 CHAPTER XV The cold weather had come suddenly, and Phoebe felt like a prisoner. Amaline's tongue became a daily torture, and the little ways in which she contrived to make Phoebe's life a burden were too numerous to count. Her paltry fortune in the bank was a source of continual trouble. Really a morning passed, but it was referred to in some unpleasant way. Every request was prefaced with some such phrase as—if you're not too grand to soil your hands, or—I don't like to ask a rich lady to do such a thing—Til Phoebe felt sometimes that she could bear it no longer, and longed to take the few dollars and fling them into the lap of her disagreeable sister-in-law, if thereby she might but gain peace. Like the continual dropping that wears a stone, the unpleasant reference had worn upon a single nerve until the pain was acute. But there was another source of discomfort still more trying to the girl than all that had gone before, and this was Hyrum Green's new role. He had taken it upon himself to act the fine gentleman. It was somewhat surprising, considering the fact that Hyrum was known in the village as Near, and this new departure demanded an entirely new outfit of clothes. In his selection he aimed to emulate Nathaniel Graham. As he had neither Nathaniel's taste nor his New York tailor, the effect was far from perfect, perhaps in the eyes of Hyrum, who felt quite set up in his fine raiment. On the first Sunday of his proud appearance in church, thus arrayed, he waited boldly at the door until the deans came out, and then took his place beside Phoebe, and walked with her to the cariol as though he belonged there. Phoebe's thoughts were on other things, and for a moment she had not noticed, but suddenly becoming conscious of measured footsteps by her own, she looked up and found the reconstructed Hyrum strutting by her side as consciously as a peacock. In spite of her great annoyance, her first impulse was to laugh, and that laugh probably did more than any other thing to turn the venom of Hyrum Green's hate upon her own innocent head. After all the effort he had made to appear well before her, and before the congregation assembled, she had laughed. She had dared to laugh aloud, and that hateful Miranda Griskum, who seemed to be always around in the way whenever he tried to walk with Phoebe, had laughed back. A slow, ugly red rolled into his sunburned face, and his little eyes narrowed with resolve to pay back all and more than he had received of scorn. It happened that Miranda was holding Rose by the hand, and could not without greatly attracting attention get much nearer to Phoebe that morning, so the girl could do nothing to get away from her unpleasant suitor, except to hasten to the cariol. And there, before the open-eyed congregation, Hyrum Green helped her into the cariol with a rude imitation of Nathaniel Graham's gallantry. She should see that others besides the New York College dandy could play the fine gentleman. He finished the operation with an exaggerated flourish of his hat, and just because laughter is so very near to tears, the tears sprang up in Phoebe's eyes. She could do nothing but droop her head and try as best she could to hide them. The all-seeing Alma of course discovered them, and just as they were driving by Judge Bristol and his daughter, she called out, Aunt Phoebe, cryin', what you cryin' about, Aunt Phoebe, is it because you can't ride with Hyrum Green? Thereafter Hyrum Green was in attendance upon her at every possible public place. She could not go to church without finding him at her elbow the minute the service was over, ready to walk down the very aisle beside her. She could not go to singing school, but he would step out from behind his gate as she passed, and join her. Or if she evaded him, he would sit beside her and manage to sing out of the same book. She could not go to the village on an errand, but he would appear in the way and accompany her. He seemed to have developed a strange intuition as to her every movement. He was ever vigilant, and the girl began to feel like a hunted creature. Even if she stayed at home, he appeared at the door ten minutes after the family had gone, a triumphant, unpleasant smile upon his face, and sauntered into the kitchen without waiting for her to bid him, and there, tilted back in a chair in his favorite attitude, he would watch her every movement and draw out an occasional remark. That happened only once, however. She never dared to stay again lest it would be repeated. She had been busy preparing something for dinner, and she turned suddenly and caught a look upon his face that reminded her of a beast of prey. It flashed upon her that he was actually enjoying her annoyance. Without waiting to think, she stepped into the wood shed, and from there fairly fled across the backyard and the meadows between, and burst into the bright little room of Granny McVane. The dear old lady sat there rocking by the fire with her open Bible on her knee. Phoebe was relieved to find her alone, and in answer to the gentle, Why, dearie, what can be the matter? She flung herself on the floor at the old lady's feet, and putting her head in her lap burst into tears. It was only for a moment that she lost herself control, but even that moment relieved the heavy strain on her nerves, and she was able to sit up and tell the old lady all about it. She had not intended to tell anything when in her sudden panic she had beaten a hasty retreat from the enemy, but Granny McVane's sweet face showed so much tender sympathy, that all at once it seemed good to tell someone her trouble. She listened, watched her sympathetically, smoothed back the damp tendrils of hair that had blown about her face, and then stooped over and kissed her. Don't you ever marry him, Phoebe? Don't you ever do it, if you don't love him, she said solemnly, like a warning, and just you run over here, dearie, whenever he bothers you, I'll take care of you. Phoebe, with her natural reserve, had not drawn her family into the story except to say that they favored the suit of the would-be lover, but it comforted her greatly to have someone on her side, even if it were but this quiet old lady who could not really help her much. They watched out the back windows until they saw Hyrum emerge from the dean house and saunter off down the road. Even then Phoebe was afraid to go back until she saw the cariol far down the road. Then she flew across the fields and entered the back door before they had turned in at the great gate. When they got out and came into the house she was demurely paring potatoes, and Emmeline eyed her suspiciously. Seems to me you're pretty late with your potatoes, she remarked disagreeably. I suppose you had a nice easy time all the morning. But Phoebe did not explain, only she did not stay at home again when the family were all to be away. She never knew whether Emmeline was aware of Hyrum's Sunday morning visit or not. Phoebe's state of mind after this occurrence was one of constant nervous alarm. She began to hate the thought of the man who seemed to haunt her at every turn. Here, too, for one of her greatest pleasures had been to walk to the village after the daily mail or for an errand to the store. Now such walks became a dread. One afternoon in early November she had hurried away and gone around by Granny McVanes, hoping thus to escape the vigilance of Hyrum Green. She managed to get safely to the village and get her errands done. But just as she emerged from the post-office, the long, link figure of Hyrum loomed before her and slouched into his dogged gate beside her. Did you get a letter? He asked, looking suspiciously at the one she held in her hand. Then, as she did not answer, he went on. You must have a whole lot of folks writing to you quite constant. You seem to go to the post-office so much. Phoebe said nothing. She felt too indignant to speak. How could she get away from her tormentor unless she deliberately ran away from him? And how could she do that right here in the village where everyone was watching? She glanced up furtively. Hyrum wore a look of triumph as he talked on, knowing he was annoying her. I suppose you get letters from New York. He said, and there was a disagreeable insinuation in his tone. Phoebe did not know what he meant, but something in his tone made the color come into her cheeks. They were nearing the Spafford house, if only Miranda would come out and speak to her. She looked up at the great bully beside her and saw he was trying to calculate just how near to the mark he had come. She stopped short on the pavement. I do not wish to walk with you, she said, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. Oh, you don't! he mocked. How are you going to help yourself? She looked up into the pitiless cruelty of his eyes and shuddered involuntarily. I am going in to see Mrs. Spafford, she said, with sudden inspiration, and her voice took on a girlish dignity. With that she put wings on her feet and flew to the Spafford front door, wondering if anyone would let her in before Hyrum reached her. Now Miranda was alone in the house that afternoon, and not much went on in the neighborhood that she did not keep herself informed concerning. Therefore, when Phoebe, breathless, reached the front stoop, the door swung open before her, and she stepped into her refuge with a gasp of relief, and heard it close behind her as two strong freckled arms enclosed her, and two honest lips greeted her with a resounding kiss. Been waiting quite a spell for ye, she declared, as if it were the expected thing for Phoebe to fly into her arms unannounced in that way. Ever since I see you coming down the street with that pleasant friend of yours, wonder you could tear yourself away. Take off your bonnet and set a spell. Mrs. Spafford's gone up to the ants for tea and took rose. I'm all alone. You set down and we'll have a real nice time, and then I'll take you home by and by. Oh, Miranda! gasped Phoebe, struggling hysterically between laughter and tears, and trying to control the trembling that had taken possession of her body. I'm such a miserable coward. I'm always running away when I get frightened. I should hope you would! said Miranda significantly. Such a snake in the grass is that. Let's see if he's gone. And she crouched before the window and peered behind the curtain cautiously. Hyrum had watched Phoebe's sudden disappearance within the door with something like awe. It was almost uncanny having that door open and swallow her up. Besides, he had not expected that Phoebe would dare to run away from him. He stood a moment gazing after her, and then sauntered on, undecidedly, calling himself a fool for having met her so near to the Spafford house. Another time he would choose his meeting-place away from her friends. He had lost this move in the game, but he by no means meant to lose the game, and the hate in his heart grew with his determination to have this tempting young life in his power and crush out its resistance. It goaded him to madness to have her dare to tell him she did not wish to walk with him. Why did she say that? Had he not always been respected and thought well of? His farm was as good a spot of land as could be found in the whole of New York State, and his barn was talked of through all the county. He was prosperous everybody knew. Before he had married Annie any girl in the vicinity would have thought him a great catch, and he knew well by all the indescribable signs that many a girl as good as Phoebe would still be glad to accept his attentions. Why did this little nobody, who was after all merely a poor relation of his neighbor, presume to scorn him? He hated her for it even while his heart was set upon having her. He had wanted her at first because he admired her. Now he wanted her to conquer her and punish her for her scorn of him. As he walked on alone his slow brain tried to form a new plan for revenge, and little by little an idea crept out of his thoughts and looked at him with its two sneaky eyes until the poison of its fang had stolen into his heart. The post office, ah, he would watch to see if she had a letter from that fellow, for surely only the knowledge that another man was at her feet could make her scorn his attentions. If that was so he would crush the rival. He ground his teeth at the thought and his eyes glittered with hate. Hyrum Green's children and Alma Dean were playing together behind the big barn that had been one of the disappointments of Annie Green's married life because it had not been a house instead of a barn. The children had dug houses in a haystack and chased the few venturesome hens that had not learned to be wary when they were around. Now, for the moment weary of their games, they mounted the fence to rest. There comes your paw, announced Alma from her perch on the top rail. The young Greens retired precipitantly from the fence, and Alma was forced to follow them if she wished company. They hurried around the other side of the barn out of sight. Say, said Alma, after they had reached a spot of safety and ensconced themselves on the sunny exposure of a board across two logs, My Aunt Phoebe went to the village a while ago. She'll be long pretty soon. Let's make up something and shout it at her when she comes back. It'll make her mad as hops, and I'd just like to pay her back for the way she acts sometimes. Ain't she good to you? inquired the youngest Green anxiously. Let's make up something about her and your paw. There ain't nothing'll make her so mad. She's mad as mad can be when my Ma says anything about her getting married. Went on Alma, ignoring the question. All right, what'll we make up? agreed the three Greens. They were not anxious to have a stepmother who might make life's restrictions more strenuous than they were already. They were prepared to do battle valiantly if they only had a general, and Alma was thoroughly competent in their eyes to fill that position. It'll have to be a song, you know! went on Alma. Let's sing the doxology and see how that goes. So they all stood in an inquiring row and droned out the doxology, piping shrilly where they knew the words and filling in with homemade syllables where they did not. Alma had practiced the art of rhyming before, and was anxious to display the skill she had acquired since their last meeting. Now listen! she said, and lined it out slowly, with many haltings and corrections, until at last the dog-roll was completed. And so they sang, Alma was no lax general. She drilled her little company again and again until they could shout the words at the top of their voices, to saying nothing of the way they murdered old hundred. The young scapegraces looked at their leader with wide-eyed admiration, and fairly palpitated for the moment when their victim should arrive and they might put their drill into practice. Between rehearsals they mounted the fence by the barn and kept a watch out down the road. At last it was announced that she was coming. But there's somebody with her! said a disappointed little green. We won't dust, will we? Alma held up her undaunted chin and mounted the post of observation to see who it was. Ah, that's all right! she presently announced. Taint nobody but the red-headed girl down to Spafford's. She can't do nothing. Come on now, let's get ready. She marshaled her forces behind the wide-board fence next to the pigsty, and there they waited for the signal to begin. Alma thought it prudent to wait until Phoebe and Miranda had almost passed before they sang. Then she raised her hand and they piped out shrilly, making the words more than plain. Phoebe started at the first line and hurried her steps, but Miranda glanced back and said, hmm, I thought as much, like father, like child. Maddened by such indifference the children ran along inside the fence and continued to yell at the top of their lungs, regardless of time or tune, until they reached the more open fields near the dean house where they dared to go no further. Then they retired in triumph to the shelter of the pigsty and the haystack to plume themselves upon their success and recount the numerous faces they had made and the times they had stuck their tongues out. They did not anticipate any trouble from the incident as they were too far away from the house for Hyrum to hear, and they felt sure Phoebe would never tell on them as it involved herself too closely. Suddenly in the midst of the graduations, without the slightest warning, a strong hand seized the sturdy Alma from the rear and pinioned her arms so that she could not get away. She set up a yell that could have been heard for a half-mile and began to kick and squirm, but Miranda's hands held her fast, while she took in the surroundings at a glance, moved her captive toward a convenient seat on a log, and taking her calmly over her knee administered in full measure the spanking that the child deserved. Alma, meanwhile, yelling like a loon, unable to believe her senses that the despised red-haired girl from Spafford's had displayed so much ability and thoroughness in her methods of redress. The valiant army of little greens had retired with haste from the scene of action, and were even then virtuously combing their hair and washing their hands and faces with a view to proving an alibi should the avenger seek further retribution. Alma was left to the mercy of Miranda, and though she kicked and yelled right lustily, Miranda spanked on until she was tired. There, she said, at last letting her go, that ain't half you need, but I can't spend any more time on you today. If you ever do that or anything like it again, I'll come in the night when everybody's asleep and give you the rest, and I can tell you now I won't let you off this easy next time. Mind you, behave your Aunt Phoebe, or I'll haunt you. Do you understand? Wherever you go in the dark, I'll be there to haunt you. And when red-haired people haunt you at night, their hair's all on fire in the dark, and it burns you, so you better watch out. She shook her fist decidedly at the child, who now thoroughly frightened began to cry in earnest, and ran away home as fast as her fat legs could carry her, not daring to look back lest the supernatural creature with the fiery hair and the strong hand should be upon her again. It was the first time in her brief, impertinent life that Alma had ever been thoroughly frightened. Her first act on reaching the house was to see how the land lay. She found that her mother had gone out to get some eggs, and that Phoebe was up in her room with the door buttoned. No one else was about, so Alma stole noiselessly up to Phoebe's door, righteous innocence upon her tear-stained face, her voice smoother than butter with deceit. "'And Phoebe,' she called, lovingly, "'I hope you don't think I sung that mean song at you. I was real shamed of them green children. I run after them and tried to make them stop, but they just wouldn't. I think their pa ought to be told, don't you? Say, Aunt Phoebe, you didn't think twas me, did you?' There was no answer from the other side of the door, for Phoebe was lying on her bed shaking with suppressed sobs, and could not control her voice to reply even if she had known what to say. Her heart was filled with pain, too, that this child whom she had tended and been kind to should be so hateful. Alma, rather nonplussed at receiving no answer, tried once or twice, and then calling out sweetly, "'Well, I just thought I'd let you know twas'n't me, Aunt Phoebe,' stumped off downstairs to reflect upon the way of sinners. Her main fear was that Phoebe would tell on her to her father, and then she knew she would receive the other half of her spanking. Aunt Phoebe, with a face white with suffering and dark rings under her eyes, said not a word when she came downstairs, but went about her work not even seeming to see the naughty child, until Alma gradually grew more confident and resolved to put the hunting out of her mind entirely. This was easier said than done, however, for when night came she dreaded to go to bed, and she made several unsuccessful attempts to help Phoebe with the supper dishes, thereby calling upon herself much undeserved commendation from her gratified mother and father, which helped ease her conscience not a little. CHAPTER XVI Hyrum Green began to put his new plan into practice the very next day. He took care to be on hand when the male coach arrived, and as soon as the male was distributed he presented himself at the post-office corner of the store. Any mail for the deans? he inquired carelessly after he had been told there was nothing for himself. I'm going up there on business and I'll save him the trouble of coming down. This question he put in varied forms until it grew to be a habit with the postmaster to hand over the dean's mail to Hyrum every day. This was rather expensive business, for Albert frequently received letters from people who did not prepay the postage, and it went much against Hyrum's grain to hand out 18 cents or more for another man's letter, even though he was sure he would receive it again. He made prompt collections from Albert, however, and by this means Phoebe became aware of Hyrum's daily visits to the post-office. Not that it made any difference to her, for she did not expect a letter from any one. There was no one to write to her. This went on for about two weeks, and during that time Hyrum had been able to see very little of Phoebe, for she kept herself well out of his way, when one day a letter bearing a New York postmark and closed with heavy seals arrived addressed to Miss Phoebe Dean. Hyrum grasped it as if it had been a long sought fortune, put it hastily in his pocket, looking furtively around lest anyone had seen it, and slouched off toward home. When he reached there he went straight to his room and fastened to the door. Then he took out the letter and read the address again, written in a fine large hand of a man accustomed to handling a pen. He frowned and turned it over. The seals were stamped with a crest on which was a lion, rampant, that seemed to defy him. He held the letter up to the light but could not make out any words. Then, without hesitation, he took out his knife and inserted the sharpest blade under the seals one by one, prying them up carefully so that they should not be broken more than could be helped. The letter lay open before him at last, and he read with rising fury. New York, December 20th, 1835. My dear Miss Dean, will you pardon my presumption in daring thus to address you without permission? My pleasant memory of our brief acquaintance has led me to wish a continuance of it, and I am writing to ask you if you are free and willing to correspond with me occasionally. It will be a great source of pleasure to me if you can accede to my request, and I am sure I shall be profited by it also. Night before last our city was visited by a great calamity in the shape of a terrible fire which is still burning, although they hope they now have it under control. Its course has been along Wall Street, the line of the East River, and returning to William and Wall Streets. There must be nearly thirteen acres devastated, and I have heard it estimated that there will be a loss of at least eighteen millions of dollars. I am afraid it will be the cause of much suffering and distress. I was out last evening watching the conflagration for a time, and helping to fight the fire. It was a terrible and beautiful sight. I have just had the honour and privilege of meeting a noble and brave gentleman. His name is William Lloyd Garrison. I am sure you would like to know about him and the work he is doing. If I am to have the pleasure of writing you again, I shall be glad to tell you more of him as I hope to meet him again and to know him better. Hoping that you are quite well and that I shall soon have a favourable reply from you, I am, yours with esteem, Nathaniel Graham. Hyrum Green was not a rapid reader, and in spite of Nathaniel's clear chirography, it took him some time to take in all that the letter contained. The first thought that took form in his mind was that this rival of his was not out of his way yet. He had dared to write to her and ask if she was free. Ah, that showed he had taken note of what Hyrum had said about her belonging to him, and he was going to find out for himself. Well, he would never find out by that letter, for Phoebe would never see it. That was easy enough. Of course it was against the law to open another person's mail, and was a state's prison offence, but who was to know that he had opened it? A letter could tell no tales when it was in ashes, and the ashes well buried. How else could they prove it? They could not. He was perfectly safe, and more and more was he getting power over these two, whom he was coming to hate and to wish to crush. He congratulated himself on having been keen enough to have watched the mails. He had outwitted them, and he was pleased with himself beyond expression. Hmm! he ejaculated under his breath. He is a going to get up a correspondence with her, is he? Like to see him. I rather think by the time she answers this letter he'll have give it up. When he gets round again to give her another try, supposing he ain't stumped at not hearing from her this time, I reckon she'll be nicely established in my kitchen due in my work. Yes, she's worth fighting for, I guess, for she can turn off the work faster in anybody I've seen. Well, I guess there ain't any cause to worry about this. Then he read it over again, and yet again, noting down on an odd bit of paper the date, and a few items about the fire in New York, also William Lloyd Garrison's name. After that he sent the old woman who was keeping house for him to the attic in search of a coat he knew was not there, while he carefully burned the letter on the hearth, gathering every scrap of its ashes and pulverizing them to make sure not a trace remained to tell the tale. As he walked away towards his barn he felt himself a man of consequence, his self-satisfaction fairly radiated from his lanky figure, for had he not outwitted a college man, and no thought of the crime he had just committed troubled his dull conscience for an instant. That evening he took his eager way to Albert Dean's house and prepared to enjoy himself. The sunrise bed quilt was long since finished and rolled away in the chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. The spinning wheel had taken the place of the quilting frames, and it happened that on this particular night Amaline had demanded that Phoebe stay downstairs and spin, declaring that the yarn ought to have been ready long ago for more winter stockings. Hyrum noted this fact with satisfaction and tilted his chair in pleasurable anticipation. He heard anything about the big fire in New York? He began, watching Phoebe's back narrowly to see if she would start, but Phoebe worked steadily on. She paid little heed to anything Hyrum said, but as they talked of the fire she wondered whether Nathaniel Graham had been near it, and hoped in a maidenly way that he had been kept safe from harm. Why, no, said Albert, sitting up with interest. I haven't looked at the paper yet. Unfolding it with zest. How do you come to know, Hyrum? You say you never read the papers. Oh, I have better ways to know than reading it in the papers," boasted Hyrum airily. I had a letter from New York straight, and the fire's going on yet, and maybe by this time it's all burnt up. Phoebe stood so that he could see her face distinctly as he spoke about receiving a letter, but there was not a movement of a muscle to show she had heard. Hyrum was disappointed. He had expected to catch some flitting expression that would show him she had interests in letters from New York. But Phoebe had no expectations of any letter from New York, so why should she start or look troubled? Yes, said Albert, bending over his paper, an area of thirteen acres, six hundred and ninety three houses burned. Valued at eighteen millions, remarked Hyrum dryly. He was enjoying the unique position of knowing more than Albert about something. Nonsense, said Emmeline sharply. Thirteen acres! Why, that's not much bigger in Hyrum's ten-acre lot down by the old Chestnut tree. Think of getting that many houses on that lot. It couldn't be done. That ain't possible. It's ridiculous. They must think we're all fools to put that in the paper. Oh yes it could, Emmeline, said Albert, looking up earnestly to convince her. Why, even so long ago as when I stayed in New York for a month, they built the houses real close without much door-yard. They could easy get that many into thirteen acres built close. I don't believe it, said Emmeline, flipping her spinning wheel around skillfully. And anyway, if it was so I think it was real shiftless to let them all burn up. Why didn't they put it out? Those New York folks were born lazy. Why, Emmeline, the paper says it was so cold the water froze in the hose-pipes and they couldn't put it out. Serves them right then for dependent on such new-fangled things as hose-pipes. It's just some more of their laziness. Why didn't they form a line in hand-buckets? A good fireline with the women and all in it would beat all the new lazy ways invented to save folks from lifting their fingers to even put out a fire. I'm surprised some of them don't just sit still and expect some kind of a new machine to be made in time to wheel them away to safety instead of using their legs and running out of harm's way. Haven't they got a river in New York? Course, said Hyrum, as if he knew it all, the fire burned the whole line of the East River. He was glad to be reminded of the rest of his newly acquired information. There, that just shows it! exclaimed Emmeline, that's just what I said, shiftless lot they are, let their houses burn up right in front of a river. Well, I'm thankful to say I don't live in New York. The talk hummed on about her, but Phoebe heard no more. Somehow she kept her busy wheel whirring, but her thoughts had wandered off in a sunlit wood, and she was holding sweet converse with a golden day and a stranger hovering on the pleasant horizon. It was not until near the close of the evening that her thoughts came back to listen to what was going on. Hyrum had brought the front legs of his chair down to the floor with a thud. Phoebe thought he was going home, and she was glad they would soon be rid of his hated presence. Oh, by the way! said Hyrum, with a swag of conceit. Albert, have you ever heard of a man named Garrison? William Lloyd Garrison, I believe it is. He rolled the name out fluently, having practiced in the barn during the evening milking. Oh, yes! said Albert, interestingly. You know who he is, Hyrum? He's a smart fellow, though I'd hate to be in his boots. Why? Hyrum's voice was sharp, and his eyes narrowed as they always did when he was reaching out for a clue. Why, don't you know about Garrison? He's had a price on his head for some time back. He gets mobbed every time he turns around, too, but I guess he's pretty plucky, for he keeps right on. What doing? Why, he's the great abolitionist. He publishes that paper, The Liberator, don't you know? You remember two years ago, those anti-slavery meetings that were broken up and all the trouble they had? Well, he was the man that started it all. I don't know whether he's very wise or not, but he certainly has got a lot of courage. Hyrum's eyes were narrowing to a slit now with knowledge and satisfaction. Oh, yes, I place him now, he drawled out. He wouldn't be a very comfortable acquaintance for a man to have, would he? Well, considered Albert thoughtfully, I wouldn't like to have any of my relations in his place. I'd be afraid of what might happen. I think likely to be a bit of courage to be a friend to a man like that, but they say he has friends, a few of them. Hmm, said Hyrum, and he rolled a thought like a sweet morsel under his tongue. I guess I better be going, night, and he shuffled away at last, casting a curious smile at Phoebe as he left. The next morning, while they were going about their work in the kitchen, Emmeline remarked to Phoebe that Albert thought Hyrum Green was changing for the better. He seemed to be growing real intellectual. Had Phoebe noticed how well he talked about that New York fire? Phoebe had not noticed. What a queer girl you are! exclaimed Emmeline, much vexed. I should think you'd see he's taken all this interest in things just for you. It ain't like him to care for such things. He just thinks it will please you, and you are hard as nails not to appreciate it. You are quite mistaken, Emmeline. Hyrum Green never did anything to please anyone but himself, I am sure, answered Phoebe, and taking her apron off went up to her room. Phoebe was spending much more time in her room in these days than pleased Emmeline. Not that her work suffered, for Phoebe's swift fingers performed all the tasks required of her in the most approved manner. But so soon as they were done she was off. The fact that the room was cold seemed to affect her in no wise. Emmeline was in a state of chronic rage for this isolation from the rest of the family, though perhaps the only reason she liked to have her around was that she might make sarcastic remarks about her. Then, too, it seemed like an assumption of superiority on Phoebe's part. Emmeline could not bear superiority. Phoebe's reason for hurrying to the seclusion of her own room on every possible occasion was that a new source of comfort and pleasure had been open to her through the kindness of Marcia Spafford. Miranda had reported promptly Phoebe's two escapes from Hyrum Green, and not only Marcia but David was greatly interested in the sweet-faced young girl. Shortly after the occasion of Alma's unexpected punishment, Miranda was sent up to the deans to request that Phoebe come down for the afternoon a little while, as Miss Spafford has a new book she thinks you'll enjoy reading with her a while. Much to Emmeline's disgust, for she had planned a far different occupation for Phoebe, the girl accepted with alacrity, and was soon seated in the Pleasant Library pouring over one of Whittier's poems which opened up a new world to her. The poem was one which David had just secured to publish in his paper, and they discussed its beauties for a few minutes, and then Marcia opened a delightful new book by Cooper. Phoebe had naturally a bright mind, and during her days of school she had studied all that came in her way. Always she had stood at the head of her classes, sometimes getting up at the first peep of dawn to study a lesson or work over a problem, and sticking to her books until the very last minute. This had been a great source of trouble, because Emmeline objected most seriously to taking her education so hard as she expressed it. Some children have measles and whooping cough and chicken pox and mumps real hard, she was wont to say, but they most of them take learnin' easy, but Phoebe's got learnin' hard. She acts like there wasn't any use for anything else in the world but them books. And what good'll they do her? They won't make her spin a smoother thread, or quilt a straighter row, or sew a finer seam. She'll just forget everything she learnt when she's married. I'm sure I did. And no one ever disputed this convincing fact. Nevertheless Phoebe had studied on, trying, it is true, to please Emmeline by doing all the work required of her, but still insisting on getting her lessons even if it deprived her of her rest, or her noon luncheon. She had acquired the habit of devouring every bit of information that came in her way, so that in spite of her environments she had a measure of true mind culture. It may have been this which so mystified and annoyed Emmeline. So the afternoon was one of unalloyed delight to Phoebe. When she insisted that she must go home to help get supper, Miranda was sent with her and the precious book went along to be read in odd moments. Since then Phoebe felt that she had something to help her through the trying days. These afternoons of reading with Marcia Spafford had become quite the settled thing every week or two, and always there was a book to carry home or a new poem or article to think about. Emmeline had grown wrathful about this constant going out, and had asked questions until she had in a measure discovered what was going on. She held her temper in for a while, for when she spoke to Albert he did not seem to sympathize with her irritation at Phoebe, but only asked the girl to let him see the book she had been reading, and became so delighted with it himself that he forgot to bring in the armful of wood Emmeline asked for until she called him the second time. After that Albert shared in the literary treasures that Phoebe brought to the house, and it became his habit to say when he came into supper, been down to the village this afternoon, Phoebe, didn't get anything new to read, did you? This made Emmeline fairly furious, and she decided to express her mind once more freely to this girl. She chose a morning when Phoebe was tied by a task which she could not well leave, and began. Now look here, Phoebe Dean, I must say you are going beyond all bounds. I think it's about time you stopped. I want you to understand that I think the way you're acting is downright sin. It isn't enough that you should score in a good honest man that's eaten his heart out for you, and you pay in no more attention to him than if he was the very dust of your feet, and him able to keep you well too, and you willing to set round and live on relations that ain't real relations at all, and you with money in the bank aplenty, and never even offering to give so much as a little present to your little nephews and nieces that are all you've got in the world. It ain't enough that you should do all that and be a drug on our hands, but here you must go and get up acquaintance with a woman I don't like, near respect at all, and let her send that poor, hard-working, good-for-nothing, red-headed girl after you every few days, taking you away from your home, and your good honest work that you ought to be willing to do twice over for all you've had. Phoebe Dean, do you realize that we let you go to school clear up to the top grade when other girls had to stop and go to work? All this was his doings, I'd never have allowed it. I think it just spoils a girl to get too much knowledge. It's just as I said to would be, too. Look at you. Spoiled. You want lily-white hands and nothing to do. You want to go to everlasting tea parties and bring home books to read the rest of the time. Now I stopped school when I was in the fourth reader, and look at me. There ain't a woman round as better fixed in what I am. What do I need of more books? Answer that, Phoebe Dean. Answer me. Would it make me darn the children's stockings or cook his meals or spin or weave better? Or would it make me any better, any way? Answer me. Emmeline had two bright red spots on her cheeks, and she was very angry. When she was angry she always screamed her sentences at her opponent in a high key. Phoebe had the impulse to throw the wet dishcloth at her sister-in-law, and it was hard indeed to restrain her indignation at this speech. There was the lovely Mrs. Spafford lending her books and helping her and encouraging her in every way to improve her mind by reading and study. And even Mr. Spafford seemed anxious she should have all the books to read that she desired. And here was this woman talking this way. It was beyond speech. There was nothing to say. Emmeline stepped up close to the girl, grasped her white arm, and shook it fiercely until the dishcloth came near doing a rash deed of its own accord. Answer me, she hissed in the girl's face. It might. The exasperated girl hesitated. What good would it do to say it? Well, go on, said the woman, gripping the arm painfully. You've got some wicked word to say. Just speak it out to one who has been more than mother to ye, and then I suppose you'll feel better. I was only going to say, Emmeline, that more study might have made you understand others better. Understand! Understand! screamed Emmeline, now thoroughly roused. I should like to know who I don't understand. Don't I understand my husband, and my children, and my neighbors? I suppose you mean understand you, you good-for-nothing hussy. Well, that ain't necessary. You're no different from everybody else on earth, that an angel from heaven or a professor from college couldn't understand you, and learning won't make you any different no matter how much time you waste on it. Emmeline, listen, said Phoebe, trying to stop this outburst. I consider that I've worked for my board since I came here. Consider! Consider! You consider! Well, really, worked for your board when you was scarcely more use than a baby when you come, and think of all the trouble a raisin ye. And you consider that you've earned all you've got here. Well, I don't consider any such a thing. I can tell you. Please let me finish, Emmeline. I was going to say that I have tried to make Albert take the money I have in the bank as payment for any expense and trouble I have been to him. But he says he promised my mother he wouldn't touch a cent of it, but he will not take it. Oh, yes, Albert is soft-hearted. Well, I didn't promise your ma by a long sight, and I ain't bound to know such fool notions. Emmeline, I don't feel that the money belongs to you. It was not you who brought me here, nor paid for whatever I have had. It was Albert. I cannot see why I should give you the money. You have done nothing for me but what you have had to do, and I am sure I have worked for you enough to pay for that. But I would much rather give the money to you than to have you talk in this way. Oh, I wasn't asking for your money. I shouldn't take it as a gift. I was only showing you up to yourself, what a selfish good for nothing you are, setting up heirs to read books when there's good honest work going on. It happened that Albert came in just then, and the discussion dropped. But Phoebe, with determined mean, went on with her visits to Mrs. Bafford whenever Miranda came for her, never alone lest she encounter Hyrum Green, and so the winter dragged slowly on its way. CHAPTER 17 of Phoebe Dean by Grace Livingston Hill CHAPTER 17 Meanwhile Hyrum Green still kept up his attention to the post office, watching the deans so vigilantly that it was impossible for them to receive mail without his knowing it. This never annoyed Robert, as he was too good-natured to suspect any one of an ill turn, and he thought it exceedingly kind of Hyrum to bring his mail up. As for Phoebe it simply cut out all opportunity for her to go out, except when Miranda came for her. Why can't that Miranda girl stay home and mind her business and let you come when you get ready? asked Emma Lyne in a loud tone, one day when Miranda was waiting in the sitting-room for Phoebe to get ready to go with her. She acts as if she was your nurse. But Miranda continued her vigilance, and that without Phoebe's asking, and somehow Marcia always planned it that if Phoebe could stay to tee she and David would walk home with her. It was all delightful for Phoebe, but everything that was done merely offended Emma Lyne the more. Miranda in these days was enjoying herself. She lost no opportunity to observe the detestable Hyrum and rejoiced that she had foiled his attempts to bother Phoebe. One day, however, she happened to be in the post-office when the mail was distributed. She was buying sugar and she loitered a moment after the package was handed her, watching Hyrum Green, who had slouched over to the counter and asked for his mail. Nothing for the deans? She heard him ask in a low tone. Nothing for Phoebe? She was specked in something, I'm sure. Miranda cast a sharp glance at him as she passed him. She was glad somehow that he received nothing. She wondered if Phoebe knew he was inquiring for her mail. Miranda laid it by her mind as something that might be of use in future, and went on her way. That very day the old woman who kept house for Hyrum, in sweeping out his room, came across a bit of red ceiling wax stamped with part of a crest which bore a lion's head with its jaws apart. It was lying on a dark stripe in the rag carpet, and had not been noticed before. She saw at once it was of no value and tossed it toward the open window, where it lodged upon the sill close up to the frame, and by and by when the window was closed it was shut in tight between sash and sill. The lion's head, erect and fierce, caught in the crack, a tiny thing and hidden, but reminding one of truth crushed to earth. The next day Nathaniel Graham made a flying visit to his home to have a serious conference with his uncle the judge. His investigations concerning the two questions which had troubled him on his journey back to New York, had involved him in matters that had now come to a crisis, and he found that some decision must be reached at once. He had received several more letters from his uncle in Texas, urging him persistently to come down at once and help their cause. More and more it was becoming a dangerous thing to do, as Congress had not sanctioned any such help, and in fact it might involve anyone who attempted it in serious difficulties. Yet it was being done every day. People who lived near to Texas were gathering money and arms and sending men to help, and even so far as New York there were many quietly at work. Public sentiment was strongly with Texas, save only among those who were opposed to slavery, and as yet that question was but in its infancy. Nathaniel had been put to it at last to decide definitely about Texas. He had been offered command of a company of men who were to sail soon, and he must say yes or no at once. The pressure was very strong, and sometimes he almost thought he ought to go. The time had come to speak to Judge Bristol. Nothing could be decided without his final word, for Nathaniel felt too much honor and love for the one who had been his second father to do anything without his sanction. As was to be expected, the judge was seriously troubled at the thought of Nathaniel's going self to join in the conflict, and he argued long and seriously against any such project, telling his nephew that he had no right to even consider such questions until he had made a place for himself in the world. When Nathaniel admitted that he had been attending abolition meetings and was becoming intimate with some of the leaders, the judge was roused into excited hostility. Nathaniel, how could you? he exclaimed in deep distress. I thought your judgment was sound, but to be carried away by these wild fanatical people is anything but evidence of sound judgment. Can you not see that this is a question that you have no business with? If your uncle in Texas chooses to keep slaves, you have no more right to meddle with his choice than if he chose to keep horses or sheep. And as for this bosh about slavery being such a terrible evil, look at Pompey and Caesar and Deanthe and the rest. Do you fancy they want to be free? Why, what would the poor things do if I didn't care for them as if they were my own children? It's all nonsense. Of course there are a few bad masters and probably will be as long as sin is in the world. But to condemn the whole system of slavery because a few men who happen to own slaves mistreat them would be like condemning marriage because a few men abused their wives. It is utmost nonsense for a few hotheaded fanatics to try to run the rest of the country into the molds they have made and call it righteousness. Let other men alone and they will let you go in peace is a better motto. Let every man look out to cast the beam from his own eyes before he attempts to find the moat in his brothers. When his uncle quoted scripture in this way, Nathaniel was at a loss how to answer him. I wish you could hear Mr. Garrison talk, uncle. I wouldn't listen to him for a moment. He answered hotly. He is a dangerous man. Heep away from all such gatherings for they only breed discontent and uprisings. You will see that nothing but a lot of mobs will arise from this agitation. Slavery is a thing that cannot be overthrown, and all these meetings are mere talk to let a few men get into prominence. No man in his senses would do the things that that Garrison has done unless he wanted to get notoriety. That's what makes him so foolhardy. Keep away from him, my boy. There's a price on his head, and you'll do yourself and your prospects no good if you have anything to do with him. They talked far into the night, Nathaniel trying to defend the man whom he had met but once or twice, but whom he had been compelled to admire. Janet pouted through the evening because Nathaniel did not come out to talk with her, and finally went to bed in a fit of the blues. When at last Nathaniel pressed his uncle's hand at parting, they both knew that he would not go to Texas. Indeed, as the young man had reflected during the night, he felt that his purpose of going there had been shaken before he had come home to ask Judge Bristol's advice. However, he was not altogether sure that his uncle had considered the matter from the correct viewpoint, either, but the talk had somehow helped to crystallize his own views. So now he felt free, nay bound, to return and complete his law course. As for the other matter, that must be left to develop in its time. He was by no means sure he was done with it yet, for his heart had been too deeply touched, and his reasons stirred. As Nathaniel climbed into the coach at the big white gate, he felt that he had only put off all these questions for a time, but there was a certain relief in feeling that a decision had been reached at least for the present. He was half a mind to ride on top with the driver, though it was a bitterly cold morning, but quite unexpectedly the driver suggested that he better sit inside this time, as the weather was so cold. Without giving it a passing thought, he went inside, waving his hand and smiling at Janet, who stood at the front door with a fur-trimmed scarlet cloak about her shapely shoulders. Then the door closed and he sat down. There was one other passenger, a girl, who sat far back in the shadows of the coach, but her eyes shone out from the heavy wrappings of cloak and bonnet, and gave him welcome. Oh! she said, catching her breath. And is it you? he asked eagerly, reaching out to grasp her hand. Then each remembered, the girl that she was alone in the coach with this man, the man that this girl might belong to another. But in spite of it they were glad to see one another. The coach rolled out into the main street again, and as it lurched over the crossing, Hiram Green, who was hurrying to his daily vigilance at the post office, caught a good view of Nathaniel's back through the coach window. The back gave the impression of an animated conversation being carried on, in which the owner of the back was deeply interested. Hiram almost paused in his walk over the crunching snow. Gosh! ninety! he ejaculated in consternation, who knowed he was here. On the reflection that at least Nathaniel was about to depart, calmed his perturbation, and he hurried on to the office. Hiram did not know that Phoebe was in the coach. She had managed it very carefully, with a view to concealing it from him, for she felt sure that if he knew she was going that morning he would have found it possible to have accompanied her, and she would have found it impossible to get rid of his company. So when the day before, Amaline had suggested that somebody ought to go out to miss Anne Jane blood-goods, and get some dried saffron flowers she had promised them last fall, to dye the carpet rags, Phoebe said nothing until after Hiram had left that night. Then as she was going upstairs with her candle, she turned to Amaline and said, I've been thinking, Amaline, I could go over to blood-goods by the morning coach, if Albert could drive me down when he takes his corn to the mill. Then perhaps some of them would be coming over to the village, or I could catch a ride back, or if not I could come back by the evening coach. Amaline assented grimly. She wanted the dye, and she did not relish the long, cold ride in the coach. Anne Jane blood-good was too condescending to please her anyway. So as Robert was going to mill early, Phoebe made her simple preparations that night, and was ready bright and early. Moreover she coaxed Albert to drive around by Granny McVanes that she might leave a bit of poetry for her which she had told her about. The poem could have waited, but Albert did not tell her that, and Phoebe did not explain to Albert that if they went around by Granny's, Hiram would not know that she was gone away, and therefore would not try to follow her. It was a pity that Phoebe had not confided a little now and then in Albert, though he, poor soul, could do little against such odds as Amaline in Hiram. The ten-mile coach-ride to blood-good's wide farmhouse spun itself away into nothing in such company, and before Phoebe could believe it was half over, she saw the distant roof, low-browed with overhanging snow, and the red barns glimmering warmly a little beyond. Nathaniel saw them too, for she had told him at once where she was going that he might not think she had planned to go with him. He felt that the moments were precious. "'Do you remember what we talked of that night we walked to your home?' he asked. "'Oh, yes!' she breathed softly. "'You were talking of someone who needed setting free. I have been reading some wonderful poems lately that made me think a great deal of what you said.' He looked at her keenly. How could a girl who read poems and talked so well belong to Hiram Green? I have been thinking much about it lately. He went on, with just the breath of sigh. I may have to decide what I will do at no distant day now. I wonder if I may ask you to pray for me.' He watched her, this girl with the drooping eyes and rosy-hued cheeks, the girl who had by her silence refused to answer his letter, and wondered if perhaps by his request he had offended her. The coach lurched up to the wide piazza and stopped, and the driver jumped heavily into the snowy road. They could hear his steps plowing through the drift by the back wheel. His hand was on the coach door. Then quickly, as if she might be too late, her eyes were lifted to his, and he saw her heart would be in those prayers as she answered, "'Oh, I will.'" Something like a flash of light went through them as they looked for that instant into one another's eyes, and lifted them above the mere petty things of earth. It was intangible. Nathaniel could not explain it to himself as he sat back alone in the empty coach, and went over the facts of the case, why his heart felt light and the day seemed brighter, just because a girl whom he knew ever so little had promised in that tone of voice to pray for him. It thrilled him anew as he thought it over, and his heart went soaring up into heavens of happiness, until he called himself a fool and told himself nothing was changed, and that Phoebe had not even replied to his letter, and politely declined the correspondence, as she would certainly have been justified in doing even if she were the promised wife of Hyrum Green. Yet his heart refused to be anything but buoyant. He began to berate himself that he had not frankly spoken of his letter, and heard what she had to say about the matter. Perhaps in some way it had never reached her, and yet after all that was scarcely possible. Letters clearly addressed were seldom lost. It might only have embarrassed her if he had spoken. At the next stop he accepted the coach driver's invitation to, Come up top a spell, there's a fine sun coming up now. And he let old Michael babble on about the gossip of the town, until it last the sly old man asked him innocently enough, and what did you think of the other passenger, Mr. Daniel? And ain't she a bonny lassie? And then he was treated to a list of Phoebe's virtues sounded forth by one who in reality knew very little of her, save that as a child on the way home from school one day she had shyly handed him up a bunch of wayside posies as he drove by her on the road. That childish act had won his loyalty, and old Michael was not troubled with the truth. He was thoroughly capable of filling in virtues where he knew none. He went on the principle that what ought to be was. And so it was that when Nathaniel arrived in New York his heart was strangely light, and he wondered often if Phoebe Dean would remember to pray for him. It seemed as if the momentous question were now in better hands than his own. Meantime Hiram Green, having found in the post office a circular letter for Albert concerning a new kind of plow that was being put upon the market, plotted up to the deans. He knew that Albert was gone to mill that morning and would not be home yet, but he thought the letter would be an excuse to see Phoebe. He wanted to judge whether Phoebe knew of this visit of Nathaniel's. He thought he could tell by her face whether she had had a secret meeting with him or not. Yet it puzzled him to know when it could have been, for Phoebe had been quietly sowing carpet-regs all the evening before, and he was sure she had not gone by with Miranda in the afternoon to the Spaffords. Had she gone to the woods again in the winter, or did she not know he was here? Perhaps his own skillful manipulating of the mail had nipped this miniature courtship in the bud, as it were, and there would be no further need of his vigilance. But when Hyrum reached the deans and looked about for Phoebe, she was not there. Where's Phoebe? He demanded, frowning. She's gone up to Ann Jane Bloodgoods to get some saffron flowers, said Amaline. Won't you come in, Hyrum? She'll be mighty sorry to know she missed you. Amaline thought it was as well to keep up appearances for Phoebe. Yes, I'm sure. Drawled Hyrum, how'd she go? He asked her after an ominous silence, in which Amaline was meditating on what it would be best to say. She went in the coach, and I reckon she'll come back that way by night if there don't know one come over from Bloodgoods this way. You might meet the coach if you was going into the village again. I don't know Albert'll feel he has time after losing so much of the day to Mill. Hyrum said nothing, but Amaline saw he was angry. I'd assent you a word she was going and given you the chance to go along with her, only she didn't say a word till after you was gone home last night. She began apologetically, but Hyrum did not seem to heed her. He got up after a minute, his brows still lowering. He was thinking that Phoebe had planned to go with Nathaniel Graham. I'll be over to the village, he said as he went out. Albert needn't go. Amaline looked after him meditatively. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he give her up the way she goes on. It's wonderful how he holds on to her. She's a fool, that's what she is, and I've no pity for her. I wish to goodness she was well married and out of the way. She does try me beyond all with her books and her visitants and her locked doors and notions. Meantime Phoebe, all unconscious of the plot that was thickening around her, accepted an invitation to remain overnight and the next day with Anne Jane Bloodgood and drive into town in the afternoon when she went to missionary meeting. Anne Jane was interested in Christian missions and fascinated Phoebe with her tales of Elliot, Brainerd, Kerry, Whitman, and Robert Moffat. Phoebe, as she looked over Anne Jane's pile of missionary papers, began to wonder how many people of one sort and another there were in the world who needed setting free from something. It all seemed to be a part of the one great thing for which she was praying, the thing that Nathaniel Graham was trying to decide, and he was another just like those wonderful men who were giving their lives to save others. Phoebe was glad she had come, though perhaps she might not have been if she could have seen the thought that was working in Hyrum Green's heart. After some reflection, Hyrum harnessed his horses and took the long ride over to Bloodgood's that afternoon, arriving at the house just after Phoebe and Anne Jane were safely established in Anne Jane's second cousin's best room a mile away for a visit. Anne Jane's second cousin was an invalid and liked company, so Phoebe's bright face cheered what otherwise would have been a lonely afternoon, and she escaped the unpleasant encounter with Hyrum. Hyrum, his suspicions confirmed, met the evening coach, but no Phoebe appeared. He stepped up to Albert Dean's in the evening long enough to make sure she had not returned by any private conveyance, and the next day he drove over again, but again found the low farmhouse closed and deserted, for Anne Jane had driven with Phoebe by another road to the village missionary meeting. His temper not much improved with his two fruitless rides, Hyrum returned, watched every passenger from the evening coach alight, then betook himself to the Dean's again, where he was really surprised to find Phoebe had returned. That evening, when the saffron flowers were being discussed, he remarked that there were mighty nice saffron flowers for sale in Albany, and he watched Phoebe narrowly, but the round cheek did not flush, nor the long lashes flutter in any suspicious way. Nevertheless, Hyrum's mind never let go an evil thought that once lodged there. He felt he had a new power over Phoebe that he might use if occasion demanded. He would bide his time. CHAPTER XVIII Spring was coming on at last, and Hyrum Green, who had been biding his time in letting his wrath smolder, began to think it was time to do something. All winter Phoebe had been able to keep comparatively free from him, save for his company with the family in the evening. Hyrum took every opportunity possible to make it apparent that he was keeping company with Phoebe through the medium of this nightly visit, and Phoebe made it plain upon every occasion that she did not consider his visit was for her. She got out of the way when she could, but Emmeline contrived to keep her unusually busy every evening, and her own room was so cold that escape was impossible. Hyrum had made several unsuccessful efforts to establish himself beside Phoebe in public, and he was getting desperate. Every Sunday when he tried to walk down the aisle with her, he would find Miranda and Rose one on either side of her, Mrs. Bafford herself, sometimes all three, and all serenely unconscious of his presence. They attended her down to the carrier. She never went to the village any more that he could discover unless Miranda came for her, or Albert took her back and forth, though once he had seen her flying across the fields from Granny McVane's house with a bundle that looked as if it came from the store. He complained to Emmeline at last, and she agreed to help him. Albert was not taken into the scheme. For some reason it was deemed best not to tell Albert about it at all. He was apt to ask kindly searching questions, and he always took it for granted that one did everything with the best of motives. Besides, he was not quick at evasion, and might let the cat out of the bag. There was to be a barn raising about ten miles the other side of the village, and the whole country round about were invited. It happened that the Woodberries, whose barn was to be raised, were distant relatives of Emmeline, and of course the deans were going. Emmeline had shown plainly that she would be offended if Phoebe did not go, though the girl would have much preferred remaining at home with the new book Mrs. Bafford had sent up the day before. It was a matter of selfishness with Emmeline. She wanted Phoebe to help with the big dinner and relieve her so that she could visit with the other women. It was a part of the scheme that Albert should go in the chaise with Alma and should start while Phoebe was still dressing. Emmeline had managed Albert very adroitly, telling him that Hyrum wanted a chance to, set in the front seat with Phoebe in the carry-all. Albert, always willing to do a good turn, exceeded readily, though Alma was a somewhat reluctant passenger. When Phoebe came downstairs, she found Emmeline already seated in the back seat of the carry-all with the other children. She gladly got into the front seat, as it was much pleasanter to be there than beside Emmeline, and she seldom had the opportunity of riding beside her brother, who was more congenial than the others. But in a moment Hyrum Green appeared from around the corner of the house. He got quickly into the vacant seat beside Phoebe and whipped up the horses. Why, where is Albert? asked Phoebe in dismay, wishing she could get out. He had to go on, explained Emmeline blandly. Drive fast, Hyrum, we'll be late. This last because she fancied she saw a frightened sideways glance from Phoebe as if she might be going to get out. Phoebe turned her head to the roadside and tried to watch for the chance wildflowers and forget the talk of crops and gossip that was kept up between Emmeline and Hyrum. But the whole pleasant day was clouded for her, and her annoyance was double when they passed through the village and Janet Bristol, in dainty pink dimity, stared at them with haughty sweetness from under her white sheared bonnet and pink-lined sunshade. Janet was not going to the barn raising evidently. She had many interests outside of the village where she was born, and did not mingle freely with her fellow town's men. There were only a favored few who were her friends and had the privileges of the beautiful old house. Her passing called forth unfavorable comment from Emmeline and Hyrum, and Phoebe writhed at her sister-in-law's tone, loud enough for Janet to hear easily if she had a mind. The idea of wearing such fancy things of a morning, she exclaimed. I didn't think the judge was such a fool as to let his daughter come up like that, fixed up fit for a party this early, and a sunshade, too. What's she think it's for, I wonder? Her complexion's so dark, a little more of this weak sunshine couldn't make much difference. Maybe she thinks she looks fine, but she's much mistaken. A lazy girl all decked out never looks pretty to me. That's about right, declared Hyrum, as if he knew all about it. Give me a good worker every time, I says, in preference to one with ringlets and a nose-gay on her frock. But you couldn't speck much of that one. She's going to marry that high-falutin' Nate Graham, and they'll have money-nuff-twix them to keep her in prettys all the rest of her life. Say, did you hear Nate Graham had turned abolitionist? Well, it's so. I heard it from a reliable source. Have a friend in New York writes me once in a while, and I know what I'm talking about. Had it from headquarters like, you know? If it's so, he may get into trouble any time now. There's prices on them abolitionists' heads. Hyrum turned to look straight into Phoebe's startled face with an ugly lure of a laugh. The girl's cheeks grew pink, and she turned quickly away. Hyrum felt he had scored one against her. It made him good natured all day. But Phoebe found herself trembling with a single thought. Did it mean life or death, this that Daniel had asked her to pray about, and had perhaps her prayers helped to put him in the way of danger? Ah! But if it were true, how grand in him to be willing to brave danger for what he thought was right? Phoebe knew very little about the real question at issue, though she had read a number of Whittier's poems which had stirred her heart deeply. The great thought in her mind was that a man should be brave enough and good enough to stand against the whole world if need be, to help a weak brother. The day was one of noise and bustle, and for Phoebe hard work. By instinct the women put tasks upon her young shoulders, which they wished to shirk, knowing they would be well done. It was written large on Phoebe's face that she could be trusted. So they trusted her, and the fun and frolic and feasting went on, while she toiled in the kitchen, gladly taking extra burdens upon herself, only so it kept her out of any possibility of being troubled by Hyrum. She was washing dishes and meditating on how she could manage not to sit next to Hyrum on the return trip, when a little Woodbury entered the kitchen. Say, Phoebe Dean, she called out. Your brother says you're to go in the Shays with him this time, and when you get ready you come out to the barn and get in. He says you needn't hurry, for he's busy yet a while. The child was gone back to her play before Phoebe could thank her, and with lightened heart she went on washing the dishes. Perhaps Albert had surmised her dislike to writing with Hyrum and had planned this for her sake. She made up her mind to confide in Albert during this ride and see if he could not help her to get rid of her obnoxious lover once and for all. Albert was unusually slow and undecided, but when once in a great while he put his foot down about something, things usually went on as he said. She wiped the last dish, washed her hands, and ran upstairs for her bonnet and mantilla. Everybody else was gone. The long, slant rays of the setting sun were streaming in at the window and touching the great four-poster bed where lay her wraps alone. She put them on quickly, glad that everyone else was out of the way, and she would not have to wait for a lot of good-byes. The day had been a weariness to her, and she was thankful to have it over. Mr. and Mrs. Woodbury stood together by the great stepping stone in front of the house. They had said goodbye to Albert and Emmeline an hour before, and had just been seeing off the last wagonload of guests. They turned eagerly to thank Phoebe for her assistance. Indeed, the girl had many warm friends among older people who knew her kindly heart and willing hands. What! Your folks all gone and left you, Phoebe! exclaimed Mrs. Woodbury in dismay. Why, they must have forgot you. No, they're not all gone, Mrs. Woodbury. Our shez is out in the barn waiting for me. Albert sent word to me by your Martha that I needn't hurry, so I stopped to finish the dishes. Oh, now that's so good of you, Phoebe Dean, said the tired farmer's wife, who expected she would have plenty of cleaning to do after the departure of her large company of guests. You shouldn't have done that. I could have cleaned up. I'm afraid you're real tired. Wouldn't you like to stay overnight and get rested? But Phoebe shook hands happily with them and hurried down to the shez. Now the Woodbury barn was out near the road, and the shez stood facing the road, the horse not tied, but waiting with turned head as if his master was not far away. Phoebe jumped in with a spring, calling, Come on, Albert, I'm here at last. Did I keep you waiting long? Then before she had time to look round or know what was happening, Hyrum Green stepped out from the barn door, spraying into the seat beside her, and with unwonted swiftness caught up the whip and gave the horse such a cut that it started off at a brisk trot down the road. It was he who had sent the message by little Martha Woodbury, just as it had been given. Emmeline had managed the rest. Oh! gasped Phoebe. Why, Mr. Green, Albert is here waiting for me somewhere. Please stop the horse and let me find him. He sent word he would wait for me. That's all right, said Hyrum nonchalantly. Albert decided to go in the carry-all. Your sister-in-law was in a great stew to get back for milk and time, and made him come, so I offered to bring he back home. Phoebe's heart froze within her. She looked wildly about her and knew not what to do. The horse was going very fast, and to jump would be dangerous. She had no idea that Hyrum would stop and let her out if she should ask him. His talk the last time they had an encounter had shown her that she must not let him see he had her in his power. Besides, what excuse could she give for stopping save that she did not wish to go with him? And how otherwise could she get home that night? How she wished now that she had accepted Mrs. Woodbury's kind invitation. Could she not, perhaps, manage it yet? That's very kind of you, she faltered, with white lips, as she tried to marshal her wits and contrive some way out of this predicament. Then she made a faint of looking about her in the seat. I wonder if I remembered to bring my apron. She said faintly, would you mind, Mr. Green, just driving back to sea? Oh, I reckon you'll find it, Hyrum said easily. If you don't, you got a few more, ain't you? Here, ain't this it? And he fished out a damp roll from under the seat. Phoebe had hoped for one wild little moment that she had really dropped it when she got into the shez. For it did not seem to be about anywhere, but the sight of the damp blue roll dashed all her confidence. There was nothing for it but to accept the situation as bravely as possible and make the best of it. Her impulse was to turn angrily and tell Hyrum Green that he had deceived her. But she knew that would do no good, and the safest thing was to act as if it were all right, and try to keep the conversation upon everyday topics. If he would only keep on driving at this pace the journey would not be so intolerably long after all, and they might hope to reach home a trifle before dark perhaps. She summoned all her courage and tried to talk pleasantly, although the countenance of the man beside her, as she stole a swift glance at his profile, frightened her. There was both triumph and revenge upon it. They had a pleasant day for the raising, Mr. Green, she began. And then to her horror he slowed the horse to a walk and sat back close to her as if he intended to enjoy the teta-teta to its full. It was an awful strain. Phoebe's cheeks blazed out in two red spots, and her eyes were bright with excitement. They dragged their slow way through a woods where the lights and shadows played in all the sweetness of spring odours. Phoebe sat up very straight, very much to her side of the shez, and laughed and talked as if she were wound up. Hyrum did not say much. He sat watching her, almost devouring the changefulness of her face, fully understanding her horror of him and this ride, yet determined to make her suffer every minute of the time. It made his anger all the greater as he saw her bravely try to keep up a semblance of respect toward him, and knew she did not feel it. Why could she not give it freely and not against her will? What was there about him she disliked? Never mind, she would pay for her dislike. She should see that she would have to treat him as she would treat those she liked whether she wished or no. She suggested that they better drive faster as it was getting late and would soon be dark. He said that did not matter, that Emeline had said they were not to hurry. She told him she would be needed, but he told her it was right she should have a little rest once in a while, and he smiled grimly as he said it, knowing the present ride was anything but a rest to the poor tried soul beside him. He seemed to delight in torturing her. The farther she edged away from him, the nearer he came to her, until when they emerged from the woods and met a cariol with some people they both knew, he was sitting quite over on her side, and she was almost out of her seat, her face a piteous picture of rage and helplessness. Emboldened by the expression on the faces of their acquaintances, Hyrum threw his arm across the back of the shez, until it quite encircled Phoebe's back, or would have if she had not sat upon the extreme front edge of the seat. They had reached a settlement of three houses, where a toll gate, spreading its white pole out across the way, and a little store and school house went by the name of the crossroads. Hyrum flung a bit of money out to the toll man, and drove on without stopping. Phoebe's heart was beating wildly. She could not sit thus on the edge of her seat another instant. Something must be done. Mr. Green, would you mind moving over just a little? I haven't quite enough room, she gasped. Oh, that's all right, said Hyrum, as heartily as if he really did not understand the situation. Just sit closer, don't be shy. His circling arm came round her waist, and by brute strength drew her up to him, so that it looked from behind as if they were a pair of lovers. The top of the shez was thrown back so that they could easily be seen. They had just passed the last house. It was the home of old Mrs. Dozenberry and her elderly daughter, Susanna. Living so far from the village, they made it a point not to miss anything that went by their door, and at this hour in the afternoon, when their simple tea was brewing, they both sat by the front window, ready to bob to the door the minute there was anything of interest. It is needless to say that they both bobbed on this occasion, the daughter with folded arms and alert beak like some old bird of prey, the mother just behind with quizzical, exclamatory interrogations written in every curve of her cap strings. Febe, glancing back wildly as she felt herself drawn beyond her power to stop it, saw them gaping at her in a maze, and her cheeks grew crimson with shame. Stop! she cried, putting out her hands and pushing against him. She might as well have tried to push off a mountain that was in her path. Hyrum only laughed and drew her closer till his ugly grizzled face was near to her own. She could feel his breath upon her cheek, and the horse was going faster now. She did not know just how it happened, whether Hyrum had touched him with his whip or spoken a low word. They were down the road out of sight of the dozen berries before she could wrench herself away from the scoundrel. Even then it was but that he might settle himself a little closer and more comfortably that he let go of her for a moment, and then the strong, cruel arm came back as if it had a right around her waist, and Hyrum's face came cheek to cheek with her own. She uttered one terrible scream and looked around, but there was no one in sight. The sun, which had been slowly sinking like a ball of burning opal, suddenly dropped behind a hill and left the world dull and ledden with a heavy sky of gray. Dark blue clouds seemed all round, which until now had not been noticed, and a quick uncertain wind was springing up. A low rumble behind them seemed to wrap them in a new dread, but the strong man's grasp held her fast and her screams brought no help. In the horror of the moment a thought of her mother came, and she wondered if that mother were where she could see her child, and whether it did not give her deep anguish, even in the bliss of heaven, to know she was in such straits. Then as the sharp stubble of Hyrum's upper lip brushed the softness of her cheek, fear gave her strength, and with a sudden mighty effort she broke from his grasp. Reaching out to the only member of the party who seemed it all likely to render any aid, Phoebe caught the reins and pulled back upon them with all her might, while her heart was lifted in a swift prayer for help. Then quick, as if in instant answer, while the gray plow horse reared back upon his haunches and plunged wildly in the air, came a brilliant flash of jagged lightning as if the sky was cloven in wrath and the light of heaven let through, and this was followed on the instant by a terrible crash of thunder. With an oath of mingled rage and awe, Hyrum pushed Phoebe from him and reached for the reins to try and soothe the frightened horse, who was plunging and snorting and trembling in fear. The shez was on the edge of a deep ditch, half filled with muddy water. One wheel was almost over the edge. Hyrum saw the danger and reached for the whip. He cut the horse a frantic lash which brought his forefeet to the ground again and caused him to start off down the road on a terrific gallop. But in that instant, while the shez poised on the edge of the ditch, Phoebe's resolve had crystallized into action. She gave a wild spring just as the cut from the whip sent the horse tearing headlong down the road. Her dress caught in the arm of the shez and for one instant she poised over the ditch. Then the fabric gave way and she fell heavily, striking her head against the fence and lay huddled in the muddy depths. Down the hard road echoed the heavy hoofbeats of the horse in frenzied gallop with no abatement, and over all the majestic thunder rolled. Her senses swam off into the relief of unconsciousness for a moment, but the cold water creeping up through her clothing chilled her back to life again, and in a moment more she had opened her eyes in wonder that she was lying there alone, free from her tormentor. She fancied she could hear the echo of the horse's feet yet, or was it the thunder? Then came the awful thought, what would happen if he returned and found her lying here? He would be terribly angry at her for having frightened the horse and jumped out of the shez. He would visit it upon her in some way she felt sure, and she would be utterly defenseless against him. There was not a soul in sight and it was growing suddenly dark. She must be at least six or seven miles away from home. She did not come that way often enough to be sure of distances. With new fear she sat up and crept out of the water. The mud was deep and it was difficult to step, but she managed to get away from the oozy soil and into the road again. Then in a panic she sprang across the ditch and crept under the fence. She must fly from here. When Hyrum succeeded in stopping the horse he would undoubtedly come back for her and she must get away before he found her. Which way should she go? She looked back upon the road but feared to go that way, lest he would go to those houses and search for her. There was no telling what he would say. She had no faith in him. He might say she had given him the right to put his arm around her. She must get away from here at once where he could not find her. Out to the right, across the road, it was all open country. There was nowhere she could take refuge nearby. But across this field and another there was a growth of trees and bushes. Perhaps she could reach there and hide and so make her way home after he had gone. She fled across the spring sodden field as fast as her soaked shoes and her trembling limbs could carry her. Slipping now and then and almost falling, but catching at the fence and going on wildly, blindly, until she reached the fence. Once she thought she heard the distant bellowing of a bull, but she crept to the other side of the fence and kept on her way breathless. And now the storm broke into wild splashes of rain, pelting on her face and hair, for her bonnet had fallen back and was hanging around her neck by its ribbons. The net had come off from her hair and the long locks blew about her face and lashed her in the eyes as she ran. It was dark as night and Phoebe could see but dimly where she was going. Yet this was a comfort to her rather than a source of fear. She felt it would be better cover for her hiding. Her worst dread was to come under the power of Hyrum Green again. So she worked her way through the fields, groping for the fences, and at last she reached an open road and stood almost afraid to try it, lest somewhere she should see Hyrum lurking. The lightning blazed and shivered all about her, trailing across the heavens in awful and wonderful display. The thunder shuttered above her until the earth itself seemed to answer, and she felt herself in a rocking abyss of horror. And yet the most awful thing in it all was the fact of Hyrum Green. She had heard all her life that the most dangerous place in a thunderstorm was under tall trees, yet so little did she think of it that she made straight for the shelter of the wood. And though the shocks crashed about her and seemed to be cleaving the giants of the forest, there she stayed until the storm had abated and the genuine darkness had succeeded. She was wet to the skin and trembling like a leaf. Her strongest impulse was to sink to the earth and weep herself into nothingness, but her common sense would not let her even sit down to rest. She knew she must start at once if she would hope to reach home. Yet by this time she had very little idea of where she was and how to get home. With another prayer for guidance she started out, keeping sharp lookout along the road with eyes and ears, that there might be no possibility of Hyrum's coming upon her unaware. Twice she heard vehicles in the distance and crept into the shelter of some trees until they passed. She heard pleasant voices talking of the storm and longed to cry out to them for help, yet dared not. What would they think of her, a young girl out alone at that time of night and in such a condition? Besides, they were all strangers. She dared not speak. And neither to friends would she have spoken, for they would have been all the more astonished to find her so. She thought longingly of Mrs. Spafford and Miranda, yet dreaded lest even Mrs. Spafford might think she had done wrong to allow herself to ride even a couple of miles with such a man as Hyrum Green after all the experience she had had with him. Yet as she plotted along she wondered how she could have done differently, unless indeed she had dared to pull up the horse and jump out at once. Yet very likely she would not have been able to make her escape from her tormentor as easily earlier in the afternoon as at the time when she had taken her unpremeditated leap into the ditch. As she looked back upon the experience it seemed as though the storm had been sent by Providence to provide her a shield and a way of escape. If it had not been for the storm the horse would not have been easily frightened into running, and Hyrum would soon have found her and compelled her to get into the shez again. What could she have done against his strength? She shuddered, partly with cold and partly with horror. A slender thread of a pale moon had come up, but it gave a sickly light and soon slipped out of sight again leaving only the kindly stars whose lights looked brilliant but so far away to-night. Everywhere was a soft dripping sound and the seething of the earth drinking in a good draft. Once when it seemed as if she had been going for hours she sat down on the wet bank to rest and a horse and rider galloped out of the blackness past her. She hid her white face in her lap and he may have thought her but a stump beside the fence. She was thankful he did not stop to see, but as yet nothing had given her a clue to her whereabouts and she was cold so terribly cold. At last she passed a house she did not know, and then another and another. Finally she made out that she was in a little settlement about three miles from the dean's farm. She could not tell how she had wandered nor how she came to be yet so far away when she must have walked at least twenty miles, but the knowledge of where she was brought her new courage. There was a road leading from this settlement straight to Granny McVanes, and she would not need to go back by the road where Hiram would search for her if indeed he had not already given up the search and gone home. The lights were out everywhere in this village, save in one small house at the farthest end, and she stole past that as if she had been a wraith. Then she breathed more freely as she came into the open country road again and knew there were but two or three houses now between herself and home. It occurred to her to wonder in a dull way if the horse had thrown Hiram out, and maybe he was hurt, and whether she might not, after all, have to send a search party after him. She wondered what he would do when he could not find her, supposing he was not hurt. Perhaps he had been too angry to go back for her, and her dread of him had been unnecessary, but she thought she knew him well enough to know that he would not easily give her up. She wondered if he would tell Albert and whether Albert would be worried. She was sure he would be, good, kind Albert. And what would Amaline say? Amaline, who had been at the bottom of all this, she was sure. And then her thoughts would trail on ahead of her in the wet, and her feet would leg behind and she would feel that she could not catch up. If only a kindly coach would appear. Yet she kept on, holding up her heavy head, and gripping her wet mantle close with her cold, cold hands, shivering as she went. Once she caught herself murmuring, oh mother, mother! And then wondered what it meant. So stumbling on, slower and more slowly, she came at last to the little house of Granny McVane, all dark and quiet, but so kindly looking in the night. She longed to crawl to the door step and lie down to die, but duty kept her on. No one must know of this if she could help it. That seemed to be the main thought she could grasp with her weary brain. The fields behind Granny McVane's were very myery. Three times she fell, and the last time almost lay still. But some stirring of brain and conscience helped her up and on again, across the last hillock, over the last fence, through the garden and up to the back door of her home. There was a light inside, but she was too far gone to think about it now. She tried to open the door, but the latch was heavy and would not lift. She fumbled and almost gave it up. But then it was opened sharply by Emmeline, with her hair in a hard knot and old lines under her eyes. She wore a wrapper over her night robe and a blanket around her shoulders. Her feet were thrust into an old pair of Albert's carpet slippers. She held a candle high above her head and looked out shrewdly into the night. It was plain she was just awake and fretted at the unusual disturbance. For pity's sake, Phoebe, is that you? Where on earth have you been? You've had us all upside down, hunting for you, and Albert ain't got home yet. I told him twas no use, you'd most likely gone in somewheres out of the storm, and you'd be home all right in the morning. But it's just like your crazy ways to come home in the middle of the night. For goodness' sake, what a sight you are! You ain't coming in the house like that. Why, there'll be mud to clean for a week. Stop there till I get some water in a broom. But Phoebe, with deathly white face and eyes that saw not, stumbled past her without a word, the water and mud oozing out of her shoes at every step and dripping from her garments. Her sod and bonnet dejectedly upon her shoulders, her hair one long drenched mantle of darkness. Emeline, half odd by the sight, stood still in the doorway and watched her go upstairs, realizing that the girl did not know what she was doing. Then she shut the door sharply as she had opened it and followed Phoebe upstairs. Phoebe held out until she reached her own door and opened it. Then she sank without a sound upon the floor and lay there as if dead. All breath and consciousness had fluttered out, it seemed, with that last effort. Emeline set the candle down with a sudden startled exclamation and went to her. She felt her hands so cold, like ice, and her face like wet marble, and hard as she was she was frightened. Her conscience, so long enjoying a vacation, leaped into new life and became active. What part had she borne in this that seemed as if it might yet be a tragedy? She unlaced the clotted shoes, untied the soaked bonnet, pulled off the wet garments one by one, and wrapped the girl in thick warm blankets, dragging her light weight to the bed. But still no sign of consciousness had come. She felt her heart and listened for a breath, but she could not tell yet if she were alive or not. Then she went downstairs with hurried steps, flapping over the kitchen floor in the large carpet slippers, and stirred up the fire that had been banked down, putting the kettle over it to heat. In a little while she had plenty of hot water and various remedies applied. But life seemed scarcely yet to have crept back to her, only a flutter of the eyelids now and then, or a fleeting breath like a sigh. The dawn was coming on, and Albert's voice in low, strained tones could be heard outside. No, I'm not going to stop for anything to eat, Hyrum. You may if you like, but I shall not stop till I find her. It's been a real bad night, and to think of that little girl out in it I can't bear it. There seemed to be something like a sob in Albert's last words. Well, suit yourself! answered Hyrum gruffly. I'm pretty well played out. I'll go home and get a bite, and then I'll come and meet you. You'll likely find her back at the wood-berries, I reckon. She wanted to go back, I mind now. We ought to have gone there in the first place. The voices were under her window. Phoebe slowly opened her eyes, and shuddering, grasped Emma Lyne's hand so tightly that it hurt her. Oh, don't let him come! Don't let him come! she pleaded and sank away into unconsciousness again. It was a long time before they could rouse her, and when she finally opened her eyes she did not know them. A fierce and terrible fever had flamed up in her veins, till her face was brilliant with color, and her long, dark hair was scorched dry again in its fires. Granny McVane came quietly over the next day and offered to nurse her. Then the long, blank days of fever stretched themselves out for the unconscious girl, and a fight between life and death began. Now it happened that on that very afternoon of the barn raising, Mistress Janet Bristol, in all the bravery of her pink and white frills and furblows, with a bunch of pink moss roses at her breast and her haughtiest air, drove over to the deans to call upon Phoebe, in long delayed response to her cousin Nathaniel's most cousinly letter, requesting her to do so. She had parleyed long with herself whether she would go or not, but at last curiosity to see what there was in this country girl to attract her handsome, brilliant cousin led her to go. One can scarcely conjecture what Emma Lyne would have said and thought if she had seen the grand carriage drive up before her door with its colored coachman and footman in livery. But no one was at home to tell the tale, save the white lilacs on the great bush near the front gate, who waved a welcome rich with fragrance. Perhaps they sent the essence of the welcome Phoebe would have gladly given to this favoured girl whom she admired. So half-petulant at this reception, when she had condescended to come, she scanned the house for some trace of the life of this unknown girl, and drove away with the memory of lilac fragrance floating about a dull and commonplace house. She drove away half-determined she would tell her cousin she had done her best and would not go again. There was no sign left behind to tell this other girl of the lost call. It is doubtful if Janet had been able to carry out her purpose that afternoon and make her call upon Phoebe, whether either of the two would have been able to find and understand the other at that time. Janet drove back to her own world again, and the door between the two closed. That very evening's mail brought a brief letter from Nathaniel, saying his dear friend and chum, Martin van Rensselaer, would be coming north now in a few days, and he desired Janet to invite him to spend a little time in the old home. He would try an arrange to get away from his work and run up for a few days, and they would all have a good time to gather. So while this other girl, whose uncheltered life had been so full of sorrow, was plotting her way through the darkness and rain alone in the night with fear, Janet Bristol sat in her stately parlor, where a bright hearth fire cast rosy lights over her white frock, and planned pretty wiles for the beguiling of the young theolog.