"I think," said the Next Neighbor, "that if that principality was
governed at all, it was by that scheming wife."

"There's two ways of ending a story," said Pomona. "One is to wind it
up, and the other is to let it run down. Now when a story is running
down as if it was a clock, it's often a good deal longer than you think
before it stops; so we thought we would wind this one up right there."

Euphemia laughed. "But if you wind it up," she said, "you help it to
keep on going."

For a moment Pomona looked embarrassed; but she quickly recovered
herself. "I don't mean to wind it up like a clock," she said, "but to
wind it up like an old-fashioned clothes-line which isn't wanted again
until you have some more things to hang on it."

The Husband of Euphemia stated it as his opinion that that was an
excellent way to stop a story; but Euphemia did not agree with him. "I
think," she said, "that a story of that kind ought to end with a moral.
They nearly always do."

Pomona now looked at Jonas, and Jonas looked at Pomona.

"Several times, when we was writing the story," said Pomona, "I had a
notion that Jone was trying to squeeze a moral into it here and there;
but he didn't say nothing about it, and I didn't ask him, and if there's
anything more to say about it, it's for him to do it."

Jonas smiled. "My opinion about morals to stories is that the people who
read them ought to work them out for themselves," said he. "Some people
work out one kind of moral, and others work out another kind. It was a
pretty big job to write that story, which I had to do the most of, and I
don't think I ought to be called on to put in any moral, which is a good
deal like being asked to make bread for the man who buys my wheat."

Pomona looked down at the ground, then up to the sky, and then she
remarked:

"If you wouldn't mind hearing a little bit of a story, I'd like to tell
you one." No one had any wish to object, and she began: "Once there was
a young married man who went to his business in a canoe; every morning
he paddled himself down to his business, and every afternoon he paddled
himself back. About half-way down the beautiful stream on which he lived
there was a little point of rocks projecting out into the water, and the
young man was obliged to paddle his canoe very near the opposite shore
in order to get out of the way. This was troublesome, and after a while
he got tired of it. It would be very much pleasanter, he thought, if he
could paddle along the middle of the stream, without thinking about the
rocks. So when, one morning, he was in a great hurry, he said to himself
that he would steer his canoe right straight against that point of rocks
and break it off. After that he would have a clear passage up and down
the stream. So as soon as he got near enough he carried out his plan.
That young man did not go to his office that morning, and the fragments
of his canoe was picked up by a poor family and used for kindling-wood.
Now," she added, looking deliberately at Jonas, "if you can find a good
moral to that story we'd be glad to hear it."

It was very evident to the listeners that Pomona had given a shrewd
guess as to the moral of the story Jonas had read, if, indeed, he had
had in his mind any moral at all--and that her own was an offset to it,
or so intended. So the Next Neighbor came to the rescue.

"I have a great dislike," she announced, "to morals of all sorts. I
prefer never to think of morals. They are very perplexing, and often
worse than useless. But if there are any morals to those two stories, I
should say that the first story has something to do with women who
manage too much; and the second, in some occult manner, deals with men
who try to reform their wives."

Here every one laughed. And then there followed a lively criticism of
the story Jonas had read; but they all agreed that it was worthy of
Pomona and Jonas, and should be published. When they had reached this
conclusion they were summoned to luncheon.




                       THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

                     THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE

                           AND IS CALLED

                       THE CONSCIOUS AMANDA




VIII

THE CONSCIOUS AMANDA


One morning, as John Gayther was working in the melon-bed, the Daughter
of the House came to him, and greeted him with such a glow on her face
that John knew she had something pleasant to tell him.

"Yes, miss," John replied to her greeting; "it is a beautiful morning,
and I know of something more beautiful than the morning."

"I do not see any very great beauty in muskmelons," said the Daughter of
the House, demurely.

"Muskmelons are not in my mind at this minute," John replied, letting
the hoe fall upon the ground as he looked at her pretty face, all aglow.

"I have something in my mind, John--a very original story. Papa said
yesterday I must tell a story, and I have one all ready. I do not
believe you ever heard one like it. Come to the summer-house; mamma and
papa are already there."

She tripped away, and John followed her, stopping on the way to pick up
a basket of seed-pods. He had just established himself on his stool,
facing the family group, and had taken some pods to shell as he
listened, when his hand was arrested and all the party silenced by a
burst of song from the tall lilac-bushes near the hedge. They could not
see the bird, but it was evident that he was enjoying his own melody.
Such pure, sweet notes--now rippling softly, now with a gay little
quiver of joy, now a tender prolonged note, now a succession of trills,
high and low, that set the air throbbing, and every now and then a great
burst of seraphic music, as if his little heart was so full of happiness
he was compelled to pour it forth to all who chose to listen. Our party
would gladly have listened for a long time, and have omitted the story
altogether; but after some minutes of delicious song the strains
suddenly ceased, and a little whirring noise in the lilacs indicated
that the bird had flown away.

The Daughter of the House gave a deep sigh. "I was afraid to breathe,"
she said, "lest he might fly away."

"I have heard nothing like that this summer," said the Mistress of the
House.

"It is the red thrush," said John Gayther, who had listened rapturously.
"A pair of them were here in the early spring. I wonder why this one has
come back."

"Perhaps," said the Daughter of the House, "it is one of the young ones
come back to visit his birthplace. I am afraid, after that ravishing
performance, that my story will sound tame enough."

"It will be a different sort of melody," said the Mistress of the House,
looking fondly at her daughter.

"My heroine," began the young lady, "cannot appear in the first person,
as if she were telling the story; nor in the second person, as if she
were listening to one; nor in the third person, as if she were
somewhere else; for, in fact, she was not anywhere. And as there is no
such thing as a fourth person in grammar, she cannot be put into any
class at all."

The captain turned and looked at his daughter. "There seems to be
something very foggy about this statement," said he. "I hope the weather
will soon clear up, so we can get our bearings."

"We shall see about that," said the young lady. "This heroine of mine,
Miss Amanda, never went to sleep. To be sure, she sank into slumber
about as often as most people; but when she spoke of having done so
she always said she had 'lost consciousness.' She was very methodical
about going to sleep and waking up; and at night, just as she was
about to lose consciousness, she always said to herself, 'Seven
o'clock, seven o'clock, seven o'clock,' over and over again until she
was really asleep; and in the morning she woke up at seven precisely.
She was not married, and so she was able to live her own life much
more independently than if the case had been different. She liked to
be independent; and she liked to know as much as she could about
everything. In these two things she was generally very successful. But
you must not think she was prying or too inquisitive; she was really a
very good woman, and very fond of her family, which was composed
entirely of brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces.

"She was a very active person, but she was not very strong; and when she
was nearly forty years old something happened to her lungs, and her
health gave way more and more, until at last there was no hope for her,
and she knew she must die."

"Oh, this is an awful way to begin a story!" said the captain. "I don't
like it. You ought not to kill your heroine just as you begin."

"If you want to make any remarks about this story, papa," said the
Daughter of the House, "which shall be worth anything, you ought to wait
until you hear more of it and begin to understand it. When Miss Amanda
found she had a very little while to live, she composed herself
comfortably, and began to repeat to herself the words, 'Fifty years,
fifty years, fifty years,' over and over again. This she did until at
last she died; and then there was her funeral; and she was buried; and
there was a stone put up over her head with her name on it."

John Gayther smiled with approbation. He felt sure he was going to hear
a story to his liking. The captain smoked steadily. As he had been
advised, he would wait until he felt firm ground beneath him before he
made any further remarks. As for the Mistress of the House, she looked
at her daughter, and wondered. The story continued:

"All this happened a few years before the middle of a century, and a few
years before the end of a century Miss Amanda regained consciousness.
That is to say, she woke up at the end of fifty years, exactly as she
had been in the habit of waking up at seven o'clock in the morning. But
although she was conscious she did not understand how it was possible
she should be so. She did not see; she did not hear; she did not feel.
She had no body; no hands or feet; no eyes or ears: she had nothing; and
she knew she had nothing. She simply was conscious, and that was all
there was about it. She was not surprised; she seemed to take her state
and condition as a matter of course, and, to a certain degree, she
comprehended it. She remembered perfectly well that she had lost
consciousness as she was saying 'Fifty years, fifty years, fifty years'
over and over again; and now she knew that, as she had regained
consciousness, the fifty years must have passed; so, instead of
wondering how things had come to be as they were, she, or rather her
consciousness, set itself to work to observe everything around it and
about it. This had always been Miss Amanda's habit of mind.

"Now I want to explain," said the young lady, "that in one way it will
be troublesome for me to express myself exactly as I tell this story. Of
course Miss Amanda did not exist; it was only her consciousness which
observed things: but I think it will be a great deal less awkward for me
if I speak of that consciousness as Miss Amanda. None of us really
understands consciousnesses with their outsides all hulled off as John
is doing with those seeds which he drops into the basin. Each one of
those little seeds has within it a power which we do not understand. And
that is the way with Miss Amanda's consciousness."

"There," said the captain; "I agree with you. Nobody can object to
that."

"The first thing of which Miss Amanda became conscious was the smell of
sweet peas. She had always been very fond of these flowers. The air was
soft and warm, and that, too, was pleasant to her. She observed a good
many other things, such as trees and grass; but she did not know where
she was, and she did not see anything she could recognize. You must not
forget that when I say she saw anything, I mean she became conscious of
it. Presently, however, she did perceive something that was familiar,
and if such a thing had been possible her face would have flushed with
pleasure. This familiar object was a sun-dial in the middle of a wide
grass-mound. The sun-dial was of brass. It was very old, and some of the
figures on the round plate were nearly obliterated by time and weather;
but Miss Amanda recognized it. It was the same sun-dial she had always
known in the home where she had been born. But it was not mounted on a
round brick pillar, as when she had known it: now it rested on a
handsome stone pedestal; but it was the same sun-dial. She could see the
place where the upright part had been mended after her nephew John, then
only fourteen, had thrown a stone at it, being jealous of it because it
would never do any work in bad weather, whereas he had to go to school,
rain or shine.

"'Now,' thought Miss Amanda, 'if this is the old sun-dial, and if this
is the mound in front of our house, although it is so much smaller than
I remember it, the dear old house must be just behind it.' But when she
became conscious in that direction, the dear old house was not there.
There was a house, but it looked new and handsome. It had marble steps,
with railings and a portico, but it was another house altogether, and
everything seemed to be something else except the sun-dial, and even
that did not rest on the old brick pillar with projections at the
bottom, on which she used to stand, when she was a little girl, in order
to see what time it was.

"Now Miss Amanda felt lonely, and a little frightened. She had never
been accustomed to finding herself in places entirely strange to her.
She felt, too, that she was there in that place, and could not be
anywhere else even if she wanted to, and this produced in her a
condition which, half a century before, would have been nervousness. But
suddenly she perceived something which, although strange, was very
pleasant. It was a young girl upon a bicycle coming swiftly toward her
over a wide, smooth driveway. Miss Amanda had never been conscious of a
bicycle; and as the girl swept rapidly on, it seemed as if she were
skimming over the earth without support. At the foot of the marble steps
the girl stopped and seemed to fall to the ground; but she had not
fallen: she had only stepped lightly from the machine, which she leaned
against a post, and then walked rapidly toward the place where the sweet
peas grew.

"Miss Amanda greatly admired this girl. She was dressed in an extremely
pretty fashion, with a straw hat and short skirts, something like the
peasants in southern Europe. She began to pick the sweet-pea blossoms,
and soon had a large bunch of them. Now steps were heard coming round
the house, and the girl, turning her head, called out: 'Oh, grandpa,
wait a minute. I am picking these flowers for you.' From around one end
of the house, which was a large one, Miss Amanda saw approaching an
elderly gentleman who was small, with short gray hair and a round, ruddy
face. He walked briskly, and with a light switch, which he carried in
his hand, he made strokes at the heads of a few fluffy dandelions which
appeared here and there; but he never hit any of them.

"Instantly Miss Amanda knew him: it was her nephew John--the same boy
who had broken the sun-dial! No matter what his age might happen to be,
he had the same bright eyes, and the same habit of striking at things
without hitting them. Yes, it was John. There could be no possible
mistake about it. It was that harum-scarum young scapegrace John. If
Miss Amanda had had a heart, it would have gone out to that dear old
boy; if she had had eyes they would have been filled with tears of
affection as she gazed on him. Of all her family he had been most dear
to her, although, as he had often told her, there was no one in the
world who found so much fault with him.

"The old gentleman sat down on a rustic seat beneath a walnut-tree, and
his granddaughter came running to him, filling the air with the odor of
sweet peas. She seated herself at the other end of the bench, and let
the flowers drop into her lap. 'Grandpa,' said she, 'these are for you,
but I am only going to give you one of them now for your buttonhole. The
rest I will put in a vase in your study. But I wanted you to stop here
anyway, for I have something to tell you.'

"'Tell on,' said he, when the girl had put a spray bearing three
blossoms into his buttonhole. 'Is it anything you want me to do this
afternoon?'

"'It isn't anything I want you to do ever,' she said. 'It is about
something I must do, and it is just this: grandpa, there are two
gentlemen who are about to propose to me, and I think they will do it
very soon.'

"'How in the world do you know that?' he exclaimed. 'Have they sent you
printed notices?'

"'How is it that anybody knows such a thing?' she answered. 'We feel
it, and we can't be expected to explain it. You must have felt such
things when you were young, for I have been told you were often in
love.'

"'Never in my life,' said her grandfather, 'have I felt that a young
woman was about to propose to me.'

"'Oh, nonsense!' said the girl, laughing. 'But you could feel that she
would like you to propose to her. That's the way it would be in your
case.'

"Miss Amanda listened with the most eager and overpowering attention.
Often in love! That young scapegrace John! But she had no doubt of it.
When she had last known him he was not yet eighteen, and he had had
several love-scrapes. Of course he must have married, for here was his
granddaughter; and who in the world could he have taken to wife? Could
it have been that Rebecca Hendricks--that bold, black-eyed girl, who, as
everybody knew, had tried so hard to get him? With all the strength of
her consciousness Miss Amanda hoped it had not been Rebecca. There was
another girl, Mildred Winchester, a sweet young thing, and in every way
desirable, whom Miss Amanda had picked out for him when he should be old
enough to think about such things, which at that time he wasn't. Rebecca
Hendricks ought to have been ashamed of herself. Now she did hope most
earnestly that she would hear something which would let her know he had
married Mildred Winchester.

"'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'if they do propose, as you seem to
have some occult reason for suspecting, have you made up your mind which
of them you are going to take?'

"'That is the trouble,' said the girl, a very serious look coming over
her face. 'I have not made up my mind what I ought to do. I know I ought
to be prepared to give the proper answer to the one who speaks first,
whichever one he may be; but I cannot come to a decision which satisfies
me, and that is the reason, grandpa, I wanted to talk to you about it.
Of course you know who they are--George and Mr. Berkeley.'

"'My dear Mildred,' said the old gentleman, turning quickly around so
that he could face her, 'just listen to me.'

"'Mildred, Mildred!' thought Miss Amanda, and her consciousness was
pervaded by a joyful thankfulness which knew no limits. 'She must have
been named after her grandmother. He surely married Mildred.' And Miss
Amanda gazed on the scapegrace John with more affection than she had
ever known before. But in the midst of her joy she could not help
wondering who it was that that Rebecca Hendricks had finally succeeded
in getting. That she got somebody Miss Amanda had not the slightest
doubt.

"'Mildred,' said the old gentleman, 'just listen to me. This is a most
important thing you have told me, and I have only this to say about it:
if you can't make up your mind which one of those young men you will
take when they propose, make up your mind now, this minute, not to have
either of them. If you love either one of them as you ought to love the
man who shall be your husband, you will have no difficulty in deciding.
Therefore, if you have a difficulty, you do not really love either of
them.'

"For a few minutes the girl sat quietly looking down at the flowers
in her lap, and then she said: 'But, grandpa, suppose I do not
understand myself properly? Perhaps after a while I might come to a--'

[Illustration: Miss Amanda listened with the most eager and overpowering
attention.]

"'After a while,' interrupted her grandfather. 'That will not do. You
want to understand yourself before a lover proposes to you, not
afterwards.'"

The captain sat up straight in his chair. "Now look here," he said;
but he addressed the Mistress of the House, not the story-teller. "How
does this daughter of ours come to know all these things about lovers,
and the weather-signs which indicate proposals of marriage, and all
that? Has she been going about in society, making investigations into
the rudiments of matrimony, during my last cruise? And would you
mind telling me if any young men have been giving her lessons in
love-affairs? John Gayther, have you seen any stray lovers prowling
about your garden of late?"

The gardener smiled, and said he had seen no such persons. But he said
nothing about a very true friend of the Daughter of the House, who lived
in a small house in the garden, and who would have been very well
pleased to break the head of any stray lover who should wander into his
precincts.

"You don't know girls, my dear," said the Mistress of the House, "and
you don't know what comes to them naturally, and how much they have to
learn. So please let the story go on."

"'Of course,' said the old gentleman, 'I know who they are. Considering
how often they have been here of late, I could not well make a mistake
about that; and although I am not in favor of anything of the sort,
and feel very much inclined to put up a sign, "No lovering on these
premises," still, I am a reasonable person' ('You must have changed
very much if you are, you dear boy!' thought Miss Amanda), 'and know
what is due to young people, and I am obliged to admit that these young
men are good enough as young men go. But the making a choice! That is
what I object to. I would advise you, my dear, not to think anything
more about it until the time shall come when you feel there is no need
of making a choice because the thing has settled itself.'

"'But, grandpa,' she said, 'what am I to say if they ask me? I am bound
to say something.'

"The old gentleman did not reply, but began switching at some invisible
dandelions. 'What you tell me,' he said presently, 'reminds me of my
Aunt Amanda. She was a fine woman, and she had two lovers.' ('You little
round-faced scamp!' thought Miss Amanda. 'Are you going to tell that
child all my love-affairs? And what do you know about them, anyway? I
never confided in you. You were nothing but a boy, although you were a
very inquisitive one, always wanting to know things, and what you have
found out is beyond me to imagine.')

"'Your Aunt Amanda,' said Mildred. 'That's the one in the oval frame in
the parlor. She must have been very pretty.'

"'Indeed she was,' said the old gentleman. 'That portrait was painted
when she was quite a young girl; but she was pretty until the day of her
death. I used to be very fond of her, and thought her the most beautiful
being on earth. She always dressed well, and wore curls. Even when she
was scolding me I used to sit and look at her, and think that if such a
lady, a little bit younger perhaps, but not much, were shut up in a
castle with a window to it, I would be delighted to be a knight in
armor, and to fight with retainers at the door of that castle until I
got her out and rode away with her sitting on the crupper of my saddle,
the horse being always, as I well remember, a gray one dappled with dark
spots, with powerful haunches and a black tail.' ('You dear boy,'
murmured Miss Amanda, 'if I had known that I could not have scolded!')
'Well, as I said before, she had two lovers. One was a handsome young
fellow named Garrett Bridges.'

"'It seems to me I have heard that name,' said Mildred.

"'Very likely, very likely,' said her grandfather. 'It has been
mentioned a great many times in our family. Garrett had been intended for
the army, but he did not get through West Point, and at the time he was
making love to my Aunt Amanda his only business was that of expecting an
inheritance. But he was so brave and gay and self-confident, and was so
handsome and dashing, that everybody said he would be sure to get along,
no matter what line of life he undertook.' ('I wonder,' thought Miss
Amanda, 'what he did do, after all. I hope I shall hear that.') 'Her
other lover,' said the old gentleman, 'was Randolph Castine, a very
different sort of young man.' ('You unmitigated little story-teller!'
ejaculated Miss Amanda. 'He never made love to me for one minute in his
whole life. I wish I could speak to John--oh, I wish I could speak to
John!') 'So, then,' continued the old gentleman, 'here were the two young
men, both loving my Aunt Amanda; and here was I, intensely jealous of
them both.'

"'Oh, grandfather,' laughed Mildred, 'how could you be that?'

"'Easily enough,' said he. 'I was very impressionable and of a very
affectionate turn of mind.' ('You had very queer ways of showing it, you
young scamp!' said Miss Amanda.) 'And I remember, when I was about ten
years old, I once asked my mother if it were wicked to marry aunts; and
when she told me it would not do, I said I was very sorry, for I would
like to marry Aunt Amanda. I liked her better than anybody else except
my mother, and I was sure there was no other person who would take more
from me, and slap back less, than Aunt Amanda.' ('I remember that very
well,' thought the happy consciousness; 'and when your mother told me
about it, how we both laughed!')

"'Well, the better I liked my Aunt Amanda, the less I liked anybody who
made love to her; and one night, as I was sitting on the edge of my
bed,--it must have been nearly eleven o'clock,--I vowed a vow, which I
vowed I would never break, that no presumptuous interloper, especially
Garrett Bridges, should ever marry my Aunt Amanda. As to Randolph
Castine or any other suitor, I did not think them really worthy of
consideration. Garrett Bridges was the dangerous man. He was at our
house nearly every day, and, apart from his special obnoxiousness as a
suitor to my Aunt Amanda, I hated him on my own account, for he treated
me as if I were nothing but a boy.' ('And why shouldn't he?' murmured
Miss Amanda. 'You were nearly grown up at that time, but you really
behaved more like a boy than a man, and that was one reason I was so
fond of you.')

"'I had a good many plans for freeing my Aunt Amanda from the clutches
of Mr. Bridges; but the best of them, and the one I finally determined
upon, pleased me very much because it was romantic and adventurous. It
seemed to me the best way to prevent Mr. Bridges from marrying my Aunt
Amanda was to make him marry some one else, and I thought I could do
this. There was a girl named Rebecca Hendricks, who lived about a mile
from our house, with whom I was very well acquainted. She was a
first-class girl in many ways.' ('I would like to know what they were!'
exclaimed Miss Amanda. 'I think she was about sixth-class, no matter how
you looked at her.') 'For one thing, she was very plucky, and ready for
any kind of fun. I knew she liked Mr. Bridges, because I had heard her
say so, and her praise of him had frequently annoyed me very much; for
I did not want a friend of mine, as she professed to be, to think
favorably in any way of such a man as Garrett Bridges. But things were
now getting serious, and I did not hesitate to sacrifice my feelings for
the sake of my Aunt Amanda. I was always ready to do that.' ('Not
always, my boy,' thought Miss Amanda; 'not always, I am afraid.') 'So I
resolved to get up a match between Rebecca and Garrett Bridges. As I
thought over the matter, it seemed to me that they were exactly suited
to each other.' ('That's queer!' thought Miss Amanda. 'I always supposed
you thought she was exactly suited to you.') 'Of course I could not say
anything to Bridges about the matter, but I went over to Rebecca, and
told her the whole plan. She laughed at me, and said it was all pure
nonsense, and that if she were going to marry at all she would a great
deal rather marry me than Mr. Bridges. But I told her seriously it was
of no use to think of me. In the first place, I was four years younger
than she was; and then, I had made up my mind never to marry, no, never,
as long as my Aunt Amanda lived. I was going to take care of her when
she grew elderly, and I wanted nobody to interfere with that purpose.'
('You dear boy!' said Miss Amanda, with a sort of choke in her
affectionate consciousness. 'That is so like you--so like you! And yet I
thought you were in love with that Rebecca.') 'Of course I did not give
up my plan because she talked in that way,' continued the old gentleman.
'I knew her; I had studied her carefully. Like most boys of my age, I
was a deep-minded student of human nature, and could see through and
through people.'

"'Of course,' laughed Mildred. 'I have known boys just like that.'

"'But I was about right in regard to Rebecca,' said her grandfather. 'I
kept on talking to her, and it was not long before she agreed to let me
bring Mr. Bridges to see her--they were not acquainted. I had no trouble
with him, for he was always glad to know pretty girls, and he had seen
Rebecca. There never was a piece of match-making which succeeded better
than that, and it delighted me to act as prompter of the play, while
those two were the actors, and I was also the author of the piece.'

"'Grandpa,' said Mildred, 'don't you think all that was rather wrong?'

"'I did not think so then,' he answered, 'and I am not sure I think so
now; for really they were very well suited to each other, and there did
seem to be danger that the man might marry my Aunt Amanda, and that, as
it seemed to me then, and seems to me now, would have been a deplorable
thing.' ('If you had known a little more, you scheming youngster,' said
Miss Amanda, 'you would have understood that there was not the least
danger of anything of the kind--that is to say, I am not _sure_ there
was any danger.') 'It was not long after these two people became
acquainted before I had additional cause for congratulating myself that
I had done a wise and prudent thing. Bridges came to see my Aunt Amanda
every afternoon, just the same as he had been in the habit of doing, and
yet he spent nearly every evening with Rebecca; and that proved to me he
was not a fit lover for my Aunt Amanda, no matter how you looked at it.'

"'But the young girl,' said Mildred. 'Didn't you think he was also too
fickle for her?'

"'Oh, no,' said the old gentleman; 'I was quite positive that Rebecca
could manage him when she got him. She would make him walk straight. I
knew her; she was a great girl. Every morning I went to see her to
inquire how things were coming on, and she told me one day that
Mr. Bridges had proposed to her, and that she had accepted him, and
that it was of no use to say anything about it to her father, because
he would be sure to be dead set against it. Her mother was not living,
and she kept house for her father, who was a doctor, and he had often
said he would not let her marry anybody who would not come there and
live with him; and, judging from what she had heard him say of Garrett
Bridges on one or two occasions, she did not feel encouraged to
propose this arrangement for him.

"'So the plan they agreed upon--which, in fact, I suggested, although
Rebecca would never have admitted it--was to go off quietly and get
married. Then she could write to her father and tell him all about it,
and when his anger had cooled down they could make him a visit, and it
would depend on him what they should do next. I worked out the whole
plan of operation, which Rebecca afterwards laid before Mr. Bridges as
the result of her own ingenuity, for which he commended her very much.
They both agreed--and you may be sure I did not disagree with them--that
the sooner they were married the better. The equinoctial storms were
expected before very long, and then a wedding-trip would be unpleasant
and sloppy. So they fixed on a certain Wednesday, which suited me very
well because my father and mother would then be away from home on a
visit, and that would make it easier for me to do my part.' ('You little
schemer!' said Miss Amanda. 'Of course you suggested that Wednesday.')

"'This place was quite in the country then, and eight miles from a
station, and there was only one train to town, at seven o'clock in the
morning. If they could get to the village where the station was at
quarter-past six, they would have time to get married before the train
came. Old Mr. Lawrence, the Methodist minister, was always up at six
o'clock, and he could easily marry them in twenty minutes, and that
would give them lots of time to catch the train. I would furnish the
conveyance to take them to the village, and would also attend to
Rebecca's baggage. Mr. Bridges could have his trunk taken to the station
without exciting suspicion. At five o'clock in the morning, I told
Rebecca, I would have a horse and buggy tied to a tree by the roadside
at a little distance from the doctor's house where the lovers were to
meet.

"'The night before, Rebecca was to put all the clothes she wanted to
take with her in a pillow-case, which she was to carry to a woodshed
near the house. Soon after they started in the buggy I would arrive with
a spring-wagon and an empty trunk. I would then get the pillow-case, put
it into the trunk, and drive to the station by another road.

"'Mr. Bridges approved of this plan, and thought she was very clever to
devise it. So everything was settled, and I went to the stable the day
before, and told Peter I wanted him to get up very early the next
morning, and put old Ripstaver in the buggy, and drive him over to
Dr. Hendricks's. I told him he must be there before five o'clock, and
that he was to tie the horse to a maple-tree this side of the front
yard. I said one of the doctor's family had to get to the village very
early because there were some things to be done before the train came,
and it had been agreed we should lend our buggy. Peter was not quite
pleased with the arrangement, and asked why we did not send the old
mare--we only kept two horses; but I said she was too slow, and it had
been specially arranged that the buggy, with Ripstaver, should be sent.
Peter was a great friend of mine, so he agreed to do what I asked, and
said he did not mind walking back.' ('I never would have believed,' said
Miss Amanda, 'that the boy had such a mind. If I had only known what he
was planning to do! If I had only known! But even if I had, it is so
hard to tell what is right.')

"'My Aunt Amanda was not in the habit of meddling with anything about
the barn or stable; but that afternoon--and I never knew why--she went
to the barn, and found Peter dusting off the buggy. He told me she asked
if anybody was going to use the buggy that evening, and he replied he
was getting it ready to take over to the Hendrickses' in the morning, as
some one there wanted to go to the village before the train started for
the city. Then she asked what horse he was going to put to it, and he
told her old Ripstaver. Then she said she did not think that was a good
plan, because Ripstaver was hard to drive, and it would be a great deal
better to send the old mare. Peter agreed to this, and so it happened
that when I went to the barn the next morning, as soon as I had seen
Peter drive away in the buggy, I found the only horse in the stable was
old Ripstaver. I was mad enough, I can tell you; for if Rebecca made any
noise and woke her father he could overtake that old mare long before
she could get to the village. I never did understand how my Aunt Amanda
happened to meddle that afternoon.'

"('Of course you couldn't,' said Miss Amanda. 'You were a fine little
manager; but when I looked out of my window that afternoon and saw a boy
carrying a trunk to the barn I was very likely to suspect something; and
when I went down to the barn myself and found Peter getting the buggy
ready to go away early the next morning, I suspected a great deal more.
I did not know what to do, for I did not want to make a scandal by
letting Peter know anything was out of the way, and all I could think of
was to have a slow horse put in the buggy instead of a fast one. I
thought that might help, anyway.')

"'Well,' continued the old gentleman, 'there was nothing for me to do
but to take Ripstaver and the spring-wagon and go after Rebecca's
baggage. When I reached the doctor's house, and found the buggy had
gone, I got the pillow-case, put it into the trunk, and started off on a
back road which joined the turnpike a couple of miles farther on. Near
the junction of the two roads was a high hill from which I hoped I might
be able to see the buggy, and, if so, I would follow it at a safe
distance. As soon as I got to the top of this hill I did see the buggy;
but I saw more than that--I saw another buggy not far behind it. There
was a roan horse in this one which I knew to belong to the doctor.
Bridges was whipping our old mare like everything, and she was doing her
best, and galloping; but the doctor's roan was a good one, and he was
gaining on them very fast. It was a beautiful race, and I felt like
clapping and cheering the doctor, for, although he was spoiling my game,
it was a splendid thing to see him driving his roan so fast and so
steadily, never letting him break out of a regular trot, and I hated
Bridges so much I was glad to see anybody getting the better of him.

"'It was not long before the doctor's buggy caught up with the other
one, and then they both stopped; everybody got out, and there must have
been a grand talk, but of course I could not hear any of it. The doctor
shook his fist, and I could see they were having a lively time. After a
bit they stopped talking, the doctor took Rebecca into his buggy and
drove back, and Garrett Bridges got into our buggy and went slowly
toward the station--to see about his trunk, I suppose. I did not lose
any time after that, but drove to the doctor's as fast as old Ripstaver
could travel, and I had Rebecca's pillow-case in the woodshed before the
doctor arrived. Now I never was able to imagine how the doctor found out
that Rebecca had gone. She did not know herself. She said she got out of
the house without making any more noise than a cat; and as for her
father waking up at the sound of wheels in the public road, that was
ridiculous; if he had heard them he would not have paid any attention to
them. That was one of the queer things neither of us ever found out.'

"Miss Amanda was amused. ('Of course you didn't; it was not intended
that you should. How could you know that, being greatly troubled, I woke
up very early that morning, and when I found you were not in your room I
put on my overshoes and walked across the fields to Dr. Hendricks's. I
did not get there as soon as I hoped I would; but when I rang the
door-bell, and the doctor himself came to the door, and I told him I did
not want to see him but Rebecca, and he went to look for her and found
her gone, and I confided to him as a great secret what I was sure had
happened, it did not take him long to get his horse and buggy and go
after her. And how glad I was she had our old mare, and not Ripstaver!
But I thought all the time it was you she had run away with, and I never
knew until now that it wasn't. The doctor told me afterwards that he and
his daughter had agreed not to say anything about it, and he advised me
to do the same; but the sly old fellow never told me it was Mr. Bridges
and not you. But if I had only known who really was running away with
her, I would not have walked across those wet pasture-fields that
chilly morning--that is, I do not think I would have done it.')

"'But one thing I did know,' said the old gentleman, 'which I often
regretted; and that was that if my Aunt Amanda had not meddled with the
horses and so spoiled my plan, Rebecca Hendricks would have married
Mr. Bridges, and several evil consequences would have been avoided.' ('I
wonder what they were?' thought Miss Amanda.) 'Well, things went on
pretty much as they had been going on, and that Garrett Bridges came
every day, just as bold as brass, to see my Aunt Amanda, who, of course,
knew nothing of his trying to run away with Rebecca. Sometimes I thought
of telling her, but that would have made a dreadful mess, and I was
bound in honor not to say a word about Rebecca.

"'Mr. Randolph Castine sometimes came to our house, but not often, and I
began to wish he would court my Aunt Amanda and marry her. If she had to
marry, he would be a thousand times better than Garrett Bridges, and I
thought I could go to his house--which was a beautiful one, with hunting
and fishing--to see her, and perhaps make long stays in the summer-time,
which would have been utterly impossible in the case of Garrett
Bridges.' ('You would have been welcome enough in any home of mine,'
said Miss Amanda. 'But you are utterly mistaken about Mr. Castine. Alas!
he was no lover at all.') 'But although Mr. Castine was a splendid man
in every way, he was not a bold lover like Garrett Bridges, and after a
while he seemed to get tired and went off to travel. Not very long after
that Bridges went off, too. I think perhaps he had received part of the
inheritance he was expecting; but I am not sure about that. Anyway, he
went. And then my Aunt Amanda had no lover but me.

"'Very soon her health began to fail, and this went on for some time,
and nothing did her any good. At last she took to her bed. It seemed to
me the weaker and thinner she got the more beautiful she became, and I
did everything I could for her, which, of course, was not any good. I
remember very well that at this time she never lectured me about
anything; but she sometimes mentioned Rebecca Hendricks, always to the
effect that she was a very strange girl, and that she could not help
thinking her husband, if she ever got one, would be a man who ought to
be pitied. I think she was afraid I might marry her; but she need not
have worried herself about that--I never had the slightest idea of any
such nonsense.' ('But I had every reason to suppose you had such an
idea,' said Miss Amanda, 'considering I thought you had tried to run
away with her.')

"'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'there is not much more of the story.
My Aunt Amanda died, and our family was in great grief for a long time;
but none of them grieved as much as I did.' (If Miss Amanda could have
embraced her dear nephew John, she would have done so that minute.)
'Then, greatly to our surprise, Randolph Castine suddenly came home. He
had heard of my Aunt Amanda's dangerous condition, and he had hurried
back to see her and to tell her something before she died. He told my
mother, to whom he confided everything, that he had been passionately in
love with my Aunt Amanda for a long time, but that he had been so sure
she was going to marry Mr. Bridges that he had never given her any
reason to suppose he cared for her, which I said then, and I say now,
was a very poor way of managing love business. If he had spoken,
everything would have been all right, and my Aunt Amanda might have been
living now; there are plenty of people who live to be ninety. I am
positively sure, now, that she was just as much in love with him as he
was with her.'

"Miss Amanda now suffered a great and sudden pain: she seemed to exist
only in her memory of her great love for Randolph Castine, and in this
present knowledge that he had loved her. Oh, why had she been told that
in life she had been dreaming, and that only now she had come to know
what had been real! Nothing that was said, nothing that was visible,
impressed her consciousness just then; but presently some words of her
nephew John forced themselves upon her attention.

"'So she never knew, and he never knew, and two lives were ruined; and
she died,' the old gentleman continued, 'my mother thought, as much from
disappointed love as from anything else.'

"'And what became of Mr. Castine?' asked Mildred, who had been listening
with tears in her eyes.

"'He went away again,' said her grandfather, 'and stayed away a long
time; and at last he married a very pleasant lady because he thought it
was his duty, having such a fine estate, which ought to be lived on and
enjoyed.'

"'Did he have any children?' asked Mildred.

"'Yes; one daughter, who married a Mr. Berkeley of Queen Mary County. It
was considered a good match.'

"'Berkeley!' exclaimed the young girl, moving so suddenly toward her
grandfather that all the sweet peas in her lap fell suddenly to the
ground. 'Berkeley! Why, Arthur Berkeley comes from Queen Mary County! Do
you mean he is the grandson of Mr. Castine?'

"'Exactly; that is who he is,' said the old gentleman.

"Mildred sat for a few minutes without saying a word, looking at the
ground. 'Grandpa,' she said presently, 'do you know I believe all the
time my mind was made up, and I did not know it. And after what you have
told me of Arthur Berkeley, grandpa, and your Aunt Amanda, I really
think I know myself a great deal better than I did before; and if Arthur
should ask me--that is, if he ever does--'

"'And he surely will,' said her grandfather, 'for he came to me this
morning, like the honorable fellow he is, and obtained permission to do
so.'

"'Grandpa!' exclaimed Mildred; and as she looked up at him there was no
beauty in any sweet-pea blossom, or in any other flower on earth, which
could equal the brightness and the beauty of her face.

"The pain faded out of the consciousness of Miss Amanda. 'And this is
the way it ends!' she murmured. 'This is the way it ends. John's
granddaughter and his grandson.' And now it was not pain, but a quiet
happiness, which pervaded her consciousness.

"The grandfather and granddaughter rose from the rustic bench and walked
slowly toward the house. Miss Amanda looked after them, and blessed
them; then she gazed upon the sweet peas on the ground; then she looked
once more upon the old dial, still bravely marking each sunny hour; and
then, slowly and gradually, Miss Amanda lost consciousness, without
saying to herself, 'Seven o'clock' or 'Fifty years' or any other period
of time.

"That is the end," said the young lady.

"And quite time!" exclaimed the Master of the House. "Madam," he said,
turning to his wife, "did you know of all this knowledge of which your
daughter seems possessed--of boy's nature, and woman's love, and the
human heart, and all the rest of it? I can't fathom her with my longest
line!"

"You may as well give up all idea of that sort of sounding," said the
Mistress of the House. "There is no line long enough to fathom the human
heart."

"I am thinking," said John Gayther, as he rattled the seeds in the pan,
"whether it was worth while for Amanda to become conscious for so short
a time, and just to hear a tale like that."

"Was it worth while to learn that the man she had wanted to love her had
really loved her?" asked the Daughter of the House, eagerly.

"It doesn't seem the sort of love to wait fifty years to hear about,"
said John. "I don't like the way they have in novels of making folks
keep back things that men and women couldn't help telling."

"Then you don't like my story, John," said the Daughter of the House, in
a disappointed tone.

"Indeed, but I do, miss," he replied quickly. "As a story it is just
perfect; but as real doings it doesn't pan out square. But then, it is
meant for a story, and it couldn't be better or more unlike other
stories told here. Nobody could have thought that out that hadn't a deep
mind."

The young lady looked critically at John, but she saw he really meant
what he said, and she was satisfied.




                      THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

                        THE OLD PROFESSOR

                          AND IS CALLED

                         MY TRANSLATOPHONE




IX

MY TRANSLATOPHONE


The Professor was very old, but he was well preserved--always spoken of
as "hale and hearty." He still held his position in his college, and
still took a good part in teaching mathematics, but he had an assistant
who did the heavy work. He had been principal of the school where the
Mistress of the House received her education, and she was much attached
to him, and he always spent some part of his summer vacation at her
house. The Master of the House, of course, was not there every summer,
and so this season the Old Professor had a special treat, for there were
many things he liked to talk about in which he knew the two ladies could
take no interest.

It rained for two days after his arrival at the house, but the third
morning was bright and clear, and the Master of the House conducted his
visitor to the favorite resort of the family--a spot the Old Professor
knew well and loved. They conversed for a while on some deep subjects,
and then they were joined by the two ladies and the Next Neighbor, and
the serious discourse changed into light talk; and John Gayther coming
up to pay his respects to the Old Professor, the Next Neighbor was
seized with an inspiration.

"John," she said, "you must tell us a story. Sit right down and begin
'Once upon a time--' know I haven't heard a story for a long time."

"Madam," said John, respectfully, "I always do what the ladies tell me
to do; and I am more sorry than I can say, but I have to know beforehand
when I am to tell a story, and indeed I haven't one ready."

"Oh, you are clever and can make up as you go along, as the children
say."

"John never tells an impromptu story," said the Mistress of the House.
"But, my dear Professor," and she turned to the old gentleman, "we are
all friends here, and I should so like you to tell us how you got your
wife. You once told it to me, and I should like to know what this
company will think of the way you won her."

The Old Professor smiled. "I know what you think about it, and I know
what I think about it; and, as you say, we are all old friends, and I am
rather curious to know what this company will think about it. I will
tell my little story." When they were all ready, he began in a clear
voice: