disreputable literature, dime novels, the weekly story paper and matters of that sort. She had heard this and firmly believed it. But was it possible that Satan manipulated such tiny volumes as these? She held the book off at arm's length, as she now had to do when her handsome gold-rimmed spectacles were not in service, and read the first lines on which her eyes alighted. Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life and may enter in through the gates into the city. For pity's sake, ejaculated Miss Putnam in her most astonished tone, and then was silent. What a book for a ragged tramp like that to be carrying around! Could it be possible that he ever read in it? He did not look to her as though reading was one of his accomplishments. Not thinking about the words, she turned the leaves to discover the extent of damage done by the milk, and came upon this verse. He that honoreth him hath mercy on the poor. For pity's sake, said Miss Putnam again, it seemed to her very strange that those two texts should confront her just now. Blessed are they that do his commandments. Was she one of those who tried in a fitful sort of way to do them? She knew she was not in any case remarkable for her Christian zeal. In fact, she had a dim suspicion that she was not remarkable for anything but neatness. Upon this she had always prided herself. Was not cleanliness next to godliness? That sentence sounded as though it ought to be in the Bible. She was not quite sure, but it was. Nobody but Miss Putnam herself knew what a trial it was to her to have the nicely scoured boards in front of her steps flooded with milk as they were at this moment. The thought of them hastened her movements. She took time to lay the little book on a pine chip on the corner of the kitchen shelf to dry. Then she unceremoniously burned the heap of string and bits of paper. As she tossed the worthless jackknife to the boy on the milking stool, she looked closely at him and said to herself, He that onereth him hath mercy on the poor! He's poor enough and no mistake. I daresay that little book was given to him by his mother, and maybe she's gone. Have you got a mother, boy? She raised her voice to ask the question. Winter shook his head. He was not in the mood for words. Something like the bitterness of a vague disappointment was upon him. He had attempted to make himself necessary, and the spilled milk was the result. Poor wretch! said Miss Putnam as she closed the kitchen door. He shall have a decent supper anyway. I won't wash the horrid old jacket. I'll give him dons. This settled she took the tongs and with them lifted the jacket into an empty coal-hod that was in the outer kitchen waiting for ashes. Half an hour later and Winter Kellan's supper was ready. Somebody ought to write that supper's history. It was evolved by degrees from Miss Putnam's cupboard and conscience. At first it had been three generous slices of brown bread and a bowl of milk. Miss Putnam had surveyed the bright pan of creamy milk with a grim air for a few minutes, silver spoon and little cream-pitcher in hand. Then she had set aside the pitcher, and, dashing in the spoon, had stirred the cream mercilessly until skimming was out of the question. From this pan she had filled Winter's bowl. A plate of cold potatoes seemed to call her as she passed. She paused and looked at him. "'Boys like warmed up potatoes,' she said, "'and there are more there than I need for breakfast. He might as well have them as the chickens. I'll clip in a few and let them warm themselves.' But they warmed themselves with the help of a fair quantity of sweet beef drippings, and the odor which wandered through the kitchen and out to the milking stool was savory enough for a less hungry boy than the tramp who sat there.' By the great haunch of cold beef ready for tomorrow's use Miss Putnam paused for some time. "'It's ridiculous,' she said at last, "'perfectly ridiculous, but he looks as hungry as a wolf, and I don't know who has a right to find fault with what I choose to do.' The last words spoken almost defiantly, and while the great pinky slices were slipping from under the sharp meat-knife. When it came to the soft black gingerbread which lay in flaky sheets on the cake tins, Miss Putnam smiled grimly. It did seem as though she was making a goose of herself she owned that. But here was so much more than she needed or could use before it dried. She hated dried gingerbread. And all boys had a sweet tooth even if they were tramps, and this boy, whoever he were, was to wear Don's jacket. Suppose Don was there to take supper with her. What gingerbreads without number would she bring forward for him? The jacket would have one more good supper.' "'Besides,' said Miss Putnam aloud, and stopped. If she had finished the sentence it would have been, he that honoreth him hath mercy on the poor. To be sure there was no connection between mercy and gingerbread, nor yet cheese, of which she cut a large slice, refusing to argue about the matter. Nevertheless, that supper was inextricably mixed in Miss Putnam's mind with those two verses from the little book. Now I want you to think for a moment of Winterkellen's experiences here too for. Memory dated back to the popper table of a county poor house. Perhaps you do not know just how meals are served in these institutions. Winter did, but your general knowledge of life will tell you that bowls of milk with the cream stirred in, and pinky slices of carefully cooked meat, and potatoes warmed to just the shade of delicate brown which you know without being told was the point to which Miss Putnam brought hers, to say nothing of fresh gingerbread and new cheese, are, to put it mildly, rare combinations in a county poor house. When for Winter the scene shifted, it settled in Mrs. Josiah Griggs's kitchen. You have had a glimpse of the dreariness which reigned there, though I know you do not fully appreciate it. Without being in any sense a bad woman, Mrs. Griggs was one of the sort who had few refinements of feeling to burden her own life, and none whatever to spare on chore boys. She had one cracked and very ill-smelling plate. She always served Winter's meals on it. Not in ugliness, but in sheer stupidity as to a boy's possibly caring about any such thing, and because of a general idea that of course the cracked plate was a suitable dish for a boy. Many other things went by chance. Of course she liked her potatoes hot, but why should a great strong boy care? It was with these and kindred views upon her that she always prepared his meals, serving them on the corner of the kitchen table in close proximity to the garbage pail on one side, where scraps were gathering for the pigs, and flanked on the other by the great dish pan in which she had already washed up the greasiest of the cooking dishes. But when that scene changed, oh dear, her kitchen and the food she served would have often been the personification of comfort to Winter compared with the places in which he had been fed and the things he had eaten and the things he had gone without. Possibly now you can have some conception of the effect which that supper had upon him, which was spread on shining white dishes on the whitest of Miss Putnam's several kitchen tables, spread neatly because Miss Putnam did not know how to spread a meal otherwise. A pad of delicious butter and another slice of sweet brown bread were added at the last moment because, well, because Miss Putnam had set out to honor him. Winter still occupied the milking stool, his worst look spreading over his face. A good beginning this, he said to himself. Looks fatherly, I must say. I wonder what my friend, the grandfather, would say to it. The first time in months that I've made an honest try, and I must bring up in a great wet sprawl on her clean doorstep. I was a fool for milking her cow. She would have given me the crusts left from her supper, if she ever gets it eaten. Without that. And I'd have been off by this time looking up a sleeping place. There's nothing for me but tramping, and I might as well settle down to it. Just at that moment he was called to supper. Half an hour later he stood under the clear October sky in the starlight and pulled off the ragged, rimless hat he wore, and looked up at the stars and swallowed hard and winked, and would not have owned even to the stars that his eyelids were wet and that something seemed to be choking him. It wasn't the extreme excellency of the food, nor the exquisite neatness of the surroundings, nor the silver spoon with which he had eaten the creamy milk, actually the first silver spoon winter had ever held in his hand. It was none of these things in themselves which had so touched the boy. In fact he could not have told you what it was. It was all confused in his mind with that talk of the morning. Stray words of which persistently clung to him repeated themselves to his consciousness, such as, manage the roast, beef, and plum pudding business for yourself, or take your place in the world like folks. As he spread the golden butter over the golden bread and caught a generous mouthful from the tender beef, there had come over winter such a sense of what it would be to live in such a home as this, to sit at such a table, to actually belong to all this neatness and sweetness as it seemed to almost prevent his swallowing, though he wanted every crumb of the wonderful supper. For pity's sake, Miss Putnam said when she found that he had actually accomplished the eating of every morsel she had given him. Yet there was satisfaction in her voice as she used her favorite exclamation. Her next words were, I do hope the poor wretch had enough. He looks dreadfully young for such a life, only supposing for a moment that it was dawn. With this dire thought she rushed to the door. You just wait a minute. I'm going to get you an old jacket that belongs to my nephew in place of that rag you had on. It won't hold together to be washed. You don't mind my putting it in the fire, do you? No, ma'am, said winter, and added with a queer little tremble in his voice. I thank you very much for my supper. I never had such a supper before in my life. I'm sure you're welcome, said Miss Putnam. Then she shut and locked the door and flew up the attic stairs. There was the jacket, hanging just where she put it with her own hands after washing and mending it, ready to put it into the next home mission box which was packed in their society. It is neat and clean and whole, had Miss Putnam said when she hung it there, and if the home mission folks are half so badly off as the papers make out, they'll be glad to get it if it is partly worn. What my own nephew would wear if he hadn't outgrown it, I guess will do for a home mission boy if he is a minister's son. Now, as it came down from the hook, it received this bit of address. If he isn't a home missioner, I'm sure I don't know who is. I'm at home anyhow if he isn't. I wonder where his home is and what he has gone away from it for. I didn't know they ever started out to make tramps of themselves so dreadful young. There can't be two years between him and Don. And his mother is dead, poor thing. I wonder how she would feel if she could see him now. Maybe she kept him looking nice and trim when she was here. He isn't a bad-looking fellow, I believe, if he would comb his hair and wash himself. But maybe he hasn't had a chance to do any such thing. Maybe he hasn't even a comb. For pity's sake, there, what's the use in talking? There is no end to such things. Suppose one does try to have mercy on the poor, where will one bring up I should like to know? Meantime Winter was out under the stars waiting for the jacket. I'd work for some second-hand clothes, had his fence post-acquaintance of the morning said, and Winter had looked in particular at his ragged jacket and smiled his sarcastic smile and wondered to himself if it would drop off gradually bit by bit and how he should look in his shirt sleeves, and had had not a shadow of hope of getting a better one in its place. And now one was coming to him, coming too because of that pail of milk over which he had groaned and gloomed. How fierce he had been over his fate, and it was proving to be the first bit of luck which had reached him for many a day! You will observe that he knew nothing about the little book and the part which it had played in this matter, and yet he was impressed, almost odd, by a curious realization of the fact that out of the thing which he had called evil had come his bit of good. As to the other good, the wonderful supper which had been spread for him, he could not understand that at all. He puzzled over it. Could she be in the habit of feeding all tramps in that way? No, assuredly she was not. Miss Putnam's neighbors could have told him that the utmost she ever did for tramps was to give them a neat square of bread in a neat paper bag, and shut and lock the kitchen door after them as quickly as possible. Miss Putnam was much surprised at her own line of action this evening, and only half recognized the power of the little book in the matter. She came down now, jacked in hand, and called him to try if it fitted. If it had been made for you it couldn't have done better, she said in grim satisfaction. Well, you're welcome to it, as good a boy has ever lived, wore it. I wish I could think that you wouldn't disgrace it. Here are the traps you had in your pocket. Miss Putnam stretched her conscience to say this. It wasn't traps. At the utmost it could only have been called a trap. That tiny book which she had wrapped in a bit of paper, because she could not bring herself to hand it boldly forth to him and let him know that she knew what it was. The shame-facedness of some otherwise outspoken people in regard to everything which savers of a religious nature can only be understood by those shame-faced people themselves who have dodged an issue many a time rather than speak a word in honor of the master whom they love. Where are you going to sleep tonight? Anywhere, ma'am. He looked up at her as he spoke with a grateful smile still lingering on his face. I'm used to sleeping wherever it happens. But I'm not used to such a jacket as this. I thank you, ma'am. Goodbye. He had not the slightest desire to say a saucy word. The rather long walk to the front gate had been taken. The unusual fastening had been labored with and overcome. The gate opened and clicked to again before Miss Putnam opened her door and called. Look here. I suppose you could sleep in the carriage-house if you wanted to. End of Chapter 7 They stood together in the shadow of one of the tallest trees, Miss Mildred Powers and little Vine Wilmeth. There, the child said, with a sigh of satisfaction, looking up into the sunlighted branches, I've brought you to the very prettiest spot there is in all the grove, I think. Here is just where we stood that day. I know it by the letters in the tree. Can you read the letters? And we planned what we would do when I was twenty-two years old. Wasn't it funny? It was rather interesting, I think. Where is that friend now? The sigh was a trifle more marked this time and had no satisfaction in it. He went away, she said simply, and I have never heard a word about him. I don't know what he is doing, but I am sure he is a good and smart boy wherever he is. Winter Kelland would not be anything but good, and he was very smart. Oh winter, winter, sitting dolefully at this moment on the milking-block in Miss Putnam's backyard. If you could hear the quiet assurance of tone with which your faithful old friend says these words, wouldn't your conscience feel a sting? He must be a very pleasant friend, said Mildred sympathetically. When one is good and smart there is little else to be desired. He isn't my friend now, said truthful Vine. That is, I'm his friend, you know, and always shall be, but he doesn't remember me. Why are you so sure of that? and a smile played over the lady's face. Why, because I never heard a word from him you see, and it is three years since he went away. Three years ago today we came out here to the tree and he made the letters. Well, but what sort of reasoning is that? He has never heard a word from you either, has he? Yet you say you are his friend and always shall be. Why can he not say the same of you? I think it is very different. There was not the slightest hesitancy in Vine's manner. Her head was dropped a little to one side in contemplative mood, and there was a quiet sadness in her tone which was amusing to her companion, and also a trifle touching. You see, he knows just where I am. I have stayed in the same place. Well, we moved out here, of course, but then we go to the same post-office, and he could write beautifully mispowers. He liked to write, and if he remembered me, and—and wanted to remember me, he could have written a letter just as easy. But I don't know in the least where he is, and so, of course, I could not write to him. Besides, it is different with him. He goes to a great splendid school, I suppose, and sees ever so many people, and reads books, and is busy all day, and has a great many friends, and of course he wouldn't remember one little bit of a girl. Miss Powers had much ado not to laugh. I don't understand why you are so sure of all this, she said, but her tone expressed hearty sympathy. Why may he not be very poor and friendless, and be having a hard struggle? Oh, I hope not! I do hope when is doing beautifully. He ought to, Miss Powers. He had a hearty enough time when he was a little boy, and I think he is. I'm most sure that Win would have a great many friends as soon as he got where nice people were. He was so kind and unselfish, and so true in every way. What about the people with whom he lived when he was here? Weren't they nice? Vine made an expressive gesture with eyes and shoulders. Nice! They were just horrid. I beg your pardon, Miss Powers. I know you don't like such words. But if you knew Mr. and Mrs. Griggs, I am sure you wouldn't wonder that Winter went away from them just as soon as he could. They are not people to like at all. Mrs. Griggs sometimes sits before me in church, and then I can't sing a bit. I keep thinking of Win and the way she treated him and talked about him, and something comes into my throat just like a big lump, and all the sing goes away. Miss Powers regarded the earnest little speaker with an almost regretful air of sympathy. She understood her perfectly. But what an intense little thing she was. Would not life have a hard chapter in it for her if she did not center herself on some rock too strong to feel the blasts of circumstances? This thought recalled her again to the words she had meant to speak this morning to her little friend. Vine, I am going away today, you know. We are having our last walk together. Am I to have a sweet memory to carry away with me? Vine was silent, and a deep flush of color stole into her cheeks. I am very anxious about it, Vine. It seems to me you understand the way so well. You are such a womanly little girl, and have thought so carefully about all these things. Your responsibility is greater than that of many girls of your age. I wish I knew, Vine dear, why it is you hesitate about this. It would seem to me to be the most natural thing for you to settle the thing at once. I thought you would be one who would give your whole warm heart to the Lord Jesus as soon as you realized that he was waiting for you. I don't understand the delay, Viney. The flush deepened on Vine's cheek. She looked very grave, but seemed to have great difficulty in forming her thought into words. I don't know how to answer you, Miss Powers, she said at last. I do want to please you and to do what is right, but I am afraid I don't feel as you would like to have me. I want to love the Saviour and to please him, but, if I could do it without ever joining the Church, I would like it so much better. Why, Vine, what a strange idea! In all my wonderings as to what was keeping my little scholar back, I never thought of so strange a reason as this. Who has said anything to you, dear, about joining a Church? Nobody, ma'am, but then they all join Churches, you know, as soon as they think they are Christians. Only last Spring that disagreeable Mrs. Griggs joined the Church. I was there the Sunday they received her, and it seemed to me she never looked more hateful. She spoke to me as she came down the aisle. I forgot when I told you no one had said anything about it. She did. It seems to me, Al Viney, you are old enough to be doing your duty, too. That was what she said. Nobody calls me Alvina except Mother when she isn't quite pleased with me, and she doesn't say Alviney. And Mrs. Griggs has no right to be talking to me about my duty. I do it better than she does hers, I guess. Oh, Miss Powers, you think I am wicked, but I can't help it. You don't know how I dislike that woman. And this was their gentle little Vine, with her fair, sweet face, and her pure, trustful eyes. It was Miss Powers' turn to sigh. What a strong hold Satan had gotten on this little girl through some early friendship and memory. It was difficult to know just what to say, but some reply must be made. Do I understand, you Vine, she said at last, that you are unwilling to serve the Lord because this woman you do not like is trying to do so? Oh, no, ma'am! said Vine, shocked at this plain pudding of her naughty thoughts. I did not mean any such thing, I am sure, but I don't understand about things very well. If Miss Griggs is a Christian since she joined the Church, I don't think it has improved her a bit. It was only last week I heard her say something that she had no right to say, something which I most know isn't true. I don't like her one bit and I can't. If I thought I had to belong to the same Church that she did, I don't know what I should do. I was so sorry when they came out here that I cried all day about it. And as for being in her class in Sunday school, I never will. I should run away first. Gentle indeed. A real little pent-up volcano was this. Cheeks were blazing, and her eyes shone like stars. Miss Powers only half understood the situation, that the little girl's fiercest dislike to Mrs. Griggs was connected in some way with her early friend, to whom she had been so steadily true, was evident. And, putting several chance words together, Miss Powers began to suspect that the boy in question had taken very unceremonious leave of his friends in this region. She was inclined to think Vine's estimate of him was much too high, and that in all probability her judgment of Mrs. Griggs was correspondingly overdrawn. But none of these thoughts would be helpful to Vine just now. We are getting away from the subject about which I wanted to talk with you. She said, speaking in a low, grave tone, Dear Vine, the last thing I wish to urge upon you is the uniting with any Church. You are not in the least ready to do anything of the kind. That is just what I am trying to say, burst forth Vine. People join Churches, and they aren't a bit better. And folks look at them and think they ought to be, and are going to be, and they aren't. And then folks are disappointed, and they do harm, and I don't want to do it. The tears were starting now, and a little light was thrown upon the scene. Miss Powers began to understand that this was not all passion. Vine had been watching Mrs. Griggs, had been expecting improvement because she had united herself with the Church, had not seen the improvement, had jumped at the conclusion that there was none, had grown afraid that if she were persuaded at any time to take this step, the result would be the same with her. What was the wise way in which to answer the impetuous child woman? Vine, Miss Powers said, after a moment of quiet, speaking very low, won't you try to get your thoughts entirely away from any Church, and from any other persons than yourself and the Lord Jesus Christ? Let us talk about you too. He has asked you to let him come into your heart and live there, helping you each hour to think the thought, speak the word, do the act, which, in your judgment enlightened by him, would be the nearest right. What he wants of you is the decision to take him as your friend and follow his directions, whether they are hard or easy. What I am asking you is whether you will accept him and agree to follow his lead. There was so long a silence that Miss Powers almost thought her intense little friend did not mean to answer. At last she spoke low, her voice tremulous with feeling. Miss Powers, what if he should want me to go into that woman's class she is getting up? Miss Powers was startled and perplexed. How was she to lead this fierce little heart? My dear, she said, trying to calm her by the very gentleness of her voice. You are not doing what I asked. I did not want you to put any woman between your heart and the invitation of Jesus. But since you put the question, I must answer you. It will not do for you to put a what-if between his invitation and your answer. That is a mistake which grown people are constantly making. Only they make the issues larger than yours. The heart must understand that whatever the Lord directs, it intends to do, or there is no opening of the door for him. He will not come into a divided heart, a heart which says, in some things I will obey you, but in this and this and this I must have my own way. You are a thoughtful and sensible little girl-vine. You would not expect even a human friend who had the right to direct you to accept such a position as that, would you? How much less the Lord! In point of fact it is not often that he calls upon people to make the sacrifice which Satan tries to push into their minds as a fearful one. But whether he does or not is not the question now. Having allowed a what-if to come into your heart-vine, you must get rid of it by the determination to do whatever he says, or you really cannot belong to him however much you may wish it. I wonder if you understand me, vine. I am talking in an older fashion than would do for most people of your age, because you seem so womanly in your thoughts. The question was asked half of herself. She was a good deal puzzled with vine. Certainly she was not prepared for the passionate outburst which followed. Vine suddenly crouched down in the shadow of one of the great trees, put her two brown hands over her face, and burst into a perfect torrent of tears and sobs, rocking her little frame back and forth as though a storm had gotten hold of her which she was powerless to withstand. I know it! I know it! she wailed out. I can't be good! I knew I couldn't. I have tried and I have prayed and I can't be willing to go in her class or have her talk to me or look at me. She was so hateful. You don't know. I never had but just one friend, my win. He was good, so good to me, and he was good to everybody, and she was mean and hateful and said wicked things and does now, and I can't like her. If I try and try, I like her less every day. I almost hate her. Vine, Miss Powers's hand laid on the hot little forehead, felt like a cool lily-pad. Did you ever tell the Lord Jesus about this? Vine ceased her violent weeping and sat still. Tell him, she murmured at last, in a tone which was almost ostrich in. Yes, did you ever tell him all about it as you are telling me? Of course he knows, yet his direction is that for our own sakes we tell him the story. Of course you cannot help these bitter feelings. Do you suppose he expects you to do so? If you could make your heart write yourself, where would be the need of his help? There is not a right thought about this woman which you can make yourself feel. You cannot make yourself want to speak to her or think of her. No one knows this better than the Lord. Yet his plan is that if you really want his help you are to tell him the story. I do not suppose you even care to forgive the woman. You would rather not forgive her. You cannot make yourself want to do anything else. But, knowing that you ought to feel differently, there is just one thing you can do. It is your part. You can give that heart which is full of hard feelings and self-will and bitterness into the Lord's hands and tell him you wanted to be made a fit place for him. Vine, will you give it to him? But, Miss Powers, if I should do that, of course it would be the same as saying I was ready to join the church and was willing to— Miss Powers interrupted her. No, Vine, I am not asking you to make any ifs or join any church or be willing to go or to do. The question is simply this. Will you open the door for Jesus to come in by telling him that your heart is all wrong and you want it made right? Just as you would tell me if I had assured you that I was both able and willing to do all the rest for you. Will you, Viney? CHAPTER IX I WILL There was silence under the great trees for a little time. Vine shed no more tears, but she was very still and kept her face carefully covered with both hands. Miss Powers waited and watched her furtively and prayed softly. She could but feel that the present was a crisis in the little girl's life. She had spoken only a half-truth when she had told Vine that her responsibility was greater than many of her age. Miss Powers had never before known so womanly a child. She had been a curious study to the young student of human nature during the weeks she had spent at the cottage. This child, so wise in word and manner, so thoughtful for others, so developed in her tastes, so intensely childish in her whims, so full of pretty contradictions, a union of baby and woman which was new and interesting. Vine had been a member of her Sabbath school class during the months just passed and had bestowed on her the intense, almost passionate love of a peculiar type of childhood, and had studied her lessons and questioned about them with a keenness which belonged to mature years. Why this little girl, so well-taught, so conscientious, so sensitive, so thoughtful, had not before this, given her young, warm love to the Saviour of the world, was a question which had puzzled and troubled Miss Powers. She began now to understand it. Little Vine, as everybody called her, was intense in more directions than her loves. She had admitted into her heart, for one woman, a feeling which was nearly akin to hatred, and had fostered the feeling until it had taken deep root, had, in a certain sense, gotten possession of her, and, young as she was, she was passing through the struggle known to some older and fiercer natures, the struggle involved in the solemn sentence, if ye forgive not men their trespasses neither will your heavenly Father forgive you. Vine had believed, for some time, that it was quite impossible for her to forgive Mrs. Griggs, and, because she was well-taught, and had grasped the spiritual meaning of many Bible verses, as some of those who are older fail to do, she had felt that an impassable barrier lay between her and the loving Lord to whom she had been so often invited. She could not forgive and love Mrs. Griggs, and the Lord would not forgive her until she did. Therefore, she would not profess to belong to him. This had been the child's sorrowful reasoning. Those last words of her teacher had opened a new current of thought. It was true that she had not told the Lord Jesus of her trouble, just as she had told Miss Powers. She had cried over it, and said to her mother that there was no use in trying, she could never feel right toward Mrs. Griggs. And as forever belonging to her class in Sunday school, she would sooner jump into the lake and drown herself, but when it came to the matter of prayer, she had been entirely silent about it, only praying in a general way that she might be forgiven for all the wrong things she had done or thought, and avoiding the Lord's prayer with a vague notion that if she did not take those solemn words on her lips, she would not be to blame for the thoughts which contradicted their petitions. It came to her like an entirely new idea that she could go to Jesus as to a human friend and confess to him that she was not equal to this thing which he asked of her, and must be helped in some way not understood by her, if she was ever to have such a feeling as the Bible demanded. Miss Powers waited, looking anxiously once and again at her watch. She must go on the eleven o'clock boat. The time was drawing near, yet she could not bear to leave this little struggling soul that she knew ought to reach a decision. It was Satan's hour, possibly his last opportunity with her. Yet what if she should allow him to come off victor? Miss Powers, said Vine at last, dropping her hands and revealing a pale little face, on which a look of quiet resolve had already appeared. I don't think I have ever quite understood it before. I thought I must do it before I could belong to Jesus. Before I could say I would serve him, you know, I thought I must forgive that woman and begin to—to like her. Miss Powers, the Bible says, love your enemies, and I thought that when I had done that, then I could give myself to Jesus. But I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, and the more I tried, the worse it grew. Both Sundays when I thought I would feel more—more right, she said some hateful things which made me all hot inside, and I was worse than ever. But I can tell Jesus about it and ask him to do it for me in some way. I can't understand how. But if I understood you, you mean I should just say to him that I want to serve him and to feel in just the way he would have me, but that I can't do it, and he would accept that? Her voice was growing tremulous and doubtful. She had not yet, by any means, taken in the fullness of the salvation waiting for her. Miss Powers made haste to answer. You understood me perfectly, Vine. I meant just that. So far from expecting us to wait until we feel right, the Lord Jesus knows that it is quite impossible for us to put these feelings into our own hearts. Don't you remember a line of the old hymn that we sang one evening on the lake? All the fitness he required is to feel your need of him. If you need him to put right thoughts into your heart and mean to follow his directions so far as you can, you need not wait another minute to have your name set down among those who belong to him in everlasting covenant. So far as I can, Vine repeated doubtfully. Yes, your trouble has been that you wanted to obey his directions so far as you couldn't. He does not require of us things which we cannot do. Let me see if I can illustrate what I mean. Vine, do you believe you could walk across the lake to the other side? Of course not, Miss Powers. But suppose it were possible that you could hear a voice which you knew to belong to the Lord Jesus saying to you, Vine, I want you to go down this moment to the lake and step into the water and walk over to the other shore. Do you believe you could do it then? Miss Powers, I can't make it seem possible that I could even then, and I know I ought, and I know God cannot love me unless I trust him. No, that is just where you mistake God. He does not wait for perfect faith on the part of his children. If he did, Vine, you and I would be lost. Let me ask you, do you believe at that command you could go down to the lake and step your feet into the water and leave the rest with him? If you were drowned you would have obeyed him? Why, yes, Miss Powers, of course I could do that. Vine, dear, are you willing when you hear his voice speaking plainly to try to obey the command to take the step which you know you could and leave with him the part which you know you could not do? Then again there was silence and intense thinking. Vine did not cover her face again but looked straight before her in an unchildlike way which almost frightened her teacher. Surely the two unseen powers which wore for souls were in conflict here this morning and the small human will of the child must decide which should conquer. At last Vine spoke, Miss Powers, I can do that. I haven't understood it ever before. I don't think it is easy, even that part, but I can do it and I will. The voice was in capitals, not loud but intense. The boat at the wharf sent out a warning whistle. Miss Powers arose, bent over her little friend, and kissed her. Thank you, Vine, she said, and God bless and keep you. I know you belong to him now forever. Goodbye! It was a very pale and unusually thoughtful little girl who went about the neat kitchen of the Willmess a half hour later, helping to get the simple dinner ready. Mrs. Willmeth watched her somewhat doubtfully and in silence. She only half understood the sensitive little Vine of hers at any time. She knew now that the teacher of a few months had just been bid in good-bye, and she could plainly see traces of tears. She had expected a passionate outburst as soon as Vine reached home. Instead there had been a pathetic kind of resignation which went to the mother's heart. How her little girl could be so weighted down with sorrow over the departure of one who three months before was unknown was a mystery to the mother, but she accepted it, along with other mysteries about Vine, as a fact, and was prepared to be sympathetic. It was bewildering, however, to have a sort of sorrow which she could not touch. She has gone, I suppose, Mrs. Willmeth had said as Vine came in, and Vine had struggled with her great pain, and said alo, yassim, and then, please, mother, don't talk about it now. And the mother, troubled with the pale face and in doubt what to say, had been silent. Some changes had come to the Willmeth family since old Brindle died. They had moved from the dreary little old house to a very new house on the grounds which Vine and her old friend, Wynne, had visited on that memorable day when they took their last walk together. The pleasant voiced young builder had not secured the job, for the reason that Mr. Willmeth was himself a carpenter, and had builded for himself at odd times when, as he expressed it, he could get nothing of more consequence to do. One consequence was that the house was still unfinished, and was as simple and unpretentious an affair as even those new grounds could afford. Yet to Vine it was a paradise compared with the dreary little house which had been finished so long before she came to it that the process of decay was well on its way, and everything to the child had seemed so hopelessly old. It was a relief beyond her power of expressing to have all things about her too new to be in order instead of too old. It makes all the difference in the world. The child had said with radiant eyes in talking it over with her mother, and the mother had laughed, and only half understood, and thought for the thousandth time that Vine was queer. When they were seated at the dinner table and Mr. Willmeth had noticed Vine's pale face and the heavy rings under her eyes, and had opened his mouth to speak, and had received his wife's warning shake of her head and closed the mouth again and wondered, and then, good naturally, tried to turn her thoughts from whatever sorrowful channel held them. The subject he chose was the Griggs family. Josiah Griggs has sold his farm. He began. Made a good sale, he tells me. The thing was settled today, and he won't have to—why Vine, what is the matter? Then he will stay here all winter? Gasp the child. Why, yes, I suppose so. In fact, he told me he was glad not to have to pull up and move this fall. Why, child, what in the world do you care about it? Oh, mother, mother! sobbed Vine, dropping her fork suddenly and rushing to her refuge, head in mother's lap. I am afraid I will have to, and I can't. Is the child bewitched? said the worried father. Mrs. Wilmeth passed a caressing hand over the brown head. You won't have to do any such thing. It's ridiculous, the idea of there making you to do a thing of that kind that you don't want to. I'd like to see them try it. Oh, mother, it isn't that way. You don't understand. I think maybe. Oh, mother, I don't want any dinner. May I go out under the trees? What does all this mean? asked the bewildered father, as soon as Vine had sped away. It's just one of her wild little notions. She's the oddest child that ever was born. You know what a feeling she has about the Griggs is. Well, it seems there has been a talk of giving Mrs. Griggs a class in the Sunday School, and she has somehow got the idea that her class would be the one after Miss Powers left. And now that you tell her they are to be here all winter, she seems to feel sure of it. It's the most ridiculous notion, the idea that they can force her against her will to be in that woman's class. Of course, we wouldn't allow anything of the kind, and I've told her so. Mr. Wilmeth looked very sober, and at last said, with a long drawn sigh, I wish she weren't such an intense little thing. I'm afraid she will find living very hard business. I know it. I'm in a tremble for her half the time. She is so kind of fierce in all her feelings. And it is strange when she seems to be so quiet. I don't half understand her. I wish somebody or something would get a hold of her to hush her down. If this father and mother had, at this time, known of the solemn power which had just taken hold anew of their vine's life, not only to hush her down, but to anchor her, so that the blasts of life could not swerve her from her course, they would not have understood it. They had no personal knowledge of him to whom she had but just given herself. Neither did they understand her course in the least on the very next day. The ordeal came to vine earlier than she had expected and in a different way. It was in Sabbath school, and the superintendent was standing doubtfully before this large class of young girls. You know, he said, that Miss Powers thought the class quite too large, and now that winter is coming and we shall have to crowd together closer, it will not be convenient at all. I can find no one who will take charge of so many. They say they cannot do you justice, and they can't. But if you will consent to form two classes, Miss Jenkins will take one and Mrs. Griggs the other. Now I look to you for help. There are twelve of you, and six apiece will make just the right kind of classes. Suppose we let Miss Jenkins keep this seat, and those of you who will take that nice quiet corner over by the window and be Mrs. Griggs's scholars, just volunteer now. Ominous silence rained. The girls frowned and looked at one another, and kept their lips closed. Mrs. Griggs was evidently not popular among them. Vine kept eyes as well as lips sealed. She had very speaking eyes, but she veiled them under long lashes, and looked steadily down at her open bible. Well, said the superintendent, with a long-drawn sigh, I'm sorry. I hoped you would help me. I'm sure I don't know what to do. Then came the surprise. Vine, her cheeks aglow, her voice distinct and firm, her grave eyes raised to his face. Mr. Maxon, I will be one to go into Mrs. Griggs's class. Why, Vine will, meth! exclaimed her most intimate acquaintance in the class. You of all people in the world! Well, if you will, I will. So will I, and I, and I! exclaimed a second and third, and before the relieved superintendent had a chance to speak, the volunteer list was full. I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Maxon said, bending low to Vine, and speaking so others could not hear. You will have a nice class. All the others needed was a leader. And Mrs. Well, meth, lingering at the church door, wondering whether Vine would need her help in any way, had the astonishment of seeing her lead a file of girls over to the quiet corner where Mrs. Josiah Griggs sat waiting. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of 87 by Pansy. The slipper-box recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER 10. GROWING NECESSARY Whoa! said Winter Kelland. Stand still, can't you? And he gave some impatient jerks to the rains which the fat little pony was twitching. The trouble with the pony was that she thought the engine was making more than his share of noise, and puffed volumes of smoke into her face which was very disagreeable. It was the up-train, and Winter was to wait five minutes for the down one, so he sat still in the wagon and jerked at the pony instead of getting out to tie her. That waddling pony will get somebody into trouble yet. Settle, look her on. Her mistress always used to tie her across the road behind the store, but this fellow brings her nose right up in front of the engine. He knows what he is about, not at a second lounger. He has trained the little beast until she can stand pretty near to the cars on ordinary occasions and keep still. This train is doing an extra amount of puffing. He ain't hard on the critter neither. He's considerable of a boy with horse flesh, I believe. He ought to have a chance on something beside that pony. None of these comments did Winter hear. He was intent on watching the pony, speaking occasional kindly words to her, controlling his temptation to jerk her again because he knew enough about horses to be sure that, as a rule, such a process only made matters worse. He had spoken crossly to her at first, under an impulse of disappointment, because she twitched and seemed frightened despite all his lectures on the subject. But he straightway reflected that horses require infinite patience and quieted his voice and manner. He was changed in appearance from the boy who sat on the milking stool. Older? Yes, nearly two years. But there are more important changes. His gray suit is patched, it is true, and is growing threadbare in some places, and the sleeves will soon be too short for him. But the patching is very neat, and the clothes are free from spots, while the massive curly brown hair is reduced to comparative order, and face and hands are clean. All together a decided change for the better. Miss Putnam looks on him complacently at those times when some chance occurrence brings the vision of his first coming before her, and congratulates herself that she did a real good thing when she gave that boy Don's jacket and let him sleep in the carriage house. He sleeps in the carriage house still, or rather in the chamber over it, which has been built for him. For two years nearly he has laid aside the character of a tramp, and has earned the name of Miss Putnam's boy. In the pretty village, which is really the suburb of a brisk little city, that name means not only decency, but a certain amount of reflected respectability. Miss Putnam commands the respect of all who know her. Winter Kelland has not by any means been adopted. He was not even deliberately hired. Miss Putnam had to be the victim of several quarrels between her prudence and her conscience, before the former consented to the boys sleeping for a few nights in the carriage house. The idea, said prudence. Just as likely as not he will set the building on fire and make off with the whip and things, you never can expect anything decent from tramps. But then, said conscience, the poor wretch must sleep somewhere, the nights are growing too cold for him to lie around out of doors like a dog. In fact, you know you wouldn't leave your dog bony out. But you are not responsible for his sleeping, urged prudence, and you ought to remember that you are a lonely woman. If you had a man in the house it might be different. You hush up, said Miss Putnam aloud and stamping her foot. I guess I am equal to letting a forlorn rag of a boy sleep in my carriage house if I want to, if I am a woman. I don't want a man in the house. In this way temporary peace was declared. Winter, on his part, resolved to stay a week with the old lady if she would let him and split and pile her wood. At the end of a week the wood was piled, so were several other things. The cowhouse had been kept in good order, the milking carefully done, without any more spilling, and altogether Miss Putnam grimly told the long suffering prudence that he was the most decent acting tramp she ever saw by a great deal. After that the days slipped along without any understanding, until winter began, with a curious smile puckering the corners of his mouth to hint to himself that he believed he was getting necessary. Little by little he had been more decently clothed from Don's cast-off garments, and at last he was formally hired for as long as he wanted to stay, or until we both get sick of our bargain. Was Miss Putnam's way of putting it? Now after the lapse of two years she would almost as soon have thought of discharging herself as her tramp, as she still grimly called him occasionally. Yet you are not to suppose that she was deeply attached to winter, or had given him very much attention or thought. She had cared for his clothes and for his comfort in a humane and entirely reasonable way. She had learned to trust his word and to leave all common matters more and more in his care. She had told him with an encouraging smile that she believed if he would put his mind to it he could make a real good farmer, and that maybe he would someday have entire charge of somebody's farm. Boys did sometimes get up in the world. In fact it was quite common, if you were to believe the newspaper stories. She had insisted on his going to church once every Sunday and had urged him to go to Sunday school, but over this the boy had rebelled. She had finished off a neat little room over the carriage-house and let him make himself a rude washstand for his bright tin basin and wooden soap-dish. During the fall of his second year with her she had asked if he wouldn't like to go to school for three months, but when he answered with a flush on his brown face and a half laugh, which seemed to have a touch of bitterness, that he was too tall for such nonsense. She had been the sort of advisor who had said with a sigh, Well, you are pretty big, that's a fact. I suppose you would have to be among the primaries. It's such a pity that you neglected your opportunities for so long. Winter's face always grew dark over such hints. He believed now that running away from the Griggs homestead had been his one false step, from which he was never to recover. He could see that if he had stayed and plotted on and learned what little he could in the poor school to which he had access for a few months, chances might have opened to him. But now he must be always an ignorant nobody. Do you think it a strange mood to possess one so young? Remember that at fifteen the boys of today are, as a rule, done with arithmetic and grammar, are well on in Latin, and talk learnedly about problems in geometry. Winter had never seen a Latin grammar and did not know what a geometry was. Still, as he sits this waning afternoon in the little spring wagon, waiting for the belated downtrain with his arms folded, a little smile of complacency on his face that the pony has conquered her fears and is standing still, though the engine of a freight lying on a sidetrack continues at intervals to send out unmeaning screeches and disgusting puffs of thick black smoke, his face does not wear the expression of a thoroughly disappointed boy. The truth is, that for such a boy as he was, it was absolutely necessary, as soon as he discarded his vagrant life and settled down into respectability, to have an ambition of some sort. His earlier dreams had been to be a scholar. Part of the fierce disgust over his life with the Griggs family had been because of his meager opportunities in this direction. Then, having worse than thrown away three years and taken another year to get back to the level of common decency, he had gloomed and groaned and well nice shipwrecked himself again over the thought that life must, at its best, be a failure. Then he settled into the decision that he would be a farmer of the very best type. Nothing which could be learned about the soil, by observation and experiment, should escape him. The time should come when he would be recognized as an authority in all these matters. People should be made to see that their miserable books, which were denied to him, did not contain all the knowledge worth having in this world. To this end he was now bending his energies, with such success that Miss Putnam's little garden was becoming a matter of interest to all her neighbors. The earliest peas, the crispest radishes, the choicest potatoes, were to be found there, and continual and successful war was waged against their enemies, the weeds. Miss Putnam looked on complacently, and, from directing, was gradually dropping into the place of one who meekly advised, or asked a question for the sake of information, and steadily rejoiced that the forlorn boy was growing into so decent and useful a member of society, and never once imagined that her whole duty in regard to him was not being done, or that he could ever have felt an inspiration above his present condition. Miss Putnam had belonged all her life to the well-to-do part of the world. Her brothers and sisters, and nephews and nieces, had been of those who, as a matter of course, spent their early years in good schools, the boys at the regulation age entering college. Indeed, several of the girls had, in these later years, gone to college also. Miss Putnam had no acquaintance with a boy who was not well up in Latin by the time he was fifteen. To her mind there were but two types of boys, the one who at sixteen read Virgil as well as she read her Bible, and the boy who at sixteen belonged to the great outside world to whom it was our duty to be kind when we could as well as not. She had been kind unprecedentedly kind to winter Kelland, and was complacent accordingly. That he had repaid her kindness by becoming a help to her in a hundred ways was only a decent recompense for the good she had bestowed. To be sure he had done better than most boys of his stamp, but so had she done better by him than people often did for tramps. You have now the boy's status so far as his present home was concerned. As for his social position he had none whatsoever. It may perhaps seem almost incredible to you that a boy could live for two years in a small place and know so little of the people as this boy did. Yet had you been in the town and met the people you would have understood it readily enough. It was the suburb of quite a smart western city. There was very little business done in the village. It represented homes. Some of them handsome, nearly all of them neat and well-to-do. The husbands and fathers, almost to a man, went daily to town by the early trains, and returned for late dinners with their families. Sons and daughters, to a very large extent, followed this example, taking largely the trains which best fitted the hours of normal schools, commercial colleges, young ladies' seminaries, and the like. Still another class of young people thronged into the city as clerks in stores, millineries, telephone offices, and what not. It represented a busy little world, yet the business was almost exclusively carried on out of its world, and its people came home only for rest and recreation. To the middle-aged people recreation meant lounging in their pleasant homes after late dinners, glancing over the newspapers, and striving to keep up some sort of acquaintance with their wives. Among the young people there were endless gatherings, gay social evenings, informal dances, walks, rides, and the like, interspersed with constant trips to the city to attend lectures, concerts, theatres, or parties. With all these forms of recreation, Miss Putnam had nothing in common. She lived to herself. Known by everybody, highly respected, called on for contributions to church festivals, fairs, social bulls, or whatever was in the air just then. Called on by the busy pastor at stated intervals, she was rarely visited in any other than these ways. Can you not readily see how, in such a place, the boy winter was as utterly shut off from companionship as though he had been in the depths of the northern woods? There were not even any boys employed like himself with whom he could associate. Most of the people who were sufficiently wealthy to keep male-hired help, by reason of the constant absence of the fathers and brothers, preferred middle-aged men of experience who would be responsible persons in any emergencies which might arise. I do not know that it ever occurred to winter as a special providence that he was thus stranded in the midst of a busy world. But I want you to think for a moment what an advantage it was to the boy, in his loneliness, to be so situated that there were no evil companions, homeless and lonely like himself, to get hold of his leisure hours and lead him downward. If he must be let alone of God's dear people, at least it was a blessing that Satan's emissaries did not find him out, or knowing of him, consider him of enough importance to be sought out and lured into their nets. It happened that the little suburb was strictly temperate, so far as alcohol was concerned. So no saloon polluted the air. The victims of that curse, of which there were some, sought the city. What did the boy do with his evenings? Well, for some time that was a problem which depressed him. Not what he did, but what he should do with them. They hung heavily on his hands as the days began to grow shorter, and lamplight hours seemed to set in directly after dinner. He could sleep a good deal, and did. But there were evenings when he felt such a rush of restless life throbbing in his veins that the warm, neat kitchen, with nothing to do but whittle, and take care that his chips did not litter the spotless floor, seemed to him little else than a prison, and he would half resolve to start by the next morning's light and tramp again. But there must have been an inborn love of cleanliness and decency in the boy, for at such moments he would immediately think, first of the sweet smelling sheets on his bed over the carriage house, and think next, with a shudder, of the places in which he had slept, and resolve to endure even the long evenings yet a while. During this time Miss Putnam sat at rest among her flowers and her daily papers, and her books and her knitting, entirely comfortable, reading short breezy letters from Don, or writing long, careful ones to him, thinking always with satisfaction of the boy in the kitchen, whom she began to trust, and who she knew was well fed and comfortably clothed, and occupying a kitchen warm, neat, and bright. How was she to know that beings of his class ever needed more? What would have been the outcome of such a state of things I do not know, nor will you ever know? For this state of things suddenly changed. It is true the change was apparently so slight that even the central figure in the scene had no conception of what would be the final result, and the starting point was determined by a very trivial circumstance. END OF CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI ENERGY AND FORCE Something as trivial as a scrap of paper, which came wrapped around a bundle of groceries. Wrapping his things in newspaper! Had Miss Putnam said in intense disgust, as she unrolled the package and tossed aside the offending scrap. Fa! Just like that man's enterprise, and he is always whining that people don't patronize him, but run to the city for everything. No wonder! The paper had been picked up a little later, and laid in the woodbox for kindling. On Miss Putnam's premises not even so much as a scrap of paper was allowed to waste itself. That same evening, as winter, utterly weary of the bit of skilful whittling he was doing, gathered the chips and gave them a contemptuous fling into the woodbox, his eye rested on the bit of newspaper. Why not read it? What if it held only advertisements? They would be more interesting than blank dullness. The paper was torn in a jagged way, and the reading, whatever it was, began in the middle of a sentence. Winter tilted his chair back against the table, drew the small unshaded lamp nearer, and read. Struggle into opportunity. There are valiant souls who, without family prestige, without incitement on the part of father or mother, seem early in life to take a wide view, feel the necessity, and say, by God's help, with our own right hand, and what brain power we have, we will attain what culture we can. And those hardworking fellows managed to go through college. They fight their way up into power, and while the sentence closed for winter as abruptly as it had begun. But perhaps he would not have understood why his face grew slowly red, the color mounting even to his forehead, as he read the words again and yet again, and brushed his hand across his eyes as if to remove a film gathering there, and read the words once more. It was a curious, and, looking at him now, a pitiful fact that to go to college had been one of his baby ambitions. Back went memory to the great dreary room in the county poor-house, to a little bed in the further corner, covered with a somewhat soiled and worn quilt, and a hollow-eyed father under the quilt, whose words were frequently interrupted by a short, dry cough, but who often and often said, When my boy has graduated from some big college, we will—and then had followed some delicious daydream which had made the small boy laugh. When the father was gone, the ambition had lingered. It was never mentioned even to Vine, but it had been the thought which had made winter so impatient over his frequent detentions from the little red school-house, and the many obstacles in the way of making rapid advancement there. Of course, with the bitter experience of three years of lawlessness, the ambition, even the desire, had faded. Now it is sorrowful to have to tell you that there was awakened only a bitter memory, that he could never go to college or to school of any sort again, he set down as a mournful fact. He had thrown away his chance, thrown in ignorantly away, not knowing at the time that a steady continuance in Josiah Griggs's farmhouse was his open door to respectability and opportunity. He realized it now when he believed it too late. His youth, he thought, had departed. He had not been like these valiant souls of whom the extract told. He had been incited by his father often and often, and had failed his father. It was this that made the film over his eyes. He had meant to do so much of which his father could be proud. Long he leaned against the table, arms crossed, the bit of paper at his feet. At last he stooped for it and slowly read it once more, then folded and placed it in his empty pocket-book. More thinking, arms still folded. Suddenly he flung them apart, doubled one strong fist and brought it down on the table in a way to make the little lamp tremble. It emphasized a resolve. Some things he had thrown away, book knowledge, opportunities of that sort, were not for him. A hundred things which he had wanted to do were not for him. Farm life, which he had hated, was open in a small way, and the doubled fist brought down with energy was to mark his decision to learn all that was possible about garden and farm and outdoor life. I'll fight my way up into so much anyhow, he said aloud with a grim smile. If I am too late for all the rest I won't be a fool and a vagabond, and I'll stick on here until there is nothing more for me to learn, and then I'll go where I can learn more in the same line. In a sense this resolve had been his salvation. It gave him occupation for those miserable evenings. It was only the next day he astonished Miss Putnam by asking if she had any book about gardens that he could look at. She had not, but she bore it in mind, and asked the milkman who came for what milk she had to spare, and he brought her, the next morning, an agricultural paper which winter so steadily read and studied that he almost literally knew its contents by heart. Nor was this the only paper which he secured. He made acquaintance with the milkman, who was a small farmer, a few miles out of town, and had what to winter was a library of agricultural literature. The man was good-natured and enterprising and willing to lend. He grew in time to be proud of Miss Putnam's garden and to feel that there was a little reflected glory from it which belonged to him. In all these ways Winterkeland had reached forward to the September afternoon when he waited for the down train. He had no interest in the person who was coming. She was a schoolteacher, but she would not be likely to have either agricultural books or agricultural ideas. It was a startling innovation which was coming into Miss Putnam's life, this receiving a stranger and a young woman into her home. A month ago she would have scouted the possibility of such a thing. Yet it had been brought about simply enough. Don had written, By the way, Auntie, Miss Elise Force has just told me that she has secured the vacant post in the Fremont Street School, and will start for my old home next month. Then I told her about you, of course, what a blessed Auntie you were, and all that. And I hardly know how it came about, but I found myself promising that you would give her some advice as to a boarding place. What can you suggest? It seems hard to think of a young lady boarding at Millers. I suppose there is nothing better, is there? I wish for Elise's sake there were. She is a good friend of mine, Auntie. If you can do anything for her comfort, I know you will, because it will please your boy Don. That boy Don knew what he was about. If he had hinted that his dear Auntie would do him a service by making a garden-path of her best silk gown for Miss Force to walk over, she might have sputtered a little and said, What a ridiculous notion! But in a half hour she would have wiped her spectacles and said, Dear boy, he knows his Auntie would do anything in the world for him. And by this simple device was Miss Elise Force to be installed in the suite and prim guest chamber of the old Putnam Homestead. Miss Putnam's heart was beating in a most irregular fashion on this afternoon in which she waited for the stranger to come to her home. But Winterkeland cared nothing whatever about it. He had not even heard the stranger's name. She would have nothing to do with his life, nor he with hers. The downtrain came at last, and he sprang from the wagon and stood by the horse's head, waiting. It was not the hour for expecting an influx of home people. Very few passengers stopped off from this train. Therefore the trim maiden, dressed in two shades of brown, who looked about her for a moment, then came briskly toward Winterkeland, had only two or three depot loungers to pass. Is this Miss Putnam's wagon? she asked, and Winter remembered it afterward that something in her voice sent him back to the woods of his childhood and reminded him of Little Vine. The fat little pony was waddling down the shady street before Miss Force spoke again. Do you live in this pretty little town which looks as though all the inhabitants were taking an afternoon nap? I stay here, said Winter, hesitating, and wondered if he really lived there. I stay with Miss Putnam. Do you? Then if we are to belong to the same family we ought to be acquainted. Who do you suppose will introduce us? There's a yellow butterfly, but I don't propose to ask him. He's too frisky. Let us do it ourselves. I'm Elise Force, and I mean to put as much force into school life this Winter as I possibly can. Now suppose you tell me who you are. Winter laughed a little and flushed a good deal. He had never been spoken to by a well dressed, pretty young woman before in his life. He had never imagined that they spoke in this way. I'm just Wynn, he said. Wynn Kelland, Miss Putnam's boy. Wynn, what a capital name! What do you propose to win, my friend? Winter laughed again, an embarrassed sort of laugh. Something to eat and wear, I suppose, he said at last, seeing that she waited for a reply. And an education, of course, she added quickly. That should be the first ambition of an American boy's life. Poor Sol, she was a professed disciple of him who said, Seekie first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Yet she talked about an education being the first ambition of life. The red on Winter's tanned face deepened until it would almost seem that it could burn, and his reply was short, almost sharp. No, I have no such expectation. I'm too old for that. Too old? And the merriest little laugh rippled forth. Why, I should never have taken you for a patriarch. What can you mean? I'm seventeen years old and have never had the first beginnings of an education. Winter said stiffly, the laugh jarred him a little. But at seventeen people are young enough to accomplish whatever they undertake. Maybe that is because they know enough not to undertake what they can't accomplish. He shot a keen look at her from under heavy eyelashes, then gave undivided attention to the pony. She laughed again, a very jingle of a laugh, but this time it did not jar. Well, but really now that idea is absurd. I would not harbor it for a moment if I were you. Of course it is a disadvantage not to be well started by the time one is seventeen. I would not seem to deny that. But I am perfectly safe in declaring that if circumstances have prevented a start until that time, or even later, a first-class education is still within reach of any boy who determines to have it. I know a gentleman who, when he was twenty years old, could not read. Yet he had determined some time before that he would have a fair education if he lived, and he accomplished it. How much of an education did he get? He is a clergyman now. Ms. Force spoke the words very quietly. She had recognized a little undertone of sarcasm in the boy at her side. Evidently he did not believe that a very extensive education could be meant. And couldn't read when he was twenty? Winter was startled out of his sarcasm and reserve. Not a word. I am well acquainted with him, and he gave me the facts himself. But then everybody could not do what he did. You see, he had a strong will, and he resolved to overcome obstacles. How did he set about it? By doing what not one young man in a hundred would have the courage to do, he entered the primary department of a village school and started at the foot of an ABC class, and bore the tons and the giggles of unfeeling simpletons, and worked with all the force of his strong nature until he reached a place where he could hold out a helping hand to some of those very gigglers. Winter drew a long breath and said nothing. He had somewhat prided himself on his own strong will. But such an experience as this he certainly was not ready to undergo. When he spoke again it was in a dissatisfied tone. Folks are not all alike. If a boy has all he can do to earn his own bread and something to wear, how is he going to get time to study, let alone going to any school? This man of whom I am telling you had to earn his own living. Honestly, my friend, I am not making up a story to suit my fancy. It is the truth. He had not a soul to depend on in this world. He worked over hours and bought his time, and went to school for three months, and worked six months to make up for it. That was the beginning. Of course he found friends after a while who offered encouragement and pointed out open doors. People who help themselves always do get about the sort of help they need. Beside, don't you know that determined people can accomplish a great deal in a short time? I spent the month of August in a place where almost every young person one met was at work over books. And I know by actual experience that more was accomplished there in four weeks than is generally done with one study in an entire winter. Another school doing its work through August. Winter distinctly remembered when and where he had heard something of this kind before. Queer time for a school, he could not help saying. Isn't it? And a queer school. Not like anything anywhere else in the world, I imagine. It is a sort of city or town in the woods. Plenty of people and a post office and stores and conveniences of that sort. And plenty of great old trees and shaded walks and old stumps with vines growing in them and squirrels playing about. And people live in tents, many of them. And it is altogether unlike life anywhere else. But the teachers are the best that can be had for the money and are as enthusiastic as their scholars. There is no unwilling scholars made to work by their parents. They are, as a rule, old enough to decide these matters for themselves and are enthusiastic students needing a little judicious holding back rather than urging. I suppose these are some of the reasons why such rapid progress is made. Whoa! said Winter, and the fat pony drew up suddenly before the square old-fashioned house which Miss Force had been admiring silently ever since she caught a glimpse of it through the trees. This is Miss Putnam's place, ma'am, and that is Miss Putnam just coming down the steps. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of 87 by Pansy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER 12 CIRCLES There's no use in talking. Said Miss Putnam, giving a vigorous stir to the sugar in her coffee and taking an energetic bite from her muffin. I knew it couldn't be done. There are certain things you can do in some places and in some you can't. There are only two kinds of people here, part of them are so crowded to death with work that they haven't time for anything else, and part of them are so completely tuckered out, amusing themselves, that they can't think of anything else. The last thing in life they want is a literary society. If it was a new kind of dance they would be here before breakfast to see how to get it up, and they'd have the thing cut and dried by night and meet somewhere to hop it out. I wouldn't be afraid to venture every muffin on this table that you were asked if part of the time wasn't to be spent in dancing. Miss Force's eyes, as well as her mouth, laughed out at this. It was mentioned once or twice, she said demurely. There, said Miss Putnam, with an emphasis which required the laying down of knife and fork, just as she was about to cut a bit of steak. I knew it as well as though I had been along with you. Once or twice, if you would say a dozen times, I venture you would be nearer the truth. It does be it all, this place does, for dancing. If there is a class of beings which the Creator made with brains located in their heels and toes, and with just enough to keep them flopping around all the time, they live in this village. People can't come together to plan about a church supper, or fair, without, after they have talked for a half hour or so, pushing back the tables and setting to work, as though spinning about in each other's arms was the real thing to accomplish, and the other was just a side issue. And if you try to get up anything under the sun, somebody, after the first five minutes, will be sure to say, hadn't we better planned for a little dancing to amuse the young folks? I'm sick of it. One night our minister got waked up a little. He had been away for a week and attended a prayer meeting, where the people did something beside hiding behind posts and looking at their watches after they got there. And he called a sort of council to discuss ways of getting young people enough interested to come out to prayer meeting. When he explained what he wanted, there was a dead silence. If he had asked them to plan away for the young people to discover the channel to the North Pole, they couldn't have looked more dismayed. And the very ones who had done all the talking only the night before, when they were planning an oyster supper, and knew just exactly what must and must not be attempted, sat as dumb as oysters. I had been pretty well wrought up the night before, and my nerves hadn't cooled down yet. So I burst into the awful pause with this suggestion. After we have had fifteen minutes or so of prayer meeting, if we'd move back the seats and close up with a little dance, I think likely they'd come. Miss Force laughed so that the coffee cup she was in the act of carrying to her mouth trembled and nearly lost its balance. You don't mean you spoke those words out in the council. I do mean just that, and a pretty sensation it created. I heard that some of them thought I was very irreverent. I don't understand why, if dancing is everlastingly the proper thing, why not have it to help draw? The only places in this town where they don't have it weekdays are prayer meetings and funerals, and our young people apparently look upon those occasions as equally doleful. Well, so you didn't get a recruit for your literary effort? Not a positive promise, several are considering it. I think some would have joined had they not been slightly suspicious of it. They seemed to think it was a scheme for money-making. Just so, and who was to make the money? Fifty cents a year for mapping out a course of reading and seeing that the books are ready for you and sending bushels of papers through the mail to you must furnish an immense income, certainly. Somebody ought to get rich by it somehow. Was the somehow made plain to you? Not very, said Miss Force with another laugh. She enjoyed this breezy talk as only a bright, merry-hearted girl could. Miss Putnam was a positive elixir to her. Some of the ladies thought the books ought to be furnished free of expense. Of course they ought, the idea of expecting people to accommodate you by joining a reading circle and then having to buy their own books. It is an imposition, you see, all reading matter free and a small fee given to each one who gets through a book with the promise of a dance at the end each five lines. That's the program you will have to get up if you accomplish anything in this part of the world. Mark my words, I've lived here a quarter of a century, and I know. Oh, well, that isn't to say that we haven't a few sensible people scattered around. Many of the boys and girls are hard at work in school, doing as much of the literary as their brains will endure. Of course I leave them out of the calculation. Then there are some so hard worked to keep up appearances that every breath of life about them has to engage in the struggle. You can't expect them to read anything but the fashion plates. To see whether, after they have spent every inch of leisure time for seven weeks in ripping up their best dress and turning it upside down, the fashions have changed so that, after all, it must be ripped up again and put hind side before. Such as these haven't time for anything but an occasional dance between the ripping's up. I'm reasonable. I don't expect impossible things. But after all these extremes are counted out, it does seem as though there might be about two who had a few minutes of leisure and were willing to use their heads instead of their heels. But I don't know one. The truth is, my boy Wynn is the most hopeful specimen I know of in the place. He reads in a certain line and makes very good use of what he gets. The part of the sentence which referred to him had been begun with an amused little laugh. But before it ended, Ms. Putnam's face was grave and she looked ready to combat earnestly, perhaps somewhat fiercely, anyone who should question her boy Wynn's right to read what he would. Ms. Forrest was at once interested. She had been in this home for nearly three months and, beyond an occasional nod to Wynn as he passed her with his arms full of wood or with foaming milkpales, she had not come in contact with him nor given him a thought. The energetic little talk which she had held with him on her right from the depot had been in consequence of her propensity for talking earnestly in certain lines, whatever her opportunity, and not because he had awakened a special interest in her mind. Now, however, the mention of his name and the statement concerning him recalled certain keen flashes of feeling she had noticed in his eyes that day. So Wynn reads, does he, in what direction, dime novels and the like? Not in my house, said Ms. Putnam, with a firm setting of her lips. No, he reads agricultural papers and books, everything of that sort on which he can lay his hands, and that is not saying a great deal. I have thought of subscribing to the library in the city for the sake of getting such books as would help him in his notions. Only there would be the going in after them and the endless temptations which would open to him on every side if I did. I've thought at a great wonder that the boy didn't hanker after the city and make excuses to go, but he doesn't, and I've been so afraid that he would get drawn into mischief that I've actually gone without things I wanted rather than send him in on errands. I might get the books for him myself. Maybe I will when I get waked up to that pitch of interest. Agricultural papers, said Ms. Forrest thoughtfully. That isn't a bad idea. Of course it isn't. These potatoes are not a bad idea, either. As she spoke, she broke one of the flowery things in two, and, wrapping her napkin around the shell, proceeded to eating it a la Holland. There are no such potatoes in this part of the world except from my garden. Wynn tried some sort of experiment with the soil, and it worked to a charm. He would have been quite a boy, I believe, if he had had half a chance. The way he pours over those papers is curious. Spells out half the words, I suppose. The poor fellow has been an orphan since he was less than eight. If the right kind of people had had him then, they might have made something of him. He has real good judgment. I shouldn't wonder if he made quite a farmer. Suppose I make a reading-circle out of him. Said Ms. Forrest, with her merriest outburst of laughter. I seem to have failed in other directions, and I'm bound to have a circle out here. I told the girls I would. If I read and he reads, that will be a society, will it not? And I, said Ms. Putnam, you might put me in. I read a book occasionally. If you must have a reading-circle, Ms. Forrest, I advise you to take Wynn and me, for you won't do better in this region. Only I do hope the readings will not have to wind up with a dance. They shall not, laughed Ms. Forrest, and there shall be no expense. I'll furnish the books myself and charge no fee. Very well. If, in addition, you will give us a little present now and then, by way of encouragement, we may be induced to accommodate you. There was more of the talk frothing off into unmitigated fun, neither lady having an idea of anything but to amuse the other. Yet out of it was born the curiosity which prompted Ms. Forrest to look up that evening just as Wynn had placed an armful of wood in her neat little box and was retiring. Good evening! she said pleasantly. Is it still snowing? Yes, them, and blowing. I guess it is going to be a very hard storm. Shall I put some more wood on the fire? If you please. Isn't an open fire a cheery thing to study by? Did you ever try it? No, ma'am. In a low grave-tone. There was something about this brisk girl and her pleasant room, and her open fire and her red-covered table piled high with books and papers, which made Wynn think of a home, such a home as he had imagined but never enjoyed. There had been a house to which he used to carry milk long ago, where a boy of fifteen sat before a red-covered table, with the flames from the wood fire on the hearth lighting up his curly head, and worked over his books. Mother near at hand, with her sewing, and father just at the other side of the table with the newspaper. It was a picture Wynn had carried with him. He thought then that if he had such a place as that he could study. He looked at Ms. Forrest's table and thought so again, thought it with a sigh. What do you do with these long winter evenings? Not much of anything. I read some when I can get things to read. That is good, provided you make a wise selection. Careful reading is a very important feature in an education. A very faint smile hovered over Wynn's face. He thought that he and this young woman of culture were carrying on this conversation from entirely different levels. I don't make a selection, he said, with quiet sarcasm. There's nothing to select from. Sometimes, when the milkman doesn't forget to bring it to me, I have a newspaper and I read it through from beginning to end, advertisements and all. Then sometimes I read it all over again, just for the sake of having something to do. A capital idea provided it was worth reading in the first place. But if you would like something else, I have a few books which I might lend you. Winter glensed over at the neat shelf filled with books and smiled. It seemed to him that Ms. Forrest had a great library. Thank you. He said, and simple as the words were, they conveyed a great deal. There was a sound in them which might almost be translated by the word greedy. Ms. Forrest heard it and said within herself, It isn't possible that this boy has to spell out his words. Readers of that sort never long for more. How shall I know what to choose for you? She said, rising and going toward the shelf. What are your tastes? Have you any books which tell about hotbeds? Ms. Forrest paused with her hand on a book, turned toward him and laughed. I am afraid not. She said, I am ignorant in all those directions. My opportunities never opened their way. Ms. Putnam told me something about your garden. I am curious to know one thing. Do you choose such subjects because all your inclinations point toward them? Or because circumstances called your attention that way. Winter's face flushed a little. If I should tell it just as it is, I might say such subjects chose me. It is the one thing I have a chance to work at, and I thought maybe I could start a little hotbed if I could get hold of the right way of beginning. As for liking it, the one thing I resolved when a little fellow that I'd certainly never be was a farmer. I never shall love it amazingly, but what can a fellow do? Perhaps a fellow couldn't possibly do better than that, but he wants to be sure of it. I am going into town tomorrow after school, and I'll try to find what you need at the library. I think a hotbed is an excellent idea. Ms. Putnam would be pleased, I know. She is very proud of her garden. Meantime, my friend, why don't you go systematically to work to get the sort of education which will help you to be a farmer of general intelligence? One who can command the respect of his neighbors on other subjects as well as farming. How can I? The words were spoken almost fiercely. There is no way to begin. It is nonsense to talk about my going to school, and I have no books nor brains to start with. All that is nonsense, said Ms. Forrest quietly. There is no old saying truer than, where there is a will there is a way. There is nothing to prevent your going to school to yourself every evening in that neat kitchen downstairs. You know I would be willing to lend you the few books you need to start with, for I have just offered. And as for brains, if you had none, you would not care about having lost a good deal of time already, and I can see in your face that you do care. When a sensible person has made a misstep, the thing for him is to undo as much of the mischief as he can, as quickly as he can. It is the only way he has of showing a difference between himself and a fool. It was a hazardous sentence. She knew nothing of any missteps of his. Had never heard of Mrs. Josiah Griggs and a runaway. But something about him suggested the fancy that he was brooding over what might have been. CHAPTER XIII. PHOTOGRAPHES. Winter made no reply. Neither, although his hand had been all this while on the doorknob, did he depart. Miss Force, giving seemingly careless glences at his face, was a good deal interested in its developments. She believed she had touched the right spring. The boy was glooming over what he might have done to the extent that it was in a degree paralyzing what he ought now to do. If I were you, she began again, I would take hold of this thing with a will and educate myself, first in a general line such as would fit any occupation which you might finally choose, then exhaustively in the direction which you choose or which opens, farming if that seems the thing. There is certainly no more honorable way of earning a living, but there is no sense in being an ignorant farmer. WHAT WOULD YOU BEGIN ON? Arithmetic, said Miss Force, as promptly as though she had anticipated the inquiry and prepared the answer. In point of fact she had done no such thing. She was surprised with the question. It hinted at a decision which she had feared would have to be argued up to by long processes. I certainly should, seeing his surprised look. It is the basis of all education, a sort of dignified foundation on which to build. A certain knowledge of figures is, you know, really necessary in all practical life, and if you are going to be a first-class farmer, you need to be able to calculate with a flash of your eye what you can realize on 963 bushels of potatoes provided you sell them for thirty-seven and a half cents a bushel. Winter flashed a gleam of intelligent fun at her, then dropped his eyes meditatively on the carpet again. I had not mastered a single idea in long division when I left school, he said at last, and I have not had occasion to use any figures since to speak of. It was an admission which made the blood glow all over his sunburned face. Very well, said Miss Force, without a shade of surprise or dismay in voice or manner. Then I should say you could not too quickly set about mastering long division and all the other intricacies. I do not know a better place or time than a clean, quiet kitchen and long, undisturbed evenings for such work. If you like to begin I will lend you an arithmetic which I brought with me. It is one of the best in print and is entirely at your service. If you need a hint at any time I shall be glad to give it. I have an affection for the book. Will you take it down with you and glance at it tonight? Since I cannot furnish you with any agricultural reading. I think that is an excellent idea of yours, and tomorrow I will try to get the latest views on it for you. Thank you, said Winter. He had no more words at command, but Miss Force, looking at him, did not need more. The arithmetic was in his hand. She had a feeling that its ideas would be transferred to his mind before many months. She was gleeful after he had gone. I believe there is something in the boy, she said aloud. I'll have a reading-circle out of him yet. But what a queer book to begin on! An arithmetic! It isn't in the course, but if it doesn't lead to it I shall be disappointed. I had my hand on this nice blue covered book to experiment with as a sort of a reader, when he arrested me by having an idea of his own. A boy who can set himself to studying over hotbeds, with a view to making one, is worth starting. There is no reason why he shouldn't acquire a decent, self-respecting education in common English. Well, Elise Force, everybody might not see it, but you have done a good thing for our circle tonight, I believe. Lived up to the spirit of it, if not the letter. It is true, my dear lady, you have touched one of the inner circles of your circle, and extended a helping hand. But the everlasting pity is that you stopped just there. An arithmetic is an excellent thing, and if it shall happen that Winter Kelland shall give it enough attention to become an expert in calculating his hotbed accounts, I shall be glad for him and for you. But suppose for a moment you had, in connection with the arithmetic, said one little word to impress Winter Kelland with the thought that there was a book above all other books, the studying of which would open for him the gate of true wisdom. And suppose he had taken from your hand a copy of that book, and had given to it but a few minutes of the hour which you hoped he would nightly devote to arithmetic. And suppose it had opened for him a well of knowledge at which he resolved to drink forever. And suppose, because of this one simple act of yours, there should, through him, be led hundreds and hundreds of souls into the way of life to reach out in their turn to others. What would the harvest be to you? Poor soul! Upon our unseen banner flames the mystic two-edged sword. We hold its legend in our hearts, the spirit and the word. She had sung the words only last summer. Again and again they had floated out among the whispering trees, and thrilled her soul with their majestic meaning. She had told herself then that this circle to which her life was linked was a grand, heaven-reaching idea, and she rejoiced in being one of the number to push its influence. She was pushing it eagerly, gleefully, seeing in winter Kelland and her old arithmetic mystic chords which should eventually intertwine with it. And yet there had not even been suggested to her the thought that, sorely as the boy needed an education, he had greater need for that knowledge which according to the master of all learning was to be sought first. Do you imagine that the boy, winter, did not think of it? There was one bit of reading which he had omitted to mention. Do you remember that tiny book? It took but a very short time to get through with it, and winter, by reason of the utter poverty of his resources, had been driven to its re-reading until many of the sentences clung to his memory. Some of them were very startling. As it is nearly always the case with these little books, the verses had been selected with special reference to Christians. They seemed to winter to speak only to such. Instead of remembering that he was bound in honour to be one of these, and therefore that the words ought to apply to him, he amused himself by trying to fit them to the practical lives of the professing Christians about him. Would not those unsuspecting ladies, Ms. Putnam and Ms. Forse, have been amazed if they could have known that the boy whom they were trying to help, the one by decent dinners and clean clothes, the other by arithmatics, was at work studying their lives to see how well they fitted a book two inches square which he carried in his pocket. Winter entered the kitchen, arithmetic in hand, with very little idea that he should do more than look through the book, because he did not know how to refuse Ms. Forse. He believed that he was too old for arithmetic. Still, for the sake of old times, he should like to glance through it. There were both pleasant and unpleasant associations connected with the study. He remembered distinctly that in the mental arithmetic class he was one of the brightest pupils. When those bewildering problems involving lightning processes in the four fundamental rules were given, his hand had often been the first to waive a loft indicating victory, and his teacher's hearty commendation was often provoked thereby. Those were golden memories. But following hard after them was the picture of certain miserable days when the intricacies of long division came upon him unawares, and after several wretched failures and such distressing embarrassments as to make him incapable for the time being of giving the sum of two and two, he was remanded to his seat with the humiliating announcement that he was a hopeless blockhead, and would do well to join the class in addition. Recalling it, Winter could almost feel the rush of crimson which he knew had suffused face and neck at the time. Then there stole across the page of memory a pleasant vision, a fair little face framed in curly brown hair, out of which looked a pair of very expressive eyes. One moment they flashed indignant scorn on the impatient teacher, then melted into sympathy and sought his, while the lips murmured low, he is just as hateful as can be. All the girls think so. You would have had it right in another minute if he hadn't hurried and bothered you. Dear little Vine, his one friend, had she been right, if he had waited and been patient, and borne with Mrs. Josiah and plotted on, would he in time have mastered long division and all the rest of it, and have held this arithmetic in his hand tonight as a toy with which he had long been through, instead of the mystery it was to him? Such memories and such questions made him give a long, heavy sigh, as he drew the lamp closer and opened the book. The town clock on the church tower struck seven just as he read the familiar words. Arithmetic is the science of numbers. The clock struck eight and nine, and a half hour afterward Miss Putnam opened the kitchen door and said, When, did you know it was going on to ten o'clock? The boy gave a violent start, as though he had been caught in the midst of a crime, ran both fingers through his masses of hair and looked up in a bewildered way. What are you reading? asked Miss Putnam in a doubtful tone. His manner was very suspicious. Could it be possible that Satan and a dime novel had held quiet possession of her kitchen all this evening? She pushed her spectacles into place and leaned over the book which still lay open on the table. For the land's sake, she said, in tones which might have been translated to mean several things. But she only added, after a moment's pause, Well, I should think it would be a good plan for you to go to bed. Yes, um, said Winter absently. His thoughts not on his words. He had been bewitched. The words of the arithmetic had been to him like photographs. When he learned such a sentence, he sat on a stool in the sunshine beside his father, who was resting in an old chair on the southern porch at the county house. Over the leaf was the lesson which father had explained by putting two leaves from the current bush on one side and three from the gooseberry bush on the other, and proving conclusively to his bewildered mind that one could not add the gooseberry leaves to the current leaves and make five of either. They would continue to be current leaves and gooseberry leaves, however he might try to unite them. He smiled tenderly now as he realized for the first time what an ingenious device it was on his father's part. The addition table showed him a view of his father, pale, coughing often, propped up in bed, with a bit of smoothly planed board and a stub of a pencil, making carefully large figures in a circle for him to gallop around. He remembered the gleeful laugh of triumph with which he displayed weeks afterward, his ability to begin at any figure of the circle his father chose, and rushed like a race horse around the curve. He remembered his bewildered delight when, later still, he made the discovery that those nine figures arranged in a circle and studied in the way his father planned had made it difficult for his teacher in the village school to arrange a row of figures in such a manner that he could not promptly give their sum. So much for photographs. By this time he was interested in seeing how much he remembered of the old lessons, and astonished presently to discover that he could not be so very old, for these well-learned lessons came back to him with a vividness of yesterday's events. In less than an hour he was confronting his enemy, Long Division, and seemed to himself to be standing before the blackboard again as he slowly read and pondered the rule. Then he felt in his pocket for a pencil, took the margin of his last agricultural paper for a slate, and resolved upon attempting an example, trying to follow out the direction of the rule. It was long and somewhat intricate in its processes. It involved time and thought. The more as his unused powers in these directions moved much more slowly when put to the test with a problem than they did in the race through the tables. He would not have been disappointed at failure, for it may be said that failure was what he expected. But I do not know that many of you will be able to understand the strange thrill which he felt to his very fingertips on making the discovery that his quotient and the one given in the book agreed precisely. From that moment he was lost to all outward circumstances, or to any knowledge of the flight of time. The fire died out in the great kitchen stove, the oil burned low in his lamp, every inch of available room on the eight-page newspaper was covered with figures, and still the boy figured on, regardless of printer's ink, which was interfering sadly with his work. Seeing his utter absorption and his utter confusion, what could Miss Putnam suspect less than a dime novel? That lamp has too little oil to go to bed by, and there isn't another, except the great big ones, which ought not to be carried out in this wind. I did not know you wanted to sit up until midnight. Can't you take the lantern? Where is the little lantern? Did you put it in order? Yes, it holds seven hundred and eighty-two barrels and twenty-seven gallons. That's exactly right. What? said Miss Putnam sharply. And winter dropped his book on the floor and stood upright. I—I didn't mean that, Miss Putnam. I meant—yes, ma'am, I have a lamp, or no, ma'am, I haven't. I mean I can go to bed in the dark as well as not. Oh, yes, the little lantern is all ready to use. It is out in the woodshed on its nail. I didn't dream it was so late. You act as though you had lost all your wits, said Miss Putnam, but the sharpness had already gone out of her voice. She could not help being a little impressed with the thought that he had lost his wits over arithmetic. And as winter lighted the little lantern, and, with the aid of a broom, made his way through the rapidly accumulating snow to the woodhouse chamber, he said aloud to the north wind, I shall go right straight through that book. End of Chapter 13