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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Charles Beaumontl 
 
CORNELL UNIVERSITY UBRARY 
 
The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924050005051 
 
TAMED 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
The Editha Series 
 
 For Little Girls 
 NEW EDITION. 1910 
 
 1 Editha's Burglar 
 
 By Burnett 
 
 2 Pinoccliio'a Adventures 
 
 3 Burglar's Daughter 
 
 By Penrose 
 
 4 Tamed 
 
 By W. O. Stoddard 
 
 5 Peggy's Trial 
 
 By Mary Knight Potter 
 
 6 The Little Professor 
 
 By Ida Horton Cash 
 
 7 A Child's Garden of Verses 
 
 By Stevenson 
 
 8 Little Rosebud 
 
 By Harraden 
 
 9 Simple Susan 
 
 By Maria Edgeworth 
 
 10 The Golden Apple 
 
 By Hawthorne 
 
 11 The Birthday^ Present 
 
 By Maria Edgeworth 
 
 12 Hop ^o* My Thumb and 
 
 Other Stories 
 
 By Miss Mulock 
 
 13 Adventures of a Brownie 
 
 By Miss Mulock 
 
 14 The Pygmies 
 
 By Hawthorne 
 
 15 The Brownies 
 
 By Ewing 
 
 16 Cuckoo Clock 
 
 By Molesworth 
 
 17 The Sleeping Beauty 
 
 By Martha Baker Dunn 
 
 18 Jackanapes 
 
 By J. H. Ewing 
 
 19 Alice in Wonderland 
 
 By Carroll 
 
 20 Rab and His Friends 
 
 By Dr. John Brown 
 
 21 Through a Looking-Glass 
 
 By Lewis Carroll 
 
 22 The King of the Golden 
 
 River 
 
 By John Ruskin 
 
 23 Snap-Dragons and Other 
 
 Stories 
 
 By J. H. Ewing 
 
 24 Madame Liberality 
 
 By J. H. Ewing 
 
 25 Millicent in Dreamland 
 
 By Edna S. Brainerd 
 
 26 Flower Fables 
 
 By Louisa M. Alcott 
 
 27 Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 By Washington Irving 
 
 28 Lives of Two Cats 
 
 By Pierre Loti 
 
 29 Wonder Box Tales 
 
 By Jean Ingelow 
 
 30 Boss and Other Dogs 
 
 By Maria L. Pool 
 
 31 Little Prudy 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 32 Little Prudy's Sister Susy 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 33 Little Prudy's Captain 
 
 Horace 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 34 Little Prudy's Cousin 
 
 Grace 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 35 Little Prudy's Story Book 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 36 Little Prudy's Dotty 
 
 Dimple 
 
 By Sophie May 
 
 37 Rare Old Chums 
 
 By Will Allen Dromgoole 
 
 38 What Came to Winifred 
 By Elizabeth Westyn Timlow 
 
 39 The Rosy Cloud 
 
 By George Sand 
 
 40 Jess 
 
 By J. M. Barrie 
 
 41 The Grasshopper's Hop 
 
 By Zitella Cocke 
 
 42 The Story Without End 
 
 By Sarah Austin 
 
 43 Mr. Penwiper's Fairy 
 
 Godmother 
 
 By Amy Woods 
 
 44 Daddy Joe's Fiddle 
 
 By Faith Bickford 
 
 45 Gloria 
 
 By Faith Bickford 
 
 46 The Countess of the 
 
 Tenements 
 
 By Etheldred B. Barry 
 
 H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 
 NEW YORK AND BOSTON 
 
©6e 
 CDITHA SE^RIES 
 
 ^^ ^^ J^ J^ J^ 
 
 A M E D 
 
 ^ j^ j^ j^ ^ 
 
 By 
 WILLIAM O. STODDARD 
 
 AND 
 
 #tf)tt Stoirfes tot (&ix\% 
 
 ilm^ 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 H. M. CALDIVE^LL CO. 
 
 publishe:rs ^ js^ js^ 
 
 NEWYORK ®. BOSTON 
 
/^"^^^l. 
 
 Copyright, i8gs 
 By W. a. Wilde & Co. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
TAMED. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM O. STODDARD. 
 
TAMED. 
 
 TpHANK you, Mr. Holbrook," she said, "but 
 I 'm not going to the county fair to-morrow. 
 Which of those horses did you say was Kick ? " 
 
 She was not looking at his face or she might 
 have seen how all but savage was the silent com- 
 ment in it that the subject of conversation had been 
 changed with dreadful suddenness. 
 
 He replied aloud : — 
 
 " Kick? Oh, he is that horse away over yonder, 
 beyond the others. He is n't like any other horse 
 that we ever had. He 's as ugly as sin. You can't 
 do anything with him. I 'm really sorry " — 
 
 " Is he so very terrible ? " She interrupted him 
 as if the character of that animal were a matter of 
 deep interest to her. 
 
 " He is vicious," responded the young man with 
 somewhat needless energy. "It is n't easy to keep 
 him in even in winter. The county fair" — 
 
 " Kick, Kick, come here ! " called out the girl 
 who was making such particular inquiries about him. 
 
 3 
 
TAMED. 
 
 " No use ! " exclaimed Mr. Holbrook, and he may 
 or may not have referred entirely to the quadruped, 
 but he added : " Why, Miss Granger, he has thrown 
 every man on the place." 
 
 She had evidently no reply to make to so stun- 
 ning a statement as that. 
 
 The quadruped subject of his criticisms had 
 indeed a wild look, and his chestnut coat — Mr. 
 Holbrook's was of very neat blue flannel — did not 
 seem to have ever been made acquainted with 
 currycomb or brush. At that moment he threw up 
 his heels with a sharp whinny arid put another 
 dozen or so of yards between himself and the 
 house-yard fence behind which they were standing. 
 He looked at them intently, and Miss Granger 
 continued to gaze very studiously at him, but Mr. 
 Holbrook turned suddenly and walked away with 
 a half-audible remark about — about nothing in 
 particular. Perhaps he had duties on his hand ; 
 but half an hour later he was standing in front 
 of the bars which connected the Holbrook pasture- 
 lot with what he spoke of as " the rock lot " 
 of the Granger farm adjoining. He was staring 
 at the bars, but his mind may have been dis- 
 turbed or preoccupied, for he seemed not to 
 
TAMED. 5 
 
 notice that the upper bar had been carelessly left 
 down. 
 
 " I did think," he said to himself, " that I could 
 fix it all up. It 's rough ! I meant to take Harma 
 Granger to the fair, but if she won't, she won't. 
 No use ! And her aunt says she 's going back to 
 the city at the end of the week ! " 
 
 He turned away toward the village of barns, 
 large and small, behind the Holbrook house, but if 
 he had been in front of the rock-lot bars ten min- 
 utes later he might have seen Kick standing in an 
 attitude of deliberation, scratching a small hollow 
 in the earth with his right fore-hoof and consider- 
 ing the unwonted absence of the top bar. 
 
 There was a curveting around in front of the bars 
 for a full half-minute as if Kick were experimenting 
 upon the springs in his legs, and then he made a 
 run toward the diminished barrier which had hither- 
 to pinned him in. 
 
 It was well done, that splendid flying leap, and 
 away he galloped, out of sight, before one of old 
 Colonel Holbrook's men, on his evening tour of 
 inspection, came along and put up the missing 
 bar. 
 
 Kick had a grand time in the Granger lot for an 
 
6 TAMED. 
 
 hour and a half after his escape over the bars. 
 He went all around that new country, along every 
 fence and into every corner, and he discovered that 
 he had it all to himself. Not another horse was 
 there, nor any other beast of the field, to dispute 
 with him the right of possession. He was free, 
 delightfully free, but one of the most important 
 of the discoveries he made was that he had not 
 tasted a drop of water since early that morning, 
 and that there was not any to be had in the 
 Granger lot. 
 
 Darkness came down over all at last, and he 
 began to experience also a new and strange sen- 
 sation of loneliness. The night came on, hot and 
 dry, without any dew, and every time Kick lay 
 down and rolled over and tried to sleep he found 
 himself tempted to dream of the log water-trough, 
 into which a cool stream was always running, in the 
 Holbrook stable-yard. He was up before the sun 
 next morning, but he found that the short, withered 
 grass and mullein stalks and sorrel of that pasture 
 were of no account whatever. As the hours went 
 by and the sun climbed higher, it seemed to Kick 
 as if the air he breathed gre\y hotter, while every- 
 thing around him and within him was getting dryer. 
 
TAMED. 7 
 
 His head drooped, his tail drooped, his spirits 
 drooped ; he had not enough of wild life left in him 
 to curvet or to prance, and late in the afternoon 
 he walked slowly along the north fence as if he 
 were not himself at all, but altogether another 
 horse. Walking in that direction, however, brought 
 him nearer and nearer to the Granger farmyard, 
 with its inviting barns, and thus, farther on, to the 
 house-yard and all the shady trees and the shrub- 
 bery. 
 
 There was a green, cool look on the grass when 
 he looked so wistfully over the fence, but at first 
 he did not appear to take any interest in anything 
 in particular. 
 
 From one of the lower branches of a tree in the 
 front yard, however, to a lower branch of another 
 tree stretched a hammock, and in that hammock lay 
 a girl with a pamphlet in her hand. Her other 
 hand had held a paper-cutter, until she fell asleep 
 and dropped it on the grass, but she had uncon- 
 sciously clung to the magazine.. 
 
 " That 's the same girl," said Kick to himself 
 after a little reflection, " that I saw Henry Holbrook 
 talking to yesterday. I don't care. I 've thrown 
 him." 
 
8 TAMED. 
 
 He stood and stared at her and then, he hardly 
 knew why, he whinnied loudly. 
 
 The sound of his voice startled her and in 
 another moment she was on her feet, walking 
 toward him. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, " how did you get here ? 
 Why, it 's Kick. It 's the one that 's so savage." 
 
 She walked close up to him and very cautiously 
 she put out a white hand and patted his face, and 
 he did his best to tell her that he liked it. She 
 patted him again and again, saying several pleasant 
 and complimentary things while she did so. 
 
 "Why, Kick," she remarked at last, "you don't 
 seem to be wild at all. You 're a lovely horse. Do 
 you want some water ? " and then she added : " Why, 
 of course he does, this blazing, hot day ! " 
 
 She found a tin basin on the platform by the 
 pump and she filled it and brought it while he stood 
 with his head over the fence and watched her. 
 Anybody who did not consider Harma a pretty girl 
 should have been there to see her pumping water 
 and carrying it to Kick. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " he exclaimed, partly to himself and 
 partly aloud, " she understands me ! " 
 
 It sounded to Harma like a prolonged whinny of 
 
TAMED. 9 
 
 eagerness and delight, and the basin was drained in 
 a twinkling. His very eyes seemed to ask her for 
 more, and his heart went out to her unreservedly 
 as he saw her hurry to the pump and hurry back to 
 hold the basin up to him again. Then she brought 
 him a piece of bread, three or four pieces, and an 
 apple and a lump of sugar, and all the while she 
 was remarking, — 
 
 " Why, he 's as good as he can be ! He 's a 
 splendid fellow. So gentle, too." 
 
 At last another idea came to her. 
 
 " Come along. Kick," she said, " I 'm going to 
 open the gate." 
 
 She walked rapidly away in the direction of the 
 barnyard, and Kick followed her along the fence as 
 if he had been a dog that belonged to her. Neither 
 of them knew that all of their proceedings had 
 been watched, but now there broke out an excited 
 bit of conversation at one of the open windows of 
 the house. 
 
 " Aunt Betty ! " exclaimed a shrill, young voice, 
 " what 's Harma going to do with Kick ? Oh ! oh ! 
 He '11 kill her!" 
 
 " Polly ! " replied aunt Betty. " Why, she 's 
 crazy ! He 's a pesky, dangerous brute. Come 
 
lO TAMED. 
 
 right along with me, Polly. He 's a biter. How I 
 do wish some of the men were at home ! " 
 
 They were too late to stop Harma. She had 
 opened the barnyard gate and Kick had walked in 
 before they were out of the house. He whinnied 
 very affectionately to Harma, but he walked straight 
 through the barnyard into the house-yard, and he did 
 not stand still until he reached the pump. Harma 
 went along with him, but aunt Betty and Polly ran 
 as if he were after them. Probably not many people 
 who knew aunt Betty believed that she could run. 
 As for Polly, she screamed as she ran, till they 
 reached the back doorstep, and she looked as if she 
 were about to begin again when aunt Betty whis- 
 pered to her : — 
 
 "Polly— puff— Polly! We'd best be — puff 
 — quiet, and not — puff — rile him up." 
 
 " Why, aunt Betty," called out Harma just then, 
 "he is n't wild at all. He 's as tame as a kitten. 
 Polly, dear, get me another piece of bread f^ir him, 
 please." 
 
 The bread was brought while Harma was pump- 
 ing more water for Kick, and Polly put it down on 
 the pump platform and ran away as fast as she could 
 out of Kick's reach. 
 
TAMED. 1 1 
 
 " He '11 bite you, Harma ! " she exclaimed as soon 
 as she felt safe enough to speak. 
 
 "If I had a bridle, now " said Harma, very 
 much as if she were studying some tremendous 
 impossibility. 
 
 " Bridle ? " said aunt Betty, staring at her. " Why, 
 he 's never had a bridle on him. Leastwise if they 
 did get one on, he did n't let 'em keep it on." 
 
 "Aunt Betty," said Harma earnestly, "I don't 
 care ! If I had a bridle here, I 'd try." 
 
 " I '11 get one ! I '11 get one ! " exclaimed aunt 
 Betty as if a sudden fit of desperate determination 
 had seized her. " I 'd like to see it done, but I 
 won't come a-nigh that critter ! " 
 
 She went for it and she brought it, and all the 
 while Harma continued in conversation with Kick. 
 As for him he had drunk more water, his mind was 
 full of pleasant impressions, and when Harma held 
 up the bridle he said to himself : — 
 
 " Of course I '11 open my mouth for her any time. 
 She won't hurt me. I can't say I like it, but she 
 may put it on." 
 
 " Harma," said Polly, " here 's a blanket and a 
 surcingle, if you '11 just come and get them. I 
 da'sn't come any nearer." 
 
12 TAMED. 
 
 It was a gay red blanket and the surcingle was 
 new and bright colored. Harma folded the blanket 
 and Kick put out his head and smelled of it, and 
 then she laid it on his back and he stood as still as 
 a mouse while she arranged it in its place. She 
 made complimentary remarks to him all the while, 
 and he was particularly well pleased with her tone 
 of voice. 
 
 " I 'm dreadful 'fraid to have you reach under 
 him," said aunt Betty. " He might kill you quick 
 as a wink." 
 
 There was a flash in Harma's eyes and a resolute 
 expression on her lips, but she said nothing. She 
 did reach under and catch the other end of that 
 long band, pull it tight, put it through the buckle, 
 and draw it as hard as she could. 
 
 " I 'd really like to roll," thought Kick, " but I 
 won't this time." 
 
 " Harmy, Harmy ! Sakes alive ! What are you 
 going to do now?" screamed aunt Betty. " Where 
 are you a-leadin' that vicious beast? You don't 
 mean to tell me that you 're goin' to try and ride 
 him ? " 
 
 Harma was walking toward a big box that stood 
 in the side-yard, and Kick was doing the same thing, 
 
TAMED. 13 
 
 without any orders. When she stood still he stood 
 still. She stepped up upon the box, and he only 
 gave a gratified whinny when she sat down upon 
 his blanketed back. 
 
 They watched her breathlessly while he very 
 quietly walked around the yard, and Harma's con- 
 fidence in him and in herself came to her so keenly 
 that she laughed aloud. 
 
 The front gate, the wagon gate, was wide open, 
 and Kick passed out through it just as several 
 wagons and a couple of men on horseback came up 
 the road. The two on horseback were Henry Hol- 
 brook and one of his men. Neither of them said 
 anything for a moment, but old Colonel Holbrook 
 stood right up in his wagon. 
 
 " He'll kill her ! " he said in a low, hoarse voice, 
 and then he shouted : " Keep back, Barney ! Don't 
 you go near 'em! Harry, you ride alongside and 
 see if you can't get her out of that scrape. It 's 
 awful ! " 
 
 "Harma! Harma!" half-whispered Henry as he 
 rode up by her, and she saw that his face was very 
 pale, " for heaven's sake, be careful." 
 
 His hurried exclamation seemed to have a pang 
 of pain in it, but it was called out by a gentle curvet 
 
H 
 
 TAMED. 
 
 and an uneasy whinny from Kick. He was not now 
 walking, for he could not perfectly control his feel- 
 ings, but the canter he indulged in was wonderfully 
 easy to his rider. All that Henry Holbrook could 
 do was to let his own horse canter alongside and to 
 watch Harma, in an agony of fear as to what might 
 come next. His face told a great deal more than if 
 he had spoken. 
 
 " Kick has made friends with me," said Harma. 
 " Don't you see that he has ? You need not feel 
 any fear about me. Oh ! " — for Kick curveted 
 beautifully just then. 
 
 "There!" said Henry, with quick changes of 
 color as Kick quieted again. " Harma" — 
 
 " I wish I had a side-saddle," she interrupted 
 him, " and a riding habit. I must n't go any 
 farther now. Kick. You will have to carry me 
 home." 
 
 He obeyed the light touch of the rein and turned 
 and conveyed her straight to the big box in the 
 Granger side-yard. 
 
 " I 'II help you dismount," began Henry ; but 
 Harma stepped off at once and began to caress 
 Kick. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " shouted the deep voice of Colonel 
 
TAMED. 15 
 
 Holbrook, a little behind them. " If she has n't 
 done it ! " 
 
 His wrinkled face was beaming and glowing as 
 he added : — 
 
 " Harma, Kick is your own horse, that is, if 
 he '11 stay tamed." 
 
 "Thank you, colonel!" she exclaimed. "Oh, 
 thank you ! He is such a beautiful creature ! Is he 
 really mine ? " and she positively put her arms 
 around the neck of that dreadful colt. 
 
 Henry Holbrook made a forward step at that 
 moment, but his apparent attempt at an approach 
 was greeted by a fierce nicker and an ominous put- 
 ting back of Kick's ears. 
 
 " I 've got to keep away, have I ? " said Henry with 
 a deep flush of mortification upon his handsome face. 
 
 "Kick! Kick!" said Harma reproachfully, 
 " make friends with him, won't you ? " 
 
 Kick stood as still as a post for a moment, and all 
 the muscles of his body seemed to be stiffening and 
 hardening. 
 
 " He's gettin' ready for a bolt I " growled the man 
 with Henry. " Look out for 'im ! " 
 
 " No, he won't, Henry," said Harma. " You 
 don't know how gentle and quiet he really is." 
 
J 6 TAMED. 
 
 That was true ; Henry did n't know, nor did Kick 
 himself, nor anybody that had been acquainted with 
 him, but he remained motionless, his ears back and 
 the whites of his eyes showing. He saw Harma 
 take- one of Henry's hands in one of hers and 
 bring it closer and closer to his face. Then the 
 two hands patted him, in a sort of partnership 
 which altogether astonished him. So at the same 
 time did the voice of the young man, for it grew 
 wonderfully sort and winning as it spoke to him, 
 and there was a tone in it like something that Kick 
 had noticed in the voice of Harma. 
 
 Henry Holbrook knew a great deal about horses 
 and he pushed his new acquaintance judiciously. 
 Kick felt more and more as if the young man were 
 getting tamed somehow, while Harma talked to her 
 new pet and told him that he was to remain with 
 her. Perhaps Kick did not at first quite understand 
 his good fortune, but he began to do so when she 
 led him away toward the barn. When she reached 
 it she took his bridle off, put a halter on, tied him in 
 a stall, put liberal oats into the trough before him, 
 threw down straw for him to lie on, and patted him 
 good night. 
 
 Henry Holbrook was with her, helping her and 
 
TAMED. 17 
 
 telling her what to do, and Kick found himself more 
 than a little puzzled about their voices. It seemed 
 to him that their tones blended and mingled and 
 had the same thrilling unaccountable tremor in them, 
 and it affected him powerfully. 
 
 " Harma ! " exclaimed Henry at that moment, 
 "you have taught me what love can do." 
 
 Kick heard that, but he did not quite understand 
 what Henry went on to say. He' listened in vain, 
 for they were away back of the stall near the barn 
 door. 
 
 " Harma," said Henry at last, " I am as thirsty, 
 as wretched, as utterly miserable, as he was, and 
 maybe I need taming as badly. Can't you try a 
 little kindness on me ? " 
 
 Kick answered with a loud, anxious whinny and 
 an effort to turn around in his stall and see what 
 was going on, and it was Henry who at once replied 
 to him : — 
 
 " It 's all right. Kick, old fellow! It 's all rght ! " 
 
 Kick was entirely satisfied, for he he':»rd Harma 
 murmur "Yes," and in a moment more he was 
 alone 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE. 
 
 »9 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 OHUT in by the great gloomy spires of the Cum- 
 berlands, under the frown of the mountains, 
 with one narrow neck leading out into the world 
 beyond ; such is Dark Hollow. 
 
 Dark with the shadows cast by the surrounding 
 peaks and the rank, riotous growth of the forest 
 below. 
 
 Delightfully cool in summer, magnificently wild, 
 pathetically alluring, and hopelessly lonely always. 
 In winter the ice columns rear themselves fifty and 
 a hundred feet under the dripping, draining bluffs, 
 catching now and then an unwary fern in the coag- 
 ulation and holding it, a summer captive in the 
 grasp of grim old winter. Sometimes the winter- 
 green berries peep from the bluff above through a 
 veil of filmy ice, cheery, saucy, and full of a warm, 
 mute faith. 
 
 Gabe Brady found but little to admire in the 
 winter wildness as he stoppei.! to rest his oxen 
 under one of the great bluffs that frown upon the 
 
22 TROUBLE m DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 Hollow. He glanced up at the glistening ice col- 
 umns and the imprisoned ferns, and whistled, half 
 in jest, half in earnest. 
 
 " We-uns air like that ther yarb," he said, " frez 
 up fur the winter. Frez up to be sho' ; ther' ain't 
 no haul'n' of a load up the Hollow sech weather ez 
 this. Them doz'n poplar logs hev' done tired the 
 critters plum out. We-uns orter crawl in a hole 
 and sleep in winter-time like the b'ars does, ha ! ha ! 
 What does you-uns think 'bout'n it, Queenie ? " 
 
 From the top of the loaded wagon and from a 
 bundle of old quilts, a black bearskin, and a faded 
 red shawl, came the saucy answer in the piping voice 
 of a privileged child : — 
 
 " I ain't faultin' uv the weather none ez I knows 
 on. It air older 'n I be ; I ain't got no call ter 
 fault it." 
 
 "To be sho' yer ain't, yer sassy little cub," 
 chuckled Gabe, " muffled up in yer furs like a white 
 kitten, an' a-ridin' in yer fine kerridge while yer 
 old dad an' yer big brother air trompin' uv it, yer 
 kin lick yer paws an' pass complemints on the 
 weather, hey ? Waal, I reckin." 
 
 The only answer vouchsafed from the promis- 
 cuous bundle was a muffled chuckle, while the " big 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 23 
 
 brother" alluded to, an overgrown boy of fifteen, 
 kicked the half-frozen mud from his shoes on the 
 hub of the wagon wheel and laughed at what he 
 called "Jo's peartness." 
 
 " Hit's mighty funny, air it?" said Gabe as he 
 arranged the heavy yoke about the necks of the 
 patient beasts. " Hit air mighty funny ? Waal, I 
 'low you-uns kin fetch the naixt load 'thout my 
 holpin' uv ye, yer seems ter favor the job so highly. 
 Mebbe ye kin git 'long better 'thout yer ole dad, 
 anyhow ; hey, Kit ? " 
 
 Before the boy could reply, Jo, or Queenie, as 
 Gabe Brady insisted upon calling his daughter, put 
 her bushy brown head out from her wrappings of 
 fur and wool and said saucily : — 
 
 " Y' orter fetch yer wood in summer, dad, an' 
 save shoe luther." 
 
 Gabe laughed aloud ; his pet piece of advice 
 had been tossed back to him. He rested an arm 
 on the wooden yoke and struck the palm of one 
 hand with the forefinger of the other, ready for 
 argument. 
 
 " Waal, honey," he said, " it air too warm ter haul 
 in summer-time, don't yer know ? " and then, after 
 a moment's thought, " an' it air too cold in winter. 
 
24 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 Lawd ! Lawd ! it do seem ez ef the Almighty can't 
 fix things ter please us, nohow." 
 
 He dropped his hands, shook his head in disgust, 
 and gathered up the ropes. 
 
 "Git up, Jinks! Git up, Rube!" he called. 
 " We-uns hev' got to be a-hustlin'." 
 
 He trudged along by the side of his team, turn- 
 ing his head now and then to see if the precious 
 bundle on top was safe and comfortable. Kit, the 
 brother and son, followed on the other side, his 
 hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. 
 
 Not a sound broke the stillness of the Hollow, 
 except the creak, crack, and croaking of Gabe's 
 wagon, or the occasional snapping of his long whip 
 as the oxen ignored the repeated " Whoa, ge-e ! " 
 and infringed upon the driver's part of the road. 
 
 The peaks uplifted above the Hollow were heavily 
 veiled with mist, half blue, half madder, uncertain, 
 vague, dreamy, and magnificent. 
 
 A covey of snowbirds flew by with a startled 
 " whi-r-r ! " and disappeared down one of the wild 
 gulches with which the Hollow abounds. 
 
 " I '11 make a trap soon 's I git home," thought 
 Kit, "me 'n' Jo." 
 
 Indeed, Jo was included in every program ever 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 25 
 
 planned at Gabe Brady's cabin ; she was first in 
 everybody's thoughts and entered largely into 
 everybody's calculations. 
 
 " Seein' she ain't got no mammy we-uns humors 
 her some," Gabe would say by way of apology for 
 his little girl's authority, exercised boldly and often. 
 But he would immediately add, as if to gainsay any 
 possible injustice done his darling: — 
 
 " But Queenie air peart, powerful peart fur her 
 age, she air jist turned seben." 
 
 " Seben, goin' on eight," Jo would amend; "be 
 eight come naixt Christmas." 
 
 Considering the fact that Christmas would not 
 come for eleven months and twenty days, Gabe was 
 not far from correct when he said his daughter was 
 "jist turned seben." 
 
 The ox-wagon drew up before the door of the 
 cabin, the wood was thrown into a pile, and Gabe 
 went to the shed for his axe, while the brother and 
 sister went into the cabin to rake up the coals, 
 and make the tr^p for catching the snowbirds. 
 
 When Gabe came in, bringing the axe, he found 
 Jo toasting her toes before the blaze of the kitchen 
 fire, while Kit prepared the yellow pine sticks for 
 the trap building. 
 
26 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 Gabe hesitated to break into the arrangement; 
 he was only an ignorant, untaught mountaineer, but 
 he understood and enjoyed the companionship, so 
 entire and satisfying, his children found in each 
 other. Still he was a systematic man, and when 
 there was a task to be done his hands were swift to 
 do it. 
 
 He looked down at the pile of pine sticks from 
 which Kit was making a selection. As the boy 
 drew his knife from his pocket, Gabe spoke : — 
 
 "Sonny," he said, "ye '11 hev' ter turn the grin'- 
 stun a minit, fur the axe air dull some." 
 
 Jo looked up from the shoestring she was trying 
 vainly to unknot. 
 
 " Kit air makin' uv a trap," she said. " Kit air 
 too busy fur grin'-stuns an' sech." 
 
 Gabe showed his teeth in a pleased smile. Jo's 
 "peartness" always pleased him. 
 
 "Waal," he said, " ef Kit air busy, who air goin' 
 ter turn fur yer ole dad ? " 
 
 He slipped the axe through his hands, and while 
 the pole rested upon the toe of his boot he leaned 
 upon the handle and put his question again : — 
 
 "Who's goin' ter holp yer ole dad, I'd like ter 
 know ? " 
 
TROVBLh m DARK HOLLOW. 2.J 
 
 " Me," she replied, and Gabe fairly shook with 
 laughter. 
 
 "Shucks!" he said, "ye little sparrow, ye; I'd 
 like ter know how ye got yer eddication, turnin' uv 
 grin'-stuns an' sech." 
 
 Jo showed spirit at this implied reflection upon 
 her ability. 
 
 " I kin anyhow," she declared. " I turns fur 
 Kit, an' our axe what we-uns grin's don't git dull 
 in one choppin', neither, there ! Gimme a shoe- 
 string." 
 
 In her excitement she had pulled too vigorously 
 upon the worn leather lacer, and it snapped beneath 
 the strain. 
 
 Gabe selected another from a bunch hanging by 
 the mantelshelf, and Jo tossed the shoe to Kit. 
 
 " Fix it. Kit," she commanded, " an' git yer sticks 
 all split 'g'inst we-uns grin's the axe." 
 
 And so the work went cheerily on, as it always 
 did at Gabe Brady's cabin in the Hollow, in spite 
 of cold and poverty and ignorance. There was 
 something in the hearts of these untaught ones that 
 lightened the day's labor .and brightened the dull 
 kitchen and kept the soul singing. Something 
 nature had placed there; something that transforms 
 
28 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 the hut into a paradise, and without which the 
 princely hearth is desolate, — sympathy. 
 
 When the grinding was finished, and Gabe was 
 singing away at the woodpile, Jo came and sat 
 down beside Kit on the floor. 
 
 Four sticks systematically arranged in the form 
 of a square, the four corners crossed, a ball of stout 
 cord, and a half-dozen other sticks waited Jo's 
 coming. 
 
 " Tie 'em tight, Jo," advised Kit ; " tie every 
 corner tight an' alius leave string enough ter tie 
 everyone plumb ter the top ; traps ain't fitten fur 
 nuthin' ef the string air broke." 
 
 Slowly, stick by stick, the trap took shape, until 
 at length it was finished. As strong and secure 
 a trap as could be desired, even for the most 
 diminutive sparrow that ever skipped a prison. 
 
 Kit held it at arm's length and admired it. 
 
 " I calls that a fust-rate job," he declared. 
 
 " We made it fust-rate," Jo amended as usual. 
 
 " Does you-uns aim ter ketch a b'ar ? " asked 
 Gabe, who had entered while the trap was under 
 examination. 
 
 " Hit ain't too big," said Kit, who understood the 
 sarcasm of his father's remark. 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 29 
 
 " Hit air roomy," Gabe insisted, " but hit '11 
 answer. Wher does ye aim ter set it ? " 
 
 " Over ter Middle Ridge," said Kit ; " ther 's 
 some snow ther, and Luke Simpson 'lowed ter me 
 ez ther wuz more game on the Ridge 'n yer could 
 shake er stick at." 
 
 Gabe looked doubtful. " Does yer aim ter kerry 
 the little gal along ? " he asked. 
 
 " I aims to go," Jo answered for herself. 
 
 " Hit air toler'ble fur," Gabe argued, " an' word 
 kem ter the Holler ez ther wuz a b'ar killed on 
 Middle Ridge last Sadday. Had n't yer better set 
 it nigher home, or leave the little gal behind ? " 
 
 Gabe thrust his boot into the blaze ; the well- 
 burned log fell apart, half falling either side of the 
 chimneyplace, while the saucy sparks snapped 
 and sparkled and disappeared up the sooty 
 chimney. 
 
 " Naw," said Kit. " I don't want ter go if Jo 
 can't. I promised ter take her, an' I 'low I kin 
 keep the varmints off'n Jo, an' fetch her back all 
 right. Jo ain't no baby ; she kin tromp roun' 
 same 's a boy, Jo kin." 
 
 " I kin fetch the birds back, too ; " Jo paid the 
 additional compliment to her usefulness. 
 
30 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 " S'posin' the birds turns out rabbits ? " suggested 
 Gabe. 
 
 " We aims ter shoot a b'ar," Kit admitted with 
 an embarrassed grin. 
 
 " I reckin," assented Gabe, " cur'us b'ar there on 
 Middle Ridge ; don't need no dogs ter ferret 'em 
 out, nor nuthin' ; jest Stan's on th'ir hin' feet an' 
 axes to be shot. Mighty 'commodatin' b'ar ; what 
 does you-uns think uv it, Queenie ? " 
 
 " I think I air goin'," was the reply, and as usual 
 she had her own way ; against Gabe's judgment, 
 and with many cautions and admonitions and 
 warnings, and a promise to be back promptly at 
 sundown. 
 
 Woody and wild and lonely, full of jutting crags 
 and unexplored caverns, isolated and unattractive 
 save for its undisputed grandeur, no man cared to 
 plant his dwelling on the dangerous height known 
 as the Middle Ridge. 
 
 Even the hunters, lured by the abundance ol 
 game, deer, fox, wildcat, and even bear, when 
 night came on would pitch their tents as near as 
 possible to the cabins dotting the side and base of 
 the Ridge. 
 
 In daylight, however, there was no cause for 
 
TROUBLE LV DARK HOLLOW. 3I 
 
 alarm ; the wildcat fled before the approach of 
 humanity and bruin seldom made his appearance 
 without warm and continued insistence. Jo had 
 hunted huckleberries, wild grapes, persimmons, and 
 hazelnuts with Kit and Luke Simpson every spring 
 and autumn since she could remember. But their 
 excursions had never extended farther than the 
 lower side of the Ridge when Jo formed one of the 
 company. This was her first real trip to the Ridge ; 
 and as she stood under a great overhanging ledge 
 and looked down upon the Hollow, humble, noise- 
 less, and tiny, nestled among the purple-painted 
 mountains, hugging their very feet like a slave at 
 the footstool of a monarch, she clapped her hands 
 with wild delight. 
 
 Far away to the south Peak's Mountain rose, 
 wrapped in filmy, delicate azure ; nearer towered 
 the familiar heights of Beersheba ; while winding 
 away to the westward, like a serpent following a 
 zigzag trail, ran the distorted contortion known as 
 the Backbone. 
 
 There was but a sprinkle of snow on the Ridge, 
 and Kit felt that he had brought his birdtrap to 
 little purpose. However, he set it, well baited with 
 bread crumbs, in a bank of drifted snow, just with- 
 
32 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 out the ledge where Jo stood ankle deep in the 
 rustling dead leaves which the wind had heaped 
 under the arched rock Kit scooped the leaves into 
 a nest and cunningly tucked her into it. 
 
 " You-uns set here an' watch fur snowbirds," he 
 said. "An' whatever ye does don't yer move away 
 till we-uns gits back. We air goin' up the Ridge a 
 little higher fur a b'ar." 
 
 "Holler when yer gits it?" asked Jo with a 
 merry little laugh. 
 
 " Ye misdoubts we-uns '11 git it, I s'pose," said 
 Luke. 
 
 " I '11 eat all yer kills," was the only compromise 
 she offered as she crouched deeper into the crisp, 
 dry leaves, and the two youthful hunters started 
 again up the Ridge. 
 
 Once Kit looked back. It did not seem alto- 
 gether the proper thing to leave her there. He 
 shook his finger warningly: " Don't you move ; the 
 b'ar '11 eat yer ef yer does." 
 
 Jo, left to herself, cuddled down among the crisp, 
 warm leaves, like a young cub. Afraid of the bears? 
 Not she ; she laughed at the idea. It may be she 
 was too young, it may have been because of hei" 
 wild mountain life, its freedom and security ; at any 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 33 
 
 rate accustomed to roam over the hills and through 
 the forests, she felt no fear of the dangers that 
 might lurk about the Middle Ridge. 
 
 For some time she sat there in her nest of 
 leaves, watching the cloud-shadows upon the Hol- 
 low, or clapping her hands gleefully whenever 
 Kit's rifle rang out, clear and sharp, farther up the 
 mountain. 
 
 Then the waiting became monotonous, the guns 
 were too far off to be heard ; the last shot sounded 
 miles and miles away, Jo thought. 
 
 It was tiresome, the waiting, and both feet were 
 fast asleep, she had sat still so long. She pinched 
 her toe to wake it up, but the effect was only to 
 send a sharp, prickly sensation tingling through the 
 entire foot. She stood up ; ah ! that was better, and 
 she concluded to walk about some and find some- 
 thing, maybe, that would amuse her and help to 
 pass the monotonous hours. 
 
 But there was nothing under the crag but dry 
 leaves, and one great flat stone propped against the 
 side wall of the shelving alcove. 
 
 " Looks like a cubby door," laughed Jo ; " mebbe 
 the b'ars keeps house ther'." 
 
 She peeped behind the " door," and, sure enough, 
 
34 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 there was a small circular opening leading urlder 
 the great Ridge. 
 
 Jo almost screamed with delight. 
 
 " I '11 hide, an' 'tend like I 'm losted," she said, 
 and, stooping, she peeped further into the cave. 
 
 It was not very dark and was truly magnificently 
 finished. Jo crawled in on hands and feet ; how 
 warm and good it was after waiting so long in the 
 cold. 
 
 She concluded to remain a moment where she 
 was until the warmth of the place should thor- 
 oughly penetrate her chilled limbs ; then she would 
 look about her at " Mr. B'ar's house." 
 
 The floor was of soft white sand, and Jo, 
 doubling her shawl for a pillow, stretched herself 
 upon her back to admire the glistening stalactites 
 hanging above her. How distinct, how perfect they 
 were ; each one had a firm, rock grasp upon the 
 vaulted roof. Was she sure of that ? Jo smiled 
 lazily to see one of the longest and heaviest sud- 
 denly leave its place and swing partners with its 
 opposite neighbor ; then the entire crowd began to 
 grow restless and to move up and down, swift and 
 swifter, in a mad whirl ; they were drunk, crazy, she 
 could n't exactly remember which. And at that 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 35 
 
 moment a gun sounded a report far away and 
 muffled by a distance, and the large stalactite was 
 suddenly transformed into a great black bear that 
 opened its mouth and swallowed the smaller ones. 
 
 Jo would have screamed, so terribly was she 
 frightened, only that her lips were locked and she 
 could not utter a sound. She was utterly dumb 
 with fear ; at that moment, when she thought the 
 monster about to turn upon her, a covey of snow- 
 birds flew by and, lifting her upon their wings, bore 
 her gently, easily, tenderly away ; somewhere, it did 
 not matter where, the motion was so easy. She 
 was floating in the air — going, going ; she smiled 
 again and gave herself to the long, long journey 
 southward into sunlight, away from the Hollow. 
 Once there was a thundering crash, but the birds 
 told her it was only the falling in of the cave she 
 had left. Once she was almost sure she heard her 
 father calling, " Queenie ! Queenie!" But it was 
 only the brooks laughing and the sunbeams danc- 
 ing in the land through which they traveled — the 
 beautiful land of dreams. 
 
 The sun was slanting alarmingly westward when 
 Kit Brady and Luke Simpson turned their faces 
 homeward. Against the latter's inclination, how- 
 
36 TROUBLE m DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 ever ; for the young hunters had brought down no 
 nobler game than a couple of rabbits. 
 
 " Hit air two good hours afore night," Luke 
 insisted. But Kit pointed toward the crimsoning 
 west. 
 
 " When the sun straddles that ther' Backbone of 
 the mount'n," said he, " he takes a mighty fast trot 
 down on t' other side." 
 
 " I 'm plumb shame ter go back thout 'n any b'ar," 
 insisted Luke. 
 
 "Can't help yer shame," said Kit; "it be time 
 fur me ter light out ! " 
 
 " An' mam jist lon'in' fur some wil' meat, an' so 
 air the chillen. They-uns '11 be plumb disappointed 
 ter see me come snakin' up two hours by sun with 
 nuthin' 'cept'n' of a rabbit." 
 
 " See here, Luke," said Kit, " ef ye wants ter 
 stay here and hunt meat fur yer folks, ye stay. I 
 air goin' home ter split wood fur mine. I tell ye 
 it '11 be plumb dark in the Holler 'g'inst we git ther'." 
 
 And Kit was right ; he could hear the cowbells 
 tinkling already, and even the sound of the wood- 
 man's axe as some shiftless mountaineer chopped 
 his necessary evening's fuel. 
 
 Kit grew restless and uneasy as they descended 
 
TROUBLE IN DAl^X HOLLOW. 2>7 
 
 the Ridge through the crackhng branches and 
 rusthng dead leaves. 
 
 Queenie ! " She must be stiff frez by this time, ' 
 he said, "an' I 'low she air plumb scairt ter death." 
 
 " Jo ain't no fool, nor no idjit, nuther," said 
 Luke ; " she air bred an' born'd in the Holler an' 
 she knows ther ain't no call ter get shuck up in 
 broad daylight." 
 
 Kit was comforted somewhat. 
 
 " Naw," he assented ; "Jo ain't no fool, an' she 
 ain't no coward, nuther. She air plucky, Jo air, 
 plumb game ter the backbone." 
 
 Yet as the sun crept farther and farther o-^er 
 the Backbone, and the distance between him and 
 the spot where they had left Jo rapidly lessened, 
 his fears returned. She was such a little thing, it 
 was a shame to have deserted her so long. Yet 
 she was such a brave little thing, too ; he knew she 
 was not afraid. It was n't always safe in the forest. 
 Only a month before a panther had been killed in 
 the Ridge, and bears were constantly prowling 
 around. Poor Kit ! he was beset by so many differ- 
 ent emotions ; first of fear, then of hope. 
 
 " I sholy reckin nothin' could worrit Jo," he said 
 again and again as he trudged on as rapidly as 
 
38 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 might be to join her. But when they stood at 
 length under the cHff and found the place deserted, 
 not a sign of the child anywhere, the two boys 
 were for a moment speechless with fear and 
 surprise. 
 
 " A painter hev' got her, I jest knows it," said Kit. 
 " What '11 dad say o' me goin' off an' leavin' Jo ter 
 wil' cats an' things ? Oh, what '11 dad say ? " 
 
 " Waal, ef I ware in yer place, I 'd look around a 
 bit afore I 'd begin ter whimper like you-uns air 
 a-doin'," said Luke. " Mebbe as not Jo 's jest 
 hidin' ter werrit we-uns. Holler out loud an' see 
 ef she don't answer." 
 
 So Kit called ; once, twice, a dozen times, but 
 there was no other answer than the wind in the 
 cedars, or a far-away whip-poor-will calling plain- 
 tively to the night. 
 
 Then Luke adopted a ruse : — 
 
 " Jo ! " he called. " Aw, Jo ! we-uns knows ye air 
 jest foolin'. An' we air goin' off an' leave you ef 
 ye don't come out'n thar." 
 
 " Thar " meaning the hiding-place Jo was sup- 
 posed to have chosen. But even this threat was 
 powerless to provoke a response. Then Luke fired 
 his gun and both boys shouted : "A b'ar! ab'ar!" 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 39 
 
 but the only answer was the ever-ready echoes call- 
 ing jubilantly among the crags. 
 
 " She 's a-playin' 'possum," said Luke. " I jest 
 knows she air." 
 
 And they fired the gun again three times, and 
 again shouted " B'ar ! " but all to no purpose. And 
 then even skeptical Luke became alarmed no less 
 than Kit. It was evident that Jo was lost. 
 
 " Mebbe she hev' gone home," said Kit. 
 
 " Not by her lone se'f," said Luke ; " more likely 
 she tried ter go an' got lost." 
 
 She was certainly lost ; there were the leaves 
 just as they had heaped them into a little brown 
 nest, but the little brown bird had flown, the nest 
 was empty. 
 
 To make matters worse, the sun, indifferent to 
 human needs and anxieties, cast one long, jubilant 
 beam into the darksome niche and dropped sud- 
 denly behind the Backbone, leaving the Hollow in 
 darkness. 
 
 "O Lu ! " said Kit, " hit air night, an' Jo air not 
 foun'. Do ye reckin she could 'a' gone home, 
 Luke?" 
 
 " Naw," said Luke ; " I know she ain't done no 
 sech o' a thing. She air lost, an' we-uns better be 
 
40 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 makin' tracks ter tell it, stid o' prowlin' roun' here 
 rakin' 'mongst dead leaves an' shakin' o' dead 
 bresh. 
 
 " She air lost. I alius 'lowed as gal chillen didn't 
 have no call ter be a-trampin' roun' after boys, 
 nohow. First place, 't ain't manners ; second place, 
 they ain't fitten fur that kind o' work. I be goin' 
 home my own se'f." 
 
 Kit forgot his anxiety for a moment in his anger. 
 The idea of going off and leaving a helpless little 
 girl alone on the mountain all night was something 
 too cowardly contemptible to contemplate for an 
 instant. 
 
 " Ef ye air minded ter go, Luke Simpson, ye kin 
 go ! " he exclaimed. " Ef ye air so coward disposed 
 ye orter run 'long home ter yer mammy. An' ye 
 better trot long toler'ble peart else the dark ull 
 overtake ye foreshortly. I knows in reason ye air 
 bound ter be afeared o' the dark, sech a puny little 
 snaggle-tooth baby ez ye be. Go along o' ye ! Ez 
 fur me, I hev' settled it in my own min' ef Jo air ter 
 sleep all night on the Ridge she air not goin' to be 
 the only one ter do that. I ain't goin' ter leave it 
 till she air found ; not ef it takes till the judgment 
 day." 
 
TROUBLE m DARK HOLLOW. 4 1 
 
 He bit his lips to keep back the tears, for rough 
 boy as he was there was a warm, brave heart in the 
 bosom of Kit Brady. Even thoughtless Luke was 
 touched by the boy's tears. 
 
 " I ware not aimin' ter run away fur being 'feard, 
 Kit," he said. " But I 'lowed someun ought ter 
 know ez quick ez might be. It be toler'ble col' on 
 the Ridge, an' Jo air sech a little mite. One o' 
 we-uns ought to go an' gin the alarm in the Holler. 
 You-uns go, an' I uU stay here an' hunt if ye say 
 so. I ain't a-keerin' which, unly someun ought ter 
 go ; hit '11 soon be plumb, good dark." 
 
 " I 'd ruther die ez ter go back without Queenie," 
 sobbed Kit. " I 'd ruther drap dead in my tracks 
 ez ter go back ter dad an' tell him ez I hev' lost her. 
 She air the light o' his soul, Jo air. I would n't go 
 back an' tell him I hev' done gone an' lost her, 
 mebbe lef her fur a painter ter eat, not fur all the 
 Holler. I 'd cut my tongue out first." 
 
 Before Kit's mind passed in panoramic swiftness 
 and precision the scene at the cabin when the neWs 
 of the trouble should reach it. The look upon his 
 father's face — he could see it as distinctly as he saw 
 it the day his mother lay in her white pine cofifin. 
 And then the empty little chair in the chimney 
 
42 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 corner — that was Jo's chair and Jo's corner where 
 she sat every evening and " sassed " her father and 
 big brother. Nobody ever thought of that chair 
 without Jo in it, and now — oh, the desolate days, 
 the lonely, grief-burdened nights that were in store 
 for them, should his sister indeed be lost to them 
 forever ! He pressed his fingers upon his eyes to 
 shut out the horrible picture. The next moment 
 faith reasserted itself; he called himself a fool for 
 thinking Jo would not be found. 
 
 " Go on, Luke," he said ; " I ware that worrit I 
 did n't know what I ware a-sayin'. You-uns go on 
 ez spry ez ye ever kivered groun' in yer life, an' gin 
 the alarm. Wake up the Holler — half of it air 
 asleep by sundown, an' t' other half noddin'. Stop 
 at Parson Tate's ez ye go by — hit 's the first place 
 — an' start him over to tell dad. He '11 break it 
 more like somethin' than t' others. Then holler it 
 out ez ye go, ye knows how, an' the Holler folks '11 
 understand. They-uns knows what it air ter be lost 
 on Middle Ridge. Run on ; I air not goin' ter 
 leave this here mount'n till Jo leaves it. Go on, 
 boy ! " The command was almost a threat, and Luke 
 sped off" at once, disappearing almost immediately in 
 the gloom of the forest and the descending night. 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 43 
 
 Down, down the rocky Ridge path, over brush 
 and brier and slippery stones he hurried, calling as 
 he went that cry which always awakens a dreadful 
 fear in the breast of the mountaineer, who under- 
 stands all too well what it means to wander unguided 
 and alone among those barren, snowcapped heights. 
 That cry which awakens, as nothing can beside, his 
 keenest interest, and enlists his broadest sympathy : 
 
 " Lost! Lost! Lost! " 
 
 Old men heard it and left their chimney corners 
 to reach for the rifles above the kitchen doors. Old 
 women heard it and left their griddles to blow a 
 blast upon the horn that would announce the danger 
 to the next listener. Children heard it, and forgot 
 their supper smoking on their plates, to crowd 
 about the doors with white faces, wondering about 
 the child who was lost. Young maidens and young 
 men, forgetting sex in sweet humanity, went forth 
 together, one heart, one purpose, to rescue the 
 perishing. 
 
 " Lost! Lost! Lost!" 
 
 Kit heard the cry as the young courier sped on ; 
 fainter and fainter it came to him, until at last he 
 failed to hear it at all. Then he knew Luke was 
 telling the story at the cabins as he passed along. 
 
44 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 He could almost, he fancied, tell the very moment 
 when he stopped at such or such a door. But he 
 was not idle meanwhile ; afraid to wander far from 
 the spot lest he should be going farther from his 
 sister, he spent the time in creeping in among the 
 shadowy crevices, both of crag and brush, and 
 searching as best he could in the darkness that was 
 fast settling upon the Ridge. 
 
 More than once he called, thinking she might 
 have fallen asleep. 
 
 " Jo ! O Jo ! Jo air a soun' sleeper," he told 
 himself. " I hev' knowed dad ter sprinkle water 
 out o' the gourd into her face mornin's. An' she 
 must 'a' been mighty nigh fagged out with the tramp 
 up the Ridge. Jo ! O Jo ! " 
 
 But, if asleep, the slumber was too deep to be 
 broken by his call, and, heartsick and discouraged. 
 Kit sat down upon a rock and buried his face in 
 his hands. Lost ! little Queenie ; bright, peart, 
 " sassy " little Queenie. It could n't be ; she must 
 be at home, safe in the cabin in the Hollow. Sud- 
 denly he bounded to his feet ; he had heard that 
 which told him emphatically and distinctly that she 
 was not at home in the Hollow. It was a horn, 
 a blast blown loud and clear three times — a pause, 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK ffOLLOW. 45 
 
 and then the triple blast again. Everybody in the 
 Hollow and along the mountain side knew that it 
 meant danger of some kind ; and Kit knew the 
 response to the signal to be always immediate. 
 Indeed while he listened there was an answer; 
 another and another ; then a shout, repeated and 
 multiplied ; and far down the Hollow a torch 
 blazed out like a red meteor in the blackness of 
 the night. In a moment others were lighted, and 
 still others ; the entire valley was awake, the wilder- 
 ness ablaze with light. 
 
 " They hev' heard the news," said Kit, " an' they 
 air formin'. I wonder ef dad knows — poor dad ! " 
 
 He climbed upon the rocks, to the very tallest, 
 and hallooed until he was hoarse, although he knew 
 his voice was no more to that far-off band than the 
 echo of a little brook singing among its yellow 
 pebbles. Still he wanted to do something ; he 
 must do something or his heart would burst. 
 When he listened again he knew the procession 
 was making the ascent of the Ridge, for the cries 
 came nearer and more distinct, and the horns were 
 awaking the echoes adown the steep bluff's side. 
 
 Sweet sound, aye, music sweet as heaven's to his 
 ears ! Then there came another sound — a nearer, 
 
46 TROUBLE M DAkK HOLLOW. 
 
 clearer sound — a sound that sent the life-blood 
 freezing to his heart, so full was it of horrible, 
 fiendish suggestions. He scrambled down from 
 the rocks to which he had climbed and stationed 
 himself in the leaves ; he could feel them in the 
 darkness, crisp and crackling beneath his feet, the 
 very bed of leaves in which he had placed his 
 sister. Somehow he felt, he could not have told 
 why, nearer to her in that empty nest of brown 
 leaves, and his first thought when that hideous cry 
 rang out upon the night was one of protection to Jo. 
 
 " Ef it hev' come fur her, mebbe it '11 take me 
 instead," he told himself, and not once did the 
 brave heart falter. " An' ef it hev' already tuk her, 
 I 'd ruther it tuk me ez ter not." 
 
 He had heard the cry of a panther in a laurel 
 brake near by. 
 
 Gabe Brady had kindled a lively fire in the big 
 old fireplace. 
 
 " So 's ter hev' it homeful an' chairful 'g'inst the 
 little gal gits back," he said as he drew up the big 
 wooden rocker before the blaze and sat watching 
 the sparks crackling about the red cedar with a 
 saucy jubilance which served partly to amuse and 
 partly to irritate him. 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 47 
 
 Gabe never felt quite comfortable when Jo was 
 gone " on one o' them wil' tromps after Kit." 
 And to-night, somehow, the saucy sparks seemed 
 to be twitting him with her absence. 
 
 " Humph ! " he said, " ye appears ter be sorter 
 spiteful like ter-night, ye sholy do ; air. it because 
 the little gal ain't here ? She 's a-comin', lemme tell 
 ye. An' she hev' got two eyes in that sassy head 
 o' her 'n as '11 lay the best o' you-uns, ye imperdent 
 sparkers ye, cla'r back inter the shade." 
 
 Still, for all his gay banter, Brady felt a trifle 
 uneasy. He pushed his chair back and began to 
 busy himself about the more stirring matters of 
 the household ; first he swung a black kettle to the 
 iron hook suspended in the big black fireplace, and 
 put some potatoes to roast, with their jackets on, 
 in the hot ashes. Then he opened the door and 
 looked out. The Hollow was shrouded in a dead- 
 white mist. The sun had already set and a brisk, 
 sharp breeze stirred the brown boughs of the oak 
 and moaned in the melancholy pine trees. Gabe 
 was restless, 
 
 " Hit air lonesome, shore now," he declared. 
 "An' the wind do blow pitiful. I wish the little 
 gal wuz in ; I certainly do." 
 
48 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 He went back to the fire and threw on another 
 log. Then he noticed that the kettle had begun 
 to hum. He listened a moment, then impulsively 
 reached his hand and, lifting the pot from the hook, 
 set it back upon the hearth. 
 
 " Ef ye can't sing no more chairfuller 'an that, ye 
 kin take a back seat," he said. " I reck'n I knows 
 the little gal ain't come, 'thout you-uns tellin' me." 
 
 Again he went to the door and looked out, 
 instantly closed it and returned to the fire. His 
 pipe lay on the shelf above the fireplace ; he took 
 it up mechanically, tapped it upon the jamb of the 
 chimney, and watched, without seeing, the white 
 ashes and half-burned tobacco drop upon the 
 hearth. Then suddenly he remembered that it 
 was Jo who always " tapped out the ashes," and 
 Jo who always " crammed in the fixin's " when he 
 wished to smoke. He replaced the pipe upon the 
 shelf quickly as if it had unexpectedly stung him. 
 As he did so the blaze from the great back log 
 suddenly shot out its red tongue and, with a jubi- 
 lant roar, licked the black back of the chimney 
 with a kind of fiendish affection ihat made Brady 
 almost forget his uneasiness in hi& Vritation. 
 "An' what air you-uns a-jubileein' about?" he 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 49 
 
 demanded. " I declare ter goodness a man hev' 
 got no say-so in his own house these days." 
 
 The next moment he laughed ; the absurdity of 
 the thing struck him, and he knew it was his own 
 warped fancy and uneasy mind had given tongue to 
 the inanimate objects about him. 
 
 " Ever' thing hev' gone crookety ter-night," he 
 said, " all on account of the little sass-box not bein' 
 here. I 'm mightily afeared I ought not to 'a' let 
 her go. Waal, ef she ain't here at home in a 
 mighty, mighty short time, I '11 go arter her." 
 
 " Go-ho-ho-ho ! " roared the blaze, and Gabe 
 stepped back in frightened astonishment. 
 
 " Yc needn't be jubileein' 'bout'n it, Mr. Blaze," 
 he said. 
 
 " She'd laugh peart 'r 'n ye kin ter see her foolish 
 ole dad a-traipsin' arter her." 
 
 " Go— oh— oh-oh ! " It was the wind at the 
 window. 
 
 "I 'low I knows when ter go," said Gabe. "It 
 do appear ez ef ever'thing wuz sot on advisin' ter- 
 night, ez ef some'n' wuz ter pay sho enough." 
 
 " Go ! " 
 
 A saucy spark snapped the command in his very 
 face. 
 
50 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 " One more tellin', an' I will," said Gabe. The 
 stout heart of the man was weakening in the 
 solicitude of the father, though he called himself 
 " a fool," " a born'd idjit," and drew up the old rock- 
 ing-chair, again, threw himself into it, and, rocking 
 slowly to and fro, listened eagerly and restlessly for 
 the sound of the merry clatter that always preceded 
 Jo's coming. But he could hear nothing save the 
 rough rockers crossing the uneven boards. 
 
 " Go, G-a-b-e ! Go, G-a-b-e ! " With a quick 
 emphatic jerk the sound of the rocking took form 
 into words. 
 
 At that moment a rifle shot, another, and, with 
 instantaneous rapidity, another rang out in sharp 
 succession. He listened but an instant. 
 
 " Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! " 
 
 The old, terrible cry that meant a face missing 
 at some humble fireside. 
 
 Gabe sprang to his feet and jerked his rifle from 
 the rack above the cabin door, lifted the latch, and 
 stood face to face with Parson Tate. 
 
 For a moment neither spoke ; each throat refused 
 utterance to the terrible truth that lay heavy on 
 each heart. 
 
 At length the preacher, for years the adviser and 
 
\ 
 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 51 
 
 a kind of oracle to the humble people of the Hol- 
 low, lifted his left hand and laid it upon Brady's 
 shoulder. In his right he carried a torch, and a 
 hunter's horn hung from his neck. 
 
 " My brother," he said, " the ways o' the Almighty 
 air past findin' out, but his arm air strong ter deliver 
 sech ez put their trust in him." 
 
 Brady staggered and leaned against the door ; 
 for a moment his limbs refused to bear his weight. 
 
 " By that word ye air meaning ter tell me ez it be 
 my own little gal ez be lost, Parson Tate, air ye ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 A deep groan was the only answer, and Gabe 
 strode out into the night, where the neighbors, with 
 the quick sympathy that is characteristic of the 
 mountain people, had congregated to join in a 
 search for the lost child. 
 
 Parson Tate acted as director, and ordered each 
 man to provide himself with a torch ; when this had 
 been done he led the procession toward the Ridge, 
 rising, a gaunt and forbidding barrier, on the east 
 boundary of Dark Hollow. 
 
 Men, women, and children, calling, shouting, fir- 
 ing of guns, and waving of torches, they scattered 
 and spread in small squads over the Ridge. At 
 
52 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 midnight Parson Tate blew a loud blast upon the 
 hunter's horn hung about his neck and summoned 
 the unsuccessful searchers again at the foot of the 
 Ridge. Doubt was distinct on every face lit up by 
 the blazing torches that turned away from the tear- 
 less grief of the stricken father. 
 
 " Go home, Gabe ; ye air all onfitten ter be out 'n 
 the night, an' we-uns kin do all ther' 's to do. Go 
 home, Gabe." 
 
 A friendly neighbor tendered the advice. Gabe 
 slowly shook his head. 
 
 " An' leave the b'ars, an' painters, an' wil' var- 
 mints to eat my little gal ? " he asked. 
 
 "The light 'II skeer the wil' things off," said one 
 of the men. " You-uns better go home an' rest 
 afore the fire. " 
 
 " I ain't honin' fur rest an' sech," said Gabe, 
 " whilst my 'i-tle gal air mebbe freezin', freezin ! 
 O Lord! ter think o' my poor little gal a-freezin' 
 on the mount'n." And the poor man dropped his 
 face in his hands and wept. 
 
 He no longer resisted when one of the neighbors 
 gently but firmly put his arm in his and led him 
 away to the lonely cabin in the Hollow. Mean- 
 while the search went on. 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 53 
 
 Parson Tate formed the people in a line leading 
 up the Ridge ; a man stood at the foot ; twenty yards 
 further up another was stationed, then, another and 
 another, each twenty yards apart, until the last 
 man stood at the top of the Ridge. 
 
 At a given signal, passed from lip to lip, the 
 column moved slowly southward, each head bowed, 
 each torch ablaze, thrust now and then into suspi- 
 cious-looking hollows. Scarcely a word was spoken 
 as the melancholy march went on, until at last a 
 dull-gray line stretched across the eastern horizon. 
 The gray line grew to . a silver shimmer ; a mantle 
 spread across the heavens that were alive with the 
 new day. The torches were extinguished and 
 the sun rose to light the tireless watchers across 
 the mountain. Two hours more of daylight passed 
 and yet no trace of the lost child. The stoutest 
 heart among them grew hopeless ; rough hands 
 were continually brushing off the tears that rolled 
 down rougher cheeks. The word passed up the 
 column to turn, and sadly the sympathetic hearts 
 obeyed, slowly retracing their steps over the lonely 
 Ridge. 
 
 The saddest among them all was Kit ; he had 
 walked all night, keeping always ahead of the 
 
54 
 
 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 Others. Six o'clock found him again at the spot 
 where he had left Jo to watch the birdtrap ; there 
 was the nest of brown leaves as he had fashioned 
 it — the empty nest ; he thrust the leaves aside with 
 his foot as if he half-hoped to find beneath them Jo. 
 
 " 'T ain't no use, nohow," he said to himself. " I've 
 s'arched ther' fifty times an' better." 
 
 Nevertheless she stooped and peered carefully 
 into the farthest recesses of the alcove. Nothing 
 but emptiness ; he expected it, yet he was disap- 
 pointed. He was about to turn away in despair 
 when a brown object appeared, emerging from be- 
 hind the standing flat rock. Kit grasped his rifle, 
 that he still carried, but dropped it as a saucy voice, 
 that he knew could belong to no human being liv- 
 ing except Jo, called to him : — 
 
 " Did you-uns shoot a b'ar. Kit ? " 
 
 As calm and as unconcerned as if Kit had just 
 returned from yesterday's hunt. The boy was 
 startled almost out of his senses ; he believed 
 for a moment that it was Jo's spirit, and his first 
 impulse was to run away from it. 
 
 Instead, however, of doing that he put his hands 
 to his lips, making a kind of trumpet, and called 
 loudly, " Come here ! " A man at the foot of the 
 
JVT^ ^"K^ 
 
 
 $ 
 Q 
 < 
 
 .3 
 
TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 57 
 
 advancing column of searchers heard the boy's cry 
 and repeated it instantly and loudly, " Come here ! " 
 It passed to the next man and the next, " Come 
 here ! " " Come here ! " " Come here ! " It was 
 little more than an echo when it reached the last 
 man, and the entire column, man by man, as he 
 sent his command to the next one, hurried down to 
 the cave's mouth where Jo sat laughing at their 
 wonder, and demanding, " Wher' air dad ? " 
 
 They bore her home on their shoulders amid the 
 noise of guns and shouting and rejoicing. She was 
 a kind of hero that day, and she laughed and buried 
 her fingers in Parson Tate's woolly hair as she sat 
 upon the old man's shoulder. 
 
 The procession halted at the threshold of the 
 cabin in the Hollow. The door opened and Gabe 
 Brady advanced to meet them. Parson Tate 
 stepped forward and lifted his burden from his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " My brother, the Lord air merciful an' full o' 
 tender compassion. The lost air found." And he 
 placed Jo in Gabe's outstretched arms. 
 
 Where had she been ? She could not tell it all, 
 for laughing. 
 
 " Fur away some'r's," she said ; " mighty fur, wher' 
 
58 TROUBLE IN DARK HOLLOW. 
 
 it wuz all warm an' sunshiny, an' the birds talked 
 like folkses, an' the flowers talked out loud." 
 
 All winter, indeed, Jo delighted to tell of that 
 wonderful night on Middle Ridge. Every evening 
 in the little chair by the chimney corner she would 
 repeat the story of that strange land which she had 
 visited. And at the close of each recital, for 
 neither Gabe nor Kit ever wearied of the story, 
 Brady would declare : — 
 
 " 'Tware a mighty big dream o' your'n, ez ye 
 dreamt in that ther' cave, Queenie. A sholy 
 mighty big dream." 
 
 And Jo would chuckle and show her white, kit- 
 tenlike teeth as she glanced roguishly at Kit across 
 the hearth. 
 
 " Did n't no painter eat me, nuther ; now, did it. 
 Kit?" 
 
 " But," said Brady, " it sholy ware a oncommon 
 big dream." 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 BY 
 
 M. A. C. WILLARD. 
 
 59 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 TVTOW, Ik, here you are again, working for us 
 when you ought to be attending to your own 
 place," remonstrated Mrs. Harold. 
 
 Ik, startled, scrambled up from his kneeling pos- 
 ture, jerking his excuse for a hat from his kinky 
 head, and stood before his former mistress with a 
 countenance indicative of having been caught in the 
 midst of unworthy deeds, a quaint, shabb)', ungainly 
 figure in oarments that def)- mj- feeble descriptive 
 powers, an unmistakable son of darkest Africa, of 
 uncertain ago and indescribable personality. 
 
 " VA you please, Mis' Mary," said he witli look 
 and tone expressive of profound apology, " I was 
 jest a-weedin' Miss Nell's pansy blossoms. Dey's 
 choked up wid de grass, dey is, and needs tention 
 might)- bad, dey does." 
 
 " So tliey do, Ik. And so does everything else 
 about tire place. However," she added with a sigh, 
 " unless I manage better in the future tlian I have 
 in the past, 1 will soon have no claim upon iL" 
 
 01 
 
62 AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 "Whot dat you sayin', Mis' Mary?" asked Ik, 
 lifting his head quickly. " Ain't gwine to sell de 
 ole place, is you, mist'ess?" 
 
 " Sell it, Ik ! Don't you remember Mr. Grimsby's 
 mortgage ? " 
 
 " I 'members it, mist'ess, well enough," responded 
 Ik with deep dejection, dropping his head again and 
 moving uneasily from one foot to the other, " but I 
 t'ought dat bus'ness done been 'ranged long o' 
 Mars' Philip an' Mars' Grimsby." 
 
 " So it was for a time, Ik, but another payment — 
 the last payment — will be due on the last day of 
 this month, and unless I can meet that payment 
 promptly, Mr. Grimsby declares the old place 
 must go." 
 
 " Can't Mars' Phil ? " began Ik anxiously. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Harold. " He has done all that 
 he could as a lawyer and as a friend for us, and he 
 can do.no more. He is a poor man himself, and 
 he has a large family of his own. Five hundred 
 dollars is not easy to get these days, Ik," with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 Ik looked up quickly again. 
 
 " Five hundred dollars. Mis' Mary?" 
 
 " Y2S, Ik, five hundred dollars. And if I could 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. (^t, 
 
 pay it the old place would be my own again, and 
 with a little help I could soon have it in good 
 condition and be comfortable once more, Ik, and 
 put Miss Nell at school and be able to help 
 you and Martha along. You have done so much 
 for us ! " 
 
 "Five hundred dollars!" repeated Ik again 
 thoughtfully, anxiously. Then with a quaver in his 
 humble tones : "As to me an' Marthy, mist'ess, 
 whot 's me an' Marthy done for you ? Whar 'd we 
 be only fer you and my marster dat 's dead ? Did n't 
 he give us dat place of our 'n and sot us bofe free 
 long 'fore freedom come and kered for us an' 
 helped us long as he lived ? Mist'ess, you done 
 forgot all dat." 
 
 " No, Ik, and I have n't forgotten all your faithful 
 service to your master, and to me since your master 
 died, and I am not likely to forget. You deserve a 
 great deal more than you ever have received or ever 
 will receive." 
 
 Ik shook his head, drew his hand across his eyes, 
 and opened his lips twice in unavailing effort to 
 articulate some sort of protest. 
 
 " Well, well, Ik," said Mrs. Harold gently, " per- 
 haps things will come out all right somehow, 
 
64 AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 We '11 try to make the best of them in any case. 
 How is Martha to-day?" 
 
 " Fa'rly, mist'ess, fa'rly. Dat ile you sont her 
 holped her rheum'tism might'ly." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it, Ik. I '11 go down to see her 
 in the morning ; I sent Nell down to-day." 
 
 " Tank you, mist'ess ; I lef Miss Nell dar when I 
 come up here dis arternoon. Is you gwine to de 
 sto', Mis' Mary ? Let me go fer you ? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Harold, moving away down 
 the garden path, " I am going to see Lawyer 
 Graves. See that Miss Nell comes home before 
 dark, Ik." 
 
 She walked slowly on and Ike stood still and 
 stared after her thoughtfully but vaguely. 
 
 " Five hundred dollars ! " muttered he. " An' 
 she 's got to hab it by de las' of dis mont', and dis 
 is de middle ! Five hundred dollars ! An' to t'ink 
 I 'members de time when marster t'ought nothin' o' 
 spendin' five thousan' dollars, and when dat same 
 ole Grimsby 'd a-been in de po' house, long o' his 
 kin', ef it had n't a-been fer my marster, an' now he 
 trying to take de roof from over my mist'ess' head. 
 Him dat ain't no better 'n de dus' under her foots! " 
 and Ik fell upon his knees again, and began an 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HEKO. 65 
 
 unnecessarily savage onslaught upon the fresh 
 green grass among Nell's pansy blossoms. 
 
 " Ef you please, Mars' Phil ! " 
 
 " Well, Isaac," said Lawyer Graves, turning from 
 his desk and looking kindly and inquiringly at his 
 sable visitor who stopd hesitatingly half in and half 
 out of the office door, " come in. What can I do 
 for you ? A message from Mrs. Harold ? " 
 
 " No, sah," said Ik, approaching to within a few 
 yards of the lawyer and pausing abruptly, shifting 
 from his right foot to his left as he stood, and twist- 
 ing his old hat unmercifully with his two coal-black, 
 nervous hands. " I 's come on a little bus'ness o' 
 my own dis mornin', sah." 
 
 " Business of your own, eh, Ik? Well, out with 
 it, old man. Let us hear what it is." 
 
 " Ef you please. Mars' Phil," said Ik, hesitating 
 and doubtful, "I — I 's sole my place, sah ! " 
 
 " Sold your place ! " exclaimed the lawyer, aston- 
 ished. " Why, Isaac, what possessed you ? Mr. 
 Harvey told me two months ago that you refused a 
 good offer from him ! " 
 
 " So I did. Mars' Phil, so I did, sah ! but — but — 
 I 's sole it to him now. You see, Mars' Phil, it was 
 
66 AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 j'inin' o' dat fiel' o' his 'n an' he wanted it mighty 
 bad," added Ik apologetically. 
 
 " I see, Ik. But what do you want to do ? What 
 do you want me to do for you ? You are not going 
 to leave the country, I hope ? " 
 
 " No, sah, I ain't no sech notion as dat. You 
 see. Mars' Phil, sah," continued Ik, shifting uneasily 
 and staring down at the persecuted hat in his rest- 
 less hands, " I was kinder tired like, livin' in one 
 place so long, an' I 'eluded 't would be de bes' for 
 me an' Marthy to live nigher de big house. Dere 's 
 a little bit of a shanty in de backyard by de 
 kitchen dat Mis' Mary '11 let us have till, till 
 sumudder 'rangements kin be made, and we '11 be 
 nigh enough to help Mist'ess and Miss Nell, more 
 'n we does now, an' " — 
 
 " Ik," interrupted Lawyer Graves, " does Mrs. 
 Harold know you have sold your place ? " 
 
 " No, sah," responded Ik with evident reluctance. 
 
 " It was a nice place, Isaac, and you were very 
 comfortably fixed. A very nice place." 
 
 "So 'twas, Mars' Phil. So 'twas, sah!" 
 assented Ik eagerly. " Marster holped me 'long 
 wid it, an' holped me to pay fer de house, an' — an' 
 — but Mars' Harvy wanted it powerful bad, an' " — 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 6y 
 
 " How much did he pay you for it, Ik? " 
 
 " Seven hundred an' fifty dollars, Mars' Phil ; 
 more 'n he offered me at fu'st. An' so," continued 
 Ik, still bent upon apologizing for the disposal of 
 his own lawful property, " I 'eluded to sell out and 
 live nigher de big house an' keep Mis' Mary 
 an'" — 
 
 " But, Isaac," said Lawyer Graves, " do you know 
 that within a week's time, in all probability. Mis' 
 Mary will no longer have any claim upon the big 
 house? You ought to have consulted her before 
 you sold your place. You are better off to-day 
 than your old mistress, Isaac. I 've worked hard 
 to set things straight, but I don't see any help for 
 her. What are you going to do with your seven 
 hundred and fifty dollars, Ik? If" — he stopped 
 abruptly and looked hard at the shambling, 
 awkward, uneasy figure, looked so hard and search- 
 ingly that the anxious, wistful eyes fell beneath 
 his gaze. 
 
 " In a week's time, did you say. Mars' Phil, 
 sah?" 
 
 " In less than a week's time, Isaac, your old 
 mistress and her daughter will be houseless and 
 homeless, as far as I can see to the contrary." 
 
68 AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 " Mars' Phil," stammered Ik hurriedly, still look- 
 ing down and crushing the shapeless mass in his 
 hands, " I done come here dis mornin' to tell you — 
 to ax you — to — but I dunno how to go 'bout it. 
 Me 'n Marthy wuz thinkin', Mars' Phil, could n't 
 you — could n't some white gem'man " — 
 
 " Isaac ! " shouted Lawyer Graves, springing to 
 his feet, grasping Ik's shoulder and shaking him 
 till his teeth chattered and his unfortunate rag of 
 a hat fell from his trembling hands. " What have 
 you done ? What have you done ? " 
 
 "Mars' Phil!" uttered Ik in frightened tones, 
 shrinking from the lawyer's grasp, " 'deed. Mars' 
 Phil, I did n't mean no harm. I did n't mean my 
 mistress to know de money come f'um me ! She 
 tole me, you tole me, Mars' Phil, sah, dat de money 
 could n't be got nohow, an' we could n't b'ar, me an' 
 Marthy, to see de ole place go like dat, an' so — 
 an' so — O Mars' Phil, sah, 'deed I did n't mean 
 no harm ! " 
 
 " Harm ! " cried the lawyer with shining eyes 
 and unsteady lips, "Isaac! Isaac I You have done 
 what the noblest gentleman in the land might be 
 proud of having done, what not one ' white gem'- 
 man ' in a million would think of doing I You 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 69 
 
 have sold the roof from over your head; you, in 
 your old age, have thrown yourself out of house 
 and home to — O Ik ! Ik ! " 
 
 " You '11 do it then. Mars' Phil ! " cried Ik, eager 
 and excited, approaching the lawyer as he sank 
 back into his chair and touching his hand with the 
 tip of his black finger ; " you '11 save de ole place 
 an' never let 'em know ; min' dat, Mars' Phil ! — 
 never let 'em know whar de money come f'um." 
 
 " I '11 do it, Ik ; who would n't do it ? But after 
 it 's done. Where 's your money, -Isaac ? " 
 
 " Here, right here. Mars' Phil ! " and drawing an 
 old stocking from hidden depths somewhere about 
 his person, Ik emptied its contents into the lawyer's 
 hands. 
 
 " Isaac! Isaac ! " said Lawyer Graves, " give that 
 stocking to me. I '11 keep it so long as there 's a 
 shred of it left, and who else will be able to show 
 a like souvenir ? Who else will be able to tell 
 a story such as I can and will tell ? There 's two 
 hundred and fifty dollars I '11 put down to your 
 credit till you call for it. That 's over and above 
 the five hundred, you know. There 's something 
 else written against your name in a mighty book, 
 Isaac — but I 'm talking Greek to you ! Go along 
 
70 
 
 AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. 
 
 and tell Mrs. Harold I must see her immediately 
 and that I have good news for her. But, no ; send 
 Grimsby here ; I '11 settle with Grimsby first and 
 then I '11 see her." 
 
 And Ik, with beatified countenance, picked up 
 his disreputable headgear and shuffled off as fast 
 as his feet in their ragged coverings could carry 
 him. 
 
 " Ik ! Ik ! " cried Mrs. Harold in broken tones. 
 The shambling, awkward, ungainly figure stood 
 before her in her own room, nervously turning and 
 twisting that disgraceful hat, his manner the manner 
 of a culprit called to account for dire misdeeds. 
 
 " Ef you please, Mis' Mary, Mars' Phil — he 
 promised not to tole you, he did," muttered Ik in 
 the lowest depths of humiliation and confusion. 
 
 " O Isaac ! Isaac ! I don't know what to do for 
 you, I don't know what to say to you ! " continued 
 Mrs. Haroid. " How dared you do such a thing? 
 How dared you think of it ? But, O Ik ! Ik ! I'm 
 glad to know that there 's such a creature in the 
 world ! You don't know, you can't know, what you 
 have saved us from, what you have done for us, 
 Isaac ; but some day you shall have a home of 
 
AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO. yi 
 
 your own again, you and Martha. And some day, 
 Ik, some day, when you meet your dead master 
 face to face in a better world " — 
 
 Ik lifted a suddenly glorified face. " Dat 's 
 whot I 's hopin' an' tryin' fer, mistress," he whis- 
 pered under his breath, " to meet my marster some 
 day in dat better world. 'T ain't so fer away. Mis' 
 Mary, dat day, an' when I meets 'em dar, Mars' 
 Guy, an' my heabenly Marster, I wants to feel dat 
 I can look 'em bofe in de face widout fear an' 
 tremblin'. Dat 's whot I 's hopin' an' tryin' fer, 
 mistress ; " and turning away he shambled softly 
 from the room and back to Nell's flower-beds, 
 wholly unconscious of the heroism and self-sacri- 
 fice embodied in the deed he had done ; mindful 
 only of, thankful only for, in the simple, humble, 
 unthinking ignorance of his untaught African soul, 
 the fact that the old home of his dead master was 
 safe once more in the possession of those who 
 loved and honored it for that dead master's sake. 
 
GRETCHEN. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARJORIE RICHARDSON. 
 
 73 
 
GRETCHEN. 
 
 TT was the second concert Gretchen Ritter had 
 ever attended. She was such a httle girl, only 
 ten years old, and the grandfather was so poor. He 
 never had tickets given him, even though he helped 
 interpret Beethoven's great symphonies and all the 
 other wonderful compositions to a large audience 
 every Wednesday evening. 
 
 It was not his fault. It would have been like a 
 beam of sunlight to him to have seen his darling's 
 golden head and loving blue eyes among the audi- 
 ence when he took his place on the great stage and 
 looked down on the crowd of strange faces. But 
 what could he do ? He was only an obscure violinist 
 and must not ask for favors, and, besides, Gretchen 
 was such a very little girl to sit alone among all 
 those people for a whole evening. 
 
 Gretchen agreed with him perfectly. She had a 
 very humble opinion of herself, but she could afford 
 to be humble, for had she not the grandfather to be 
 proud of? Had she not dreamed of the day, that 
 
 7S 
 
76 GRETCHElf. 
 
 delightful day, when Mr. Arnold, the cross director, 
 should find out how much talent Herr Ritter really 
 had and should allow him to play one of his own 
 compositions to that expectant audience ? 
 
 Gretchen had firm faith in her grandfather's music. 
 How she thrilled and wept while listening to some 
 of his dreamy andantes, and how her eyes danced 
 and her cheeks glowed while she kept time to the 
 bright little scherzos which sometimes, but not often, 
 found their way among his compositions ! And she 
 could play them all herself, too. Ever since she 
 could remember she had shared the dear old violin 
 with him, and he had taught her his best, delighted 
 with the really extraordinary ability of the little maid, 
 whose small fingers seemed almost too tiny to fly 
 over the strings with such marvelous rapidity. 
 
 " She can blay the piece," he often said to his 
 only friend and confidant, Fritz Liitzel, " she can 
 blay the piece so goot as I. She can blay the piece 
 better than I. Ah, wait, Fritz, wait till my Gretchen 
 grow up a woman, then we shall see what we shall 
 see! 
 
 Fritz thought he was quite right, only that a 
 mistake lay in waiting at all. 
 
 Why should not Gretchen astonish the world at 
 
GRETCHEN. yy 
 
 once ? He had heard many a young artist applauded 
 and praised who had not, he was sure, half the deli- 
 cacy of touch, half the power of expression which 
 his little friend possessed. 
 
 But the grandfather would not allow him even to 
 speak of it. 
 
 " She is yet a so small madchen," he would say 
 gently, " and she haf no miitter, only me, her poor 
 old grandfather, who can do nodings for her, nodings 
 but gif her his best teaching. Wait, Fritz, wait till 
 she grow a leetle older before we put her before the 
 peoples. Let her be a leetle girl for but a few more 
 year." 
 
 So Gretchen had waited and kept house in the 
 three little rooms over the bakery, and practised all 
 her odd moments, and once, once she had been to 
 a concert. 
 
 Fritz Liitzel, who played one of the French horns 
 in the orchestra, had hurt his hand, and being 
 granted a week's holiday, he made use of his 
 liberty by taking Gretchen to one of the concerts. 
 
 Should she ever forget the great event — the lights, 
 the people, and, more absorbing still, the great, 
 beautiful music which seemed to fill her whole soul ? 
 
 She had thought of it for months after, and now 
 
78 GRETCHEN. 
 
 she was really to hear it again, and under what 
 circumstances ! 
 
 Her dreams were to be realized, for the grand- 
 father was at length to be the soloist, and moreover 
 was to play one of his own compositions, " Der 
 Abschied." 
 
 How such wonderful luck had come about, 
 Gretchen did not at first know. Herr Ritter 
 modestly attributed it to the sudden illness of Mr. 
 Gollitz, the intended soloist, and the necessity for 
 filling his place at once. 
 
 But when Fritz came in later in the evening he 
 told Gretchen gleefully how the great musical critic, 
 Mr. Warren, had overheard Herr Ritter playing over 
 to himself one of the little andantes from his 
 " Abschied." How he had been struck by his skill 
 and had spoken to Mr. Arnold of him, and begged, 
 or rather insisted, that he should be the soloist for 
 the next concert, filling the place of Mr. Gollitz and 
 playing that same little andante. 
 
 It was Mr. Warren's last week in America, and as 
 for years the concerts had been under his supervision, 
 Mr. Arnold was naturally anxious to please his 
 patron, even to the extent of bringing the obscure old 
 Herr Ritter into prominence. 
 
GRETCHEN. 
 
 79 
 
 So the matter had been arranged, and already the 
 programs were being printed with Herr Ritter's 
 name as soloist in large letters at the end, and 
 "Selections from ' Der Abschied' (first time) " in 
 small letters near the top. 
 
 Gretchen could hardly sleep that night for very 
 excitement. Already she imagined the wonder and 
 delight of the people at this new composer. The 
 questions which would be asked, of where he could 
 have remained hidden for so long ; the increase of 
 engagements, and at last money enough to carry 
 them both, and Fritz Liitzel, back to the Father- 
 land, that sunny Fatherland, which Gretchen could 
 remember so faintly. Back to the grandfather's 
 land of music, and to the little cottage near the 
 great, bright city, where the first happy years of her 
 childhood had been passed. She talked about it 
 continually, and all day long after her modest house- 
 wifery was finished she would play parts of " Der 
 Abschied " over and over. 
 
 Sometimes with closed eyes she imagined herself 
 playing before crowded houses as the grandfather 
 would play ; sometimes with her eyes fixed on the 
 little strip of blue sky visible from the tiny window 
 she would dream herself back in her own little room 
 
8o G RET CHEN. 
 
 in the Weissbeide cottage. The crowning moment 
 came when Fritz told her he had obtained per- 
 mission for her to go to the concert and remain in 
 the anteroom, where she could hear the music per- 
 fectly. Then for a day, it is true, " Der Abschied " 
 was neglected while Gretchen washed and mended 
 and made over her one best frock, and pressed out 
 the broad pieces of blue ribbon which were to deck 
 out her person a little for the great occasion. 
 
 For a time she was almost too happy, but at 
 length came a cloud, and a very serious one it was. 
 
 Two days before the concert a painful attack of 
 rheumatism came upon the grandfather. The poor 
 old fingers of his right hand were so knotted that 
 he could hardly hold the bow, and yet he must go 
 to rehearsals and try to be thankful that it was his 
 right instead of his left hand. 
 
 Gretchen bathed the poor fingers in warm lini- 
 ment each night, and talked bravely of how the 
 rheumatism sometimes departed as suddenly as it 
 came ; but her heart grew heavier and heavier, and 
 Wednesday morning, the day of the concert, she 
 could hardly keep back her tears when the grand- 
 father entered the kitchen with a pale, anxious face. 
 
 " Mein Gretchen," he said in a low, trembling 
 
GRETCHEN. 8 1 
 
 voice, " it has kom a leetle also to the other 
 hand." 
 
 They both knew too well that this was his only 
 chance ; that after Mr. Warren had gone away 
 Mr. Arnold would trouble himself no more about 
 the playing or composition of the old violinist. 
 But if he could only be heard once ! Herr Ritter 
 was very modest, but he did have some hope that 
 if his " Abschied " might be brought before the 
 public for even a single time, he might perhaps be 
 able to dispose of it ; and now ! If he could arrest 
 the rheumatism in his left hand for one day, just 
 for one day. He stayed in the house all that morn- 
 ing and afternoon, keeping the pbor old hands as 
 warm as possible, while Gretchen cheered him as 
 best she could with her singing and hopeful words 
 of encouragement. 
 
 Seven o'clock came and with it Fritz Lutzel to 
 escort them to the hall. 
 
 To his great relief Herr Ritter found that the 
 rheumatism had gone from his left hand, and that 
 he could move his right with but little pain ; so 
 Gretchen dressed herself with a light heart, hum- 
 ming little snatches from " Der Abschied"; and, 
 as a crowning adornment, she placed in Herr 
 
82 GRETCHEN. 
 
 Ritter's coat a gay little scarlet boutonniere, for 
 
 which she had been saving up her odd pennies — 
 and you may be sure they were not many — for 
 the past two weeks. Then the three set out for 
 the hall together. 
 
 At first Gretchen was almost frightened by the 
 noise and confusion, and after Herr Ritter and Fritz 
 had left her to arrange their music and stands for 
 the evening, she sat in a corner of the anteroom 
 bewildered and wondering. 
 
 Everyone seemed to have so much to say, and 
 said it in such a loud tone and with so many ges- 
 tures, that it fairly made her head whirl, and she was 
 glad enough when a gentleman who did not seem 
 to have anything especial to do, and who was 
 wandering aimlessly about, came at length to her 
 corner and asked kindly if she were waiting for 
 anyone. 
 
 She replied in her pretty, broken English, and 
 then, as he continued to smile so pleasantly at her, 
 she ventured to explain why she was there. 
 
 " Ah," said the gentleman thoughtfully, " so Herr 
 Ritter is your grandfather ! Well, well, and are you 
 fond of music, too?" 
 
 Gretchen laughed softly, quite forgetting her 
 
GRETCHEN. 83 
 
 timidity at this strange question. " Fond of it ? " 
 she repeated ; "if one came to me and should 
 promise to me all the fine, beautiful houses, all the 
 bright dresses — everything, if I give up the music, 
 I would say no ; for noding could I give it up 
 except for the grandfader or Fritz, and they, they 
 know what it is to me, they would not ask it. 
 Why, see, then, mein Herr, I know each movement, 
 each note which my grandfader play to-night. 
 
 " I have play it often myself, and I know how 
 I felt when first I heard it, how I feel when now I 
 hear it. It is as if life were one beautiful dream, 
 and when the people hear it, ah, mein Herr, it will 
 not be hard for the grandfader to sell his music after 
 that! 
 
 " Do you know, perhaps, how he looks, which he 
 is ? There, coming here to us now with a red flower 
 on his coat, and that is Fritz behind with him, aber 
 — was ist denn ? " 
 
 She suddenly interrupted herself as they came 
 nearer and she caught sight of her grandfather's 
 white face. 
 
 In a moment she was at his side and had tenderly 
 lifted the poor trembling hands and looked earnestly 
 at them. She knew, alas ! too well, what had 
 
84 GRETCHEN. 
 
 happened. The sudden change from the warm 
 bandages in which they had been wrapped all day 
 to the cold air of the hall had brought on a worse 
 attack of rheumatism, and she knew that it would 
 now be impossible with his hands drawn as they 
 were to touch the violin. 
 
 She stood for an instant unable to speak, scarcely 
 understanding anything but her terrible disappoint- 
 ment. At last she became conscious of Mr. Arnold's 
 angry voice beside them. 
 
 "Confound it, Ritter!" he was saying harshly, 
 " you ought to have let me known in the morning 
 that you would n't be able to play. Anyone knows 
 that rheumatism is n't the work of a minute, and 
 what am I going to do now, I should like to 
 know ? All the people here and no one to play the 
 solos. Hang it, you '11 have to play, or leave the 
 place for good and all. Mr. Warren," he said more 
 respectfully, turning to Gretchen's friend, who stood 
 listening silently, " I am sure you agree with 
 me." 
 
 Herr Ritter looked slowly about him, at the man- 
 ager's angry face, at poor Fritz's distressed one, and 
 at Gretchen's bowed head, then wistfully at his own 
 swollen hands. 
 
GRETCHEN. 85 
 
 " I cannot blay," he said ; " I cannot. Come, 
 Gretchen, we will go." 
 
 But a sudden thought had come to her ; a 
 thought that made her flush and tremble and 
 shrink for a moment, and then she hurried to 
 Mr. Warren's side and looked up bravely into 
 his face. 
 
 "May I play ' Der Abschied' instead of my 
 grandfader?" she said. "I know it well and can 
 play it as goot as he. Will you let me try ? " 
 
 For a moment there was silence in the little room. 
 They were all too much astonished to speak. Then 
 as Mr. Warren did not answer, Fritz came eagerly 
 forward. 
 
 " It is true," he said in a quick low voice ; " she 
 can play it as well, perfectly as well, as Herr Ritter. 
 Will you let her try ? 
 
 Mr. Warren looked about in troubled perplexity. 
 It was impossible to provide a soloist at a moment's 
 notice. But then Gretchen was so small and he 
 had never heard her play. Still Herr Ritter had 
 great talent ; why might not his granddaughter have 
 inherited some of it ? He glanced at Herr Ritter, 
 who stood looking at him with a gleam of hope in 
 his faded blue eyes as he waited breathlessly for 
 
86 G RET CHEN. 
 
 the decision. He looked at Gretchen. Her face 
 was very pale but her eyes shone with a brave, 
 steady light, and her voice did not falter as she said 
 again : " May I try? " 
 
 The orchestra was in its place and the audience 
 was already growing impatient. It was a great risk, 
 but he decided to take it. 
 
 " Yes," he answered slowly, " you may play. Mr. 
 Arnold, you must go now and announce that a 
 change has been made in the program." 
 
 Mr. Arnold, angry and bewildered, left the room, 
 and Fritz, after an encouraging pat on Gretchen"s 
 shoulder, hurried away to take his place, leaving 
 Mr. Warren, Herr Ritter, and Gretchen alone. 
 
 " Mein Herr," said Herr Ritter tremulously, "you 
 have done much for us. Do not be afraid for my 
 Gretchen. She can blay. You will see." 
 
 And he did see. When it came time for Gretchen 
 to take her place on the stage she turned to him, as 
 if understanding his fears, and said simply : — 
 
 " Do not be afraid that I shall spoil your concert. 
 The people will like the grandfader's music, and I 
 will do my best." 
 
 Then with an unfaltering step she walked straight 
 on to the stage and took her place there alone. 
 
' '■'%■■ 
 
 ' i".'!!:',! 
 
 A TRUE LITTLE GERMAN MAIDEN STOOD BEFORE THEM. 
 
GRETCHEN. 89 
 
 before all the people. There was a rustle through- 
 out the hall. Everyone was leaning eagerly forward 
 to catch sight of the little musician. 
 
 A true little German maiden stood before them. 
 Her face was very white, but there was a trusting 
 look in the sweet blue eyes which gazed down at 
 them appealingly as if asking for their approval. 
 
 There was a certain pathos, too, in the poor little 
 attempt which had evidently been made for a touch 
 of girlish finery. The snowy white ruffles in the 
 neck and sleeves of the carefully mended gown, 
 the fresh piece of blue ribbon at the throat, and the 
 little scarlet flower which at the last moment the 
 grandfather had pinned beside it. 
 
 When the first shock of meeting the glare of the 
 footlights and the gaze of the half-seen sea of human 
 faces had passed, Gretchen stood before her audi- 
 ence with full confidence in herself. She thought 
 only of the music she knew and loved so well and 
 of earning the grandfather's applause at the end. 
 Clasping closely the violin, her dear old friend, she 
 raised it to her shoulder and began to play. The 
 cplor returned to her face at the first familiar strain, 
 and she was back again in the little kitchen. The 
 people, the musicians, the great hall, everything 
 
go GRBTCHEN. 
 
 faded away from her, and it was not the soloist 
 
 playing for money or fame, but a true heart playing 
 for the happiness of those she loved and for all the 
 hopes of the future. 
 
 When the last soft note had died away, there came 
 at first that most flattering tribute which is accorded 
 only to a true musician — a perfect silence. 
 
 The people were accustomed to listening to fine 
 artists, but seldom had the old hall rung with such 
 applause as then greeted the little girl who looked 
 down at them with the happy dreams awakened by 
 her music not yet gone from her eyes. 
 
 Suddenly she seemed to become aware that all 
 this commotion was for her. She smiled shyly down 
 at the friendly faces looking up at her, then hurried 
 across the stage to the anteroom door where Mr. 
 Warren was joining vigorously in the applause. 
 
 "Did you like it? Are you glad I tried? Will 
 the grandfader be able to sell the music now ? " 
 she cried. 
 
 She never for a moment dreamed that the 
 audience's approval was for her rendering, but 
 thought it was all for the beauty of " Der 
 Abschied." 
 
 " I say, Ritter," said Mr. Arnold, drawing the 
 
CRETCHEN. 91 
 
 grandfather aside, " that child of yours is a prodigy. 
 She '11 make a great stir in the world, and the 
 younger she 's brought out the better. I '11 tell you 
 what I '11 do — I '11 give you a third of the profits, 
 and I '11 take her for a tour through the United 
 States, stopping at all the largest cities " — 
 
 " Mr. Arnold," interrupted Mr. Warren's quiet 
 voice, " you need trouble yourself no further. The 
 musical education of Herr Ritter's granddaughter 
 will be my care for the future." 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMA HUNTINGTON NASONo 
 
 93 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 "p OSAMOND STANLEY, I believe those girls 
 are following us ! " 
 
 The speaker was one of two pretty, daintily 
 dressed maidens, evidently sisters, who had just 
 crossed the beautiful park which was the pride of 
 their native city, while following closely and persist- 
 ently behind them, as both had been forced to ob- 
 serve, came two unmistakable children of the street. 
 
 With an indignant flush on her fair face Grace 
 Stanley touched her sister's arm, and together they 
 turned from a side entrance of the park into one of 
 the great business thoroughfares of the city. But 
 there was no escape from the calm yet vigilant eyes 
 of their silent pursuers. When Grace and Rosa- 
 mond paused to glance at the display in some 
 elaborately decorated window, their unwelcome 
 attendants paused also ; when the sisters entered a 
 store, these tireless waifs waited patiently until 
 they came out and again fell closely in their rear. 
 When Rosamond wiped her own pretty nose, the 
 
 95 
 
96 
 
 AN EASTER HOSE. 
 
 mischievous elf behind her flourished a ragged 
 pocket-handkerchief; when Grace tossed her 
 queenly head in indignation, up went the curly 
 locks of the other girl with an air that would have 
 done credit to any high-bred daughter of New 
 England ; and once, on coming from a large estab- 
 lishment in whose various departments the sisters 
 had spent an unusually long tirne, with the vain 
 hope that their pursuers would pass on without 
 them, Rosamond was nearly convulsed with merri- 
 ment to find that the taller of the two girls, who 
 might have been thirteen or fourteen years of age, 
 had refolded her old plaid woolen shaw^l in imita- 
 tion of her own handsomely fringed mantle, and 
 was now wearing it with an air of elegance which 
 Rosamond herself had not dreamed of presenting. 
 
 This, however, was the last drop in the already 
 well-filled bucket. 
 
 In despair the two sisters stopped before a 
 florist's window and pretended to be absorbed in 
 the contemplation of a brilliant display of Easter 
 flowers. 
 
 Suddenly Rosamond turned from her place near 
 the door and accosted the two girls who had 
 also promptly taken position. 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. gy 
 
 "Did you wish to pass in? "she said with her 
 sweetest smile. 
 
 " Not unless you do," was the bland reply. 
 
 " But what do you wish of us?" persisted Rosa- 
 mond. 
 
 " Why," said the girl, striking an attitude as 
 nearly like Rosamond's own as a first-class actress 
 could have done, "we don't wish anything! But 
 I am you, and Meg is her — don't you see? Some 
 days we 're folks we meet on the street, and some 
 da)'s we 're real ladies," she added with a very per- 
 ceptible touch of sarcasm. " I would n't be her for 
 anything," — here she shot a flash from her saucy 
 eyes at Grace, — "so Meg had to be ! I am you ! 
 I rather like your style ! " 
 
 Grace's fair face blazed with righteous indigna- 
 tion ; but before either she or Rosamond could reply 
 the attention of the speaker was riveted upon some- 
 thing in the window. 
 
 " Goodness!" she said in a suppressed yet per- 
 fectly audible tone ; " look at that rose, Meg ! 
 Would n't granny smile if she could see that ? " 
 
 Rosamond and her sister were at once ignored, 
 while the two children gazed in rapt admiration 
 upon a rosebush placed in the rear of the window. 
 
98 ^N EASTER ROSE. 
 
 It was laden with blossoms, large cream-white blos- 
 soms, with softly clinging petals, as pure in color 
 and symmetrical in form as nature and the florist's 
 art could make them. 
 
 Suddenly the older girl dropped both her arms 
 straight down at her side and said in a most pathetic 
 way : — 
 
 " I wish I 'd never seen it ! Come, Meg, let 's go 
 home ! " 
 
 " Are you very fond of roses? " Rosamond ven- 
 tured to inquire. 
 
 " Don't care anything about 'em myself," replied 
 the girl doggedly; "but my grandmother likes 
 em ! 
 
 " What is your name, and who is your grand- 
 mother ? " asked the impulsive Rosamond, whose 
 sympathy was now thoroughly enlisted. 
 
 " My name is Tam, and my grandmother is — my 
 grandmother ! " was the resentful reply. " Some 
 folks don't have 'em ! Meg does n't ; she sprung 
 from the gutter, but we are the aristocracy of 
 Glumm Street." 
 
 With this Tam folded her arms and looked Rosa- 
 mond haughtily in the face. 
 
 " Oh, come on, Tam! " said Meg. 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 99 
 
 But Rosamond stood her ground squarely in front 
 of them. 
 
 "Tell me your grandmother's name," she said in 
 a tone which appealed in some way to Tam's defiant 
 spirit. 
 
 " Well, her name is Tamsen ; she was named for 
 me." Then tilting her head in a peculiarly pro- 
 voking way, and glancing keenly at Rosamond, she 
 added: "I know the kind of a one you are; so 
 now if you 're going to ask me next to come to 
 your sewing-school or anything, I can tell you 
 beforehand I should n't be happy to." 
 
 "And you say your grandmother likes roses?" 
 gasped Rosamond, while her own face flushed, for 
 she had at that very moment been thinking of the 
 sewing-school and was vaguely wondering how she 
 could bring the conversation around to this sub- 
 ject. She was therefore almost startled by Tam's 
 emphatic : — 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, she does ! " 
 
 Then a new mood seized Rosamond's strange 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " My grandmother had one o' them rosebushes 
 herself once," she said, " only the flowers were 
 yellow. She called 'em tea-roses ; and one day 
 
lOO AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 Meg and I steeped the whole lot — leaves, roses, 
 and all — and made tea o' 'em; and when granny 
 found it out she cried. I 'd give my right liand 
 this minute if I could buy that rosebush in there 
 for her." 
 
 "Rosamond, do you see who is watching us? 
 I am going home ! " And annoyed beyond endur- 
 ance Grace signaled a horsecar. 
 
 Rosamond looked up and saw her cousin Donald, 
 a lad of about her own age, with two young men 
 whom she recognized as classmates of Donald's 
 eldest brother at Harvard. 
 
 " Go on, then, Grace," she said hastily ; " I '11 take 
 the next car." 
 
 Tam had also turned to go away, but Rosamond 
 seized her firmly by the arm. " Tamsen, grand- 
 daughter of Tamsen, come into this store with me ! " 
 
 Tam hung back, but Rosamond unflinchingly 
 dragged her along. 
 
 " What is the price of the white rose in the win- 
 dow?" inquired Rosamond of the clerk who stepped 
 forward to wait upon her. 
 
 "This? Ah! this is a Madame Bravy, a new 
 and exquisite variety." 
 
 " The price ? " demanded Rosamond. 
 
"Give it to this Child." 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. IO3 
 
 " Two dollars and a half." 
 
 " Give it to this child ! " 
 
 But Rosamond took the rosebush and placed it 
 in Tamsen's hands herself. " There, go home and 
 give this, with my compliments, to your grand- 
 mother." 
 
 Tamsen opened her mouth wider and wider, but 
 seemed unable to articulate a sound. 
 
 " But wait one minute ! " exclaimed Rosamond 
 by a sudden impulse. "Why won't you come to 
 my sewing- school, Tamsen?" 
 
 Then she wished she had not spoken, for tears 
 suddenly filled the girl's gray eyes. 
 
 "I would, miss, I would truly, now, but — I hate 
 to sew. Maybe Meg would go," she added. "Yes, 
 Meg, you 'd better ; but I can't ! I 'm going to be 
 a carpenter ! " 
 
 "Carpenter?" repeated Rosamond. 
 
 " Yes, that 's what I 'm going to be. That 's what 
 my father was, and I 've got his mechanical genius, 
 you know. Anyway, that 's what granny says." 
 
 "Tamsen," said Rosamond with sudden inspira- 
 tion, " did you ever try wood-carving?" 
 
 " Wood-carving ! " gasped Tamsen. " No, but 
 I 'd like to awfully." 
 
I04 ^^ EASTER ROSE. 
 
 t 
 
 " Listen, then, and I will tell you what I will do," 
 said Rosamond. " If you will come to the chapel 
 
 on B Street to-morrow afternoon and bring 
 
 Meg and sew an hour, I will take you home with 
 me afterwards and give you a lesson in wood- 
 carving. I have a lovely new set of tools and 
 some beautiful designs. I 'm very fond of carpen- 
 tering myself." 
 
 " It 's a bargain," said Tarn with unmistakable 
 sincerity. 
 
 All this while Rosamond had been dimly con- 
 scious of observers, but she was not to be deterred 
 from her mission, and as she dismissed Tamsen 
 she turned to meet the curious gaze of her cousin 
 Donald and his young friends. 
 
 " We are awaiting your gracious recognition," 
 said he with a profound bow, " and beg permission 
 to ride home with you. We also hoped you were 
 going to adopt those specimens which you had on 
 hand when we encountered you." 
 
 " Perhaps I may hereafter," replied Rosamond 
 with dignity. " I was much interested in them 
 myself ! " 
 
 On the following afternoon Rosamond returned 
 from the mission sewing-school accompanied by her 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. I05 
 
 new protegee, who was eager for a sight of the 
 promised carving tools. The self-appointed teacher 
 took her guest upstairs into a room at the end of 
 the hall, where an hour passed full of absorbing 
 delight to the young pupil. 
 
 " She is very bright and skilful with her hands," 
 declared Rosamond after Tarn's departure. " She 
 must have inherited somebody's mechanical genius, 
 and she will soon be beyond my instruction." 
 
 The next morning Grace and Rosamond were 
 busy at work in the same room which had been 
 used as a studio and general manufactory of illumi- 
 nated cards, booklets, and other dainty gifts, during 
 the few weeks preceding Easter. Various pictures 
 and objects of decorative art in different stages of 
 completion were scattered about the department. 
 In the course of the morning Rosamond had occa- 
 sion to lift the covering from some recently deco- 
 rated china upon a table, and reviewed with critical 
 eye the several pieces of a pretty tete-a-tete set of 
 antique pattern on which was painted an old-fash- 
 ioned design consisting of a small pink flower with 
 a stem of leaves which curiously alternated in blue 
 and green. 
 
 " I thought this would be such an easy thing to 
 
I06 AN EASTS.R ROSE. 
 
 paint," said Rosamond, gazing at her own handi- 
 work, " but there is a certain effect in these old- 
 fashioned, conventional designs that is very difficult 
 to reproduce. Do you think my set looks like 
 grandma's pitcher? — but where is the pitcher, 
 Grace ? " 
 
 "The pitcher? I do not know," replied Grace, 
 wholly absorbed in her own work on the easel 
 before her. • 
 
 " But I put it right here on the table myself." 
 
 "Then it must be there, of course," responded 
 Grace. 
 
 "But it isn't!" cried Rosamond excitedly. 
 " Mother must have taken it. I '11 go and ask 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Stanley, however, had no knowledge of 
 the missing article ; and a thorough search having 
 proved unavailing, Rosamond returned with a per- 
 plexed countenance to the studio. 
 
 "What do you think can have become of it?" 
 she said as she sank into a chair. 
 
 " If you really wish to know what I think," 
 answered Grace, " I shall be obliged to say that 
 I think your protegee from Glumm Street has the 
 pitcher." 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. lO/ 
 
 " Not Tamsen ! " exclaimed Rosamond. " Why, 
 that child is as honest as the daylight. And she 
 did n't even care to look at the china ; she was 
 entirely absorbed in her wood-carving." 
 
 " But where is it ? No one else has been here, 
 and china cream-pitchers do not walk off them- 
 selves." 
 
 "That is true, alas ! But, wherever it is, I know 
 that Tamsen has had nothing to do with it. But I 
 shall walk straight down to Glumm Street this very 
 day. I shall neither eat nor sleep till I can prove 
 that she is innocent." And accordingly, as soon 
 as practicable, our energetic young heroine, with 
 Bridget O'Flanders, a faithful old family servant, 
 for an escort, set out, prepared to penetrate to the 
 heights and depths of Glumm Street. As they 
 approached the number given by Tamsen to Rosa- 
 mond, however, the heart of the latter began to fail. 
 What if she should find the pitcher after all ? 
 
 Suddenly the valiant Bridget seized Rosamond 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Look, miss," she said, " into that window, 
 quick!" 
 
 Rosamond looked, and there, almost within reach 
 of her hand, she beheld the creamy blossoms of the 
 
Io8 AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 Bravy rose which she had given to Tarn ; and by 
 the side of these a handful of scarlet and white 
 carnations in — her own grandmother's china pitcher. 
 There was the same odd, angular handle, and the 
 unmistakable pink flower with its impossible blue 
 and green leaves. 
 
 " O'Tam ! " she moaned. 
 
 " Don't, darlin'," said the sympathetic Irish- 
 woman. " She 's not worth a lash from your pretty 
 eyes, much less a teardrop." And with a comfort- 
 ing pat upon the hand Bridget led Rosamond back 
 through the dreary street and left her at the house 
 of her aunt Mary, where by previous invitation 
 she and her sister were to lunch that day. 
 
 Rosamond found the family at the table and 
 sat down dejectedly in her place. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? What has happened, 
 Rosamond ? " anxiously inquired Mrs. Thornton. 
 "Let me give you a cup of tea, dear." 
 
 " I have been on a kind of a Diogenes hunt and 
 had my heart broken," answered Rosamond. Then 
 she told the sad story. 
 
 " It is just as I expected," declared Grace. 
 " Mother has treasured that cream-pitcher for years, 
 — it was grandma's, you know, aunt Mary, — the 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 109 
 
 last piece of the set ; and now this wretched 
 Tamsen " — 
 
 " Your pardon, Grace," interrupted Don, rising 
 precipitately from the table. " I am the wretch — 
 a wretch of basaltic blackness. But when I hear ot 
 injured innocence, when Tamsen, granddaughter of 
 Tamsen, is assailed, then I make confession." 
 
 With this the lad darted out into the hall, and 
 speedily returning, laid by Rosamond's plate a 
 package which, on being opened, disclosed to the 
 view of the astonished family the familiar china 
 pitcher. 
 
 "Where did you get it?" exclaimed Rosamond. 
 " Did you take it away from Tarn ? " and tears of 
 bitter disappointment filled her eyes. 
 
 " My Rosa-Mundi," asserted Don tragically, " I 
 have not seen Tam since she marched off in tri- 
 umph with the rosebush, her tartan blanket waving 
 in the breeze." 
 
 " Donald," said Mrs. Thornton with a troubled 
 look, " sit down at once and explain this matter." 
 
 " Certainly, mother mine. You see I have made 
 a sad mistake. I thought a fault were better half- 
 redressed, if possible, before confessed, instead of 
 vice versa, 1 happened in at aunt Helen's yester- 
 
no Aff EASTER ROSE. 
 
 day afternoon. Ann told me that the young ladies 
 were at home, so I ran up to the studio. To my 
 profound regret, the young ladies were not there, 
 but there was a new picture on the easel. I admired 
 it very much, walking backward all the time to get 
 the effect, you know, when suddenly something hit 
 something, and when I looked around this precious 
 jug lay on the floor with the handle broken short off. 
 
 " Of course," continued Don, " my first thought 
 was to alarm the family. Then I concluded that I 
 would steal ignominiously out of the house and take 
 the thing down to Kaufmann's and have it mended. 
 They promised to do it this forenoon, and I was just 
 on my way back with it when I found it was time 
 for lunch. So, between the gnawings of hunger 
 and the pangs of conscience, here I am with the 
 jug. I hope Kaufmann has done a good job," 
 added Don penitently. " The rest of the affair has 
 been a bad enough bungle." 
 
 " But how do you account for your mistake, 
 Rosamond ? " inquired Mrs. Thornton. " You were 
 so sure that you saw the pitcher in the window." 
 
 " I know that I saw it," asserted Rosamond. 
 
 " I have a bright idea," said Don. " Let 's all 
 march down to Glumm Street to-morrow and sur- 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. Ill 
 
 round the house. Then if the ghost of the pitcher 
 appears again in Tamsen's window, we shall know 
 that her grandmother is a witch. I more than half- 
 beHeve she is." 
 
 This proposal met with unanimous favor ; and on 
 the following morning the four cousins, including 
 Donald's older brother John, set out for Glumm 
 Street. 
 
 " Now tread softly," said Don as they neared 
 the end of their long walk, " for we are approaching 
 the dreadful place. Tread softly — and look ! " 
 
 There was a momentary hush. For once in her 
 life Grace Stanley so far forgot herself as to lean 
 back against the walls of a tenement house, although 
 Don at once assured her that it was dangerous to 
 do so. 
 
 " Tell me," she exclaimed, " am I in my right 
 mind or not ? " 
 
 " That is certainly the china pitcher of our com- 
 mon ancestress," declared Don solemnly. 
 
 " Don't stare so," said Rosamond. " Someone 
 is looking out of the window. It 's an old lady — 
 a lovely old lady too." 
 
 The words were hardly spoken when the doof 
 was flung open and Tamsen herself appeared. 
 
112 AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 " Good morning, Tamsen ; we were just coming 
 to see you," said Rosamond. 
 
 "Not coming in?" replied Tamsen in a tone 
 which sounded rather inhospitable. 
 
 " Why, yes, we hoped you would invite us to 
 do so." 
 
 " H'm ! Mother 's not at home. That 's lucky. 
 She would n't see you anyway ! Maybe grammy 
 will. You wait, and I'll go and ask her!" 
 
 " Under the circumstances, Donald, I think you 
 and I had better walk on a little way," said John. 
 
 "Not I," replied the younger brother. "I'm 
 going if anybody does ! Was n't I the cause of all 
 Tamsen's wrongs ? To be sure she does n't know 
 how foully she has been suspected, but I intend to 
 be present at the disclosure." 
 
 John, however, walked briskly down the street, 
 as Tamsen very soon appeared and, inviting her 
 guests to enter, ushered them into the presence of 
 the old lady whose face they had seen at the win- 
 dow, and who rose with dignity, although support- 
 ing herself by her cane, as her visitors entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Is this the young lady who sent the rosebush ?" 
 she asked with not unpleasant directness of speech. 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. II3 
 
 " Yes, and I am very glad if you have enjoyed 
 it," replied Rosamond. Then she presented her 
 sister and cousin. 
 
 " Bring the bush, Tamsen, and let the young lady 
 see how the buds have grown." 
 
 " May we not look at the carnations also ? " asked 
 Don, edging towards the window and heartily despis- 
 ing himself as he did so. 
 
 Tamsen gave him a sharp look from her gray 
 eyes. 
 
 " Bring the carnations, too, Tamsen," said the 
 grandmother, 
 
 "They're all faded and not fit to show," said 
 Tamsen obstinately. 
 
 " Bring them," said the granddame calmly. 
 
 There was no appeal from these words. Tamsen 
 took the china pitcher, placed it in her grandmother's 
 lap, and then flounced out of the room. 
 
 " Our Tamsen is such a strange child," said the 
 old lady apologetically, " and I cannot tell you, 
 miss, how grateful we are that you have interested 
 her in the sewing-school, and for your still greater 
 kindness in taking her home and showing her about 
 the lovely wood-carving. Tamsen is just wild over 
 it. She does n't like to sew, but wants to be ham- 
 
114 AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 mering at something all day long. She made this 
 set of shelves out of a big box, and this stool for 
 my feet," added the old lady proudly. "If she had 
 only been a boy, this might amount to something ; 
 but I think she had better be doing it now than 
 running wild on the streets when she is out of 
 school. Ah, miss, the greatest trial of our poverty 
 is that we cannot bring up Tamsen as we would like 
 to ! Poor people cannot choose their friends, and 
 Tamsen is learning a great many bad ways in spite 
 of all we can do. But we were not always poor as 
 you see us now. We were once comfortably well 
 off, but we lost our little property after we moved to 
 the city. Then my daughter's husband died, and 
 since that time she has been obliged to support us 
 by her daily work in the shops, and times have been 
 very hard with us. 
 
 " It was Tamsen," she added, turning to Rosa- 
 mond, "who bought these carnations with money 
 that she earned herself." 
 
 " They 're all wilted and not worth looking at 
 now," said Tarn, whom curiosity had again forced 
 into the room. 
 
 " But the pitcher ! " said Rosamond, half-frightened 
 at her own exclamation. 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. I15 
 
 "The pitcher is pretty," said the granddame. " I 
 have had it a great many years and I am very fond 
 of it. It was given to me by an old friend and 
 neighbor up in New Hampshire." 
 
 "I beg pardon, but where did you say?" asked 
 Rosamond.. 
 
 " In Riverdale, New Hampshire, where we once 
 lived and where my daughter was born." 
 
 " Why, my grandmother lived in Riverdale too," 
 replied Rosamond, " and she had a pitcher exactly 
 like this, only a size or two smaller." 
 
 " Was her name Rosamond Reynolds ? I thought 
 so. I knew her when we were children ; and we 
 lived side by side in the first years of our married 
 life. She gave me this piece of china for a keep- 
 sake when we moved away. You look like her, 
 and so does the young gentleman. Would you mind 
 kissing me, my dear ? " 
 
 Rosamond bent and kissed the sweet, old face on 
 lips and brow. Grace came forward, too, and ex- 
 tended her hand very gracefully, while Donald 
 bowed low over that of the old lady and kissed it 
 with a courtly reverence worthy of his grandfather. 
 
 In the meantime the older brother had returned, 
 and with what patience he could command was 
 
Il6 AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 waiting at the door when Don and the young ladies 
 reappeared upon the street. 
 
 " I was just planning a descent upon the house," 
 he said, " to rescue you from the clutches of the 
 witch ! " 
 
 "Witch!" retorted Don. " We 've been paying 
 court to a duchess ! You should have seen us ! 
 But it was our own grandmother's china pitcher 
 after all ! " 
 
 That the friendly calls at Glumm Street did not 
 end with the one recorded above will be readily 
 believed. Mrs. Stanley and Mrs. Thornton distinctly 
 remembered their mother's old friend and neighbor, 
 although they had quite lost trace of her after her 
 removal from Riverdale ; and the sincere interest 
 which they manifested in renewing the acquaintance 
 soon found a response even in the proud and em- 
 bittered heart of Tamsen's mother, who had not 
 borne the humiliations of poverty in a very meek or 
 submissive spirit. 
 
 But although the better days which soon came 
 to them were due at first to the assistance of Tam- 
 sen's new friends, the prosperity of the family was 
 afterwards maintained by the talent and industry of 
 
AN EASTER ROSE. II7 
 
 Tamsen herself, who is now earning a comfortable 
 income, not by decorating china, painting in water 
 colors, or Kensington embroidery, — not even by 
 the art of plain sewing,. which, we are forced to say, 
 Tamsen never acquired, — but by turning her " me- 
 chanical genius " to a practical occupation, which, 
 after a course of judicious instruction secured by 
 the aid of her new friends and some years of dili- 
 gent labor on her own part, she finds both congenial 
 and remunerative. A visit to what is now known 
 as " Miss McAllister's art rooms" would disclose to 
 anyone the secret of her success. One tastefully 
 furnished apartment is hung with engravings, etch- 
 ings, photographs, and water colors in frames, often 
 unique in style, or elaborately carved, and all 
 of Tamsen's own manufacture. Fine cabinetwork, 
 and countless odd and attractive articles from a 
 plain wooden bread-tray with its conventional bor- 
 der, to the daintiest of inlaid jewel-caskets, are from 
 time to time exhibited there ; all of which find ready 
 sale among those who appreciate a bit of excellent 
 and artistic handwork. 
 
 Adjoining this room is a veritable workshop. 
 Here Tamsen has her "carpenter's bench," with its 
 double row of brightly polished tools, her turning 
 
Il8 AN EASTER ROSE. 
 
 lathe, and other needful machinery and the varied 
 implements of her cunning craft. 
 
 Tamsen has brought to her work all the strength 
 of her vigorous youth and the impetus of her youth- 
 ful enthusiasm. She believes in her calling ; her 
 business is a success ; her friends are proud of her. 
 
 And proudest of all, perhaps, is Rosamond, who 
 delights to show to her guests, in her own well- 
 appointed home, a beautiful and artistic set of fur- 
 niture made from patterns originally designed for 
 her by her devoted friend Tamsen McAllister. 
 
 " This girl, for one," declares Rosamond, " has 
 not missed her vocation." 
 
 But Tamsen herself tells us that her success is 
 due to an Easter rose.