Here a smile came upon the faces of the company, but they were too
polite to make any comment on what had called forth the smile. The
Master of the House asked permission to light a cigar, and the Old
Professor, who never smoked, remarked: "There is deep philosophy in all
this."

"I don't know about the philosophy," said the Next Neighbor, "but it is
absolute truth. Well, after a time I began to wish that Miss Temple
lived near our home, because she would be such an admirable person for a
friend and neighbor. Then, suddenly, without any warning, there flashed
through me the strangest feeling I ever had in my life. I must have
turned pale, for Miss Temple asked me if I did not feel ill. I soon
recovered from the effects of this strange feeling, and went on talking;
but I was very glad when Mrs. Cheston came home, and took the
conversation out of my hands.

"For two or three days after this my mind was very much troubled, and
Bernard thought that the air of that part of the country did not agree
with me, and that we ought to go to the sea-shore. But this I positively
refused to consider. There could be no sea-shore for me until a good
many things had been settled. It was at this time that I first began to
think that we cannot grow up fresh and green and blossom undisturbed,
and that we must consider untimely cows coming along.

"To make the state of my mind clearly understood, I must say that there
is an hereditary disease in my family. I had never thought anything
about it, for there had been no reason why I should; but now I did
think about it, and there did seem to be reason. My grandfather had had
this disease, and had died of it. To be sure, he was very old; but that
did not matter: he died of it, all the same. It never troubled my
father, but this made no difference, so far as I was concerned, for I
have always heard that hereditary diseases are apt to skip a generation,
and if this one had skipped, there was nobody for it to skip to but me;
for I have no brothers or sisters.

"The more I thought on this subject, the more troubled my mind became,
and at last I believed it to be my duty to speak to Bernard, although I
did not tell him all my thoughts; for I had had a good many that were
not necessarily connected with hereditary diseases. I was positively
amazed at the way my husband received what I told him. I had expected
that perhaps he might pooh-pooh the whole thing, but he did nothing of
the kind. He became very serious, and talked to me in the most earnest
way.

"'Now, Rosa,' said he, 'I am glad you told me about this, and I want to
impress it upon your mind that you must be very careful. In the first
place, you must totally give up hot spirits and water. You must not
drink more than two glasses of wine, or three at the utmost, at any of
your meals. When you get up in the morning you must totally abstain from
drinking those mixtures that are taken by some people to give appetite
for breakfast. At night you must try to do without any sort of punch or
toddy to make you sleep. If you will take this advice, and restrict
yourself to water and milk, and not over-rich food, I think you may
reasonably expect to live longer than your grandfather did, although I
cannot imagine why any one should want to live that long.'

"Of course I was angry at all this, for I saw then that he was making
fun of me; and I said no more to him, for he was not in the right frame
of mind to listen to me. But I did not stop thinking.

"I now became very intimate with Miss Temple. I began to like her very
much, and I think she liked me. I continued to study her, and I became
convinced that she was a woman to whom a very fastidious man might be
attracted--I do not mean that he would fall in love with her, but that
he would be perfectly satisfied with her. In fact, I summed up her
character by assuring myself that in every way she was perfectly
satisfactory. I have known other women who were more charming, but they
all had faults; and I do not see how any one could have found fault with
Miss Temple.

"One day we had taken a long walk, and were on our way home when I began
to talk to her about my own affairs. I thought I knew her so well in a
general way that the time had come for me to find out some things more
definitely. I began in an offhand but cautious manner to talk about
Bernard. I alluded to his love of outdoor sports, and mentioned that I
thought it my duty frequently to speak to him in regard to the terrible
consequences which might follow a false step when he was out fishing,
and that I thought it necessary to repeat this advice very often, for it
was my opinion he paid very little attention to it. I also made several
other allusions to his indisposition to take care of himself, and
remarked how very necessary it was for me to look after his health. I
mentioned his great carelessness in regard to flannel, and told her that
it was often quite late in the autumn before he would make any change in
his clothing.

"Then I spoke of his domestic habits; and, as I saw Miss Temple seemed
much interested, I talked a good deal about them. He was the most loving
husband in the world, I said, and was always anxious to know what he
could do for me more than he was already doing; but when we were in the
city he did like to go out in the evenings, and I thought he went to his
club too often. Of course, I said, I did not say anything to him about
it, for I would not want him to think that I desired him to deny himself
the company of other gentlemen; but the habit of club attendance was one
that might grow on a man, especially a young one, and there were a good
many other things that might result from it, such as excessive smoking.
So I had thought it well to offer him additional inducements for
spending his evenings at home, and I had begun a regular system of
reading aloud. It had proved very beneficial to both of us, for I chose
good, standard books; and although he sometimes went to sleep, that was
to be expected, for Bernard was a hard-working man. As for myself, I
liked this reading aloud very much, although at first it was rather
tiresome, as I had never been used to it. Then I asked her if she liked
reading aloud--it is such a good way of giving pleasure to others at the
same time that you are pleasing yourself. She smiled, and said she was
very fond of reading aloud.

"Then I changed the subject to churches and preachers, for I did not
want her to think I was saying too much about my husband, and asked
her who was the best preacher in the village. When she said it was
Mr. Barnes, I asked her if she went to his church. She answered that she
did, and then I told her that I was also an Episcopalian, but that
Bernard's parents were Methodists. I did not think, however, that this
would make much difference, for when he began to go regularly to church,
I was sure he would rather go with me than to travel off somewhere by
himself.

"I did not suppose that Miss Temple would care so much about what I was
saying, but she did seem to care, and listened attentively to every
word.

"'You must not think I am talking too much about my family affairs,' I
remarked, 'but doesn't it strike you that a really good wife ought to
try just as hard as she can to be on good terms with her husband's
family, no matter how queer they may be? I mean the women in it; for
they are more likely to be queer than the men. For if she does not do
this,' I continued, 'the worst of the trouble, if there is any, will
come on him. He will have to take sides either with his wife or his
sisters,--and mother too, if he happens to have one,--and that would be
sure to make him unhappy if he is a good-hearted man, such as Bernard
is.'

"At this Miss Temple burst out laughing, and it was the first time I
had ever heard her laugh so heartily. As soon as she could speak she
exclaimed: 'Are you going to ask me to marry your husband if you should
happen to die?'

"I must have turned as red as the most scarlet poppy, for I felt my face
burn. I hesitated a little, but I was obliged to tell the truth, and so
I stammered out that I had been thinking of something of the kind.

"'Oh, please don't look so troubled,' said she. 'Several persons have
spoken to me on the same subject; but I never should have dreamed that
such an idea would come into your head. I think it is the funniest thing
in the world!' And then she laughed again.

"I was greatly embarrassed, and all I could say was that I hoped I had
not offended her.

"'Oh, not in the least,' she said. 'I am getting used to this sort of
thing, and I can bear it.'

"This remark helped me very much, for I resented it. 'I do not see what
there is to bear,' I said. 'Such a man as Bernard--and then I have
special reasons--'

"'Oh, yes,' she interrupted quickly; 'each one has a special reason. But
there is one general reason that is common to all. Now tell me, my
dear,'--and as she spoke she took both my hands and looked steadily into
my face,--'were you not about to ask me to marry your husband, in case
of your death, because you could think of it without being jealous of
me, and because you are afraid he might marry some one of whom you would
probably be jealous if you knew of it?'

"She looked at me in such a kind, strong way that I was obliged to
confess that this was my reason for speaking to her about Bernard. 'I
cannot exactly explain,' I added, and my face burned again, 'why I
should think about you in this way; but I hope you will not imagine--'

"'Oh, I shall not imagine anything that will be disagreeable to you,'
she said; and she looked just as good-humored as possible."

"Does that lady live in any place where my wife can get at her?" asked
the Master of the House, as the Next Neighbor paused to take breath.

"I have not yet developed a disease," said the Mistress of the House.

"Well, when you do, please find that woman. She is a very good sort."

"I shall have an opinion on that subject, papa," said the Daughter of
the House.

"You little minx!" he replied. "I shall see that you are provided for
before that."

"It is not well to joke about so serious a matter," said the Next
Neighbor, "as you will see when I finish my story.

"For a little while Miss Temple walked on in silence, and I tried hard
to think of what would be proper for me to say next, when suddenly she
stopped.

"'We are not far from the house now,' she said, 'and before we get there
I want to set your mind at rest by telling you that if you should die
before your husband, and if nothing should happen at any time or in any
way to interfere with such a plan, I will marry your Bernard and take
good care of him. I have never made such a positive promise to any one,
but I do not mind making it to you. I am sure I need not ask you to say
nothing about this compact to your husband.'

"I was stunned, but I managed to stammer: 'Oh, no, indeed!'

"Fortunately for me, Miss Temple did not stay to supper. I do not think
I could have borne to see her and Bernard together. It was bad enough
as it was. I felt greatly humiliated; I could not understand how I could
have done such a thing. It was worse than selling a birthright--it was
giving away the dearest thing on earth. I trembled from head to foot
when Bernard came home from fishing. I do not believe I ever before
greeted him so affectionately. My emotion troubled him, and he asked me
if I were ill, and if I had been lonely and bored while he was away. He
was just as good as good could be, and began to talk again about going
to the sea-shore. I did not object this time, for I could not know what
would be best to do.

"In the evening, after every one else had gone indoors, I begged him to
sit longer on the piazza, and to smoke another cigar. He was quite
surprised, because, as he said, I had never asked him to do such a thing
before, but had rather discouraged his smoking. But I declared I wanted
to sit with him in the moonlight all by ourselves. And so we did until
his cigar was finished.

"For the first hour of that night I did not sleep a wink, my mind was so
troubled. I felt as though I were not really Bernard's wife, but some
sort of a guardian angel who was watching over him to see that somebody
else made him happy. After I had thus been in the depths of grief for a
long while, I became angry.

"'She shall never have him!' I said to myself. 'I will make it the
object of my life to live longer than he does. My grandfather lived to
be much older than ordinary men, and why should not I have as long a
life? Perhaps it was the things he ate and drank, and his jovial
disposition, that gave him such longevity. If I were sure of this I
would be willing to take hot drinks at night, and wine at dinner. No;
Bernard must not be left behind.' It was while making up my mind very
firmly about this that I fell asleep.

"The next morning I was possessed with an overwhelming desire to go to
see Miss Temple. Why I should do so I could not tell myself. I certainly
did not want to see her; I did not wish to speak to her; I did not want
her to say anything to me: but I felt that I must go; and I went. She
received me very pleasantly, and did not say one word about our
conversation of the day before. There were a good many things I should
have liked to say, but I did not know how, unless she gave me the
opportunity. But she did not, and so it happened that we talked only
about something she was sewing--I do not know whether it was a
shirt-waist or an army blanket. In fact, I did not hear one word she
said about her stupid work, whatever it was, I was so busy re-studying
her face, her character, and everything about her. I now found she was
much more than satisfactory--she was really good-looking. Her eyes were
not very large, but they were soft and dark. Her voice was clear and
sweet. I had noticed this before, but, until now, I had not thought of
it as an objection. There were a good many other things that might be
very effective to a man, especially to one with half-healed sorrows. I
acknowledged to myself that I had been mistaken in her, and I did not
doubt she had deceived a good many other people in that neighborhood.

"When I rose to leave, she stood for a moment, looking at me as though
she expected me to say something on the subject which was certainly
interesting to her as well as to me. But now I did not want to talk, and
I gave her no chance to say anything. I walked rapidly home, feeling as
jealous of Margaret Temple as any woman could feel of another.

"I was glad that day that Bernard liked to go fishing, for my mind was
in such a condition that I did not think of anything that might happen
to him--at least, anything but just one thing, and that was awful. Emily
Cheston supposed I had a headache, and I let her think so, for it gave
me more time to myself. I looked at the thing that threatened to crush
all my happiness, on every possible side. Early in the morning a ray of
relief had come to my troubled mind, and this was that I did not believe
he would have her, anyway. But I had seen her since, and no such ray
comforted me now.

"I knew, as I had not known before, what a power she might have over a
man. Widowers, I thought, are generally ready enough to marry again;
but, no matter what they think about it, they mostly wait a good while,
for the sake of appearances. But this would be different. When a man
knows that his wife had selected some one as her successor--and he would
be sure to know this, the woman would see to that--he would not feel it
necessary to wait. He would be carrying out his dead wife's wishes, and
of course in this there should be no delay. Oh, horrible! When I thought
of myself as Bernard's dead wife, and that woman living, I actually
kicked the stool my feet were resting on. I vowed in my mind the thing
should never be. I felt better after I had made this vow, although I had
not thought of any way by which I could carry it out. Certainly I was
not going to say anything to Bernard about it, one way or another."

Here the Next Neighbor paused again. And at that moment the red thrush
gave a little low trill, as much as to say: "Listen to me now." Then he
twittered and chirped in a tentative way as if he had not made up his
mind about singing, and the party on the terrace felt like clapping to
encourage him.

"I wonder if he knows he has an audience," said the Daughter of the
House, in a very low tone.

"He knows it is impolite to interrupt the story," said her father. "No;
there he goes!"

And, sure enough, the bird, having decided that on the whole it would
help matters in whatever direction he wished them to be helped, sang
out, clear and loud, what seemed to his audience the most delightful
song he had yet given them.

When he had finished, the Next Neighbor said: "That was so full of soul
I hate to go on with my very material story."

"It strikes me," said the Old Professor, "that there is a good deal of
soul in your story."

"Thank you," said the Next Neighbor, as she again took up the thread of
her narrative.

"That evening, prompted by a sudden impulse, I went up to Bernard, and,
looking into his face, I declared that I would never leave him.

"'What!' he exclaimed. 'Has any one been asking you to leave me?'

"'Of course not,' said I, a little irritated--he has such queer ways of
taking what I say. 'I mean I am not going to die before you do. I am not
going to leave you in this world to take care of yourself.'

"He looked at me as though he did not understand me, and I do not
suppose he did, although he only said: 'I am delighted to hear that, my
dear girl. But how are you going to manage it? How about that hereditary
disease you were talking of the other day?'

"'I have nothing to say about that,' I answered; 'but if I live as long
as my grandfather did, I do not believe that your being a little older
than I am would--I mean that you would not be left alone. Don't you
understand?'

"Bernard did not laugh. 'You are the dearest little woman in the world,'
he said, 'and I believe you would do anything to make me happy--you
would even be willing to survive me, so that I should never lose you.
But don't let us talk any more about such doleful things. We are both
going to live to be a great deal older than your grandfather. Now I will
tell you something pleasant: I had a letter this morning, just as I was
starting out. I put it in my pocket, and did not have time to open it
until we were eating our lunch. It is from my brother George, who is
going to England next month, you know; and as he wants to see something
of us before he starts, he intends to spend a few days in the village,
so that he can be with us. He is coming to-morrow.'

"A ray of hope shot into my heart so bright that I could almost feel it
burn.

"'Well,' said Bernard, 'what have you to say to this? Aren't you glad
that George is coming?'

"'Glad!' I replied. 'I am more than delighted.'

"Bernard looked as though he did not understand this extraordinary
ecstasy; but as he was used to not understanding me, I do not suppose
he thought it worth while to bother himself about it.

"George was a fine young fellow, and, next to Bernard, I thought he was
the best man in the world. It will be remembered that I had no brother,
and George was always as kind and brotherly as he could be. I was fond
of him even before I was married; in fact, I knew him quite well before
I became acquainted with Bernard; and I was always glad to see him. But
I had never been so delighted to think he was coming as I was then. My
face must have shown this, for Bernard laughingly said:

"'You must be awfully glad to see George.'

"'I am glad,' I answered; and as I spoke I thought that if he knew
everything he would understand why my eyes glistened, as I am sure they
did.

"The reason of my great joy was that a plan had suddenly come into my
mind. George had spoken to me several times about marrying, and he had
told me just what kind of a wife he wanted; and now, as I remembered
what he had said on the subject, it seemed to me he had been describing
Margaret Temple. He wanted a wife who was good-looking but not a belle,
and she must be sensible and practical, a good housekeeper, and a
charming hostess. Besides, she must be intellectual, and fond of books,
and appreciate art, and all that. Moreover, he had said he would like
her to be just about a year older than himself, because he thought that
was a good proportion in a young couple. It was apt to make the man look
up to his wife a little, which might not be the case if he were the
elder. I remembered this, because when he told me I wished very much
that I were a year older than Bernard.

"Now, as I said before, all this seemed as though he had been talking of
Miss Temple; and I, knowing her so well, could see other points than
those he mentioned in which she would suit him as no other woman could.
If George would fall in love with Miss Temple,--and there was no earthly
reason why he should not, for Bernard told me he was going to make him
stay a week,--then everything would be all right; all my anxieties, my
forebodings, and my jealousies would be gone, and I should be as happy
as I was before I met that dear girl, Miss Temple.

"This was not all idle fancy. My plan was founded on good, practical
ideas. If George married Margaret everything would be settled in an
absolutely perfect way. If I should die Bernard would not need to marry
anybody; in fact, I did not believe that in this case he would want to.
He would go to live with George and Margaret; their home would be his
home, and he would always have both of them to take care of him and to
make him happy in every possible way in which anybody could make him
happy. In my mind's eye I could see him in the best room in the house,
with all sorts of comforts and luxuries about him--our present comforts
and luxuries would make a great show gathered together in one room; and
then I saw Margaret and George standing at the open door, asking if
there were anything he would like, and what they could do for him. As
this mental picture came before me my eyes involuntarily went around
that room to see if there were a picture of me on the wall; and there it
was, and no portrait of any other woman anywhere about.

"In a flash the whole thing became so horrible to me that I threw myself
on the bed and began to cry convulsively. Bernard heard me, and came
up-stairs, and I was obliged to tell him I had a sudden pain. He does
not like sudden pains, and sat down and talked to me a good while about
what I had been eating. Before long, however, I grew calm, and was able
to think about my plans in a common-sense, practical way. Truly there
could be nothing better for my present comfort and Bernard's future
happiness: Margaret and George to take care of him, and my image
undimmed in his heart. I felt like one who has insured his life for the
benefit of a loved one, so, no matter what might happen to him, he would
have, as long as he lived, the joy of knowing what he had done for the
loved one.

"When George came the next day he was just the same splendid old George,
and I do not believe any one ever received a warmer welcome from a
sister-in-law than I gave him. Bernard made a little fun of me, as
usual, and said he believed I would rather see George than him.

"'Nonsense,' said I; 'I am always glad to see you, but I am especially
glad to see George.'

"Bernard whistled, and looked at me in the same queer way that he looked
at me when he once had said laughingly that he believed if I had never
met him I would have married George, and I had answered that if I had
been sure he did not exist it might have been a good thing for me to
marry George.

"Miss Temple did not come to the house that morning, as she so often
did, but I asked Emily to send over and invite her to tea; for I did not
wish to lose any time in the carrying out of my plans. It was about the
middle of the afternoon when Bernard and his brother came in from a
walk. I had been anxious to see George, because I wanted to talk with
him about Margaret before he met her. I was going to speak very
guardedly, of course; but I knew it would be well to prepare his mind,
and I had made up my mind exactly what I was going to say.

"I artfully managed so that George and I walked over the lawn to a bench
in the shade of a big tree where there was something or other--I
entirely forget what it was--which I said I would show him. Mr. and
Mrs. Cheston and Bernard were on the piazza, but I did not ask them to
join us.

"We sat down on the bench, and, in a general sort of way, I asked him
what he had been doing, meaning presently to bring up the subject of
Margaret, for I did not know what time she might drop in. But George was
just as anxious to talk as I was, and, being a man, he was a little more
pushing, and he said:

"'Now, little Rosa, I am so glad you came down here with me, for I have
something on my mind I want to tell you, and I want to do it myself,
before anybody else interferes. It is just this: I am engaged to be
married, and as soon as I get back from England I am going to--' And
then he opened his eyes very wide and looked hard at me. 'What is the
matter, Rosa?' he exclaimed. 'Don't you feel well?'

"In one instant all my plans and hopes and happy dreams of the future
had dropped to the ground, and had been crushed into atoms.

"'Well!' said I, and I think I spoke in a queer voice. 'I am very well.
There is nothing the matter with me. What is her name?'

"He told me; but I had never heard it before, and it was of no more
importance to me than the buzzing of a bee.

"'It will be very nice,' I said; 'and now let us go up to the house and
tell the others.'

"I think that for a woman who had just received such a blow as had been
dealt to me I behaved very well indeed. But I was cold and, I suspect,
pale. I listened as the others talked, but I did not say much myself;
and, as soon as I could make some excuse, I went up to my room. There I
threw myself into a great chair, and gently cried myself to sleep. I did
not sob loudly, because I did not want Bernard to come up again. When I
awoke I had a dreadful headache, and I made up my mind I would not go
down to tea. I could do no good by going down, and, so far as I was
concerned, it did not matter in the least whether Margaret was there or
not. In fact, I did not care about anything. Let George marry whoever he
pleased. If I should die Margaret Temple had promised to take care of
Bernard. Everything was settled, and there was no sense in making any
more plans. So I got ready for another nap, and when Bernard came up I
told him I had a headache, and did not want any tea.

"That evening Bernard sat and looked at me without speaking, as was
sometimes his habit, and then he said:

"'Rosa, I do not understand this at all, and I want you to tell me why
you were so extravagantly glad when you found my brother George was
coming here, and why you were so overcome by your emotions when you
heard of his engagement.'

"'Oh, Bernard,' I cried, 'if it were anybody else I might tell
everything, but I cannot tell you--I cannot tell you!' And I am sure I
spoke truly, for how could I have told that dear man what I had said to
Margaret Temple; and how jealous I had been of her afterwards; and how I
had planned for her to marry George; and that, after my funeral, he
should go to live with them; and about my picture on the wall; and all
the rest of it? It was simply impossible. And if he did not know all
this, how could he understand my feelings when I heard that George was
engaged?

"I could not answer him; I could only sob, and repeat what I had said
before--that if it were anybody else I might speak, but that I could
never tell him. Soon after that he went down-stairs, and I went to
sleep.

"Bernard was never cross with me,--I do not believe he could be if he
tried,--but the next morning he was very quiet, and soon after breakfast
he and Mr. Cheston and George went fishing. If the incidents of the day
before had not occurred I suppose they would have done something in
which Emily and I could have joined; but some sort of change had come
over things, and it was plain enough that even George did not want me.
So I sat alone under the tree where George had told me of his
engagement, feeling very much troubled and very lonely. I wanted to tell
everything to somebody, but there was no one to tell. It would be
impossible to speak to Emily; she would have no sympathy with me; and if
I should tell her everything I had planned, I knew she would laugh at me
unmercifully. I think it would have pleased me better to speak to George
than to any one else; he had always been so sympathetic and kind; but
now things were changed, and he would not care to interest himself in
the affairs of any woman except the one to whom he was engaged. It was
terrible to sit there and think that there was not a person in the
world, not even my husband, to whom I could look for sympathy and
comfort. If I had not been out in the open air, where people could have
seen me, I should have cried.

"Happening to look up, I saw some one on the piazza. It was that
horrible Margaret Temple; and when she gazed about from side to side she
saw me under the tree, and as I, apparently, took no notice of her, she
stepped down from the piazza and came walking across the lawn toward me.
If I had been a man I should have cursed my fate; not only was I
deprived of every comfort, but here came the disturber of my peace to
make me still more unhappy.

"I do not remember what she said when she reached me, but I know she
spoke very pleasantly; nor do I remember what I replied, but I am sure I
did not speak pleasantly. I was out of humor with the whole world, and
particularly with her. She brought a little chair that was near by, and
sat down by me. She was a very straightforward person about speaking,
and so she said, without any preface:

"'Have you told your husband of that arrangement you made with me if he
should survive you?'

"'Of course I have not!' I exclaimed. 'Do you think I would tell him a
thing like that, especially when I said I would not? The fact is,' I
continued,--and it was very hard for me to keep from crying as I
spoke,--'I am just loaded down with trouble, and I cannot tell anybody.'

"'I knew you were troubled,' she replied, 'and that is the reason I came
this morning. Why can't you tell me what is the matter?'

"At first this made me angry, and I felt like bouncing off to the house
and never speaking to her again; but in the next instant I changed my
mind. It would serve her right if I told her everything; and so I did.
I made her feel exactly how I had felt when I had thought of her in my
place, and how I had determined that it should never be. Then I went on
and told her all my plans about George and herself; and how Bernard was
to board with them if I died. I made the story a good deal longer than
I have made it here. Then I finished by telling her of George's
engagement, and how nothing had come of the whole thing except that
Bernard had supposed that I thought too much of George, and had gone
away that morning as cold as a common acquaintance; and that I felt as
though my whole life had been wrecked, and that she had done it.

"It was easy to see that she was not affected as she should have been by
what I said. In fact, she looked as though she wanted to laugh; but her
respect for me prevented that.

"'I do not see,' she said, 'how I have wrecked your life.'

"'That may be so,' I answered, 'but it is because you do not want to see
it. I should think that even you would admit that it is enough to drive
me crazy to see any woman waiting and longing for the day which would
give her that which I prize more than anything else in the world. And to
think what you are aspiring to! None of the old left-overs that other
people have offered to you, but my Bernard, the very prince of men! I do
not wonder you were so quick to promise me you would take him!'

"She jumped up, and I thought she was going away; but she did not go,
and turned again toward me, and remarked, just as coolly as anybody
could speak: 'Well, I do not wonder, either. Your Bernard is a most
estimable man, and if nothing should happen in any way or at any time to
interfere in the case of his surviving you I shall be happy to marry
him. I think I would make him a very good wife.'

"At this I sprang to my feet, and I am sure my eyes and cheeks were
blazing. 'Do you mean,' I cried, 'that you would make him a better wife
than I do?'

"'That is a question,' she said, 'that is not easy to answer, and needs
a good deal of consideration.' And she spoke with as much deliberation
as if she were trying to decide whether it would be better to cover a
floor with matting or carpet. 'For one thing, I do not believe I would
nag him.'

"'Nag!' I exclaimed. 'What do you mean by that? Do you suppose I nag
him?'

"'I do not know anything about it,' she answered, 'except what you told
me yourself; and what you said was my reason for agreeing so quickly to
your proposition.'

"'Nag!' I cried. But then I stopped. I thought it would be better to
wait until I could think over what I had said to her before I pursued
this subject. 'But I can tell you one thing,' I continued, 'and that is
that you need not have any hopes in the direction of my husband. I am
going to tell him everything just as soon as he comes home, even about
you and George; and I am going to make him promise that, no matter what
happens, he will never marry you.'

[Illustration: "Do you mean," I cried, "that you would make him a better
wife than I do?"]

"I think these words made some impression on her, for she answered very
quickly: 'I am not sure that it will be wise to tell him everything; but
if you are determined to do so, I must insist that you will tell him
something more; and that is that I am engaged to be married, and have
been for nearly a year.'

"'And you have been deceiving all these anxious wives?' I cried.

"'I never made promises to any one but to you,' she answered; 'and I
would not have done that if I had not liked you so much.'

"'You have a funny way of liking,' I remarked.

"She merely smiled, and went on: 'And I should not have told you of my
engagement if I had not thought it would be safer to do so, considering
the story you are going to tell your husband.'

"'And it is because I consider it safer that I am going to tell him that
story,' I replied.

                *       *       *       *       *

"That afternoon, as soon as I was alone with Bernard,--I did not give
him any time to show me any of his common-acquaintance coolness,--I told
him the whole thing from beginning to end. He listened so earnestly that
one might have thought he was in church; but when I came to the part
about his boarding with George and Miss Temple he could not help
laughing. He excused himself, however, and told me to go on. He looked
very happy when I had told him my story, and no one would have supposed
that he had ever assumed the air of a mere common acquaintance.

"'You are such a good little wife!' he exclaimed. 'And you are always
trying to do things to make me happy. But you must not take so much
labor and anxiety upon yourself. I want to help you in every way that I
can, and in such a case you ought to let me do it.'

"'But how could you help me in the trouble I have been telling you
about?' I asked.

"'Easily enough,' he answered. 'Now, if you had taken me into your
confidence, I would have told you that I consider Miss Temple too tall a
woman for my fancy.'

"'She is,' I said. 'I did not think so at first, but I can see it
plainly now.'

"'Then, again, she is too practical-minded.'

"'Entirely too much so,' I agreed.

"'And in other respects she is not up to my standard,' continued
Bernard. 'So I think, Rosa, that if you should ever take up such a
scheme again we should act together. I am sure my opinion would be of
great advantage to you in helping you to select some one who should take
up the work of making me happy--'

"'You are perfectly horrid!' I exclaimed; and I stopped his mouth.

"That was the end of the matter; but I never learned to like Margaret
Temple. To be sure, I thought seriously of some things she had said; but
then, people can consider things people say without liking the people
who say them. I pity her husband."

Just then came the summons to luncheon, and this story was not commented
upon.




                      THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

                           JOHN GAYTHER

                          AND IS CALLED

                      BLACKGUM AG'IN' THUNDER




XI

BLACKGUM AG'IN' THUNDER


John Gayther and the Daughter of the House walked in the garden. The
melons were ripe now, and it was a pleasure to push aside the coarse
leaves and find beneath them the tropical-looking fruit with the pretty
network tracery covering the gray-green rind. The grape-vines, too, were
things of beauty, hanging full of great white, yellow, red, and purple
clusters. The tomatoes gleamed scarlet and purple-red thickly among the
plants. The cabbages had curled themselves up into compact heads that
looked like big folded roses set in an open cluster of leaves. There
were rows of green-leaved turnips, red-leaved beets, and feathery-leaved
carrots. The ears were standing stiff in the corn rows.

In the orchard the peaches were rosy and downy, the plums ready to drop
with lusciousness; ruddy-cheeked pears were crowded on the drooping
branches; the apples, not so plentiful, were taking on the colors that
proclaimed their near fruition; and even the knotty quinces were growing
fair and golden. On the upper terrace the stately, delicate cosmos was
waving in the wind; great beds of low marigolds were flaunting their
rich colors in the bright sunlight; the dahlias lifted into the air,
stiffly and proudly, their great blossoms of varying forms; the
clove-pinks, lowly and delicate in color, gave forth the fragrance of
the springtime which they had held stored up in their tender blossoms;
and the early chrysanthemums were unfolding their plumes.

"I love the late August-time," said John Gayther, as the two sat down to
rest in the summer-house after a long stay in the garden. "I have a
singular feeling, which I hope is not irreverent, that the great Creator
is pleased with me for having brought this work to perfection, and the
thought gives me great peace of mind."

"It does sound a little presumptuous, John," said the young lady.

"Not in the way I mean it," replied John. "We are told that God gives
abundantly of the fruits and blossoms that gladden our hearts and eyes.
But this is only partly true. There may be some lands where nothing need
be done to these God-given fruits and vegetables and flowers. I do not
know. But in this happy land, although he does abundantly give us the
material to work upon, he expects us to do the work. Else what would be
the use of gardens? And if there were no need of gardens there would be
no gardens; and how desolate would life be without gardens!"

"I see what you mean, John," said the young lady. "We could not go into
the woods, or on to the plains, and find the fruits and vegetables that
grow so well in this garden. If they were there at all they would be
poor and undeveloped."

"Exactly so," said John. "And in my garden I garner up God's gifts; and
I select the best, and then the best of the best, and so on and on; and
I watch, oh, so carefully, for everything hurtful; and I water; and I
prune off the dead branches; and enrich the ground. And so I work and
work, with God's help of the sunshine and the rain; and at last, when it
all comes to what we see to-day, I cannot but feel that God is pleased
with me for bringing about the fruition he knew I could accomplish with
the material given by what some people call nature and I call God. That
is what a garden is for, and in that way it glorifies him."

They were both silent for some time. The young girl was thinking that
while all that John had said was true, she could not, like him, love
this season best of all. Its very perfection and full fruition were
saddening, for that must inevitably be followed by decay. The old man
was thinking that while youth and its promise for the future was
beautiful, the resignation and peacefulness of an accomplished life was
far more beautiful.

The red thrush broke into song and startled them both. The old man
listened to it as if it were a pæan of thanksgiving for the garden and
all that it had given, and wished he were able to join his voice with
the music of the bird. As the young girl listened it seemed to her that
the song was as clear and sweet and happy as it had been in the spring.
And she marvelled.

"What a pity! We have missed the bird!" A voice broke into the stillness
that had followed the song. It was the Mistress of the House who was
approaching, followed by the Master of the House, the Next Neighbor, and
the Old Professor.

"I was wondering why you were not all here some time ago," said the
Daughter of the House.

"Kept by company," said the Master of the House, as they all came
forward and took their accustomed places. "Not half as agreeable as the
bird, nor as interesting as the story John promised to tell. I hope it
will not be as solemn as your countenance, John."

Nobody was ever solemn long when the Master of the House was present,
and John Gayther's countenance immediately was lighted up by a smile. "I
could not think of telling you a solemn story," he said, "and this one
is about a peculiar character I knew. His name was Abner Batterfield,
and he was a farmer. One day he was forty-five years old. He was also
tired. Having finished hoeing his last row of corn, he sat down on a
bench at his front door, took off his wide and dilapidated straw hat,
and wiped his brow. Presently his wife came out. She was a little more
than forty-five years old, and of phenomenal physical and mental
endurance. She had lived seventeen years with Abner, and her natural
vigor was not impaired.

"'Supper's ready,' said she.

"Her husband heaved a sigh, and stretched out his weary legs in unison.

"'Supper,' he repeated; 'it's allus eat, and work, and sleep!'

"'Perhaps you'd like to leave out the eatin',' said Mrs. Batterfield;
'that would save lots.'

"Her husband ignored this remark. His farm was small, but it was too big
for him. He had no family except himself and wife, but the support of
that family taxed his energies. There was a certain monotony connected
with coming out short at the end of the year which was wearisome to his
soul.

"'Mrs. B.,' said he, 'I've made up my mind to start over again.'

"'Goin' back to the corn-field?' she asked. 'You'd better have your
supper first.'

"'No,' said he; 'it's different. I've been thinkin' about it all day,
and I'm goin' to begin life over ag'in.'

"'At your age it would be more fit fer you to consider the proper endin'
of it,' said she.

"'I knew you'd say that, Mrs. B.; I knew you'd say that! You never do
agree with me in any of my plans and undertakin's.'

"'Which accounts fer our still havin' a roof over our heads,' said she.

"'But, I can tell you, this time I'm a-goin' ahead. I don't care what
people say; I don't care what they do, or what they don't do; I'm goin'
ahead. It'll be blackgum ag'in' thunder this time, and I'm blackgum.
You've heard about the thunder and lightnin' tacklin' a blackgum-tree?'

"'Ever since I was born,' said she.

"'Well, there's a awful scatterin' of dust and chips when that sort of a
fight is on; but nobody ever yet heard of thunder gettin' the better of
a blackgum-tree. And I'm goin' to be a blackgum!'

"Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she
said: 'And I'm goin' to be thunder.'

"The next morning, Abner Batterfield put on his best clothes, and walked
to the little town about two miles distant. He didn't enter the business
part of the place, but turned into a shady side street where stood a
small one-story building, almost by itself. This was the village
library, and the librarian was sitting in the doorway, reading a book.
He was an elderly man of comfortable contour, and wore no glasses, even
for the finest print.

"'Mornin', Abner,' said the librarian; 'have you brought back that
book?'

"Abner seated himself on the door-step. 'No, I haven't, Mr. Brownsill,'
said he; 'I forgot it. I forgot it, but I remember some things that's in
it, and I've come to talk about 'em.'

"'Very good,' said the librarian, closing the volume of Salmon's
Geographical Grammar with his finger at page 35, treating of paradoxes,
and remarked: 'Well, Abner, what is it?'

"Then Abner Batterfield told his tale. He was going to make a fresh
start; he was going to spend the rest of his life in some manner worthy
of him. He hadn't read much of the book he had taken out of the library,
for in his present way of spending his life there didn't seem to be any
very good time for reading, but he had read enough of it to make him
feel that it was time for him to make a fresh start, and he was going to
do it.

"'And I may have a tough time,' said Abner; 'but it'll be blackgum
ag'in' thunder, and I'm blackgum!'

"The librarian smiled. 'What are you going to do?' said he.

"'That's a thing,' said Abner, 'I'm not so certain about. I've been
thinkin' of enterin' the ministry; but the bother about that is, I can't
make up my mind which particular denomination to enter. There's such a
difference in 'em.'

"'That's true,' said Mr. Brownsill; 'that's very true! But haven't you a
leaning for some one of them in particular?'

"'In thinkin' it over,' said Abner, 'I've been drawn to the Quakers. So
far's I kin find out, there's nothin' a Quaker preacher has to do if he
don't want to.'

"'But then, on the other hand,' said the librarian, 'there's no pay.'

"'Which won't work at all,' said Abner, 'so that's got to be dropped. As
to the Methodists, there's too much work. A man might as well stick to
hoein' corn.'

"'What do you think of the Catholics?' asked the librarian,
meditatively. 'I should think a monk in a cell might suit you. I don't
believe you'd be expected to do much work in a cell.'

"Abner cogitated. 'But there ain't no pay to that, no more'n if I was a
Quaker. And there's Mrs. B. to be considered. I tell you, Mr. Brownsill,
it's awful hard makin' a ch'ice.'

"The librarian opened his book and took a good look at the number of the
page on which paradoxes were treated, so that he might remember it; then
he rose and put the book upon the table, and, turning to Abner, he
looked at him steadfastly.

"'Abner Batterfield,' said he, 'I understand the state of your mind, and
it is plain enough that it's pretty hard for you to make a choice of a
new path in life; but perhaps I can help you. How would you like to be a
librarian?'

"'Me!' exclaimed Abner, amazed.

"'I don't mean,' said Mr. Brownsill, 'that you should take up this
business for life without knowing whether you like it or not, but I can
offer you what might be called a sample situation. I want to go away for
a couple of weeks to visit my relations, and if you will come and
attend to the library while I am gone, it might be a good thing for both
of us. Then, if you don't like the business of a librarian, you might
sample some other calling or profession.'

"Abner rose from the door-step, and, entering the room, stood before
Mr. Brownsill. 'That's the most sensible thing,' said he, 'that I ever
heard said in all my life. Sample first, and go into afterwards; that's
sound reason. Mr. Brownsill, I will do it.'

"'Good!' said the librarian. 'And the duties are not difficult.'

"'And the pay?' asked Abner.

"'Just what I get,' said Mr. Brownsill.

"The bargain was made, and Abner immediately began taking lessons in the
duties of a librarian.

"When he went home he told his tale to Mrs. B. 'I have hoed my last row
of corn,' said he, 'and when it's fit to cut and shock we'll hire a man.
There's librarians, Mrs. B., so Mr. Brownsill told me, that gets
thousands a year. Think of that, Mrs. B.--thousands a year!'

"Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she
said: 'And I am thunder.'

"Early the next morning, long before the ordinary time for opening the
library, Abner was at his post. He took the key from the concealed nail
where Mr. Brownsill was wont to hang it. He opened the door and windows,
as the librarian told him he must do; he swept the floor; he dusted the
books; and then he took the water-pail, and proceeded to the pump hard
by. He filled it, then he sat down and wiped his brow. He had done so
much sitting down and brow-wiping in his life that it had become a
habit with him, even when he was neither hot nor tired.

"This little library was certainly a very pleasant place in which to
earn one's living--ten thousand times more to his taste than the richest
corn-field. Around the walls were book-shelves, some of them nearly
filled with books, most of which, judging from their bindings, were of a
sober if not a sombre turn of mind.

"'Some of these days,' said Abner, 'I am goin' to read those books; I
never did have time to read books.'

"From the ceiling there hung, too high to be conveniently dusted, a few
stuffed birds, and one small alligator. 'Some of these days,' said Abner
to himself, 'I am goin' to get on a step-ladder and look at them birds
and things; I never did properly know what they was.'

"Now footsteps were heard on the sidewalk, and Abner jumped up quickly
and redusted a book upon the table. There entered two little girls, the
elder one with her hair plaited down her back. They looked in surprise
at Abner, who smiled.

"'I guess you want to see Mr. Brownsill,' he said. 'Well, I am in his
place now, and all you got to do is to tell me what book you want.'

"'Please, sir,' said the one with plaits, 'mother wants to know if you
can change a quarter of a dollar.'