 20 Miranda was out in the flower bed by the side gate. She had gathered her hands full of spicy gray-green southern wood, and was standing by the fence looking wistfully down the street. The afternoon coach was in, and she was idly watching to see who came in it, but not with her usual vim. The specter of the shadow of death was hovering too near to Phoebe for Miranda to take much interest in things in general. Three days after Phoebe's midnight walk, Miranda had gone out to see her and bring her down to take tea with Mrs. Spafford. What was her dismay to find that she was refused admittance, and that too very shortly? Phoebe's sick of bed, snapped Amaline. She had been tried beyond measure over all the extra work that was thrown on her hands by Phoebe's illness, and she had no time for buttered words. No, she can't see you today, nor next day. She's got a fever, and she don't know nobody. The doctor says she must be kept quiet. No, I can't tell you how she got it. The land only knows. If she ever gets well, maybe she can tell herself, but I doubt it. She'll have forgot by that time. But she does know she forgets mostly. No, you can't go and take care of her. She's got folks enough to do that now, more than she needs. There ain't a living thing to do, but let her alone till she comes out of it. You don't suppose you could take care of her, do ya? Hmm! Well, I ain't got time to talk. And the door was shut in her face. Miranda, however, was not to be turned aside thus easily. With real concern in her face, she marched around the woodshed to the place under the little window of the kitchen chamber that she knew was Phoebe's room. Phoebe! She called softly. Phoebe! And the sick girl tossing in her bed of fever called wildly. Don't you hear that Phoebe bird calling mother? Oh, mother, it's calling me from the top of the barn. It says, Phoebe, I'm here, don't be afraid. And the voice trailed off into incoherence again. Granny McVane hobbled to the window, perplexed, for she, too, had heard the soft sound. Oh, is that you, Granny? whispered Miranda. Say, what's the matter with Phoebe? Is she bad? Yes, real bad, whispered back, Granny. She don't know a soul-poor little thing. She thinks her mother's here with her. I don't know much about how it happened. There was an accident, and the horse ran away. She was out in that awful storm the other night. She's calling, and I must go back to her. In much dismay Miranda had hurried back to the village. She besieged the doctor's house until he came home, and could get only gravity and shakings of the head. She may pull through, she may. The old doctor would say doubtfully, she's young and strong, and it might be, but there's been a great shock to the system, and she doesn't respond to my medicines. I can't tell. Every day the story was the same, though David and Marsha had gone themselves. And though Miranda travelled the mile-and-a-half every afternoon after her work was done out to the Dean Farm, there had been no change. The fever raged on, nor stayed one witt in its course. The faithful heart of Miranda was as near to discouragement as it had ever come in its dauntless life. And now this afternoon she had just returned from a particularly fruitless journey to the farm. She had been unable to get sight or sound of any one but Emmeline, who slammed the door in her face as usual after telling her she wished she would mind her own business and let folks alone that weren't troubling her. And Miranda felt as she trudged back to the village with tears in her homely eyes as if she must cry out or do something. She had never quite come to a place before where her wits could not plan out some help for those she loved. Death was different, one could not outwit death. Then like a slowly donning hope she saw Nathaniel Graham coming up the street with his carpet-bag in his hand. Michael had come up for a day to tell his uncle and cousin all about this dear friend of his whom he so much desired to have made welcome for a week or two for his sake. He had been made junior partner in a law firm, the senior partner being an old friend of Judge Bristol's, and his work would be strenuous, else he would probably have planned to be at the old home all summer himself. As it was he could hope for but a few days now and then when he could be spared. Nathaniel came to a halt with his pleasant smile as he recognized Miranda. How do you do, Miss Miranda? Are all your folks well? Are Mr. and Mrs. Bafford at home? I must try to run over and see them before I go back. I'm only here on a brief visit. Must return to-morrow. How is the place getting on? All the friends just the same? Do you ever see Miss Dean? She's well, I hope. Nathaniel was running through these sentences pleasantly, as one will who has been away from a town for a time, and he did not note the replies carefully as he thought he knew pretty well what they would be, having heard from home but a day or two before. He was just going on when something deep and different in Miranda's tone and clouded eyes made him pause and listen. No, she ain't well, Phoebe Dean ain't, she's way down sick, and they don't nobody think she's going to get well, I'm sure of that. Then the unexpected happened. Two big tears welled up and rolled down the two dauntless freckled cheeks. Nobody had ever seen Miranda Griscombe cry before. A sudden nameless fear gripped Nathaniel's heart. Phoebe Dean's sick, near to death. All at once the day seemed to have clouded over for him. Tell me, Miranda," he said gently. She is my friend, too, I think. I did not know, I had not heard. Has she been ill long? What was the cause? "'Bout two weeks,' said Miranda, mopping her face with the corner of her clean apron, and I can't find out what made her sick. But it's my opinion she's been tormented to death by that long-legged blather-skite of a hyrum green. He ain't nothing but a big bully, for he's really a coward at heart, and what's more, folks'll find it out some day if I don't miss my guess. But he can get up the low-downest, pin-prickenest, soul-shakenest tormentons that ever a saint had to bear. And if Phoebe Dean ain't a saint, I don't know who is, except my Miss Bafford. Them twos as much alike's two peas—sweet peas, I mean, pink and white ones in blow. Nathaniel warmed to Miranda's eloquence and kindled to her poetry. He felt that here was something that must be investigated. "'I believe that man is a scoundrel,' said Nathaniel earnestly. Do you say he really dares to annoy Miss Dean?' "'Well, I rather guess you'd think so. She can't stir without he's at her side, tendon like he belongs there. She can't bear the sight of him, and he struts up to her at the church-door like he owned her, and if it twant for me and Rose and Miss Bafford she couldn't get rid of him. She can't go to the post-office any more, thought he haunts the very road, though she's told him up and down she won't have a thing to do with him. I have to go after her and take her home when she comes to visit us, fear he'll dog her steps, and he's scared her most to death twice now, chasing after her, once at night when she was coming down to your house to bring some letter she'd found." Nathaniel's face grew suddenly conscious, and a warm glow of indignation rolled over it. He set down his carpet-bag, and came close to the fence to listen. "'Why, would you believe it? That fellow found she liked to go to the post-office for a walk, and he just followed her every time. And when she quit going he hunted up other ways to trouble her. They tell a tale about the horse running away and her being out in a big storm the night she was took sick, but I believe in my soul he's to the bottom of it. And I'd like to see him get his comeuppance right now." "'Miranda, do you happen to know? I don't suppose you ever heard Miss Dean speak of receiving a letter from me." Miranda's alert eyes were on his face. "'Lung about when?' she demanded keenly. "'Why, last December I think it was. I wrote her a note, and I never received any reply. I wondered if it might have got lost, or whether she did not like my writing it, as I am almost a stranger.' "'No, sirree, she never got that letter. I know for sure, because I happen to speak to her about here in Hyrum Green ask in particular for her mail in the post-office one day. And I found out he gets the dean's mail quite often, and carries it out to him. And I told her I thought she wouldn't like him meddling with her mail, and she just laughed and said he couldn't do her any harm that way, because she never got a letter in her life except when her mother wrote her for she died. That was only a little while back, about a month or so, way after January. For the snow was most gone the day I told her. She can't have got your letter know-how. I'd be willing to bet a good fat doughnut that that rascally Hyrum Green knows what come of that letter. My, but I'd like to prove it on him." Oh, Miranda, he would scarcely dare to tamper with another person's mail. He's a well-informed man, and must know that's a crime. He could be put into prison for that. It must have got lost if you are sure she never received it. "'Could he?' said Miranda eagerly. "'Could he be put in prison?' "'My, but I'd like to help him get lodged there for a spell till he learned a little bit of plightness toward the angels that walks the earth in mortal form. "'Dast, Hyrum Green dast? He's got cheek enough to dast anything. You don't know him. He wouldn't think anyone would find out. But say, I'll tell you what you can do. You just write that letter over again, if you can remember about what you wanted to say before, and I'll agree to get it to her first hand this time." Nathaniel's face was alight with the eagerness of a boy. Somehow Miranda's childish proposal was pleasant to him. Her homely, honest face beamed at him expectantly, and he replied with earnestness, "'I'll do it, Miranda. I'll do it this very day, and trust it to your kindness to get it to her safely. Thank you for suggesting it.' Then suddenly a cloud came over the freckled face, and the gray eyes filled with tears again. But I mightn't ever get it to her after all, you know. They say she's just hanging between life and death today, and tonight's the crisis." A cloud seemed suddenly to have passed before the sun again. A chill almost imperceptible came in the air. What was that icy something gripping Nathaniel's heart? Why did all the forces of life and nature seem to hang upon the well-being of this young girl? He caught his breath. "'We must pray for her, Miranda, you and I,' he said gravely. She once promised to pray for me. "'Did she?' said Miranda, looking up with solemn ah through her tears. "'I'm real glad you told me that. I'll try, but I ain't much on things like that. I could wallop high-rim green a great deal better, and I could pray. But I suppose that wouldn't do no good. So I'll do my best at the pray-in. If it's kind of botched up, maybe yours'll make up for it. But say you better write that letter right off. I've heard tell there's things like that'll help when crisis is comes. I'm going to make it a pint to get up there to-night, spite of that ol' Ms. Dean. And if I see a chance, I'll give it to her. I kind of think it might please her to have a letter to get well for her. "'I'll do it, Miranda. I'll do it at once, and bring it around to you before dark. But you must be careful not to trouble her with it till she is able. You know it might make her worse to be bothered with any excitement like a letter from a stranger. "'I'll use my best judgment,' said Miranda, with happy pride. "'I ain't runnin' no risks, so you needn't worry.'" With a new interest in his face, Nathaniel grasped his carpet-bag and hurried to his uncle's house. He found Janet ready with a joyful welcome, but he showed more anxiety to get to his room than to talk with her. "'I suppose it was dusty on the road to-day,' she conceded unwillingly. But hurry back! I have a great deal to ask you and to tell, and I want you all to myself before your friend comes.' But once in his room he forgot dust and sat down immediately to the great mahogany desk where paper and pens were just as he had left them when he went away. Janet had to call twice before he made his appearance, for he was deep in writing a letter. "'My dear Miss Dean,' he wrote, "'they tell me you are lying very ill, and I feel as if I must write a few words to tell you how anxious and sad I am about you. I want you to know that I am praying that you may get well. I wrote you some time ago, asking if you were willing to correspond with me. But I have reason now to think you never received my letter. So I have ventured to write again. I know it may be some time before you are able even to read this. But I am sending it by a trusty messenger, and I am sure you will let me know my answer when you are better. It will be a great source of pleasure and profit to me if you will write to me sometimes. Yours faithfully, Nathaniel Graham.' He folded and addressed it, sealing it with his crest, and then Janet called for the second time. "'Yes, Janet, I'm coming now, really. I had to write a letter. I am sorry, but it couldn't wait.' "'Oh, how pokey! Always business, business!' cried Janet. "'It is well your friend is coming to-night, for it is plain to be seen. We shall have no good of you. How is it that you have grown old and grave so soon, Nathaniel? I thought you would stay a boy a long time. Just wait until I send my letter, Janet, and I will be as young as you please for two whole days. Let Caesar take it for you then. There is no need for you to go!' I would rather take it myself, cousin,' he said, and she knew by his look that he would have his way. "'Well, then, I will go with you,' she pouted, and taking her sunshade from the hall-table, unfurled its rosy whiteness. He was somewhat dismayed at this, but making the best of it smiled good humoredly, and together they went out into the summer street and walked beneath the long arch of maples newly dressed in green. "'But this is not the way to the post-office,' she cried, when they had walked some distance. "'But this is the way for my letter,' he said pleasantly. "'Now, Janet, what have you to ask me so insistently?' "'About this martin friend of yours. Is he nice? That is, will I like him? It isn't enough that you like him, for you like some very stupid people sometimes. I want to know if I will like him. And how should I be able to tell that, Janet, of one thing I am sure he will have to like you?' And he surveyed his handsome cousin admiringly. "'That's a very pretty sunshade you have. May I carry it for you?' "'Well, after that pleasant speech, perhaps you may,' she said, surrendering it. "'About this young man, is it really true, Nathaniel, that he is a minister, and that he is to preach for Dr. McFarlane while the doctor goes to visit his daughter? Father thought you had arranged for that. You see, it is very important that I like him. Because if I don't, I simply cannot go to church and hear him preach. In fact, I am not sure, but I shall stay away anyway. I should be so afraid he'd break down if I liked him, and if I didn't, I should want to laugh. It will be so funny to see a minister at home every day, and to know all his faults and his little peculiarities, and then see him get up and try to preach. I am sure I should laugh. I am sure you would dare to do nothing of the kind when Martin preaches. Oh, is he then so terribly grave and solemn? I shall not like him in the least. Wait until he comes, Janet. The evening coach will soon be in.' They had reached the Spafford House now, and Nathaniel's anxiety about delivering his letter was relieved by seeing Miranda hurry out to the flower bed again, with a manner as if the demand for fresh flowers had suddenly become greater than the supply. She was quite close to the fence as they came up, but she remained unconscious of their presence until Nathaniel spoke. Is that you, Miss Miranda? He said, lifting his hat as though he had not seen her before that afternoon. Will you kindly deliver this letter for me? He handed her the letter directly from his pocket, and Janet could not see the address. Miranda took it serenely. Yes, sir, she said, scrutinizing the address at a safe angle from Janet's vision, I'll deliver it safe and sure. Afternoon, Miss Janet, like a bunch of pink Columbine to stick in your frock, just matches them posies on the muslin delaying. And she snapped off a fine whirl of delicate pink Columbine. Janet accepted it graciously, and the two turned back home again. Now, I can't see why Caesar couldn't have done that, grumbled Janet. He's just as trustworthy as that funny red-haired girl. You would not have got your Columbine, smiled Nathaniel, and I'm sure it was just what you needed to complete the picture. Now for that pretty speech I'll say no more about it. Granted Miss Janet, well-pleased. And so they walked along the shaded street, where the sunlight was beginning to lie in long slant rays on the pavement, and placed strange yellow fancies with the smart new leaves of the maples. Nathaniel talked as he knew his cousin liked to have him do, and all the time she never knew that his heart had gone with the letter he had given to Miranda. Perhaps it was her interest in the stranger who was coming that kept her from missing something. Perhaps it was his light-hearted manner, so free from the perplexing problems that had filled his face with gravity on his recent visits. Perhaps it was just Janet's own happy heart, glad with the gladness of life and the summer weather and the holiday guests. But underneath Nathaniel's gay manner there ran two thoughts side by side. One, the fact that Miranda had said Phoebe had repulsed Hiram Green. The other, that she was lying at Death's door. And all the time his strong heart was going out in a wild, hopeful pleading that her young life might yet be spared to joy. He felt that this mute pleading was her due, for had she not lifted her clear eyes and said, O I will, when he had asked her to pray for him, he must return it in full measure. The evening coach was late, but it rolled in at last, bringing the eagerly watched foreguest, bronzed from his months in the south. The dinner was served around a joyous board, the judge beaming his pleasure upon the little company. The evening was prolonged far beyond the usual retiring hour, while laughter and talk floated on around him. And all the time Nathaniel was conscious of that other house but two miles away, where life and death were battling for a victim. He went upstairs with Martin for another talk after the house was quiet, but at last they separated, and Nathaniel was free to sit by the window in his dark room, looking out into the night now grown brilliant with the late rising moon, and keep trist with one who was hovering on the brink of the other world. CHAPTER XXI I'm a notion to go up and stay there to-night, announced Miranda as she cleared off the tea-things. This is the crisis, and they might need me for something. Anyhow I'm a-going if you don't mind. Will they let you in?" asked Marcia. I shan't ask them, said Miranda loftily. There's more ways than one to get in in, and if I make up my mind to get there you'll see I'll do it. Marcia laughed. I suppose you will, Miranda. Well, go on, you may be needed. Poor Phoebe, I wish there was something I could do for her. Well, there is, said Miranda, with unexpected vim. I've took a contract that I don't seem to make much headway on. I'd like to have you take a little try at it and see if you can't do better. I agreed to pray for Phoebe Dean, but to save my life I can't think of any more ways of saying it than just to ask, and after I've done it once it don't seem quite polite to keep at it, as if I didn't believe T'was heard. The minister preached a while back about the factual fervent prayer of a righteous man veiling much, but he didn't say nothing about a red-headed woman. I reckon I ain't much good at praying, for I'm all wore out with it. But if you'd just spell me a while, and let me go see if there ain't something to do, I think it would be a sight more veiling than for me to set still and just pray. Sides, if you ain't better in most any righteous man I ever see, I'll miss my guess. Thus the responsibility was divided, and Marcia, with a smile upon her lips and a tear in her eye, went away to pray, while Miranda, tied on her bonnet, tucked the letter safely in her pocket after examining its seals and a dress most minutely, and went her way into the night. She did not go to the front door, but stole around to the woodshed, where with the help of a milking stool which stood there she mounted to the low roof. Strong of limb and courageous she found the climb nothing. She crept softly along the roof till she reached Phoebe's window, and crouched to listen. The window was open but a little way, though the night was warm and dry. Granny! Granny McVane! she called softly, and Granny, startled from her evening drowsiness, stole over to the window wondering. A candle was burning behind the water-pitcher, and shed a weird and sickly light through the room. Granny looked old and tired as she came to the window, and it struck Miranda she had been crying. For the land's sake, is that you, Miranda? She exclaimed in horror. Mercy, how'd you get there? Look out, you'll fall. Open the window till I come in! whispered Miranda. Granny opened the window cautiously. Be quick! she said, I mustn't let the air get to the bed. I should think air was just what she'd want this night! whispered Miranda as she emerged into the room and straightened her garments. How she seemed! Any change? I think she's failing, I surely do! moaned the old lady softly, the tears running down her cheeks in slow uneven rivulets between the wrinkles. I don't see how she can hold out till morning, anyhow. She's just burnt up with fever, and sometimes she seems to be gasping for breath. But how'd you get up there, weren't you scared? I just couldn't keep away a minute longer. The doctor said this was the crisis, and I had to come. My Mrs. Bafford's home prayin', and I come to see if I couldn't help answer them prayers. You might need help tonight, and I'm going to stay. Will any of her folks be in again tonight? No, I reckon not. Amaline's worn out, the baby's teething, and hasn't given her a minute's let-up for two nights. She had his gums lanced to-day, and she hopes to get a wink of sleep, for there's likely to be plenty doing to-morrow. Miranda set her lips hard at this, and turned to the bed, where Phoebe lay under heavy blankets and comfortables, a low moan, almost a gasp, escaping her parched lips now and then. The fever seemed to have burnt a place for itself in the whiteness of her cheeks. Her beautiful hair had been cut short by Amaline the second day, because she could not be bothered combing it. It was as well, for it could not have withstood the fever. But to Miranda it seemed like a ruthless tampering with the sacred. Her wrath burned hot within her, even while she was considering what was to be done. My goodness, alive! Was her first word. I should think she would have a fever. It's hotter and mustard in here. Why don't you open them winders wide? I should think you'd roast alive yourself. And land-sakes, look at the cover she's got piled on. Poor little thing! Miranda reached out a swift hand, and swept several layers off to the floor, a sigh of relief followed from Phoebe. Miranda placed a firm, cool hand on the burning forehead, and the sufferers seemed to take note of the touch eagerly. Oh, mercy me! Miranda, you mustn't take the covers off. She must be kept warm to try to break the fever. The doctor's orders were very strict. I wouldn't like to disobey him. It might be her death. Does he think she's any better? questioned Miranda fiercely. No. The old lady shook her head sadly. She said this morning there wasn't a thread of hope, poor little thing. Her fever hasn't let up a mite. Well, if he said that, then I'm going to have my try. She can't do more than die, and if I was going to die, I'd like to have a cool comfortable place to do it in. Wouldn't you, Granny, and not a furnace? Let's give her a few minutes' peace, for she dies anyway. Come, you open them winders. If anything happens, I won't tell, and if she's going to die anyway, I think it's wicked to make her suffer any longer. I don't know what they'll say to me, murmured the old lady, yielding to the dominant Miranda. I don't think maybe I ought to do it. Well, never mind what you think now, it's my try. If you don't open them, I would, for I believe in my heart she wants fresh air, and I'm going to give it to her if I have to fight every living soul in this house, and smash all the winder lights, so there. Now that's better. It'll be something like in here pretty soon. Where's a towel? Is this fresh water? Say, Granny, couldn't you slip down to the spring without waking any one, and bring us a good cold drink? I'm dying for a dipper of water. I come up here so fast, and it'll taste good to Phoebe, I know. Oh! She mustn't have a drop of water! Isn't the old lady in horror? Fever patients don't get a mite of water! Fever fiddle-sticks! You get that water, please, and then you can lay down in that couch over there and take a nap while I set by her. After much whispered persuasion and bullying, Miranda succeeded in getting the old lady to slip downstairs and go for the water, though the spring-house was almost as far as the barn, and Granny was not used to prowling around alone at night. While she was gone, Miranda boldly dipped a towel in the water-pitcher, and washed the fevered brow and face. The parched lips crept to the wetness eagerly, and Miranda began to feel assurance to the tips of her fingers. She calmly bathed the girl's hot face and hands until the loamones became sounds of relief and content. Then quite unconscious that she was anticipating science, she prepared to give her patient a sponge bath. In the midst of the performance, she looked up to see Granny standing over her in horror. What are you doing, Miranda Griscombe? You'll kill her! The doctor said she mustn't have a drop of water touch her. I'm taking the fever out of her. Just feel her in sea, said Miranda triumphantly. Put your lips on her forehead, that's the way to tell. Ain't she cool enough, nice? You're killing her, Miranda! Had Granny in a terrified tone? And I've cared for her so carefully all these weeks! And now to have her go like this! It's death coming that makes her cold! Death fiddle-sticks, said Miranda, wrathfully. Well, if tis she'll die happy! Here, give me that water!" And she took the cup from the trembling hand of Granny and held it to Phoebe's dry lips. Eagerly the lips opened and drank in the water as Miranda raised her head on her strong, young arm. Then the sick girl lay back with a long sigh of content and fell asleep. It was the first natural sleep she had had since the awful beginning of the fever. She did not toss nor moan, and Granny hovered doubtingly above her, watching and listening to see if she still breathed, wondering at the fading of the crimson flames upon the white cheeks, dismayed at the cooling of the brow, even troubled at the quiet sleep. I fear she'll slip away in this! She said at last, in a sepulchral whisper. That was an awful, daresome thing you did. I wouldn't like them to find it out on you. They might say you caused her death. But she ain't dead yet, said Miranda triumphantly. And as she slips away in this it's a sight pleasanter in the way she was when I crept in. Say now, Granny, don't you think so, honest? Oh, I don't know. Side Granny, turning away sadly, maybe I oughtn't to have let you. You couldn't have helped yourself, for I'd come to do it, and anyway if you'd make a fuss I'd had to put you out on the roof or something till I got done. Now, Granny, you're all tired out. You just go over and lie down on that couch, and I'll set by and watch her a spell. The conversation was carried on in close proximity to Granny's ear. For both nurses were anxious lest some of the sleeping household should hear. Granny knew she would be blamed for Miranda's presence in the sick room, and Miranda knew she would be ousted if discovery were made. Granny settled down at last, with many protests, owned she was just the least might tuckered out, and laid down for what she called a cat nap. Miranda, meantime, wide-eyed and sleepless, sat beside Phoebe and watched her every breath, for she felt more anxiety about what she had done than she cared to own to Granny. She had never had much experience in nursing, except in waiting upon Marsha, but her common sense told her that people were not so likely to get well as long as they were uncomfortable. Therefore, without much consideration, she did for Phoebe what she would like to have had done for herself if she were ill. It seemed the right thing, and it seemed to be working, but supposing Granny were right after all. Then Miranda remembered the two who were praying. She said to herself, as she sat watching the still face on the pillow, I reckon that's their part, mine's to do the best I know, if the prayers is good for anything they ought to peace out where I fail, and I guess they will too, with them too at it. After that she got the wet towel and went to work again, bathing the brow and hands whenever the heat seemed to be growing in them again. She was bound to bring that fever down. Now and then the sleeper would draw alongside as of contentment and comfort, and Miranda felt that she had received her thanks. It was enough to know that she had given her friend a little comfort if nothing else. The hours throbbed on, the moon went down, the candle began to sputter, and Miranda lighted another. Granny slept and actually snored, weary with her long vigil. Miranda had to touch her occasionally to stop the loud noise lest someone should hear and come to see what it was. But the rest of the household were weary too, for it was in the height of the summer's work now, and all slept soundly. When the early dawn crept into the sky, Miranda felt Phoebe's hands and head, and found them cool and natural. She stopped and listened, and her breathing came regularly like a tired child. For just one instant she touched her lips to the white forehead, and was rejoiced that the parched burning feeling was gone. There remained yet the awful weakness to fight, but at least the fever was gone. What had done it she did not care, but it was done. She went gently to Granny and awakened her. The old lady started up with a frightened look, guilty that she had slept so long, but Miranda reassured her. It's all right, I'm glad you slept, for you weren't needed, and I guess you'll feel all the better for it today. She slept real quiet all night long, ain't moaned once, and just feel her, ain't she feeling all right? I believe the fever's gone." Granny went over and touched her face and hands wonderingly. She does feel better, she admitted, but I don't know, it may't last. I seen him rally toward the end. Dubiously. She'll be so powerful weak now, it'll be all we can do to hold her to earth. What's she been eatin', inquired Miranda? She hasn't eaten anything of any account for some time back. Well, she can't live on just air and water forever. Say Granny, I've got to be going soon, or I'll have to hide in the closet all day for sure. But suppose you slip out to the barn now while I wait and get a few drops of new milk. Hank's out there milkin'—I heard him go down and get his milk-pales and stool before I woke you up. We'll give her a spoonful of warm milk, maybe that'll hearten her up. "'It might,' said Granny doubtfully. She took the cup and hurried away, Miranda taking the precaution to button the door after her, lest Emmeline, whom she could hear moving around in her room, should take a notion to look in. When Granny got back, Miranda took the cup, and putting a few drops of the sweet warm fluid in a spoon, she touched it to Phoebe's lips. A low sigh followed, and then Phoebe's eyes opened, and she looked straight at Miranda and seemed to know her, for a flicker of a smile shown in her face. "'There, Phoebe, take this spoonful! You've been sick, but we'll make you well.' And Miranda softly. Phoebe obediently swallowed the few drops, and Miranda dipped up a few more. "'It's all right, dear,' she said softly. "'I'll take care of you. Just you drink this and get well, for I've got something real nice in my pocket for you when you're able. But you must take your milk and go to sleep.' Thus Miranda fed her two or three spoonfuls. Then the white lids closed over the trusting eyes, and in a moment more she was sleeping again. Miranda watched her a few minutes, and then cautiously stole away from the bed to the astonished granny, who had been watching with a new respect for the domineering young nurse that had usurped her plays. "'I guess she'll sleep most of the day,' Miranda whispered. "'If she wakes up, you just give her a spoonful of fresh milk, or a sup of water, and tell her I'll be back by and by. She'll understand, and that'll keep her quiet. Tell her I said she must lie still and get well. Don't you dust keep them windows shut up all day again, and don't pile on the clothes. She may need a light blanket if she feels cool. But don't, for mercy's sake, get her all head up again, or we might not be able to stop it off so easy next time. I'll be back soon as it's dark. Bye-bye. I must go. I make it catched as tis.' Miranda slid out the window and down the sloping roof, dropping over the eaves just in time to escape being seen by Amaline, who opened the back door with a sharp click, and came out to get a broom she had forgotten the night before. The morning was almost come now, and the long grass was dripping with dew as Miranda swept through it. Reckon they'll think there's been a fox or something prowling round the house if they see my tracks. She said to herself as she hurried through the dewy fields and out to the road. Victory was written upon her countenance as she sped along. Victory tempered with hope. Perhaps she was not judged enough of illness, and it might be that her hopes were vain ones, and apparent signs deceitful, but come what might she would always be glad she had done what she had. That look in Phoebe's eyes before she fell asleep again was reward enough. It made her heart swell with triumph to think of it. Two hours later she brought a platter of delicately poached eggs on toast to the breakfast table just as Marsha entered the room. Good morning, Miranda. How did it go last night? You evidently got in and found something to do. Miranda set down the platter and stood with hands on her hips and face shining with morning welcome. I'll tell you, Mrs. Marsha, them prayers was all right. They worked fine. When I got mixed and didn't know what was right to do, I just remembered them and cast off all responsibility. Anyhow, she's sleeping and the fever's gone. Marsha smiled. I shouldn't wonder if your part was really prayer, too. She said dreamily, we are not all heard for our much speaking. It was a glorious day. The sun shone in a perfect heaven without a cloud to blur it. A soft south breeze kept the air from being too warm. Miranda sang all the morning as she went about her belated work. After dinner Marsha insisted she should go and take a nap. She obediently lay down for half an hour, straight and stiff on her bright neat patchwork quilt, scarcely relaxing a muscle lest she rumple the bed. She did not close her eyes, however, but lay joyously smiling at the bland white ceiling and resting herself by gently crackling the letter in her pocket and smiling to think how Phoebe would look when she showed it to her. In exactly half an hour she arose, combed her hair neatly, donned her afternoon frock and her little black silk apron that was her pride on ordinary occasions, and descended to her usual post of observation with her knitting. Perhaps were not in her line, and she was glad hers was over. A little later the doctor's shez drove up to the door, and Miranda went out to see what was wanted, a great fear clutching her heart. But she was reassured by the smile on his face, and the good will in the expression of his wife and her sister, who were riding with him. Say, Miranda, I don't know but I'll take you into partnership. Where'd you learn nursing? You did what I wouldn't have dared to do, but it seemed to hit the mark. I'd given her up. I've seen her slipping away for a week past, but she's taken a turn for the better now, and I believe in my soul she's going to get well. If she does it'll be you that'll get the honour. Miranda's eyes shone with happy tears. You don't say, doctor! She said. Why, I was real scared when Granny told me you said she wasn't to have a sip of water, but it seemed like she must be so terrible hot. Well, I wouldn't have dared tried it myself, but I believe it did the business, said the doctor heartily. Yes, you deserve great credit, Miranda, said the doctor's wife. You do indeed, echoed her sister pleasantly. Granny ain't told Miss Dean I was there, has she? Asked Miranda to cover her embarrassment. She was not used to praise except from her own household. No, she hasn't told her yet, but I think I shall tell her myself by tomorrow, if all goes well. Can you find time to run over to-night again? Granny might not stay wide awake all the time. She's fagged out, and I think it's a critical time. Oh, I'll be there! Said Miranda gleefully. You couldn't keep me away. How will you get in, same way you did last night? Asked the doctor, laughing. Say that's a good joke. I've laughed and laughed ever since Granny told me, at the thought of you climbing in the window and the family all sleeping calmly. Good for you, Miranda, you're made of the right stuff. Well, good-bye, I'll fix it up with Mrs. Dean tomorrow so you can go in by the door. The doctor drove on, laughing, and his wife and sister bowing and smiling. Miranda, with high head of pride and heart full of joy, went in to get the supper. Supper was just cleared away when Nathaniel came over. He talked with David in the dusk of the front stoop a few minutes, and then asked diffidently if Miranda was going up to see how Miss Dean was again soon. David, because of his love for Marsha, half understood, and calling Miranda left the two together for a moment while he went to call Marsha, who was putting Rose to bed. She's better, said Miranda, entering without preamble into the subject nearest their hearts. The doctor told me so this afternoon. But don't you stop praying yet, for we don't want no half-way job, and she's powerful weak. I kind of rely on them prayers to do a lot. I got Mrs. Bafford to spell me at mine while I went up to help nurse. She opened her eyes once last night when I was given her some milk, and I told her I had something nice for her if she'd lie still and go to sleep, and hurry up and get well. She kinder seemed to understand I most think. I've got the letter all safe, and just as soon as she gets the least might better able to talk I'll give it to her. Thank you, Miss Miranda, said Nathaniel, and won't you take this to her? It will be better than letters for her for a while until she gets well. You needn't bother her telling anything about it now. Just give it to her. It may help her a little. Then later, if you think best, you may tell her I sent it. He held out a single tea rose, half blown, with delicate petals of pale saffron. Miranda took it with awe. It was not like anything that grew in the gardens she knew. It looks like her, she said reverently. It makes me think of her as I first saw her. He answered in a low voice. She wore a frock like that. I know, said Miranda understandingly. I'll give it to her, and tell her all about it when she's better. Thank you, said Nathaniel. Then Marcia and David entered, and Miranda went away to wonder over the rose and prepare for her night's vigil. CHAPTER XXII Granny greeted Miranda with a smile as she crept in at the window that night. Phoebe too opened her eyes in welcome, though she made no other sign that she was awake. Her face was like sunken marble now that the fever was gone from it, and her two great eyes shone from it like lights of another world. It startled Miranda as she came and looked at her. Then at once she perceived that Phoebe's eyes had sought the rose and a smile was hovering about her lips. It was sent to you, she answered the questioning eyes, putting the rose close down to the white cheek. Phoebe really smiled then faintly. She better have some milk now, said Granny anxiously. She's been asleep so long and I didn't disturb her. Yes, take some milk, whispered Miranda gently, and I'll tell you all about the rose when you're better. The night crept on in quiet exultation on Miranda's part. While Phoebe slept, Miranda and the rose kept vigil, and Granny sunk into the first restful sleep she had had since she came to nurse Phoebe. The house was quiet. There was nothing for the watcher to do much of the time but to watch. Now and then she drew the coverlet up a little higher when a fresh breeze came through the window, or again gave a drink of water or a spoonful of milk. The candle was shaded by the water-pitcher, and the frail sweet rose looked spectral in the weird light. Miranda looked at the flower and it looked back at her. As the hours slowly passed, Miranda found her lips murmuring, Thanks be, thanks be! Suddenly she drew herself up with a new thought. Land sakes, that sounds like praying! Wonder if tis! Anyhow it's thanks given, and that's what I feel. Guess it's my turn to give thanks! The next day the doctor had a talk with Albert Dean. He told him how Miranda had crept in at the window and cared for Phoebe, and how he believed it had been Phoebe's salvation. Albert was deeply affected. He readily agreed that it would be a fine thing for Phoebe if Miranda could be got to come and help Granny care for her now that she seemed to be on the fair road to recovery. It was all arranged in a few minutes, and Emma Lyne was not told until just before Miranda arrived. It's very queer, she said, with her nose in the air, that I wasn't consulted. I'm sure it's my business more than yours to look after such things, Albert Dean, and I wouldn't have had that sassy creature in the house for a good deal. Hank's sister would have been a sight better, and could have helped me between the times with Phoebe's extray work. I'm sure it's bad enough having sickness this way in the midst of hayen season, and me with all them men to feed and not have in Phoebe to help. I could have sent for my own sister when it comes to that, and would have been a sight pleasanter. But before there was time for a protest or apology from Albert, there came a knock at the door, and without waiting for ceremony Miranda walked in. Even in Miss Dean, she said unconcernedly, everything going well, I'll go right up, shall I? Her smiling insolence struck Emmeline dumb for the moment. Well, I vow! Declared Emmeline, will you listen to the impotence? Will I go right up, as if she was the queen of Sheebie or the doctor himself? But Miranda was marching serenely upstairs, and if she heard she paid no heed. She doesn't mean any harm, Emmeline, pleaded Albert. She's just Phoebe's friend, so don't you mind. It'll relieve you a lot, and if you want Hank's sister to come over too, I guess we can manage it. Thus was Miranda dumb-assiled in Phoebe's room for a short space, much to the comfort of Phoebe and the satisfaction of Miranda. Emmeline was only half-molified when she came upstairs to look around and give that griskum girl a set-and-down, as she expressed it. But she, who attempted to sit on Miranda, usually arose unexpectedly. Where'd that come from? Was Emmeline's first question, as she pointed to the unoffending rose? Miranda brought it, said Granny, proud of her colleague. Hmm! said Emmeline with a sniff. It ain't healthy to have plants round in a room, I've heard. Do you raise that kind down to spaffards? We ain't got just to say a plenty yet, said Miranda cheerfully. But we might have some time. Would you like a slip? No, thank ye, said Emmeline dryly. I never had time to waste good daylight fussing over weeds. I suppose Miss Spafford don't do much else. Oh, occasionally! answered Miranda, undisturbed. This morning she put up a hundred glasses of blueberry jelly, made peach preserves, spiced pears and crab-apple jam, crocheted a white bedspread for the spare bed and three antimicassers for her ant-hortenses' best parlor chairs. Did up the second-story curtains, tucked a muslin slip for rose, sewed carpet rags enough for a whole strip in shorty brisket's new-reg carpet, made a set of shirts for Mr. Spafford, knit nine pair of stockin', spun the winter's yarn, cut out and made rose's flannel petticoats, and went to missionary meetin'—but, of course, that ain't much, nothin' to what you'd do. Oh, Miranda, Miranda, of the short prayers and the long tongue, telling all that off with a straight face to the sour-faced woman, Emmeline. She must be a smart woman, said Granny, much impressed. She is, said Miranda glibly, but here all the time I was forgettin' we doth not to talk. We'll bring that fever up. Is there anything special you wanted me to look after to-night, Miss Dean? Cos if there is, just don't hesitate to say so. I'm here to work and not to play. And before she knew it, Emmeline found herself disarmed and walking meekly downstairs without having said any of the things she had meant to say. From that time forth Phoebe grew steadily better, though she came near to having a serious setback the day Miranda went down to the village on an errand, and Emmeline attempted to clean up in her absence, finishing the operation by pitching out the tea-rows into the yard below the window. I never see such a fuss, complained Emmeline to Miranda, who stood over Phoebe and felt her fluttering pulse, all about a dead weed. I declare I can't understand folks gettin' tashed to trash. Emmeline was somewhat anxious at the upset state of the patient, who was yet too weak to talk much, but who had roused herself to protest vigorously as the rose was hurled through the window, and then could not keep back the disappointed tears. But Miranda, mindful of the weak state of her patient, and wishing to mollify Emmeline as much as possible, tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. Never mind Ms. Deen, no harm done, Phoebe just wanted to keep them leaves for her hand-cretures, they smell real nice. I'll pick them up, Phoebe, they won't be hurt a mite, they're right on the green grass. Miranda stole down and picked up the leaves tenderly, washing them at the spring, and brought them back to Phoebe. Emmeline had gone off sniffing with her chin in the air. I was silly to cry, murmured Phoebe, trying feebly to dry her tears. But I loved that sweet rose, I wanted to keep it just as it was in a box. You haven't told me about it yet, Miranda, how did she come to send it? It ain't hurt a mite, Phoebe, only just three leaves come off, I'll lay it together in a box for ya. Now let me put my bonnet off, and you lay quiet and shut your eyes while I tell you about that rose. First though you must take your milk. It wasn't her at all that sent you that rose, Phoebe Deen. You spished twas, Mrs. Marsha, didn't you? But twat'n't at all. It was a man. Oh, Miranda! The words came in a moan of pain from the bed. Not, not, Miranda, you never would have brought it if I room green. Landsake child, what's took ya? Course not. Why, if that nim sheet undertake to send ya so much as a blade of grass, I'd fling it in his mean little face. Don't you worry, dearie, you just listen. Twas Nathaniel Graham sent you that rose. He said I wasn't to say nothing about it till you got better, and then I could say twas from him if I wanted to. I didn't say anything yet, cos I had more to tell, but I ain't sure you're strong enough to hear any more now. Better take a nap first. No, Miranda, do tell me now. Well, I reckon I better. I've most busted wanting to tell ya several times. Say, did you ever get a letter from Nathaniel Graham, Phoebe? Why, no, of course not, Miranda. Why would I get a letter from him? Well, he said he wrote ya one once, and he asked me did I know if you'd got it, and I said no, I was sure you didn't, cos you said once you hadn't ever got a letter sent from your mother, and so he said he'd write it over again for ya, and I've had it in my pocket for a long time wait until I dared give it to ya. So here it is, but I won't give it to ya without you promised to go right to sleep before you read it, for you've had more goings on now than is good for ya. Phoebe protested that she must read the letter first, but Miranda was inexorable, and would not even show it to her until she promised. So meekly Phoebe promised, and went to sleep with the precious missive clasped in her hands, the wonder of it helping her to get quiet. She slept a long time, for the excitement about the rose had taken her strength. When she awoke, before she opened her eyes, she felt the letter, pressing the seals with her fingers, to make sure she had not been dreaming. She almost feared to open her eyes lest it should not be true. A letter for her all her own. Somehow she almost dreaded to break the seal and have the first wonder of it over. She had not thought what it might contain. Miranda had brought a little pail of chicken broth that Marcia had made for Phoebe, and she had some steaming in a china bowl when Phoebe at last opened her eyes. She made her eat it before she opened the letter, and Phoebe smiled and acquiesced. Phoebe lay smiling and quiet a long time after reading the letter, trying to get used to the thought that Nathaniel had remembered her and cared to write to her. Cared to have her write to him, too. It was not merely passing kindness toward a stranger. He wanted to be friends, real friends. It was good to feel that one had friends. Phoebe looked over at the alert figure of Miranda, sitting bolt upright, watching her charge with anxiety to see if the letter was all that it should be, and then she laughed a soft little ripple that sounded like a shadow of her former self. Oh, you dear good Miranda! You don't know how nice it all is to have friends and a real letter. Is it a good letter? Asked Miranda wistfully. Read it, said Phoebe, handing it to her, smiling. You certainly have a right to read it after all you've done to get it here. Miranda took it shyly and went over by the window where the setting sun made it a little less embarrassing. She read it slowly and carefully, and the look on her face when she returned it showed she was satisfied. I seen him the morning he went back to New York. She admitted, after a minute. He said he'd look for that answer as soon as you got better. You're going to write, ain't you? Because he seemed real set up about it. How soon may I answer it? She answered. We'll see, said Miranda briskly. The first business is to get strong. They spent many happy days together, those two girls, with nothing to worry them. And as Phoebe began to get strong and could be propped up with pillows for a little while each day, Miranda at length allowed her to write a few lines in reply to her letter. And this was the message that in a few days thereafter traveled to New York. My dear Mr. Graham, it was very pleasant to receive your letter and to know that you thought of me and prayed that I might get well. I think your prayers are being answered. It will be good to have a friend to write to me, and I shall be glad to correspond with you. I want to thank you for the beautiful rose. It helped me to get well. Its leaves are sweet yet. I have been a long time writing this, for I am very weak and tired yet, and Miranda will not let me write any more now, but you will understand and excuse me, will you not? Your friend, Phoebe Dean. Miranda had to go home soon after that, for it was plain Amaline was wanting to get rid of her, and Marcia was to have guests for a couple of weeks. Squire Schuyler and his wife were coming to visit for the first time since little Rose's birth, for it was a long journey for an old man to take, and the Squire did not like to go away from home. Miranda felt that she must go, much as she hated to leave Phoebe, and so she bade her good-bye, and Phoebe began to take care of herself. She was able to walk around her room and soon to go downstairs, but somehow when she got down into the old atmosphere something seemed to choke her. She felt weary and wanted to creep back to bed again. So, much to Amaline's disgust, she did not progress as rapidly as she ought to have done. You need to get some ambition, said Amaline in disgust. The first morning Phoebe came down to breakfast and sat back after one or two mouthfuls. There was fried ham and eggs and fried potatoes. Anybody ought to be glad to get that, Amaline thought. But somehow they did not appeal to Phoebe, and she left her plate almost untasted. I think if you'd get some work and do something maybe you'd get your strength again. I never see anybody hang back like you do. There ain't any sense in it. What's the matter with ya anyway?" "'I don't know,' said Phoebe, with an effort at cheerfulness. I try, but somehow I feel so heavy and tired all the time." She isn't strong yet, Amaline, pleaded Albert kindly. "'Well, don't I know that?' snapped Amaline. But how's she ever going to get strong if she don't work it up?' Such little pinpricks were hard to bear when Phoebe felt well, and now that her strength was but a breath she seemed not to be able to bear them at all, and after a short effort would creep back to her room and lie down. Miranda discovered her all huddled in a little heap on her bed late one afternoon when she came up to bring Phoebe her second letter, for Nathaniel had arranged that for the present he would send his correspondence to Phoebe through Miranda. Neither of them said aloud it was because Hiram Green brought up the dean's mail so often, but both understood. Miranda and the letters succeeded in cheering up Phoebe, but the ex-nurse felt that things were not going with her charge as prosperously as they should, and she took her trouble back to Marsha. "'Let's bring her down here, Miranda,' proposed Marsha. Father and mother are going home on Monday, and it will be quiet and nice here. I think she might spend a month with us and get strong before she goes back and tries to work.' Miranda was delighted and took the first opportunity to convey the invitation to Phoebe, whose cheeks grew pink and eyes bright with anticipation. A whole month with Mrs. Bafford and Miranda. It was too good to be true. It was Monday morning when they came for her with the big old shez. Amaline and Hank's sister were out hanging up clothes. Amaline's mouth was full of clothespins, and her brow was dark, for Hank's sister talked much and worked slowly. Moreover she made lumpy starch and could not be depended upon to keep the potatoes from burning if one went out to feed the chickens. It was hard to have trained up a good worker and then have her trail off in a thunderstorm and get sick and leave the work all on one's hands without ambition enough to get well. Amaline was very ungracious to Marsha. She told Albert that she didn't see what business Mrs. Bafford had coming round to run their house. She thought Phoebe was better off at home, but Albert felt that Mrs. Bafford had been exceedingly kind. So it was with little regret that Phoebe was carried away from her childhood's home and into a sweet new world of loving-kindness and joy, where the round cheeks and happiness of health might be coaxed back. Yet to Phoebe it was not an unalloyed bliss, for always there was the thought with her that by and by she must go back to the old life again, and she shuddered at the very thought of it and could not bear to face it. It was like going to heaven for a little time and having to return to earth's trials again. The spring had changed into the summer during Phoebe's illness, and it was almost the middle of July when she began her beautiful visit at the Spaffords. CHAPTER XXIII Hyrum Green had been exceedingly quiet since the night of the runaway. The old plough-horse had kicked something loose about the shez in his final lurch before he started to run, and it goaded his every step. He thought Hyrum was striking him with a club. He thought the thunder was pursuing him. He thought the lightning was reaching for him as it darted through the livid sky. And down the road he flew, mile after mile, not slowing up for curves or excrescences in the road, but taking a shortcut at the turns, rearing and shying at every flash of lightning. The shez came lurching after like one tied to a whirlwind. And Hyrum, clinging, cursing, lashing out madly with his whip, was finally forced to spend his time in holding on, thinking every minute would be his last. As the horse saw his own gate at last, however, he gave a final leap into the air and bounded across the ditch, regardless of what was behind him, perhaps hoping to rid himself of it. The shez lurched into the air and Hyrum was tossed lightly over the fence and landed in the cow pasture. Something snapped, and the horse entered his own dooryard free at last from the thing which had been pursuing him. The rain had begun to come down in driving sheets now, and brought Hyrum to his feet in spite of his dazed condition. He looked about him in the alternate dimness and vivid brightness, and perceived that he was close to the deans. A moment's reflection made it plain that he must get up some kind of a story, so he put on the best face that he could and went in. We've had an accident, he explained, limping into the kitchen, where Emmeline was trying to get supper and keep the fretful baby quiet. The blamed horse got scared at the lightning. I seen what was going to happen, and I held him on his haunches for a second while Phoebe jumped. She's back there apiece now, I reckon, for that blamed critter never stopped till he landed to home, and he placed me in an awkward position in the cow pasture, with the shez lurch broke up. I guess Phoebe's all right, for I looked back and thought I saw her trying to wave her hand to me, but I suspect we better go hunt her up soon as this here storm lets up. She'll likely go in somewheres. We'd just got past old Mrs. Dozenberry's. That was all the explanation the deans had ever had of the adventure. Phoebe had been too ill to speak of it at first, and after she got well enough to come downstairs, and Albert had questioned her at the table about it, she had shuddered and turned so white, saying, Please don't, Albert, I can't bear to think of it, that he had never asked her again. During her illness, Hyrum had been politely concerned about her welfare, taking the precaution to visit the post office every day and inquire solicitously for any mail for her, in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the room, and always being ready to tell just how she was when anyone inquired. Hyrum never entered Albert's head that Hyrum was not as anxious as he was during those days and nights when the fever held sway over the sweet young life. As for Emeline, she made up her mind that where ignorance was bliss, twas folly to be wise, and she kept her lips sealed, accepting Hyrum's explanation, though all the time secretly she thought there must be some deeper reason for Phoebe's terrible appearance than just a runaway. She was relieved that Phoebe said nothing about it, if there had been trouble, and hoped it was forgotten. The day after Phoebe went to the Spaffords to visit, Hyrum came up to see Emeline in the afternoon when he knew Albert was out in the hayfield. Say, do you still favour living down to the village? He asked, seeding himself without waiting for an invitation. Emeline looked up keenly and wondered what was in the air. I have said so, she remarked tentatively, not willing to commit herself without further knowledge. Well, you know that lot of mine down there opposite the Ciceter Church? It has a big weep and willow, same as in the churchyard, and a couple of plum trees in Barron. How would you like to live on that lot? Hmm! said Emeline stolidly. Much good to adieu me to like it. Albert'll never buy that lot, Hyrum Green. There ain't no use asking him. You wasn't thinkin' of buildin' there yourself, was ya? Emeline looked up sharply as this new thought entered her mind. Perhaps he wanted her to hold out the bait of a house in the village to Phoebe. Nah, I ain't goin' to buildin' no village at present, Ms. Dean. He remarked, dryly, too far from work for me, thank you. But I was thinkin' I'd heard you say you wanted to live in the village, and I thought I'd make a bargain with you. Say, Emeline, taint no use, mints and matters. I'm a goin' to marry Phoebe Dean, and I want you should help me to it. I'll make you this offer. It's a real generous one, too. The day I marry Phoebe Dean, I'll give you a deed to that lot in the village. Now, what do you say? Is it a bargain? What to do? questioned Emeline. She would be caught in no trap. I've done all I know how. I'd like my sister Mandy to come here to live, and there ain't room for her while Phoebe stays. But I don't see what I can do more than what I've done already. Wouldn't she make up to you, nun, the day you came home from the barn raisin? Well, I was gettin' on pretty well till that blamed horse took and run, said Hyrum, shifting his eyes from her piercing ones. Well, I can't compel her to marry you, snapped Emeline. You don't have to, said Hyrum. I've got my plans laid, and all you've got to do is stand by me when the time comes. I ain't tellin' my plans just yet, but you'll see what they be, and all is, you remember my offer. If you want that village lot, just remember to stand by me. He unfolded his length from the kitchen chair, and went out. Emeline said nothing. When he reached the door, he turned back and said, I broke ground this mornin' for a new house on the knoll. Me and Phoebe will be livin' there by this time next year. Well, I hope to goodness you will, responded Emeline heartily. For I've had trouble enough already with this business. I'll do what I can, of course, but do for goodness sake hurry up. The house on the knoll steadily progressed. Hyrum came little to the dean house during Phoebe's absence, but spent his time at the new building when his farm work did not demand his presence. He also came often to the village and hung around the post office. He was determined that nothing should escape his vigilance in that direction. Seeing him there one day when the mail was being distributed, Miranda took her place in the front ranks and asked in a cool voice, Anything for Phoebe, dean? She's stayin' to our house for a spell now, and I'll take her mail to her. Miranda well knew that the only mail Phoebe was likely to receive came addressed to herself, so she was more than surprised when the postmaster with his spectacles on the end of his nose held up a letter whose address he carefully studied and handed to her rather reluctantly. He would have liked a chance to study that letter more closely. But nothing phased Miranda. She took the letter as composedly as if there ought to be two or three more forthcoming and marched off. Hyrum Green, however, got down scowling from his seat on the counter and stalked over to the postmaster. I should think you'd have to be careful who you give letters to, he remarked in a low tone. Phoebe, dean, might not like that Hyrum scarum girl bringin' her letters. Did you take notice if that letter was from New York? She was expecting quite an important letter from there. The postmaster looked over his spectacles at Hyrum patronizingly. I should hope I know who to trust. He remarked with dignity. No, I didn't take notice. I have too much to do to notice postmarks. Hyrum, however, was greatly shaken up by the sight of that letter in Miranda's triumphant hands and betook himself to the hayloft to meditate. If he had known that the letter merely contained a clipping about the progress of missions in South Africa, which Anne Jane Bloodgood had sent thinking it might help Phoebe to recover from her illness as she heard she was feeling poorly yet and hoped she would soon hear she was better. But Hyrum had no thought but that the letter was from Nathaniel, therefore his reflections were bitter. Two days afterward Hyrum was one of a group about a New York agent who had come down to sell goods. He was telling the story of a mob and his swaggering air and flashy clothes attracted Hyrum greatly. He thought them far superior to any of Nathaniel Graham's and determined to model himself after this pattern in future. Oh, we do things in great shape down in New York, he was saying. When folks don't please, we mob them. If their opinions ain't what we like, we mob them. If they don't pay us what we ask, we mob them. Heard about the mob down in Chatham Street last summer, or it might have been two years ago. A lot of niggers met to hear a darky preacher in a little chapel down there. We got wind of it, and we ordered them to leave, but they wouldn't budge because they'd paid their rent, so we just put them out. There was a man named Tappan who lived down in Rose Street, and he was there. He was an abolitionist, and we didn't like him. He'd had something to do with this meeting, so we followed him home with hoots and threats, and give his house a good stoning. Heard him good. Oh, we do things up in great shape in New York. Next night, we went down to the Bowery Theater. Manager there's English, you know, and he'd said some impolite things about America, we thought, something about our right to own slaves, so we give him a dose. Oh, we're not afraid of anything down in New York. Hyrum was greatly fascinated by this representative New Yorker, and after the crowd had begun to disperse, he went to the stranger and buttonholed him. Say, look a here! He began, holding a five-dollar bill invitingly near to the New Yorker's hand. I know a fellow you ought to mob. I could give you his name and address real easy. He's prominent down there, and I reckon it would be worth something to you folks to know his name. Fact is, I have an interest in the matter myself, and I'd like to see him come to justice, and I'm willing to subscribe this here bill to the cause if you see your way clear to look in the matter up for me. Why, certainly, certainly," said the stranger, grasping the bill affably. I'll do anything I can for you. I'll hand this over to the treasurer of our side. In fact, I'm the treasurer myself, and I thank you very much for your interest. Anything I can do, I'm sure I'll be glad to. Can you tell me any more about this? Hyrum told him off to a quiet corner, and before the interview was ended he had entered into a secret plot against Nathaniel Graham, and had pledged himself to give the stranger not only one, but four more five-dollar bills when the work should be complete, and Nathaniel Graham stand revealed to the world an abolitionist, a man who should be suppressed. It was all arranged before the stranger left on the evening stagecoach that he would write Hyrum what day a move would be made in the matter, and just how far he felt they could go. Hyrum went home chuckling, and felt that revenge was sweet. He would get the better of Nathaniel Graham now, and Nathaniel would never know who struck the blow. A few days afterward there came a letter from the stranger saying that all things were prospering, but it would be impossible to get up a thoroughly organized mob and do the work without a little more money, for their funds were low, and would it be possible for Hyrum to forward the twenty dollars now instead of waiting? After a sleepless night Hyrum doled out the twenty dollars. The stranger wrote that the time had been arranged, and he would let him know all about it soon. They thought they had their man pinned down tight. The night Hyrum received that letter he slept soundly. Meantime the world had been moving in an orbit of beauty for Phoebe. She was tended and guarded like a little child. They made her feel that her presence was a joy to them all. Every member of the family, down to Rose, made it a point to brighten her stay with them. Rose brought her flowers from the garden, David brought the latest books and poems for her to read, Marcia was her constant loving companion, and Miranda cooked the daintiest dishes known to the culinary art for her tempting. The letters went back and forth to New York every day or two, for as Phoebe was growing better she was able to write longer epistles, and Nathaniel seemed always to have something to say that needed an immediate answer. Phoebe was growing less shy of him, and more and more opened her heart to his friendship, like a flower turning to a newly risen sun. Janet Bristol had been away on a visit during Phoebe's illness, but while she was still with the Spaffords Janet returned, and one afternoon came to return Mrs. Spafford's call. Phoebe wore a thin white frock whose dainty frills showed modestly her white throat and arms, now taking on something of their old roundness. She was sitting in the cool parlor with Marcia when the collar arrived. Her mother's locket was tight about her throat with a bit of velvet ribbon, and her hair, now coming out in soft curls, made a lovely fluffy halo of brown all about her face. Janet watched her while she talked with Marcia, and wondered at the sweet grace of form and feature. Somehow her former prejudice against this girl melted strangely as Phoebe raised her beautiful eyes and smiled at her. Janet felt drawn to her against her will, yet she could not tell why she held back, only that Nathaniel had been so strangely stubborn about that letter. To be sure that was long past, and her mind was fully occupied just now with Nathaniel's theological friend, Martin Van Rensselaer. She was attempting to teach him the ways of the world, and draw him out of his gravity. He seemed to be a willing subject if one might judge from the number of visits he made to the Bristol home during that summer. Then one bright, beautiful day, just a week before Phoebe's visit was to close, Nathaniel came up from New York. He reached the village on the afternoon coach, and as it happened Hyrum Green stood across the road from the tavern where the coach usually stopped, lounging outside the post office and waiting for the mail to be brought. He did not intend that any Miranda Griskum should stand in his way. Moreover, this night was the one that had been set for Nathaniel Graham's undoing, and there might be a letter for himself from his agent in New York. It filled Hyrum with a kind of intoxication to be getting letters from New York. He stood leaning against a post, watching the coach as it rolled down the village street, drawn by the four-grade horses enveloped in a cloud of dust, and drew up at the tavern with a flourish. Then suddenly he noticed that there were passengers, two of them, and that one was Nathaniel himself. Hyrum felt weak in the knees. If a ghost had suddenly descended from the coach he could not have been more dismayed. Here he had put twenty-five good dollars into Nathaniel's discomfiture, only to have him appear in his own town smiling and serene as if nothing had been about to happen. It made Hyrum just sick. He watched him and the other young man who had been his fellow passenger as they walked down the street toward the Bristol House. He had sat down when the coach stopped, feeling inadequate to the work of holding himself upright in the midst of his unusual emotions. Now he got slowly up and went away toward his home, walking heavily as if he had been stricken. With head bent down he studied the ground as he walked. He forgot the mail, forgot everything, save that he had put twenty-five dollars into a fruitless enterprise. Midway between the post-office and his home he stopped and wheeled round with an exclamation of dismay—'Gosh, ninety!' Then after a pause he let forth a series of oaths. It was plain Hyrum was stirred to the depths of his evil nature. He had just remembered that Phoebe was down in the village at the Spaffords and would be likely to see Nathaniel. His ugly face contracted in a spasm of anger that gradually died into a subtle expression of vengeance. The time had come and he would wait no longer. If he had been more impulsive and less of a coward he would have shot his victim then and there, but such was not Hyrum's way. Stealthily, with deadly surety, he laid his plans, with the patience and the fatality that could only come from the father of liars himself. Three whole days did Nathaniel stay in the village and much of that time he spent at the Spafford house, walking and talking and reading with Phoebe. Three whole days did Hyrum spy upon him at every turn, with evil countenance and indifferent mean, lounging by the house or happening in the way. He had written an angry letter to the man in New York who later excused himself for not having performed his mission on account of Nathaniel's absence but promising it should yet be done and demanding more money. Janet and Martin van Rensselaer came down to the Spafford house the last evening and made a merry party. Hyrum hid himself among the lilac bushes at the side of the house, like the serpent of old, and watched the affair all the evening, his heart filled with all the evil that his nature could conceive. Phoebe, in her simple white frock, with her lovely head crowned with the short curling hair, and her exquisite face agleam with the light and mirth that belonged to youth, in which she was tasting for almost the first time, made a beautiful picture. So Miranda thought as she brought in the sugary seed-cakes and great frosted pitcher of cool drink made from raspberry and current jelly mixed with water from the spring. If Miranda could have known of the watcher outside the evening might have ended in comedy, for she would certainly have emptied a pan full of dishwater from the upper window straight into the lilac bushes. But Miranda's time had not yet come and neither had Hyrum's. So Nathaniel and Phoebe sat by the open window and said a few last pleasant words, and looked a good-bye into one another's eyes, the depth and meaning of which neither had as yet fathomed. They did not know that not two feet away was the evil face of the man who hated them both. He was so near that his viperous breath could almost have touched their cheeks, and his wicked heart, burning with the passionate fires of jealousy and hatred, gathered and devoured their glances as a raging fire will devour fuel. He watched them, and he gloated over them as a monster will gloat over the victims he intends to destroy. CHAPTER 24 The next morning on the early coach Nathaniel and Martin went away. Hyrum was there to see that they were really gone and to send word at once to New York. That afternoon Phoebe went back to her brother's house, the light of health and happiness beginning to glow in her face. It was hard to go back, but Phoebe was happy in the thought that these friends were true, who would continue even in the midst of daily trials. Everybody had urged her to stay longer, but Phoebe felt that she had already stayed longer than she should have done, and insisted that she must begin life again, that it was not right to lie idle. The truth was, Phoebe had in mind a little plan which she wanted to think about and talk over with Albert. This stay with the Spaffords had brought to a climax a great longing she had had in her heart to go to school somewhere for a little while. She had a great thirst for knowledge, and she began to think that perhaps it might be possible to gratify it, for there was that money of hers lying idle in the bank. She might take some of it and go away for a year to a good school, if Albert thought so, and she almost believed he would if only he could be persuaded before Emmeline heard of it. Phoebe had felt her own deficiencies more and more by reason of her delightful correspondence with Nathaniel Graham. She wished to make herself more his equal, that she might really be able to write letters worthy of his perusal. She little dreamed of the trouble that was swiftly descending. In modern war we sow our harbors and coasts thick with hidden mines ready to explode should the enemy venture within our borders. In much the same fashion that morning Hyrum Green started out to lay his mines in readiness for the sweet young life that was unwearily drifting his way. He addressed himself soberly as befitted the part he was to play. He harnessed his horse and shez, and taking a wide berth of country in his circuit for the day, he drove first to the home of an old ant of his to whom he had never been bound by many loving ties, yet who served his purpose, for she had a tongue that wagged well and reached far. After the greetings had been exchanged Hyrum sat down with a funerial air in the big chair his relative had brought out of the parlor in honor of his coming, and prepared to bring forth his errand. Aunt Kazaia, he began, in a voice which indicated momentous things to come, I am in deep trouble. You don't say, Hyrum, what's up now? Any of the children dead or sick? No, I ain't afflicted in that manner this time," said Hyrum. It's something deeper than that, deeper than sickness or death. It's fear of disgrace. What! Hyrum, you ain't been stealing or forging anybody's name, surely? The old lady sat up as if she had been shot, and fixed her eyes, little eyes like Hyrum's with the glitter of steel beads, on her downcast nephew's face. No, aunt, I'm thankful to say I've been kept from personal disgrace, murmured Hyrum piously, with a roll of his eyes indicating that his trust was in a power beyond his own. Well, what is it, then? Speak up quick! I'm too old to be kept in hot water! The aunt spoke snappishly. Hyrum perceived that he had made his impression. Well, you see it's this way, aunt, you must have heard I was taken notice again. That was to be expected, Hyrum, you so young and with children to look after. I hope you picked out a good worker. Yes, admitted Hyrum with satisfaction. She is a right smart worker, and I thought she was about as near perfect all through as you could find them, and I kind of got my heart sod on her. I've done everything she wanted that I knowed even to build in a new house down on the knoll for her, which wasn't necessary tall, being as the old house is much better than the one she's been brung up in. But I'd done it for her, and I'd been courting her for quite a spell back now, been to see her every night regular, and home from meetin' and singin' school whenever she took the notion she wanted to go. Hyrum drew a long sigh, got out a big red and white cotton handker chiff, and blew his nose resoundingly. The old lady eyed him suspiciously to gauge his emotion with exactness. Long about six or eight weeks ago, Hyrum's voice grew husky now. She took sick, twas this ear way. We was comin' home from a barn raisin' over to Woodbury's, and it was gettin' near dark, and she took a notion she wanted to pick some violets along the roads. I seen a storm was comin' up, and I argued with her again it, but she would have her way, and so I let her out and told her to hurry up. She got out and run back of the courage apiece, and begun pickin' and in a minute all of a sudden something hit the horse's hind leg. I can't tell what it was, maybe a stone, or it might have been a stick, but I never took no thought at the time. I grabbed for them reins, and just as the horse started to run there come a big clap of thunder that scared the horse worse than ever. I hung on to them reins, and lookin' back I seen her standin' kinda scared like in white, in the road a lookin' after me, and I hollered back, you go to the Witter Dusenberry's till I come back for ya, it's goin' to rain. Then I had to tend to that horse, for he was runnin' like the very old scratch. Well, of course I got him stopped and turned round and went back, but there wasn't a sign of her anywhere to be seen. The Witter Dusenberry said she hadn't seen her since we drove by first. I went back for her brother, and we searched everywhere, but we couldn't find her no place, and will you believe it, we couldn't find a sign of her all night. But the next morning she come sailin' in lookin' white and scared and fainted away, and went right to bed real sick. We couldn't make it all out, and I never said much about it, because I didn't spishin' nothin' at the time, but it all looked kinda queer afterward. And what I'd like to know is, who threw that our stone that hit the horse? You see, it's all come out now that she's been cuttin' round the country with a strange young man from New York. She's met him off in the woods and round. They say they used to meet not far from here. Right down on the timber lot back at your barn was one place they used to meet. There's a holler tree where they'd hide their letters. You remember that big tree taller than the rest, a big white oak, Tiz, that has a squirrel harbour in it? Well, that's the one. They used to meet there. And once she started off on some errand for her sister-in-law and the coach, and he as bold as life went long. Nobody knows where they went. Some says Albany, some says Schenectady, but anyhow she never come back till late the next day, and no counten for where she'd been. Her sister-in-law is a nice respectable woman, and they all come of a good family. They all feel terrible about this, for they've never spissioned her any more than I done. She's got a sweet, purdy face like she was a saint. Them is always the very kind that goes to the dogs. Both Aunt Caziah shaking her head and laying down her knitting. Well, Aunt Caziah," said Hiram, getting out his handkerchief again, I come to ask your advice in this matter, what be I to do? Do, snapped Aunt Caziah, do, Hiram Green, why be thankful you found out for you got married. It's hard on you, of course, but taint near so hard as would have been if you'd have found out after you was tied to her. And you just haven't had such a hard time in all with a sickly wife dyin'. I declare, Hiram Green, you certainly have been preserved. But don't you think, maybe Aunt Caziah, I ought to stick to her? She's such a purdy little thing, and everybody's down on her now, and she's begged me so hard not to give her up when she's in disgrace. She's promised she'll never have nothing more to do with those other fellers. There were actually some hypocritical tears being squeezed out of Hiram's little pig eyes and rolling down in stinted quantities upon the ample kerchief. It would not do to wipe them away when they were so hard to manufacture, so Hiram waited till they were almost evaporated, and then mopped his eyes vigorously. Well, Hiram Green, are you that soft-hearted? I declare to goodness, but you do need advice. Don't you trust in no such promises? They ain't what the breath they're spoken in. First you have nothing more to do with the hussy. Thank goodness there's plenty more good workers in the world, healthy ones, too, that won't give up and die on ye just in harvest. Well, Aunt Caziah, Hiram arose and cleared his throat, as if a funeral ceremony had just been concluded. I thank you for your good advice. I may see my way clear to follow it. Just now I'm in doubt. I wanted to know what you'd thought, and then I'll consider the matter. It ain't as though I hadn't been going with her pretty steady for a year back. You see, what I'll do will likely to tell on how it goes with her from now on. Well, don't you go to be sentimental like Hiram? That wouldn't set on you at your time alive. Just you stand by your rights and be rid of her. That's what your ma would have said if she was alive. Now you remember what I say. Don't you be soft-hearted? I'll remember, Aunt, said Hiram dutifully, and went out to his shez. He took his slow and doleful way winding up the road, and as soon as he was out of sight beyond the turn the alert old lady put on her son Bonnet and slipped up to her cousin's house half a mile away. She was out of breath with the tremendous news she had to tell, and marveling all the way that Hiram had forgotten to tell her not to speak of it. Of course he intended to do so, but then of course he wouldn't object to having Lucy Drake know. Lucy was his own cousin once removed, and it was a family affair in a way. Hiram's next visit was to the widow Dozenberry's. Now the widow Dozenberry had often thought that her good daughter would make a wise choice for Hiram Green and could rule well over the wild little greens and be an ornament to the house and farm of Green. Before it seemed a special dispensation of providence that Susanna had that afternoon donned her best sprigged chins and done her hair up with her grandmother's high-backed comb. She looked proudly over at her daughter as Hiram sat down in the chair that Susanna had primly placed for him near her mother. When the few preliminary remarks were concluded, and the atmosphere had become somewhat breathless with the excitement of wondering what he had come for, Hiram cleared his throat ominously and began. Mrs. Dozenberry, he said, and his countenance took on a deep sadness, I called to-day on a very sad errand. The audience was attentive in the extreme. I want to ask, did you take notice of me and Phoebe Dean a-riding by the day of Woodberry's barn raisin? Well, yes, admitted old Mrs. Dozenberry reluctantly. Now to you mention it, I believe I did see you driving by, where there was black clouds coming up, and I says to Susanna, says I, Susanna, we may be ought to bring in that web of cloth that's out to bleach, it may be might blow away. Well, I thought perhaps you did, Mrs. Dozenberry, and I want to ask, did you take notice of how we was sitting close to one another? She with her head resting on my shoulder like? I hate to speak of it, but Mrs. Dozenberry, wouldn't you have thought Phoebe Dean was real fond of me? Another Dozenberry's face darkened. What had the man come for? I certain should, she answered severely. I don't approve of such do-ins in open road. Well, Mrs. Dozenberry, maybe twas a little too sightly a place, but what I wanted to know from you, Mrs. Dozenberry, was this. You saw what you saw. Now won't you tell me when a man has gone that fur, in your opinion, is there anything that would justify him in turning back? Well, there might be, said the old lady, somewhat mollified. Well, what for instance? Well, he might have found he thought more of someone else, and her eyes wandered toward her daughter, who was modestly looking out of the window. Anything else? Hyrum's voice had the husky note now as if he were deeply affected. Well, I might think of something else, give me time. What if he found out she won all he thought she was? Mother Dozenberry's face brightened. Of course that might affect him some, she admitted. I see you don't understand me, side Hyrum. I take it you ain't heard the bad news about Phoebe Deen. She ain't dead is she? I heard she was better, said Susanna, turning her sharp thin profile toward Hyrum. No, my good friend. Said Hyrum, it's worse in death. It certainly is for that poor girl. She's to be greatly pitied, however much she may have aired. The two women were leaning forward now, eager for the news. I came to you in my trouble, said Hyrum, mopping his face vigorously. Hoping you would sympathize with me in my extremity, and help me to judge what to do. I wouldn't like to do the girl no wrong, but still, better and all that's come out the last two days. Same as Dozenberry, you didn't see no man hanging round here that day little four-weed drove by, did you? No stranger, nor nothing? Why, yes, ma? Said Susanna, excitedly. There was a wagon come by a-going toward the village, and there was two men, and one of them jumped out and took something from the other, looked like a bundle or something, and he walked off towards the woods. He had butternut-colored trousers. That's him, said Hyrum frowning. They say he always wore them trousers when anybody's seen him with her. You know the day they went off in the stage to Albany he was dressed that away. Did they go off in the stage together in broad daylight? That's scandalous, exclaimed the mother. You know most of their goings-on happened over near Fundy Road, and Kizaya knows all about it. Poor old lady, she's all broke up. She always set a good store by me, her only living nephew. She'll be wanting me to give up having anything more to do with Phoebe now, since all this has come out about her goings-on, but I can't rightly make up my mind whether it's right for me to desert her or not in her time of trouble. I should think you was fully justified, said Mrs. Dozenberry heartily. There's other deserving girls, and it's put in a premium on badness to encourage it that way. Good afternoon, Miss Dozenberry. Hyrum rose sadly. I much bledged to you for your advice. I ain't sure yet what I shall do. Of course, I'll be bledged to you if you'll just keep people from talking much as you can. I knowed you knowed the facts, and I thought it would be best to come straight to you. Good afternoon, Miss Susanna. Perhaps we may meet again under pleasanter circumstances. "'Land alive!' exclaimed Susanna, as they watched him drive sadly away. "'Don't he look broke up, poor feller!' Serves him right for makin' up to a little pink-cheeked critter like that, said the mother. Say, Susanna, I ain't sure but you better put on your bonnet and run up to Kazaia Dart's house and find out about this. We've got to be real careful not to get mixed up in it, know how. But I should like to know just what she's done. If Kazaia ain't home, run on to Pages. They'll maybe know. He said they'd been seen round there. But speak real cautious. It won't do to tell everything you know. I'll maybe just step over to the Tolegate. They'll be wantin' to know what Hyrum Green was here for. It won't be no harm to mention he was callin' on you. It might take their tension off in him, so as they wouldn't speak about him goin' so much with Phoebe. My, ain't it a pity! But that's what comesa havin' good looks. You know I always told you so, Susanna. Susanna tossed her head, drew her sun bonnet down over her plain face, and went off while her mother fastened the door and went up to the Tolegate. Hyrum's method as he pursued his course the rest of the afternoon, was to call ostensibly on some other business, and then speak of the gossip as a matter of which everyone knew, and refer to those on whom he had called before as being able to give more information concerning facts than he could. He did not ask any more advice, but in one case where he was asked what he was going to do about it, he shook his head dubiously and went away without replying. Most of his calls were in the country, but before he went home he stopped at the home of the village dressmaker. His excuse for going there was that his oldest girl needed a fruck for Sunday, and he thought the old woman who kept house for him had enough to do without making it. He asked when she could come, and said he would let her know if that day would be convenient. Just as he was leaving, he told her that as she was going everywhere to other people's houses, he supposed she would soon hear the terrible stories that were going round about Phoebe Dean. But he wished that if she heard anything about his breaking off with Phoebe, she would just say that he intended not to do anything rashly, but would think it over and do what was right. The keen-eyed newsmonger asked enough questions to have the facts well in hand, and looked after Hiram's tall, lanky form with admiration. "'I tell you,' she said to herself, "'it ain't every man would have the courage to say that. He's a good man. Poor little Phoebe Dean, what a pity! Now her life's ruined, for of course he'll never marry her!' Then Hiram Green, having wisely scattered his calamities against the innocent, betook himself virtuously to his home, and left his thistle-seed to take root and spring up. Phoebe Dean, meantime, settled down in her own little kitchen chamber beside her candle, and prepared to write a letter to Nathaniel Graham, as she had promised him she would do that very night, and in it she told him her plans of going away to school.