 CHAPTER XIX There was much curiosity in the village concerning the new teacher who was reported to have come from New York, and to be exceedingly young. Some thought the minister had made a great mistake to hire a woman, for the school was a hard one to manage, and even a master found it difficult to control the big boys. There was so much talk about it that the scholars themselves were quite excited. Even the big boys who usually preferred to get out of the summer session, although it meant hard work in the hayfields, decided to go to school and see for themselves. Quite early the scholars might have been seen wending their way toward the old red schoolhouse. They huddled in groups about the steps or under the great elm tree which grew in front and spread its branches far on every side, making a lovely leafy bower for the playground. Peggy Gillette was among the first to arrive. From her point of vantage at the Golden Swan she was in a position to give accurate information concerning the new teacher, so she knew that she would be most popular this morning. She had therefore packed her little dinner-pail hastily and departed soon after breakfast, after making sure Dawn had gone up to her room to make ready for school. She's awful pretty, Peggy told the first knot of eager listeners. And she's got a lot of real curls on top of what ain't tied on. I know, for I peeped through the crack of the door when she was fixing her hair last night, and it was down and reached ever so far below her waist, and she's got dimples when she laughs and twinkles in her eyes like the stars make, and she ain't much bigger than I am. She looks just like a little girl. Hmph! We'll soon do her up, remarked Daniel Butterworth, the tallest and strongest boy in the school. Daniel had a shock of yellow hair that was roughly curly, big blue eyes with curly yellow lashes, and an irresponsible wide mouth always on a defiant grin. Peggy looked up at him in terror. Now Dan Butterworth, she began, if you boys go to play in pranks on her, it'll just be pussly mean. She's just a girl, and she's so pretty and don't look like she was used to rough boys like you. We don't want no sissy baby to teach us, declared Leah Kimmors, a bold black-eyed boy who always followed Daniel's lead in everything and then went a step further. We want a man to teach us. The select men'll soon find out they can't put no baby teachers off on us, for we won't stand it. Peggy made a face at them and turned her back, but Daniel only grinned. He had his plan and he knew it would be carried out. He did not need to say much to his followers. The program was well understood by them. One of the select men who lived near the schoolhouse came over with the key and stayed about the place opening the windows and setting the teacher's desk in order. The scholars were all seated demurely with books before them when the minister came walking in with Don, shy and smiling by his side. Not one of them seemed to be looking her over curiously, for it was done from the side of their eyes, but a kind of groan went softly over the back rows where the bigger boys sat as much as to say, this job is too easy. It's scarcely worth our attention. Why didn't you send us someone worthy of our valor? Don looked them over, bright-eyed, her heart beating a trifle fast, but her face on the whole quite confident and happy. They noted the confidence in the tilt of her chin and it gave them intense pleasure to think how soon they could dispel it. They failed, however, to note. The firmness of that chin were the determination in the line of the softly curving red lips. They looked at their victim warily and rejoiced in her youth and beauty. They had vanquished many before, but never won so lovely, so childlike, or so confident. It was an insult to their manhood that the select men should have thought she could teach them. The minister introduced Miss Montgomery to the select man, who shook hands with her, wished her well, and departed. Then the good old man made a few gentle remarks to the effect that they should reflect on the goodness of the new teacher, to whom he referred as our young friend. In coming to teach them and guide them into the devious ways of knowledge and that they should refrain from all annoying conduct during her stay and behave as model scholars should, the minister had spent much thought upon this speech and felt that he had worded it in such a way as to appeal to the sympathy of all the children. In all his mild and reasonable life he had never been able to comprehend the sinful workings of the unregenerate heart of a boy. He could conceive of no reason why a boy or a girl would be Miss Chivas in school if the matter were presented rightly to their minds. He felt that he had put it before them as it should be made to appear and, looking into the demure faces, he hoped that he had accomplished his end and that the sweet young stranger would have opportunity to prove that she was capable of teaching that school. Though exceedingly doubtful of the experiment, he wanted her to have a fair chance. After giving one long, lingering look toward the back row of scholars whose studious appearance was almost portentious in its gravity, the old clergyman sighed with relief and turned with a smile of farewell toward the new teacher. Miss Montgomery, I will leave you with your school, he said. I'm sure that they all appreciate how hard is the first day in a new school and that they will do their best to make it easy for you. He bowed and went out. His last glance had shown him a vision of serious faces bent upon open books, yet he felt a strange and apparently most uncalled for foreboding. Don surveyed the whole quiet room with a smile. Then she untied her bonnet, took off her cape, and carried them to the hook in the corner, obviously used for that purpose by other teachers. How did the boys on the back seat time the minister exactly, so as to know just the instant he reached the corner beyond the blacksmiths and was out of hearing? Don had turned from a room full of model scholars to hang up her mantle and bonnet. Turning back, she beheld pandemonium let loose. Something struck her on the cheek, something else stung her forehead. The whole room seemed white with hard little flying objects. Some of them were paper wet and soft, some of them were bits of chalk. It was like a summer snowstorm, and there seemed to be no end to it. The bewildered young teacher surveyed the scene for an instant, surprised growing into indignation at the outrage. She was young enough to like fun as well as anyone, and for an instant she felt like laughing at the sight. Then she realized that it was intended as an insult and as an open rebellion against her authority. It hurt her sharply that they thus arrayed themselves against her at the outset, without giving her a chance to show them what she was. Well, if they would be enemies, she would show them she could fight. The crucial test of which she had been warned was upon her. She must make good now if she would hope to at all. This critical moment would tell whether she could ever teach that school or any other. In her imagination she saw the regretful look in the kindly minister's eyes and the line of his mouth which would say, I told you so. And she did not mean he should be disappointed, or rather she meant that he should be happily disappointed. In an instant she was on the alert again, her senses collected. As ever in a crisis she was cool and able to move deliberately. It took but a second for her to find out who was the leader of the unruly scholars. The tall form of Daniel Butterworth towered above the rest in the back line and the grin on his impudent face showed he was enjoying the affair immensely. Without an effort he was evidently directing the whole thing. A great indignation came into Don's eyes and the soft lips set into termination. Like a flash she dashed across the room dodging the missiles that pelted through the air from every side, straight at Daniel Butterworth she came, the bully and the leader. He was the tallest and the strongest boy in the school and no teacher had ever dared make a direct attack upon him. Usually the teachers punished the smaller boys for the sins that were really Daniel's. Don with her quick perception located the cause of the trouble and impulsively went straight to the mark with her discipline. The scholars paused in their entertainment to see what would happen next and little Peggy Gillette began to cry. Oh, teacher, teacher, don't you? Don't you? He won't stand it, he won't. But Peggy's voice was drowned in the general hubbub which subsided suddenly into ominous silence as dawn took hold of Daniel Butterworth's arm and jerked him into the seat. Daniel of course did not expect the attack or he would not have been so easily thrown off his balance but coming down on the seat so unexpectedly bewildered him and before he could understand what had happened, blows began to rain upon his head and face and ears. Not that they hurt him much for Don had no ruler or switch or any of the time honored implements were with to exercise discipline. She used her hands, her small soft pink palms that were daintily shaped and delicately eared for and had never seen any hard labour but yet were strong and supple. As he sat still and allowed the new teacher to administer justice, Daniel resembled a kitten backing off with flattened ears and ruffled fur and submitting to a severe slapping for some misdemeanor. Nothing so soft and wonderful as Don's hands had ever touched the boy's face before. He sat and took the experience in a dazed delight, subsiding and shrinking at every blow which yet gave him a delicious sense of pleasure as if it were some kind of attention she was offering him. Probably in no other way could she ever have won this boy's admiration. After the chastisement was over he sat still, blushing smiling sheepishly as if he were glad of her victory while all the rest of the school stood gaping in amazement. Their hero had fallen. He had been conquered by a woman, a woman who was only a girl. How could any of them ever again hope to stand against a teacher if the heart of the strong Dan Butterworth melted like wax in her hands. Don whirled upon them all. You may sit down, she commanded grandly, and they sat. What is your name? she asked, turning back to Daniel. Heath Dan Butterworth volunteered an ABC from the front of the room. Don looked Daniel straight in the eye with a long burning scathing scorn. You great big baby, she said at last her cheeks a beautiful red, her eyes bright with the excitement of the encounter. Aren't you ashamed? The rich red stole up into the boy's face, mantling cheek and brow, and seeming to bring a glow even into the rough tawny hair and yellow curling lashes as he dropped his eyes in a kind of happy shame. It was the first shame perhaps that he had ever been made to feel, and it was real shame. Yet it was so mixed with wholesome admiration of the small, beautiful creature who had brought it upon him that it left him unable to understand himself. So he grew redder, though there was no look of anger about him, and soon his habitual smile was growing again, although this time it was tinged with reverence, and quite lacked its usual impudence. The scholars marveled at him as the new teacher left him with the brand of baby, sealed with her beautiful scorn. Don went back to her seat on the platform, behind the big desk, and Daniel sat still, only lifting his curly lashes to get another glimpse of the loveliness and daring which had attacked and conquered him. Bug Higginson, a small, round imp who adored Daniel, seemed to feel that the erstwhile leader would expect something of his followers. So he delivered himself of a fiendish grimace toward the teacher which set the girls near him to giggling, and of which Don had the full benefit just as she sat down. You may come here, commanded Don, pointing straight at Bug with a ruler she found on the desk. Come here and sit on this stool. She placed a stool near her own chair and waited for him to obey. Bug made another grimace and responded pertly, I won't. It was very quietly and swiftly done, and no one in the school saw the beginning, because they were watching Bug and the teacher, but somehow an instant after Bug had declined to obey he was taken by the nape of his neck and the seat of his trousers and deposited on the required stool while Daniel Butterworth was making his way back to his seat with a look of unconcern upon his face. Bug was too astonished and too much afraid of Daniel to make a sound or move a muscle. Don looked at the long-length boy as he sprawled back into his seat and raised his curly eyelashes to see how she would take his action, and there flashed into her eyes a kindling of surprise, gratitude, and understanding. The school sat in mild dismay, the fun had vanished, and before their halting eyes stretched a monotonous vista of uninteresting school days, for they saw plainly that the leader had gone over to the enemy and they must surrender. At intervals during the day some boy would attempt to bring about another insurrection, but he would be promptly silenced by Daniel, who every time received as reward a look of gratitude from Don's expressive eyes, and every time the beautiful glance gave him a new thrill of pleasure. He sat docile as a lamb and let her make him study, a thing he had never done before in his whole life. Now and then he raised his eyes, dumb, submissive, and met hers, and the shock of a great revolution reverberated through his nature. He did not know what it meant. He did not know why he was enjoying the morning so keenly, but he entered into the new state of things as in a dream of bliss. At recess time the boys who had always followed his lead in everything began to jurid him about the way he had given into a girl and let her whip him. He did not turn red nor look embarrassed. He promptly settled the boldest of them with a few blows from his loosely hung arms, and the others considered it wise to desist. It was plain that the former bully of the school had fallen in the new teacher's snare, and as it was well known to be unsafe to arouse his fiery temper the other boys had no choice but to follow in his lead. If you fellers say a word about her, he nodded toward the school house. I'll look at her last one of you, and I mean it too. He threatened, and then he walked away and sat down under the big elm to whittle. He always sat down to whittle after he had presented an ultimatum to the other boys. At her desk opposite the school room door Don heard this deliverance as he intended she should, and her eyes grew bright. She understood that Daniel Butterworth was her champion, and felt her courage grow stronger at the thought. In a moment more she stood at the school house door looking out. Daniel looked up from his whittling and met her gaze. She was smiling, and he felt that she no longer considered him a baby. The diminutive had wrinkled in his heart, and hence forth his purpose was to prove to her that it was undeserved. If good behavior and hard study alone could do that, then he would behave and study, though it was a new mode of procedure for him. The most interesting fact of the morning was that Daniel Butterworth had given in to the new school marm, and all the school knew it. Teethur, she lit Dan Butterworth, announced the precocious ABC scholar that evening as she devoured her supper of mush and milk. She licked him real hard. Dust slapped his face and eyes and ears as hard as ever he could. Her father dropped his knife and fork on his plate resoundingly. He was the select man who had unlocked the school house. He felt in a measure responsible for the new teacher. The teacher whipped Daniel Butterworth? He exclaimed. Well, that settles her hash, I suppose. I didn't think much she'd do, such a little whiff it, trying to manage great lunken boys. It ain't in conscience to expect it. We need a man. I told Parsons so, but he insisted we try her, and this is how it comes out. Well, it's no more than I expected. Of course, Daniel's father never stand that. What did Dan do? Enquired the ABC's mother practically. She knew how to get at the root of the matter. He just sat still and took it. Daniel Butterworth sat still and took a whip in off in a girl teacher, exclaimed the mother. Are you sure you're telling the truth? Yes. And then teacher C said he was a great big baby, and he just sat still and got red. And then he took Bug Higginson and set him down hard, where teacher said when he said I won't to her. And then he filled the water pail for her and licked all the other boys. Alas, numb, said the select man gravely. Maybe she'll do after all. If Daniels took up for her, there's a chance. Grace Livingston Hill Chapter 20 Dawn went back to the golden swan that evening, tired but triumphant. She had had a most successful session of school, and she knew it. She felt the victor's blood running wildly through her veins and longed to have the minister know how well she had succeeded. The teaching part had not troubled her in the least. Fresh from school books, blessed with a love of study and a gift for imparting knowledge, she entered into the work with a zest. The problem of discipline, which had bade fair in the morning to shipwreck her hopes, had resolved itself into a very simple matter since she had conquered the school leader. It puzzled her a little to know just how she had done it, and why he had succumbed so easily. Yet she felt a pleasant elation in recognizing the power she had over him. As she lay in her little room after the candle was out that night, she pondered it, and resolved to try to help Daniel to be a fine fellow, perhaps some day he would grow to be something like Charles. He never could be as fine and noble, of course, for he was a rough boy, uncultured and ignorant, but he had nice eyes, and he might develop good qualities if he were helped. Dawn would have been horrified if she could have known that instead of loafing with the men at the grocery where he usually spent his evenings, Daniel was at that moment standing in the dark of the kitchen porch of his home, behind the cool morning glory vines, looking out at the stars and thinking with wonder of the delight it had been to have her soft hands strike his face, and her dainty personality flash down upon him, even in her beautiful wrath. Daniel Butterworth was only a boy yet, but new thoughts were stirring in his heart, and an absorbing admiration for her had entered into his soul to stay. Hitherto he had been a big, good-natured, rollicking animal. His mind had been upon either fun or practical matters, never upon books. He had not been taught to think. His surroundings had been rough, easygoing and practical. Nothing beautiful had ever touched him before, yet his soul had responded quickly now that it had come, and in one brief day Daniel seemed to have grown beyond his seventeen years, and to have come suddenly face to face with manhood. And the cause of his sudden awakening had been the new teacher's hands, so small and soft and yet so strong. As he thought about them, they seemed to have been made of finer stuff than most women's hands, to have been tinted like the inner leaf of a half-blown rose, and to have borne a subtle perfume upon his senses. How he could have seen their colour when the rose-leaves were smiting stinging blows upon his closed eyes, he did not stop to reason. He leaned his face against a great morning glory leaf in the darkness, and its coolness against his fevered cheeks reminded him of her hands, and thrilled him in a way he did not understand. He looked up at the stars, between the strings on which the morning glories twined, and wondered at himself, and thrilled again with a solemn joy. But all he knew was that he liked the new teacher, and meant to study hard if that would please her, and that he would lick any boy that dared molest her or disturb her gentle rule. So much the little hands had accomplished in their first quick, decisive battle. Then, Daniel kicked off his boots noisily, and tiptoed up the creaking stairs to his attic chamber, to make his mother think he had been at the village store, as usual. Not for the world would he ever know he had spent the evening among the kitchen morning glories thinking about a girl, and she a school marmot that. He blushed deeply in the darkness at the thought. After that first day of getting acquainted with her scholars and finding out who were in the various classes, Dawn fashioned her school on the model of friend Ruth's, as nearly as was consistent with existing circumstances. The rules she laid down were stricter than the village school had ever known before, and went more into detail. A coat of ethics was gradually formed among the scholars, who followed the lead of Daniel Butterworth and succumbed to the leadership of the new teacher. Her beauty and her youth combined to make both boys and girls fall victims to her charm. They fairly worshipped at her shrine, and went long pilgrimages after berries or rare flowers and ferns, that they might be rewarded with the flash of gratitude in her lovely eyes. They suffered torments in refraining from their usual mischief, that they might escape the flash of steel from those same eyes. For once that was felt, they had no desire to re-experience it. It became the fashion to treat her as a sort of queen, and Dawn was very gracious to her subjects, though always masterful. She smiled upon their offerings impartially, even upon Bug Higginson's small sister's donation of moistly withered dandelions. Yet, when she discovered some deviation from the laws she had laid down, she was severity itself, almost flying into a passion with them, outraged goodness in her eyes and impulsive intensity in her every motion. At such times, she seemed to have a special gift of speech, coming directly to the point in saying the things that would most cut the culprit. Once, behind a stump fence in the woods, she came upon a row of her boys placidly smoking corn-cob pipes in imitation of the village loafers, or of their respected fathers, each of whom had threatened dire things to his offspring if he was ever caught at the practice. Her horror and disgust quickly blazed into words, until every boy wished that a hole would open in the ground wide enough to swallow him for a little while. Dawn had no convictions or principles about the matter. She was moved by an innate dislike of the practice, intensified by the fact that Harrington Winthrop had once smoked in her company while walking her in the woods and had never even asked permission. The smell of tobacco smoke ever after gave her a sickening sense of dislike. The boys threw their pipes away, and Daniel Butterworth, rising from the wood of the tree on which he'd been seated, commanded, fellers. If she don't like it, we quit. Do you understand? We quit entirely. I'll thrash any boy that breaks the rule. The pipes were thrown away, and seven boys, with very red cheeks and downcast eyes, entered school a trifle late that afternoon, and sheepishly slunked to their desks. The next morning, Daniel Butterworth was found tacking up on the blackboard a clipping from a newspaper, in which was set forth how a certain Olyphilite Howe, a guest at the Tremont House in Boston, had been arrested for breaking the law which declared that there should be no smoking on the streets. The said Olyphilite had been found guilty and fined twenty-five dollars for the offence, though he had pleaded in defence that the sidewalk where he stood to smoke was in front of the Tremont House, and that therefore, as he was on the premise of the house where he was stopping, he was not breaking the law. At recess, the scholars filed solemnly around and read the item, and looked with awe at Daniel, who read the papers and knew so much about affairs. Don smiled to herself to see how Daniel was helping her. But Don knew nothing of the thrashings her champion gave to the smokers whose habits were not so easily broken up, nor how they were forced to find other quarters for their secret meetings, or scattered by themselves in hiding to pursue the practice. Public opinion had turned, and it was no longer popular to do anything the teacher disliked. Daniel was even known to send two boys home one day as they entered the schoolyard, because they smelled of smoke, and he had told them the teacher did not like it. It was not to be supposed that in so large a school everything would always be pleasant and easy, nor that the scholars would always be angels. They had their noisy days, and their mischievous days, and their stupid days, and now and then Don felt this heartened and discouraged. But matters were made far easier for her than she perhaps fully realized, because of Daniel Butterworth and his devotion to her. Don was grateful to the boy, and in return for his championship she let him carry her books home, walking a little way behind with some of his devoted boy-followers, while she was escorted by an eager group of little girls. At first there was a sort of jealousy among her of the older girls, who were inclined to toss their heads and whisper among themselves that she was no older than they, so why should she put on so many heirs? They suspected her of taking the attention of the boys away from them. But as the days went by and Don entered into her work with enthusiasm, planning debates and plays and readings for them, and making even the dullest lessons glow with interest because she really seemed to like them herself, opposition melted away, and they succumbed to her charm. For one so young and inexperienced it was wonderful what she could do with those girls and boys. The parents began to talk about it, the minister saw it with gratification, and pleased himself by thinking his child might have been like that if she had lived. Presently the whole town was proud to own her as a kind of public institution, like the doctor and the minister. There were a few old ladies who shook their heads and wondered how it was that she had come so far from that wicked city of New York to teach their school without there being a single relative in the vicinity. The village seamstress, with half a dozen pins in one corner of her mouth, would talk about it wherever she went to work and say, what I'd like to know is, who knows anything about her? What is she? Why doesn't she tell about herself? But in spite of all, Don walked calmly back and forth to her school and managed the scholars with a degree of dignity and skill that would have done credit to a far older teacher. The whole town gradually began to love her. It was a nine days wonder that Daniel Butterworth had been so changed by her influence. His mother never could get done thanking the new teacher, sometimes with tears running down her cheeks. Often she would send to her by Daniel a paper of fresh doughnuts or a soft gingerbread, or even a juicy apple pie as a token of her thankfulness. Don was boarding round, and the days she spent at the Butterworth's comfortable weather-beaten old farmhouse were one continual jubilee for the family and a season of triumph for the teacher. The best dishes and the finest tablecloth were got out, and a fire was built in the solemn front room. There, after the supper which was composed of all the nicest things Mrs. Butterworth knew how to concoct, the family would gather around the teacher to listen while she talked or read to them. And Don, because she wanted to help Daniel and also because she thoroughly enjoyed the admiration and attention she was receiving, entered into it all and hunted out stories to read to them, and finally gave them a taste of Shakespeare, which she read with remarkable understanding and dramatic power considering that she had never had any interpreter but herself. A new world was open to the House of Butterworth. Even the old farmers sat open-mouthed and listened, watching the wonderful change of expression on the beautiful girlish face. There were flowers and a tumbler on the dinner table, stiffly arranged by Daniel's oldest sister Rachel. Daniel wet and combed his tawny hair before he came to meals. It was unusual, and the smaller children noticed and followed suit. It was one day when Don sat at the table, talking and laughing and making them all forget the common placeness of life, with her cheeks as red as the late pink aster tucked in among her curls, that Daniel's mother noticed with a heart of satisfaction the look on her boy's face, that Daniel should take to a girl like that was all and more that her mother heart could wish. And why not? Were not the Butterworths well off? Was not their farm the largest and most flourishing in the whole country? True, they had not painted their house in a long time, and didn't go in much for fancy dressing, but that was easily changed. And the Barnes had always been kept in fine repair, which was a good test of prosperity. Thus Mrs. Butterworth meditated in the watches of the night, but she never mentioned the matter. Even to the boy's father, for John was terrible easy upset of an idea, and it was just as well to let things take their own way, long as it was such a good way for once. But Don had no idea that any such notion had entered the good woman's head, and enjoyed her stay at the Butterworths heartily, going on to the next place with regret. There were places where boarding-round was not altogether agreeable, where the rooms were small and cold and had to be shared with younger members of the family, where the blankets were thin or the feather beds odorous, where the morning's ham, sizzling in the spider on the kitchen stove below, came up through wide cracks in unappetizing smoke, where the master of the house was gruff and her welcome was grudgingly given. Many a night she cried herself to sleep in these places and wondered why she had been born to suffer so, and to be so lonely. The thought of Charles, and of the day of her wedding, was growing to be like a dim and misty dream. She still hugged it to her heart as a most precious treasure, but day by day it was becoming more unreal to her. However, take it all in all, Dawn was perhaps happier than she had been since she was a tiny child with her mother. She was interested in her work and enjoyed the companionship of many of the children, and was pleased to feel that she was independent and self-supporting. Of her own private fortune she never thought. She had been told that there was many left to her by her mother's father, but it made little impression, and she had never cared to ask how much. It was just a part of the world she had left behind her when she ran away in her attempt to undo mischief she had never meant to do. She kept herself much more strictly than friend Ruth had ever succeeded in doing, feeling as she did her responsibility now that she was a real teacher. But she allowed herself many a playtime as the winter drew on and the snow falls made coasting and skating possible. There was a hill behind the schoolhouse, where at noon she coasted with her scholars, shouting and laughing with the rest. Each boy strove to have the honour of her company upon his sled, but she distributed her favours impartially. It was only when she went home with Bug Higginson to spend her week, and discovered to her dismay where he got his nickname, that her heart failed her entirely and she felt she had met with something she could not bear. However, that experience did not last forever and Don went cheerly on her way, brightening the whole town with her presence which, now that she was set free from the confines and oppression that had always been about her, seemed to grow and glow with a beautiful inner life. The school children were not the only ones who admired the new teacher and sought her society. There was not a young man in town who did not gaze after her as she went down the street and wish himself a scholar again in the old red schoolhouse. About Christmas time a new annoyance loomed up and threatened to spoil Don's bright prospects. Suddenly and without warning the youngest of the select men, Silas Dobbson, took a violent interest in the school. He would drop in at all hours and stay the session out, taking occasion to walk home with the teacher if possible. Daniel, who had never presumed to walk beside her alone, round heavily and grew almost morose as the thing was repeated. Don was very polite and a little frightened at first. It spoiled the cozy feeling of her school to have visitors. The presence of this particular select man stirred up the latent mischief in the scholars. As his visits were repeated the teacher was filled with a growing consternation. Silas was a long thin man about thirty years old, a widower with five children and an angular mother who kept them in order. He was the editor of the village paper and as a literary man he claimed that he felt a deep responsibility toward the school. Daniel heard him say this one day and told the boys he'd knock Silas responsibility into a cocked hat if he bothered the teacher much more. Daniel's opportunity arrived one night when there was a quilting bee out the old turnpike road and everybody was invited to the supper. The quilting began in the afternoon and Don closed school early so that she and the older girls might attend. The young men were coming to supper and they were all to ride home in the moonlight. With her thimble in her pocket and her eyes shining Don hurried off from the schoolhouse in company with the older girls who could sew. They looked back once to wave their hands toward the group of boys who lingered wistfully behind keeping watch of them. The older boys were to come to the quilting bee later but they felt some of them that the afternoon was a long blank in spite of good skating in the half-holiday. Somehow the coming of the new teacher had made them more anxious to have the girls along and to have a good time altogether. But they consoled themselves with the anticipation of the evening. The teacher had promised to ride home with them and they were planning a big sleigh-load all huddled happily on the straw with songs and shoutings and a good time generally. Don was looking forward to the ride as much as any of them. But Silas Dobbson had other plans. He brought his own horse and cutter and having arranged that his mother should return home with a neighbour, he himself planned to monopolise the teacher. To this end, soon after supper, he edged over to where she sat among the girls and conferred the honour of his company upon her for the ride home. At least that was the impression he gave as he told her that he wished her to go home with him. Oh, thank you! said Don politely. But I've already promised to go home with my pupils. Daniel Butterworth is to bring a big sleigh and we're all going home together. Silas's face darkened and his back stiffened. That will be quite uncomfortable for you, he said decidedly, as if it were not to be thought of. Don wondered why it was that people were always taking her affairs out of her hands so confidently without asking her leave. But she was no longer the child she had been at home or school. She was feeling the strength of independence. She sat up with dignity. Oh, I shall enjoy it! she answered, sparkling at the thought. My cutter is here, and you'd better go with me. Said Silas. I'll speak to Dan about it and make it all right, so he won't expect you. Oh, please don't do that! cried Don anxiously. Why was it he reminded her so much of Harrington Winthrop? I promised Daniel and the children. I wouldn't disappoint them for anything. Thank you just the same. Someone else came up then and Silas turned away, but Don watched him on easily. From the look on his face, one would have thought she had accepted his attention with delight. He did not act like a man who had received a rebuke. Later, when Dan drove his horses with a flourish to the old horse-block in front of the house, Silas was waiting for him. You needn't wait for Miss Montgomery, Dan, said the selectman in a patronizing tone. She's going with me. She's not any such a thing, growled Dan. She promised us she'd go in our team. Yes, she was afraid you'd be disappointed, but I told her I'd make it right with you, said Silas in a soothing tone. Hurry now, and load up and drive out of the way. Don't you see the other folks are waiting? You wouldn't stand in the way of a lady's comfort, would you, especially when she doesn't want to go with you. Dan glared at his adversary in speechless wrath for an instant, while the girls and boys were climbing in. Then gave a cut to his horses with the whip and drove the long slay with its merry load out into the white mist of the moonlit road and round a curve to the fence, where he flung the reins to another boy telling him to wait and keep quiet. Then he stole back round the house and stood in the shadow of a great woodpile, near enough to hear all that went on, but not to be seen. The guests merrily trooped forth in the path of candlelight that shone from the open-house door, and Don's musical laugh rang over them all. But when she came out to the horse-block and saw Silas standing alone beside his cutter, she drew back and looked around in dismay. Why? Where is Daniel? she asked anxiously. They told me he wanted me to come now. Daniel has gone, said Silas pleasantly. I explained to him how much more comfortable it would be for you and my sleigh, and besides, he was crowded as it was. He hadn't room enough for you. Just get right in, and I'll show you what my mare can do in getting you over the snow. Daniel is gone. Don echoed in a troubled voice. Oh, no, thank you. Drawing back timidly and looking toward the door. I will see if Mrs. Butterworth isn't side yet. I can go with her. I will not trouble you. But Silas was not to be thus set aside. Don't think of such a thing. He commanded. Just get right in. He reached out to grasp her arm and detain her from her purpose. But just as he touched the sleeve of her coat, his arm was grasped from behind, and a skillful thrust of Daniel Butterworth's long arm sent him spinning backward into a big snow-bank. When Silas dobs in a rose, disconcerted and spluttering from the snow-bank, Don had vanished, whisked around the woodpile in a jiffy by Daniel, lifted for an instant in his big strong arms, carried across a broad expanse of unbroken snow, and tucked neatly into the sleigh among the girls and boys. The whole sleigh-load had devined Don's purpose, and they kept silent until she was safe among them, and Don in the front seat had gathered up his reins again. Then they gave a united shout, which rang through the moonlit air and struck sharply on the ears of the disconcerted Silas as he climbed hastily into his lone sleigh and turned his horse's head in the opposite direction. The next time Silas Dobson came to visit the school, he stayed after hours and said he wished to talk with the teacher. With lowering brow, Daniel lingered in the back of the room, phenomenally busy with his books. Don cast a frightened look around and her eyes rested on him with appeal. His eyes seemed to give back comfortable assurance of help as he sat down with a thump and began to figure vigorously at a sum he had not finished in the arithmetic class. Silas eyed his youthful enemy and finally requested that he be sent home as he wished to have a little private conversation. Oh! laughed on. Loud enough for Daniel to hear. Daniel has to stay to-night to finish his sums. It would not do for me to let him go. I might lose my school if I did not act fairly, you know. Daniel figured away vigorously, putting down any numerals that entered his head. There was a warm feeling around his heart. It was as exhilarating as scoring a point in a ball game. He was apparently deaf to what was going on about him and frowned over his sum in feigned perplexity. Sit down, Mr. Dobson, went on Don, summoning all her dignity. We can talk with entire freedom here. Daniel is busy and will not notice. She spoke in a low, distant tone and seated herself at the desk. I'm one of the principal selectmen, frowned Dobson, as he sat down at her bidding. You needn't be afraid to send him home. It isn't in the least bit necessary, said Don, thankful to Daniel from the depths of her heart for his presence. Silas Dobson lowered his voice and, drawing gradually nearer to the teacher, launched into a flowery paragraph which he had prepared and rehearsed before his mirror. It contained phrases about Miss Montgomery's starry eyes, raven locks, pearly teeth, and rosy cheeks, and was calculated to convey his admiration in a delicate editorial manner. Noting the drooping eyelashes and deepened color of the girl before him, he proceeded from this preamble to make her understand that his interest in the school had not been altogether for the school's sake, and that he was offering her honourable attentions which, if all went well, would mean a proposal of marriage later. If he could have seen the steel flash under the drooping eyelashes, he would not have gone on to impress her with the value of such an offer, nor told its advantages in half-so complacent a tone. As usual, Don had control of herself in this unpleasant crisis, and while his words filled her with dismay and repulsion her tone was cool, low, deliberate. I have no doubt that you mean to be kind, Mr. Dobson. She began. Not at all. Not at all. It is my pleasure and my will, he interrupted effusively. But she went on, ignoring his interruption. I have no desire for attention from anyone, and will have to ask you to excuse me from accepting it. He looked at her in astonishment, and thought she must be cocketting. But his most earnest solicitations failed to get anything further from her than the fact that she would rather not receive his attentions. Do you know, he asked angrily, that I am a man of importance in this tone? I have influence enough with the selectmen to take this school away from you if I choose. Take care how you treat me. I suppose there are schools in other places, then, answered Don Cooley, looking him in the eye now though she felt every fiber of her being in a tremor. Are you aware, Miss Montgomery, that I am an editor, and that a very slight word from my pen would go abroad through the land and ruin your reputation, so that you could not get any school anywhere? I cannot see why you should want to do such an unkind thing as that, after what you have said about liking me. But if you do, you need not stop on my account. I can find something else to do. I certainly could never have anything more to do with a man that threatened such things. I did not say I would do any such thing, Miss Montgomery, began Silas, eager now to retract his angry words. I was merely trying to show you what risks you were taking in talking to me as you did. I mean well by you, and I think you ought to appreciate it. If I were to offer these attentions to any other girl in the village, she would feel flattered. Daniel. Don's voice rang clear and without a trace of the excitement she was under. If you need help with those sums now, I can give it. Bring them up here, please. Daniel lost no time in getting to his feet and gathering up his scattered papers, but the selectmen arose in protest and put out his hand toward the teacher. Don't call that boy up here yet, he commanded, and dared to lay his hand upon the girl's arm as he did so, bringing his smug countenance quite near that he might speak so the approaching boy would not hear. But the words on his lips were never uttered. Without an instant's hesitation Don sprang away from him crying. Don't you dare to touch me, sir. And with cat- like agility Daniel glided up the aisle and struck the selectmen full in the face. Silas reeled backward off the platform and staggered ignominiously against the wall, clenching at the blackboard rail for support, his hat rolling at his feet and his general appearance undignified to say the least. Daniel stood in a combative attitude looking at him contemptuously. He would have enjoyed nothing better than to give Silas dobson a good thrashing. You shall answer for this, you young rascal, threatened Silas, shaking his fist at Daniel as he recovered his balance and began to brush the chalk dust from his best coat. This is the second offence, remember. Silas was no match for Daniel in a fight and he knew it. All right, said Daniel, unconcerned. We'll see who does the answering, but don't you dare touch teacher again, do you hear? I shall have a talk with Mr. Butterworth, who is also a selectman and with the minister, said Don with dignity. If they wish me to give up the school, I will do so, and thus save you the trouble of doing what you have threatened Mr. Dobson. You make a great mistake, Miss Montgomery, said Silas, thoroughly alarmed now. I have no desire to have you give up the school. Well, I guess you'd better not have, said Daniel threateningly. Not unless you want a good coat of tar and feathers. There was a look of wrath in the boy's blue eyes that boated no good for the discomfited selectman. You have not understood me, repeated Silas lamely, glaring with helpless anger at Daniel, and then casting a wistful appeal at the teacher. But Don had taken up the arithmetic and was figuring rapidly. She only raised her head to say coolly. Good afternoon, Mr. Dobson. You will do me the favour if you won't come to visit the school any more. You hinder my work, and I do not like it. Then she turned to Daniel and began to explain the sum. You have not understood me, murmured Silas again. I guess you've been understood all right, said Daniel grimly over his shoulder. With a last angry glare at Don's protector and a threat he would never dare to carry out, Silas Dobson took himself off the scene of action. The next week there appeared a prominent editorial about the public school and its brilliant young teacher, who was doing so much for the youth of the village, and should be encouraged in every way by the parents. Daniel read it to the group of boys in the school yard and then cut it out with his pen knife and pinned it to the blackboard as an expression of the sentiments of the whole school. After that little episode there was a closer bond than ever between Daniel and his teacher. They never talked it over nor even mentioned it, except that Don, as Silas's footsteps died away that afternoon, had put her little hand on the boy's rough one for just an instant and said, Thank you so much, Daniel. I do not know what I should have done if you had not stayed. Daniel had turned away with a sudden feeling as if he was going to choke while the blood in his heart pounded up into his face. But aloud he only said in a bashful tone. Oh, that's nothing. He needs a good licking and I'd like to be the one to give it to him. Afterward Don wondered that she had dared to speak as she had to Silas Dobbson, a selectman and the editor of the paper. And if she had it in her to do so now, how was it that she had allowed Harrington Winthrop to lead her on to a hated marriage when she might have easily stopped it by being decided? Had her brief months of independence given her courage? It seemed strange to her now that she had been so afraid to tell her father what she had felt about it until matters had gone so far that it was almost impossible to stop it. Her heart burned within her sometimes to go back and tell Harrington Winthrop just what she felt about him. She had been weak, she decided, terribly weak, inyielding in the beginning to her desires for a home of her own and for freedom from any possibility of having to stay in the house with her father's wife. Yet we're not all women weak and helpless sometimes when it came to a testing of their strength against men. Her mother had not been able to cope with her father's will. It was all a mixed up world and full of trouble. She turned on her scanty corn husk pillow and wished for the dawn of a day that would have no sorrow. Just why was it that her experience with Silas Dobbson made the thought of Charles and her marriage so much more vivid than before? Don could not understand. And she thought about it a great deal in the watches of the night when she should have been sleeping. A new phase of her position was forced upon her. She was in a measure deceiving other people about herself. Silas Dobbson, disagreeable as he was, had no idea that his attentions were an insult to her because she was already married. Of course she could refuse to accept attentions from anyone. But if Silas Dobbson had been a pleasant and agreeable man, it might have been difficult to explain to him without telling him the truth why she could not ride or walk with him. It was a terrible problem. And night after night she cried herself to sleep. Sometimes she stayed in unpleasant quarters where she had perhaps to climb a ladder and share the loft above the lean-to kitchen with two of the small children of the family. Often the cracks would be so wide that the snow would blow in, drift across her bed and even blow into her face. Then as she dropped off to sleep, lulled by the roar of the wind outside, she would wish that the snow might come softly and cover her out of sight, that she might sleep forever. At other times the thought of Charles brought a great longing to see him and to hear his voice whisper my darling once more, as he had that night when they stood for one blissful moment together in their room before Betty called them. Then Don would go over all the happenings of the evening, the scene at the supper-table, and every syllable that Madame Winthrop had uttered up to the awful moment when the mother had hurled her accusations, and the truth had burst upon the young bride's heart in all its nakedness, that she was married out of generosity. Bitterness towards this woman was changing slowly into understanding. How was the mother to blame for what she had said? It was all true, except that she, Don, had not known it and was therefore not to blame. Then she began to wonder how it was that she could have been so deceived. She could not blame her mother-in-law for doubting her word, for would not she also doubt that a girl could be married to a man and think he was some other? Whose fault had it been? Not Charles's, for he had fully vindicated himself. She would sooner doubt herself than him. Could her father have known about it? Could he have wished her to be married to one whom she did not know without even telling her? It was believable that he might have thought it of little importance to her if he her father willed it so. Yet while often treating her as if she were a chattel without will of her own, he had ever been perfectly frank with her. She felt that he would have informed her of the change of bridegrooms and not merely carried out his wishes without announcing it to her. She could scarcely believe he would think it would not matter to her. But, after careful thought, she was inclined to lay the deception at her stepmother's door, and she was not long in fathoming the true reason for it. Mrs. Van Rensali knew her unhappy state of mind, and probably feared that Don would rebel against being married. To have her remain at home was the worst possible thing that could happen to her stepmother, Don knew, for from childhood she had been hated by the woman who had taken her outraged mother's place. It was all quite plain. All but one thing. How had Harrington Winthrop been turned aside from his purpose of marrying her? Had he done it of himself? Or had her father found out something about him that he did not like? Or had Charles managed it for her? And where was Harrington? Would she ever meet him again? The thought took such hold upon her that it visited her in dreams and made her cry out an alarm as she sought to hide from his pursuing phantom. After her experience with Silas Dobbson, Daniel was ever vigilant. Attending her to and from school, albeit seldom alone with her, he seemed to be entirely willing that his favourite followers should share his privileges of her company, and often there were several tiny girls or older ones in the triumphal procession going to and from the Red School House, taking teacher home. Daniel showed himself a gentle giant toward the little ones too, picking them up when they fell down, wiping off the mud, and carrying them if they were tired. Don saw him daily growing more manly and kindly, and she felt proud of him. Perhaps some day he might become something like Charles, though never quite so cultured, for he lacked the refined home training. But she realised more and more that he was a good boy and a great comfort to her. As for herself, she felt years older than he and far beyond him in experience. She never dreamed how it was with him toward her. If she had, she might have given up in despair and cried out that there was nothing good for her in the world. So Daniel continued to guard her and to watch the movements of Silas Dobbson as a cat watches a mouse. If Silas had wished, he would have had no opportunity to repeat his troublesome attentions, for whenever he found himself in the neighbourhood of where the teacher happened to be boarding, he was likely to notice Daniel in the immediate foreground. So the long winter went pleasantly by. There were husking bees, quiltings, singing school, and lysium knights. Don became a prominent participant in all. In singing school, no voice was so clear as hers, and she could take the high notes to the envy of every other soprano in the village. At the lysium, her readings were more popular than any others. In spite of her frequent loneliness and her feeling of being cast off by all who should naturally protect her, though it was her own fault, of course, that she had run away and she blamed no one, Don had never been quite so happy in her life. Her hours were pleasantly employed. She had friends who admired her, and she might do as she pleased. It opened a wide and interesting life before her. If only there had not been that ache as of something lost, that memory of her one beautiful day of love which remained as a haunting vision, she would have felt herself blessed beyond most girls. But all the time there was that sense of something wrong, that could not be set right, of a great mistake that might not ever be mended. And then one morning, when a hint of spring was in the air and the snow was all gone, save lingering patches in dark corners and in shady hollows, and the sunshine was making everybody feel glad, she came face to face with Harrington Winthrow. End of Chapter 20, Recording by Melissa Green. Chapter 21 of Dawn of the Morning. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Green. Dawn of the Morning by Grace Livingston Hill. Chapter 21. It was in front of the golden swan that she met Harrington. He was just coming down the steps and must have arrived the night before. He stopped suddenly, with the look in his eyes like a cat's when she spies a bird and crouching steals slowly nearer. Dawn paused for just an instant, too, in wild dismay, having the instinct to flee yet realizing that she must not, because the whole town would think it strange. She wished to have the power to pass him unrecognized, yet with sudden sinking of soul she knew that she had not. His eye had met hers with recognition, and she must hold her position courageously. She wished she knew all the circumstances of his giving her up, and it flashed across her that she must not let him know that she was ignorant of them. He must have no advantage, for his strange power over her might crush her in spite of herself. Something tightened round her heart and gripped it like a vice as his cold calculating glance looked her over, and a cruel satisfaction settled about his hateful mouth. Dawn gave a sort of gasp and started on, summoning all the spirit with which she had vanquished Silas Dobson, and wondering why she could not be as hotty and brave now. The sight of Daniel's butter-nut-clad shoulders in the distance, waiting at the corner with a group of other boys, gave her courage, but her face was white, and she felt her limbs trembling beneath her. But Harrington Winthrop did not intend to let her slip through his fingers thus easily, now that he had found her apparently far from her natural guardians. He, of course, knew nothing of her marriage to his brother. He hastened on the steps with a fusive manner and smiling countenance, and extended his hand in a warm greeting, if anything he ever did could be said to be actually warm. I did not expect this pleasure, he said in an oily voice, and with an impressive glance intended to convey deep emotion. She drew back from the hand he offered and wished she could take her eyes from his hateful ones, but she could not. Poor child, he murmured in mock pity. They have told you terrible untruths about me, and you have suffered and find it hard to forgive. But indeed it was none of my fault. I will explain the whole matter, and we can still evade the enemies who are trying to part us and be happy together. Don shuttered. Where can we go that we shall not be interrupted? Suppose we walk in the woods. Don was filled with terror. She looked about wildly and saw to her relief that Daniel, with his special bodyguard in the rear, was sauntering slowly toward her. His attitude of protection gave her courage. He was watching the stranger with a curious suspicion. Had his intuition told him that she needed help, Daniel was but a few steps away. She drew her breath in quickly and spoke in a clear voice. I have no time to talk with anyone at present. I am on my way to school, and shall be busy until late in the afternoon. I am a teacher. She drew herself up with dignity, and he realized that she was not the simple child he had last seen, but a woman with an independence of her own. Dismiss your school. He said in the voice he was used to having obeyed. I cannot possibly wait until this afternoon. I must talk with you at once. I don't intend to let you slip through my fingers so easily now that I have found you my pretty lady. He smiled, but there was a sinister menace in his voice. It is impossible to dismiss school, said Don decidedly. I should lose my position if I did a thing like that. Besides, I do not wish to talk with you. There is nothing to talk about. There is everything to talk about, said the man, a fierce light coming into his eyes. They have told you lies about me and taken you away from me, but I mean to have you in spite of them. I will explain to you all about that poor woman. She was never my wife at all. Come, let the school take care of itself. You will have no further need of it. You belong to me, and I will take care of you. Come with me. The last word was a command, and with it he took hold of her shoulder almost roughly and attempted to turn her round. At once there was a low growl behind his heels, and Daniel Butterworth's dog took hold of the calf of his leg as if he too would say, come with me. Harrington promptly let go of Don, who took advantage of her freedom and fairly flew down the street, leaving Daniel to settle up matters between his dog and the stranger, in whose frightened antics the boy was secretly taking deep delight. When Don had turned the corner and was out of sight, Dan called the dog off. Then Harrington Winthrop discovered that his lady had departed. Before that time he had been otherwise occupied. Angry, baffled, and exhausted, he was in no wise attractive. An interested group of boys and one or two little girls who had torn themselves away from the teacher's side and circled him. Dan looked at him in quite amusement and then called his dog and betook himself to school. Most of the group followed him with reluctant glances back at the dishevelled stranger. One little girl lingered, eyeing him wonderingly and twisting her apron strings. Where is your school-house, little girl? asked Harrington sharply. The child felt compelled to answer. Round that there, corner over there, and down the road a good piece. Harrington glanced after the boys and the dog uncertainly. Did the dog go to school also? Where does your teacher board? he asked again. She's boardin' round, and it's Anne Peabody's turn this week. She's got a boy what's blind in one eye. Ah, indeed. That's a pity. Where does Anne Peabody live? Next door but one to the church. The house with Johnny jump-ups by the gate, and a laylock bush by the stoop. Thank you. Now tell me what time your school lets out, that's a little lady. It don't let out till four o'clock, but it'll be took up before I get there if I don't hurry. She took to her heels forthwith and Harrington Winthrop limped up the steps of the golden swan to repair damages and consider his next line of procedure. When Don arrived at the schoolhouse, she was almost too frightened to stop. It was late, and most of the scholars were there. They trooped gladly and after her. She made school for them a kind of all-day picnic, and they were eager to begin it. Even after she had hung up her bonnet and cape and opened the high lid of her desk, her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. Now and then she looked apprehensively toward the door and was reassured when at last she saw Daniel saunter in with a comfortable smile on his face, while the dog took up his station on the doorstep. Regs often came to school. It was a part of his privilege to guard the teacher, and he felt he had earned a morning session by his gallantry in defending her against the rude stranger who had dared to lay hands upon her. He sat down comfortably just inside the schoolroom door, his four paws hanging over the step, but he kept his head erect. With his nose on his paws, and one eye closed, not once during the morning did he relax. He felt that there was further trouble to be expected, and he must be ready. Don smiled, albeit with trembling lips, and said about the morning's routine. But her mind was troubled, and she kept starting and glancing on easily toward the door. Daniel saw this and grew grave with apprehension. What had the stranger to do with the teacher? And why did she seem to be so uneasy? Had he some power over her? She certainly did not look happy when he laid his hand upon her arm just before he, Dan, had given that low signal to Regs. She couldn't have liked the stranger to be there, or she would not have run away when she got the chance. At recess, she made Daniel happy by calling him to the desk and in a low tone thanking him for helping her. She did not explain further than to say that the man was an old acquaintance whom she did not like. Daniel understood him to be in the same class with Silas Dobson. During the morning session of school, Don's mind was in a world trying to think what she should do. She dreaded the coming of the afternoon when school would close and she must go back to Mrs. Peabody's house. Winthrop would certainly search her out. It had been a great mistake to let him know she was the school teacher, for though he did not know her assumed name, he could easily find her now. She dreaded any encounter with him. A frenzy of fear had taken possession of her. As the morning went on, she tried to make some plan for escape. No longer was it safe in this vicinity. She must get away and hide from him. Where? Could she ever hope to evade a man who spent his entire time traveling over the earth? He had the assurance of the devil himself and it was almost hopeless to try to get beyond his grasp. Nevertheless, she must go. The reading class, which recited just before the noon hour, stumbled on its way for once without correction while Don planned her next pitiful move. At noon she sent one of the older girls to Mrs. Peabody's to get her bag and a few little things that were lying about the room. She usually kept everything neatly packed in a large bag she had made. Everything except her silk dress, which was hung on a nail. This the girl promised to fold nicely and put into the bag. She was to tell Mrs. Peabody that Don had decided to go a day before the time was up and to thank the lady for all her kindness and say Don was sorry she could not very well leave to explain it herself. The girl felt honored by the commission and performed it to the letter, wishing the while that she knew where teacher was going a day ahead of time and resolving to ask her mother to invite the teacher to come to their house ahead of time too. Rags took up a station on the schoolhouse steps again for the afternoon session, having been abundantly fed from the generous dinner pails and apple pie, donuts and chicken bones. Rags felt it in the air that something was going to happen, but nothing did and four o'clock came at last. Don had made the scholars write in their copy books during the last hour of the afternoon. Command you may your mind from play, straggled up and down a whole page in many of the books, while blots grew thick among the words, but no teacher wandered alertly up and down the aisles to watch and to correct, sometimes, O blessed honor, to sit down and hold the quill pen, or better still take the dirty little fist of the writer into her own pink hand and guide the writing. The teacher sat behind a raised desk lid, diligently writing, and took no heat of notes, or whittling, or even paper balls. Daniel Butterworth finally took Bug Higginson by the collar and stood him up behind the stove, but still the teacher wrote on. It was a letter to the minister she was writing, and her young breast heaved with mingled emotions as she wrote. It was hard to have to leave this first school where she had been so happy, and where she could still be so happy if she only had someone to protect her from the man who would probably haunt her through life. She had felt that she must make some brief explanation of her departure to the kind old man who had trusted her, and upon whom it would fall to explain her absence. Dear Dr. Mercer, she wrote, You have been so very kind to me that it gives me much sorrow to tell you that I must go away. Something has happened that makes it necessary for me to go away at once. I cannot even wait to say goodbye to you or to anyone else. I'm so sorry, for I have been very happy here, and I have tried to do my best, and there is the singing school this week and the barn-raising where I promised to read them a story after supper, and my dear school. I love them all. Will you please tell everybody how sorry I am to go away like this? You have all been so good to me, and I shall never find a place I love so much as this, I am sure, but I truly cannot help going. If you knew all about it, you would understand. Please thank Mrs. Mercer for the pretty color she gave me that belonged to your daughter, and tell her I will keep it always. I am sorry to leave you without a teacher, but there is almost a month's pay, do me, and perhaps that will help you to get someone right away. So please forgive me for leaving the school just as it was when I got it. I love it, and I wish I could stay. Yours very gratefully, Mary Montgomery. After folding a dressing and sealing this letter, she closed her desk. Then with sudden thought, as she caught Daniel's trouble-dyes upon her, she opened it again and wrote hastily. Dear Daniel, I am having to go away in a great hurry. I cannot say goodbye to anybody, but I must thank you for all that you have done for me. I thank you more than words can ever tell. You cannot know how hard it is for me to go away from the school. Please study hard and try to be a good boy and then some day, when I hear of what a great man you are, I shall be so proud to have been your teacher. Go to college, Daniel, and be as great a man as you can, and don't forget that you have helped me very, very much ever since I came here. You're grateful teacher. Her hand trembled as she sealed this other note. She closed the desk hastily and glanced at the clock. It was one minute after closing time. Bug Higginson was decorating the stove with a caricature of one of the selectmen. It all looked so homely and familiar and dear. And she was to see it no more. The tears sprang to her eyes and she could scarcely control her voice to dismiss the school. She shook her head and tried to smile when the girls asked if they might wait for her to walk home, telling them she must stay a little while, that she had something to do. They all filed out save Daniel, who sat quietly in his seat watching her with sad, puzzled eyes. Daniel had seen the glint of a tear as she looked at them. Aren't you going home tonight, Daniel? She asked. She was dreading momentarily the approach of Harrington Winthrop. She seemed to know he would come to walk her home. So did Rags, who sat very stiff and straight on the doorstep with bristling ears and eyes alert. Don't you want I should stay? Asked Daniel, and his eyes hinted that he understood she was in trouble. Oh no, thank you, Daniel. She said, trying to make her voice sound cheery and natural, but somehow it broke into almost a sob. Daniel eyed her curiously for a moment, and then got up slowly from his desk and went out. He gave Rags a look as he passed. The boy and the dog thoroughly understood each other. Rags did not stir. Daniel went down the path and out to the road, then down the road a few paces after which he climbed the fence back into the schoolyard. Then he walked over to a log behind the schoolhouse and sat down where he could watch the road to the village. As soon as he was gone, Don looked about her, caught her breath a moment, and seemed to bid goodbye to all the childish forms that had but a few moments before occupied the now empty benches. Then, spying Rags still in the doorway, she took the note she had written to Daniel, and going over to the dog, tied it round his neck with a bit of string. Rags got up and wagged his tail, glancing eagerly at her, then back to the road again. Don patted him lovingly. Take that note to Dan, Rags, she commanded. Rags barked questioningly. He wanted to tell her that he had been ordered to stay with her, but she did not seem to understand. He wagged his tail harder, but he did not budge. Co-Rags, good dog, take that to Dan, she pointed out the door. Rags cast a protesting, anxious bark at her, a furtive glance down the empty road, and hustled out the door. He reasoned that Dan was near at hand and must settle the confliction of duties himself. He could not but obey the one whom he and his master alike worshiped. The minute the dog had gone, Don put on the bonnet, caught up her cape and bag and slipped out of the door and around the school-house on the side furthest from the village. She fled through the backyard, crept under the lower rail of the fence and proceeded over into the meadow where they had coasted all winter. In a moment more she was out of sight down the hill. She had but to cross the log which formed a bridge across the brook and she would enter the woods that lay at the foot of Wintergreen Hill. There she would be safe and could get away without seen by anyone. Daniel cut the string which held the note and sent the dog back to his post while he slowly unfolded it and read. His hands trembled at the thought that she had written and sealed it and that it was for him. A great tumult of emotions went through his big immature heart as he tried to take it in. He had known something would happen and was glad he had not gone away. Regs hustled back to the school-house steps but instantly he knew something was wrong. He looked into the empty room. She was not there. He smelled his way up to the desk but could not bring her into existence. He snuffed his way out to the steps and down the path in a hurry, then came back baffled with short, sharp, worried barks to hunt for the scent again. Snuff, snuff, snuff, bark. Regs could not understand it. Yes, but it was. There was the scent. Snuff, snuff, snuff. Bark, bark. He tried it over again to make sure. The scent went round the left of the school-house through the girl's playground. What could she have gone around there for at this time of day? Had the enemy come during his absence and stolen her away? Regs hurried around the school, snuffing and barking, scuttled under the fence in a hurry and went away down the hill, his bark growing more sure and relieved every minute. Daniel was not accustomed to receiving letters. He grasped the meaning of that first sentence slowly having lingered long over the dear Daniel. But he got no further than the first sentence. I am having to go away in a great hurry. He got to his feet rapidly and went around to the school-house door. A great fear was in his heart. The absence of Regs confirmed it. He entered the deserted school-room no one was there. He stepped up to the teacher's desk. A letter addressed to the minister lay there. Daniel stood still by the teacher's desk, his heart filled with foreboding and read the remainder of his own letter. As he finished, he heard a step outside the door and, looking up, saw the stranger of the morning before him. Instinctively, he reached out for the minister's letter on the desk and put it with his own into his coat pocket. Then he faced the intruder quietly, and something in his steady blue eyes reminded the man of his morning encounter with the dog. He felt that he had an enemy in the boy before him. Winthrop took off his hat and inquired suavely. Is Miss Van Rensalier here? This is the school-house, isn't it? It's the school-house, all right? answered Dan. But there ain't no Miss Van Rensalier round. Don't know no such person. You must have been told wrong. Oh, no. I saw her this morning. In fact, she must have expected me. I referred to the teacher of the school. The teacher is Miss Montgomery. Miss Mary Montgomery, and she's gone. She boards this week with the Peabodies up by the church, second house beyond. She hasn't been gone from here five minutes. That is very strange, said the visitor. I just walked down past the church and did not meet her. Sometimes she stops a minute to see how the blacksmith's little sick girl is at the corner here. She might have gone there, but she never stays long. You'd best go right up to Peabodies. Daniel was anxious to get rid of the man, and he was certain that the teacher had not gone in the direction of the Peabodies, for he had watched the road every minute until he came round to the front of the school. Harrington Winthrop took himself away with a baffled look on his imperious face. As soon as he had passed from sight, Dan reconnoitred the schoolyard. There was no sign of anybody. He listened, but could not hear the dog. He gave a long, low whistle, and instantly from the distance toward the woods he heard a faint sharp bark in answer. He whistled again, and again came the dog's response. Daniel was over the fence in a second and down the hill, not whistling again until he reached the log across the brook. Then the dog's bark was nearer, but it ended suddenly, as if someone was holding his muzzle. The boy thought he understood, and bounded rapidly toward the place from which the sound seemed to have come. In a moment more he had plunged into the darkness of the woods. Recording by Annickle Lintout. Dawn of the Morning by Grace Livingston Hill, chapter 22. Daniel found Dawn huddled at the foot of a tree, behind a thicket of laurel, with her bag beside her and tears on her frightened face. The dog had broken away from her and met him with a joyous bark, wagging his tail and running back and forth between them, his ragged, hairy body wriggling joyously. For had he not both of them here together, far away from intruding strangers, why should not all be well now? Oh, Daniel, said Dawn, in a voice that was almost a sob, why did you come after me? I had to, said Dan, looking almost sullen. I couldn't let you come off alone. Besides, you don't need to go. We won't let anybody hurt you. I can knock that fellow into the middle of next week if you said the word. But the trouble was not lifted from her face. You are very good, and I thank you more than I can ever tell, she answered him. But I must go away. He is a bad man, and he thinks he has some power over me. It would be of no use for you to knock him into next week. But he would be on hand again the next week to deal with. He would tell the minister and everybody that he had the right to take me away and they would all believe him. He can make wrong things seem right to people. He has done it before. I'm afraid of him. I never expected to meet him here. There is nothing to do but get away where he can't find me. I must get away at once or he may follow me. Will you please take rags and go back now? And will you take a letter that I left in that schoolhouse to the minister? I am so sorry to go this way, but it cannot be helped. I must get away from that man. Is he, has he any right began Daniel Lamely and then burst out? I mean, is he anything to you? Any kind of relation, you know? Nothing in the world, I'm thankful to say. And he never shall be as long as I live. But I never could feel safe again now that he knows where I am. Dan stood puzzled and troubled. Say, don't you know how you're going to make all the school feel bad if you go this way? The little ones will wait for you tomorrow morning and they'll go there to the school and you won't be there. We never had a teacher that made everybody like to study before. You oughtn't to go this way. You can't go. He stopped, choking. Dawn looked at him a moment, the tears gathering anew in her own eyes. Then suddenly down went her head in her hands and she cried as if her heart would break. Oh Daniels, you said, please don't. I don't want to go. I shall never be as happy again. I know. And you have been so good to me. But I must. The big boy went down his knees beside her then and put his rough hand reverently on hers. Don't, he said. Don't. I've got to tell you something. Perhaps you won't like it. I don't know. I'm not near as good as you and I don't know as much as you do. But I'll study hard and go to college and do anything else you say just to please you if you won't go away. If you'll just stay here and let me take care of you. I love you and I don't care who knows it. I've been feeling this way about you all winter. Only I thought perhaps you'd like me better when I got more education. But now you see, I've got to tell you how it is. Don't you like me enough to stay and let me take care of you? I love you. But Dawn interrupted him with a moan. Oh Daniel, you too? Then I haven't got anybody left. Not a friend in the world. She sobbed afresh. Daniel dropped down on the mosque beside her in dismay. His heart grew heavy as led within him and the world suddenly looked blank. Yes you have he said. I'll be your friend if you won't let me be anything else. I was afraid it would make you mad. He spoke hopelessly. I ain't good enough for you. I know. But I'm strong and I study hard and get an education and I'll take wonderful care of you. You shouldn't ever have to work. You're a lady. That's why I like you. You're the prettiest thing that was ever made. And I'd like nothing better than to work for you all my life. But I might and know you wouldn't think I was good enough. He broke off helplessly and she saw that his broad chest was heaving painfully and that his usually smiling lips were covering. She put out her hand and made it gently on his. Dear Daniel, she said, Listen, it isn't about that at all. He caught the cool little hand and pressed it against his eyes that were burning hot with boyish tears. He was ashamed to shed. It was years since tears had been in those eyes. He had almost forgotten the smart of them. He had scorned the thought of them even in his babyhood. Yet here, just when he longed to be a man, they came to make his shame complete. Listen, Dan, said Dawn, honestly. It isn't that at all. You're good and dear enough for anybody and I do love you too. For you've been very good to me. I love you for yourself too. But not in that way, Dan. I love someone else. I loved him first and she'll always love him and I belong to him. I couldn't belong to anyone else. You know, after that, I'm sorry, Dan. So sorry you feel bad about it. But you see how it is. I belong to someone else first. Is it him? He blurted out fiercely. Oh no, Dan. Oh no. I'm very, very thankful it isn't that man. If it were, I should die. I couldn't love him. You wouldn't think I could. There was silence in the quiet woods for a moment. It ain't Sile Dobson. He asked fearfully at last. Dawn's laugh burst out softly then. Oh, Dan. You know better than that. You knew without asking. How could anyone love him? No, Dan. The one I belong to is fine and grand and noble. Everything he ought to be. Then why doesn't he take care of you? Burst forth, Dan, indignantly. I wouldn't let you teach school if you belong to me and I wouldn't let that fellow frighten you. He can't be all you say or you take care of you. Dawn's cheeks were very red. He doesn't know where I am, she said softly. I went away because, well, it was for a good reason. It was for his sake. I had to go. Things had happened. I can't tell you about it, but it would have made him trouble if I had stayed. Dan sat looking at her steadily, a great wistful yearning in his eyes. I guess you're wrong about that, he said thoughtfully. I guess he'd rather have you and the trouble than to have no trouble without you. Least ways, I would. And if you don't love you that way, he ain't much account. A troubled look came into Dawn's eyes. It was the first time she had questioned from Charles' standpoint, the wisdom of her running way. It would have made a lot of trouble all around, she said, shaking her head doubtfully. Say, look there, said Dan, sitting up suddenly. You tell me where that fellow is and I'll go tell him all about you and how that other fellow is worrying you and how you need him to take care of you. And then if you don't seem to want to find you and look out for you, why, I won't tell him where you are. I'll come back and take care of you myself, anyway. You needn't like me nor nothing if you don't want to. But I ain't gonna stand having you running off around the world, frightened of that fellow all the time. Not if I have to chop him up myself. I tell you, I love you. Dan's blue eyes were flashing and his cheeks were red with determination. He let go of her hand as if it were a gracious favour she had bestowed upon him for the moment in his dire distress and he had no right to keep it. But dawn put it out again and laid it on his gently. Daniel, you are my dear friend for always and I am glad to feel that you would take care of me if you could. But truly there is nothing you can do. I would not have you go to him for the world. You must not know where I am nor be troubled ever by any thought of me. It was for that I came away. You would grieve me more than I could tell you if you did. I want him to forget me because it could only make more trouble if he found me. He would have to come to me. He would want to come, I know, if you told him. But I don't want him to come. You don't understand, of course, and I mustn't tell you anymore. Only there is nothing can be done for me to go away and find a place somewhere where no one can find me. Then people will forget and I shall not bring any trouble or disgrace on him, though it wasn't at all my fault, she added. I want you to know that, Daniel. Of course, grad Daniel, looking down at the little hand on his as if it were an angel's and might be wafted away with a breath. But I'm going with you myself then and see you to some safe place. Oh, but you mustn't, Dan. I couldn't let you. It wouldn't be right, you know. People would think it very strange. People need to know anything about it. I don't need to talk to you. I can keep far enough away to see that no one hurts you till you get a good safe place. But, Dan, the folks at your home, they would think we had gone away together. I do not want them to think wrong of me even if I'm not there to bear it. Dan was baffled. He saw it once that it would not do. He must go back and bear the loneliness and the thought of her fighting her own battles. Well, I'll go with you now anyway, he said, at last with determination. I'll see you safe to some coach somewhere and come back in the night. I can get to my room without mother hearing me. She never worries about me now anymore and don't stay awake to listen for me. She'll never know when I get in. I'll go back and tell her my help. Do you carry your bags across country to Sherry Valley coach or somewhere? I've got the person's letter here in my pocket. That villain came to the schoolhouse after you and I picked up the letter so he wouldn't see you. Oh, did he come to the school after me? Then perhaps he has followed us. Dan, I must go quickly. Come on, said Dan, as though he were proposing to walk to his death. At least he was not to leave her yet. He picked up a bag and helped her to her feet. Then, still holding the hand by which he had helped her up, he bent over and kissed it reverently. Then he straightened out with a royal look of manhood in his eyes and turned to her. You don't mind that just once, will you? That handed a whole lot for me, beginning when it gave me that first licking. Dawn smiled sadly. Then, with sudden impulse, she reached up, caught his face between her hands, drew it down to her own, and gently, seriously, kissed him upon the forehead as if it were a sacred rite. I love you, Dan, she said. I'm so sorry I can't be the kind of love you want. But I'll be your dear friend always. I never had a brother. Perhaps I might call you my brother. It would be nice to have a brother like you. You have been very, very good to me, and I shall never forget it. Dawn looked at her as if she had laid a benediction upon him. After all, he was young and it was much to have her friendship. And if another had her love, at least he, Daniel, was on the spot and might help for now. Which went a great way toward making him feel better about the other fellow. The boy had begun to have a lurking pity for him, besides, and who was he, Daniel, that he should hope to hold a girl like this for himself. It was much that he had known her. It was right that she should have a lover such as she had described, fine and grand and noble. Almost the great heart of the boy lover felt he could take them both in and care for them and bring them together, perhaps. Who knew? They hurried through the woods, the boy directing the way now, and she depended upon him. She decided that it would be well for her to take a certain stage line that could be reached only by a good walk of several miles across the country. He knew the way, and she was only too glad to have a guide. That was Dan's great day of happiness. For years afterward, he remembered every little incident. He seemed to know, while it was all happening, that it was a special gift granted him in view of sorrow and sacrifice he must pass through. Here's no passing love of the boy. He realized that the girl beside him was one in a thousand and that it was enough for a lifetime just to have known her and to be able to remember one such perfect afternoon as this. To Dawn, it was given to understand her power for that brief season and to use it to its utmost for the boy's good. She talked to him earnestly about himself and his future and urged him to make the utmost of every opportunity. She made him understand that he had the gift of leading others and that someday he might take a great stand in the world for some cause of right against wrong when others would flock to his standard and let him leave them to victory. It was an unusual thing that a girl like Dawn should see his possibilities and point him to a great ambition, but Dawn was an unusual girl. Some girls, even though they might have done no real wrong, would have taken advantage of the boy's confess love and have coquitted with him. Dawn treated him with the utmost gentleness as if she understood the pain she must inflict and would feign give him something fine to take the place of what he had lost. When they came to a hill, they took hold of hands and raced down. When they came to a brook, he helped her gravely across just as he had helped her ever since she came to teach the school. He said no more about his love. It was understood between them that it was a closed incident to be put away in the sacred recesses of their hearts. Into the girl's face had come a tender, womanly interest that for the time being almost made up to the boy for the loss of her. It was while they were walking down a long stretch of brown road straight into a glorious sunset that the boy asked quite suddenly, has he been to college? Dawn knew at once whom he meant and began simply to tell all about Charles. He did her good to speak of him. It seemed to bring him nearer. Her face blossomed into sweetness as she talked. There was not much to say, not much about him that she could tell to a stranger, from her one brief day's acquaintance with her husband, yet she managed to say a good deal. Charles would have been amazed to hear her describe his high ambitions and noble thoughts. He did not dream how well the girl had read him during their one blissful day together. And now she was painting him as an ideal for the rude boy who walked beside her and listened, with his heart filled with patient envy that presently lost its bitterness in pity for the other one, who might have her great love, yet might not walk beside her as he was doing, at last downbroken upon her words. It isn't right he shouldn't know where you are. If he's anything like what you think he is, he's most crazy hunting you. I know how he feels. Dawn shook her head sadly and told him he had not understand, but his words sank into her heart for future meditation, and she could not quite get away from the thought that perhaps she had been wrong, after all, in going away. Perhaps it might have been more heroic to stay and face the hard things right where she had been. The long spring twilight had almost faded into darkness, as they came at last to the inn where the coach would pass. Neither had spoken for some time. There was upon them a sense of their coming separation, and it depressed them. Already, Dawn was looking into her lonely future, and dreading to lose this only friend she had. Already, Dan was realizing what the going back was to be. They had arranged it all. Dan was to take the letter to the minister, and explain that he had helped the teacher to catch a cross-country stage. He had taken it upon himself also to carry messages to the scholars and to her kind friends, brief messages of goodbye, and haste, and sorrow, with the promise too, at Dan's earner solicitation, that if she ever could, she would return to them. Then, at the end, they had no time for partying. The stage was just driving up to the inn as they reached there. There was no time even for supper, though neither of them thought of it at the time. Dan put her into the coach and arranged her bag comfortably, but he had to get out at once, as others were pressing in. He went outside in the dim light and stood by her window, looking up, trying to keep Rags from breaking away and getting into the coach. Something in his throat choked him. He could not speak. The people were all in, and the driver was climbing to his place when Dawn reached out her hand and caught Dan's, giving it a quick little squeeze. Dear Dan, she whispered and leaned out, don't forget to be the best you can. He caught the little hand and laid his lips against it in the half darkness. Rags had broken away and was barking wildly at the coach door, but the horses started and took Dawn away from the boy and the dog, and in a moment more they stood alone in the road, looking down the street with a dim black speck in the distance, which was the coach. Then slowly, silently, the one with downcast head, the other with drooping tail, Daniel and his dog took their way back over the road they had come so happily that afternoon. The dog could not understand, and now and then stopped, looked back and whined, as if to say they ought to go back and do things over again. At last when they reached the country roadside, where all was still, and there were only the brooding stars to see, Dan sat down on a bank by the roadside, buried his face in his hands, and both down upon the cool, wet earth that was just beginning to spring into greenness. Then he gave way to his grief, while rags almost beside himself with distress, whined about him, snuffed up and down the road, and then sat down and howled at the late moon, which was just riling over the hill. By and by, Dan got up and called the dog. Together they started on their journey again, a silent, thoughtful pair, but never afterward did the boy Dan return. He was a man. He had suffered and grown. In his face were born resolve and determination. People wondered at the change in the careless, happy boy, and grew proud of his thoughtfulness. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Dawn of the Morning This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Light Many Waters Dawn of the Morning by Grace Livingston Hill Chapter 23 The night that Dawn left her husband's home marked the beginning of an era of sorrow in the history of the Winthrops. The distracted young husband and his father rode all night long. Charles reached the van Rensselaer's home a little sooner than old Mr. Winthrop who had further to go. The young man's white, drawn face startled Mrs. van Rensselaer as he stood to greet her in the gloomy parlor where the scent of the wedding roses still lingered. She was in work a day attire to set her house in order and prepare for what she hoped was to be a season of peace in her hitherto tempestuous life. Dawn was off of her hands finally, she felt, and she had no serious forebodings concerning her share in the matter. The hard part had been to get the girl off without her finding out the trick that had been played on her. It had amazed the stepmother that her plan had worked so well. She had been prepared for the discovery to be made soon after the ceremony, but she had trusted to Dawn's fear of publicity and Charles's evident infatuation to hush the matter up. Mrs. van Rensselaer had been reasonably sure that she could even keep it from her husband's knowledge, though she was prepared with a plausible story in case he remonstrated. His sense of pride would make him readily persuadable to almost any plan that would hide their mortification from curious friends. She had been sure that she could make him see the whole thing had been done for his daughter's good, and now that the stepmother had succeeded even better than she had hoped in getting the couple off on their wedding trip without either one discovering her duplicity, she had been at rest about the matter. Charles was enough in love to be able to make everything all right, and he would never blame her for having furthered his plans, even though not quite in the way he had arranged. Dawn could not fail to be pleased with the husband her stepmother had secured for her, and even would thank her in later life, perhaps, for having helped her to him. And so Mrs. Van Rensselaer had gone placidly about the house, putting things to rights, and enjoying the prospect of a comfortable future without the fear of an unloved stepdaughter's presence haunting her. But when she saw Charles's face, a pang of fear shot through her and left her trembling with apprehension, his voice sounded hollow and accusatory when he spoke. Is Dawn here, Mrs. Van Rensselaer? A thousand possibilities rushed through the woman's brain at once, and she felt herself brought suddenly before an awful judgment bar. What had she done? How had she dared? How swift was retribution. Not even one whole day of satisfaction, after all her trouble. She tried to summon a natural voice, but it would not come. Her throat felt dry, as if it did not belong to her, and she answered. Here? No. How could she be here? Didn't you take her away? The young man sat down suddenly in the nearest chair with a groan and dropped his head into his hands. The woman stood silent, frightened before him. Mrs. Van Rensselaer, what have you done? Why did you do it? Well, really, what have I done? The sharp voice of the woman returned to combat as soon as the accusation pricked her into anger. I'm sure I helped you to get a wife you seem to want bad enough, and never would have got if I hadn't managed affairs. You haven't any idea how hard she was to manage, or you'd understand. It was a very trying situation, and it isn't every woman could have made things go as well as I did. Not to have a soul outside your family know that there had been a change of bridegrooms. You see, none of our friends had ever seen your brother, and as the name was the same, there were no explanations necessary. Mrs. Van Rensselaer, I would never have married Don against her will. It was not right for you to deceive her. She ought to have been told just how things stood and what my brother had done. And a pretty mess with her crying and saying she wouldn't marry anybody and all the wedding guests coming. Young man, you don't know what you're talking about. That girl isn't easy to manage, and I guess you've found it out already. She's like a flea. When you think you have her, she's somewhere else. I knew something desperate would have to be done before she ever settled down and accepted life as it had to be, and I did it. That's all. Well, what's the matter anyway? Have you got tired of your bargain already and turned her out of your house? Mrs. Van Rensselaer was exasperated and frightened. She scarcely knew what she was saying. Any moment her husband might come into the house. If she could only get the interview over before he came, and perhaps hide at least part of the story from him, she dreaded his terrible temper. She had always had an innate presentiment that sometime that temper would be let loose against her, and she knew now the moment was come. Charles looked up with his handsome and usually kindly eyes, blazing with amazement and indignation. Mrs. Van Rensselaer, my wife has gone away. We have searched all night and cannot find her. I was sure she had come home. Oh, what shall I do? Well, I'm sure I don't see how I'm to blame for her having left you, snapped out Mrs. Van Rensselaer. I did my part and made sure you got her. You ought to have been able to keep her after you had her. How'd she come to leave you? I cannot tell exactly. She went up to see mother a few minutes after supper and then— Oh, said Mrs. Van Rensselaer with disagreeable significance. And then we cannot find her when on Charles, unheeding. She left a note with good-bye. That was all. I have no clue. The front door opened and Mr. Van Rensselaer walked in. His face was white, for he had not slept well. In a dream his dead wife had stood before him and seemed to be taking him to task about her child, the daughter who left her father's house but a few hours before. He had gone out for the morning mail, hoping to get rid of the phantoms that pursued his steps, but his head was throbbing. How much he had heard of what they had been saying they did not know. He stood before them white and stern-looking, glancing from one to the other of the two in the dim parlor. Where is my daughter? he asked. She is gone, Mr. Van Rensselaer, answered Charles pitifully. I have searched for her all night long. I hoped she was here. Gone, repeated the father in a strange, faraway voice. Then he wavered for an instant and fell at their feet, as if dead. The accusations of his own heart had reached their mark. The iron will yielded at last to the finger of God. They carried him to his bed and called the doctor. Confusion reigned in the house. The old doctor shook his head and called it apoplexy. Mr. Van Rensselaer was still living and might linger for some time, but it would be a living death. And so, while he lay upon his bed breathing, but dead to the world about him, they made what plans they could to find his daughter. Charles's father came in sadly reporting no success in the search. They started out once more after a brief rest. Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in no condition to help them now. She had her hands full, poor woman. One thing had been spared her. Her husband did not know her part in the disappearance of his daughter. Perhaps he might never need to know, yet as she went about ministering to that silent living dead whom she had loved beyond anything earthly, her heart was full of bitterness and fear. The months that followed were terrible to Charles. After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance public and the whole countryside joined in the search. The greatest drawback to success was that so few people had seen Dawn since she grew up. The servants in her father's house had seen her during the week she had been home from school, but scarcely anyone else except for a passing glance on the street. All searching was in vain. There were notices put up in the papers of that region. They sent to her old school for knowledge of her. They left no stone unturned. And the wonder of it is that Dawn's friend the minister or some of the selectmen, especially Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in New York papers and in those of smaller towns and connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher that had come to their village. But the old clergyman had vouched for her and there was apparently no mystery about her. This good man did not often have opportunity to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly religious sheet. Then, too, the place where Dawn had found refuge was small and insignificant and not on the line of most travel. She could not have been better sheltered from the searchers. It was the day after Charles had been to see the body of a young woman who had been found in the river some fifty miles distant from his home that he became ill with typhoid fever. Not for a day had he rested or given up his search. When one clue failed he went to the next with restless feverish energy and a haunted look in his eyes. The boy had become a man and the man was bearing a heavy burden. His father saw it and grieved for him. His mother saw it and accused herself. His sisters saw it and did their best to help him. Betty was constantly thinking up new plans for the search and saying comforting cheering things to her brother. Charles loved her dearly for it but nothing brought relief. His affection for Dawn had been such as rarely grows in a human heart even after years of acquaintance. It had sprung full bloomed into being and filled his whole soul. It is said that to the average man love is but an incident while to a woman it is the whole of life. If that be so there are exceptions and Charles was one of them. He kept his love for his girl wife as the greatest thing life had for him and thought of nothing else day or night but to find her. No one dared to suggest his going back to college. That would be to admit that the search was hopeless and that might prove fatal to Charles. The neighbors had begun to shake their heads and pity him. It was even whispered that the girl might have run away with another man though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing of the family. If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones railroads and detectives it would have been but a matter of days until they had found her. But in those times travel and search were long and hard. There seemed little hope. It was the third dead face which Charles had searched for likeness of the girl he loved. He came home worn exhausted his spirit utterly discouraged and weary and he was an easy prey to the disease which gripped him from the first in its most violent form. Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop household while the life of Charles was held in the balance. The father carried on the search for the lost wife more vigorously than ever believing that the sight of her might bring his boy back even from the grave but nothing developed. News from the Van Rensselaer gave no hope of the paralyzed man's recovery. He was lying like a thing of stone unable to move. He could not even make a sound. Only his eyes followed his tormented wife like haunting spirits sent to condemn her. The face was set in its stern expression like a fallen statue of his proud and perious self. It was midwinter before Charles began slowly to creep back to life and there was still no clue to dawn. They dreaded to have him ask about her though they had noticed how he had searched their faces every morning after consciousness returned to him. He knew as well as they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her. One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side. Father said he, I've been thinking that perhaps she'd not like to come back here the way she feels about it. There was a little white house on the hills beyond Albany that we noticed as we came along on the train. We both said we should like to live there among the trees. Would you be willing that I should take the money grandfather left to me and buy that little house for her to come to? Then I could put a notice in the papers telling her it was ready and perhaps she would see it and understand. The old man's heart was heavy, for he had begun to believe that Don was no longer in the land of the living, but he would have consented to any plan that would comfort his boy and give him a new interest in life. And so as soon as Charles was able to travel they went together to purchase the small farm and little white house. The next day there appeared in the New York papers this notice which was printed many weeks and copied into numerous village papers. Don the little white house we saw near Albany is ready for us. Write and tell me where to find you Charles. But nothing ever came in answer though Charles watched every male with feverish anxiety and he still kept up his search in other directions. So the spring crept on and almost it was a year since Don had left him. End of Chapter 23