Y

OU may ride home with me if you wish," said the doctor kindly. "If you live in Foskitt's Hollow, it's a good ten miles from here, too far for an old man like you to walk.

"Thank you, sir," said Mather Pin

ney. "If you'll jest wait till I go in an' take a last look at Gilead, I'll be obliged. You see it's fifty year come June sence I've seen him."

"Don't hurry," said the doctor, "I'll wait."

In a few minutes Mather came slowly from the house after a tearful good-by to an old woman.

It was a lovely morning early in May. Rain had fallen through the night, laying the dust and freshening all things.

"It don't seem jest the sort o' mornin' for a man to die, does it doctor? An' yet to-morrow it'll be kind o' bright at the old graveyard. There'll be posies out there by now, an' our lot's hedged in with them laylocks."

"Were you related to Gilead Pinney?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," answered the old man tremulously. "I'm Gilead's brother."

"I thought you said you hadn't seen him for fifty years. You've been out of this part of the country perhaps?"

"No, my home's been in Tabor all my life. For fifty years I've stopped down there in the Holler, an' Gilead he's lived there on the old homestead jest about as long. I'll tell you the hull story, doctor; t'ain't sech a lengthy one, though it's stretched out over them fifty years.

"I was born in the old house back yonder. There was Gilead, an' mother, an' Zoe, an' me. Father died when I weren't no higher'n that bit' o' poplar tree. Gilead was a peeked little chap, an' Zoe weren't much more'n a baby, so mother had her hands full raisin' us, with nothin' only what the old place growed. Land! as I set there through the night holdin' Gilead's hands, which kep' a'growin' colder'n' colder, how 'the old

times come back to me! T'was so still an' sort o' lonesome, waitin' for death to come, - an' then as I looked back on all them years, an' thought o' how things had gone, 't seemed to me as if nothin' could ever make up for the wrong we'd done each other. No wishin', or prayin', or forgivin' can ever help. It'll stay so till Gilead an' me meet agin, when it'll be told out loud an' jedged accordin❜ly afore the Lord who knows all.

"Wal, Zoe was as bright an' hearty a gal as you'd see any place; but Gilead — he was allus kind o' sober, an' fonder o' book-larnin' than o' workin'. I guess it was nat'ral to him. He went to school till he was eighteen, an' then he got to fussin' about goin' to college, was fairly possess't go. One winter he taught school, meanin' to earn money enough to study a term in New York, but some way he didn't save it; an' when spring come he was more set'n ever about goin'.

"In them days there was a little bit o' a place right by here, where Deacon Pease lived. It's a sort o' wilderness-lookin' now, but there's the chimney o' the old house a' standin' yit, an' that there thicket o' laylocks grew all round the gate o' the front yard. The Deacon had jest one gal — Naomi an' pretty she was that sweet an' pretty an' wholesome-lookin' that it did your eyes good to look at her. She an' I'd allus knowed each other, an' all along ever sence we'd trudged back an' for'ard to school together, I'd kind o’ set my heart on some time marryin' her. So I started to save, an't kep' a' growin'

but slow, 'cause every cent was needed sore in them days; but what with workin' nights, an' raisin' a calf, an' a pig or two, an' goin' without many a thing, I got a hundred an' twenty dollars together, which in them times was consid❜ble. One night, down by that very clump o' laylocks, - fifty-five years ago this May, I spoke to Naomi about it, an' she said in her shy sort o' way thet she'd allus liked me, an' would wait as long's I

wanted her to. I told 'em all about it at home, an' mother was glad for my sake; said she couldn't wish me a better wife'n Naomi.

"As the winter wore on, Gilead fretted consid❜ble, growin' more'n more peeked every day, frettin' 'cause he couldn't have the books he wanted an' go to college. At last we'd to have the doctor see him, who said he'd be down in a decline if he couldn't go at the work he was hankerin' after, an' quit worryin'.

"Mother an' me set that evenin' talkin' it over for hours an' hours. More'n one big log blazed up, lightin' the little old kitchen, an' then fell in ashes, afore we grew still; an' every once in a while Gilead's hackin' cough would come from the east room, an' mother'd sob hard but quiet, — for Gilead was the very pride o' her heart.

"That night I resolved on't thet he should have my savin's to go to college; an' Naomi an' me could wait a bit longer. I told him so next mornin', an' he laid his head on the table, sobbin' as hard's mother had done, with that short little cough comin' all the time; but he wouldn't take the money, said he'd never touch it, an' spoil all my life.

"He held out as obst'nate's any mule about it, but at last he started, for I got our old doctor to send his fee to the college, an' then when t'was paid he had to foller it. I carried him to meet the stage, twelve miles off; an' I won't never forgit the look on his thin face, with his blue eyes sort o' wet, as he held both my hands an' thanked me. Then, when we heard the rumble o' the old stage comin' down the mountain, his last words was, 'Mather, I can't tell you what this'll be for me, but you won't ever be sorry.'

"That night I told the hull story to Naomi, an' she cried some, with her head on my shoulder, - for her life wa'n't none too easy. The deacon was set, an' strict, an' close, an' 'bout as sociable's a stun-fence. She had to work hard, an' t'was lonesomer'n the grave out there; but after all she giv' in thet I'd done best, an' thet we could wait a while longer, bein' both young.

"Mother, an' Zoe, an' me had more'n ever to do in them days, an' every once

in a while somethin' had to be sent to Gilead, for livin' cost in New York even then. Many a long cheery letter came from him, tellin' how he'd lost his cough, an' was studyin' law, an' gittin' on so well, thet soon he could buy a big farm for Naomi an' me, an' send Zoe to a fine school, an' that mother wouldn't have to work hard all her days. So a year passed, but a dollar an' ten cents was all I'd saved, for money was scarce, an' everythin' dear.

"In the spring, Gilead come home, an' changed so you'd hardly have knowed him. Naomi laughed, an' said he was cityfied; but 'twa'n't thet. He was kind o' impatient o' our slow country ways, though he tried not to show it; an' I know he thought home poorer'n' shabbier'n ever - an' it fretted him; he talked diff'rent, and dressed diff'rent, an' acted diff'rent; 'twa'n't the same old Gilead as went away, though they said he was powerful smart, an' learnin' fast, an' makin' his way already in the big city.

"He brought home a hull trunkful o' books, an' did sights o' studyin' that summer, out the long days in the woods or fields with his books an' papers; so I didn't see much o' him, for I'd hired to a farmer a good ways off, an' the walk home mornin' an evenin' took most o' my time. Months passed when I'd only see Naomi Sunday — but every time I see'd her, she seemed to me sweeter 'n prettier'n ever. Gilead an' she grew great friends them days. He'd loan her books, or go over there to talk to the deacon, an' I used to think how good 'twas o' him to try an' make her life some brighter.

Late in the fall, when days began to grow kind o' short an' dreary, an' everythin' seemed more lonesome, Gilead went back to the city; he'd some exam’nations to pass, an' studyin' to do, for he calculated openin' an office in New York when he got through.

"Somehow or 'nother it seemed as if Naomi an' me kinder drew apart that winter, an' yit I couldn't tell how. We hadn't no quarrellin'; she was as sweet an' lovely's ever, an' as gentle; but I missed the old kindness' an' sympathizin' ways thet used to be sech a comfort to me.

My heart grew sore enough, to think I couldn't take her to a home; but I knew the deacon wouldn't for one minute think o' lettin' her marry a man who had jest three dollars to his name. Besides, I hated to have her come to me an' be slavin' to death from mornin' till night, though the Lord only knows how I wanted her. That winter was the hardest I've any mind of. We were snowed up most o' the time, everythin' froze, an' we lost about all our sheep; so when spring come we was poorer'n ever.

"Jest sech a mornin's this is, Gilead come home agin to stay all summer, an' git ready for his lawyerin' work in New York the comin' winter. One Sunday night, when 'twas as sweet an' still as ever a June night was, Naomi an' me went walkin' in the pine woods. Then I spoke to her about gittin' married in the fall, an' facin' poverty together, which wouldn't be no harder'n this waitin' an' waitin' from year to year; an' with sech love as ours, life couldn't be so very lonesome. While I was talkin' she was right 'longside o' me, an' I was goin' to take her in my arms; but she pushed me away, an' cried in a hoarse, strained kind o' voice:

"Don't touch me, Mather Pinney, for God's sake - don't for I can't bear it. I ain't good enough for you to love an' trust no more. I ain't wuth your true honest heart, an' I hate myself a thousan' times more'n you ever can.'

"With thet she slipped down all o' a heap, on a bank green with partridgeberry vines, an' leaned her head up agin a tree, moanin' an' cryin' as if her heart would break. I thought then she was out o' her head, an' I was most distracted as I kneeled by her. But not a word would she let me say; then all of a sudden she bust out with the hull story.

"Go 'way, Mather, an' not be kneelin' here by me. Your love an' trust an' goodness is killin' me, 'cause I ain't wuth it. I'm goin' to marry Gilead this fall, an' go with him to New York. Mather, I love him, love him as nobody ever was loved afore, an I can't help it. I fought the feelin' hard for your sake an' mine, but Gilead loves me, an' I don't mind if nobody else should ever love me

to all eternity. I've tried an' tried, Mather, you don't know how I've tried, but I can't care for you as I once did. I'm heart-sick o' this life, — drudgery, an' dreariness an' lonesomeness. I want to go where folks be. You've got to know't sometime, an' I'd ruther tell you now than wait till fall, as Gilead said. Oh, Mather, I'm heart-sorry, an' the treachery o't's been killin' me. But you'd never want a wife with never a bit of love in her heart.'

"The Lord knows how I felt, — I'd loved her so long an' so true. It seemed to me then thet if 'twere God as made everythin' so still an' sweet smellin' all round us, thet he surely never would have sent sech forsakenness an' agony into any soul, an' sech hopelessness, thet 't seemed as if all he could do now was jest to take life away an' not leave anythin' human sufferin' so. Once in a while, years an' years after, the same chill sort o' feelin' would creep over me when I'd git a whiff o' the pine trees, smellin' as they did that night.

"Jest at fust I didn't seem to sense nothin', till Naomi bent over an' touched me kind o' frightened-like, her face white as death, an' teary round the eyes.

"Mather,' says she, 'why don't you tell me how bitter you despise me? You can say if you want to jest what you think o' me.'

I was sore an' stiff when I rose, an' 't didn't sound like my voice as I said: 'There ain't nothin' to say, Naomi; let's go home.'

"She walked along by me a good mile or so, an' never a word was spoken; then I left her standin' by the gate, with a short good-by, but never a handshake,— for I couldn't bring myself to look in her pale face or touch the hand she held out to me in such an appealin' sort o' fashion. 'Twas after I'd left her, an' wandered away out through the country all white with moonshine, an' as sweet as 't can be in June, — 'twas then thet all the strong passions which evil can rouse in a man's heart broke loose in me. I prayed wild, distracted sort o' prayers. I cursed Gilead an' her an' myself an' the wide world; for't seemed to me as if God were dead. My heart was full o' heavy, dumb

anguish, as I tramped on for miles an' miles, hardly knowin' I was afoot, never sensin' that I was tired; only feelin' the awful horror an' misery an' wrong havin' Naomi taken away by my own brother; for it most seemed as if she were truly my wife; -I'd waited, an' longed, an' worked for her so many years. "At last, about midnight, I wandered home. When I reached the yard, I saw Gilead on the back stoop, his head leaned up agin the clusterin' grape-vine, an' his thoughts so far off that he never seen me till I was most up to him. As I come through the woodshed I half stumbled over the axe layin' there among my feet; I picked it up to put it where't b'longed, an' then an awful feelin' come over me to strike Gilead with't, for I was almost mad with rage, an' hatred, an' jealousy, an' could have killed him as he set there, without ever feelin' sorry for't, only somethin' seemed to hold me back. "Gilead,' I called, 'come out here to the barn, will you?'

"Why, Mather, what is it, broke loose?'

was

"There in the dusk o' the old barn, where we boys had played many an' many a day with the moonlight streakin' in an' lightin' Gilead's white face, I poured out the pent-up flood o' misery, an' contempt, an' hatred which burnin' me up. Many a thing I said that night which I've never been sorry for till this mornin', when the dawn stole in at the east window an' brought back a look to the dead face that I used to know when he an' I slept together in the attic trundle-bed.

"Gilead hadn't a word to say for himself; he stood there leanin' agin a post in perfect silence, his face paler'n ashes. Once more there come to me the awful impulse to strike him down out o' my sight with the old flail hangin' right by. At last words giv' out, an' he crep' away; but the bitterness was left in my heart, an't has stayed there all them years. To-day it feels kind o' dead an' gone, but that night changed all my life. "Till the gray dawn come peepin' in through the chinks o' the barn door, I lay there in the sweet, new-mown hay fightin' revenge, an' murder, an' every horror thet

heart's achin' for you;' an' between her sobs, she told me why she'd come after me; how mother couldn't make out what the trouble was, till the third night, when Naomi came over an' told everythin'; Gilead set by glum an' silent, till at last he said she'd better make it up with me again, an' let's have no more words. Zoe said then they thought Naomi would faint away; but when she came to, she stood up bravely for me, shoulderin' all o' the blame. Dear little Zoe, her sympathizin' ways an' horror o' all the treachery seemed to help me more'n anythin'; but when I couldn't git the poor child to go back I was at my wit's end. She was fourteen then, as true-hearted an' lovin' a little soul as ever breathed. I never knowed all her wuth till them dark days; for she would stop with me, an' many's the time I've thought 'twere jest her comin' when she did thet saved me from bein' one o' the wust o' men.

"Foskitt gave me a little house in the Holler, an' there Zoe stopped with me, keepin' things clean an' straight, an' bright'nin' the dreariest day with her cheery face. Once in a spell, she'd go to stop a few days with mother, but t'wa'n't much comfort for neither of us to be with her, her heart was so set on Gilead an' Naomi.

"The years slip't by, an' Zoe growed up tall an' handsome. Life grew a trifle easier, though the old hatred lived on in my heart as bitter's ever. Four years after they'd been married, Naomi come home to mother, with three little ones, sick an' ailin' all the time, an' hankerin' after country air. She hadn't been here but a month when Gilead follered, brokendown, coughin' agin, work lost, an' everythin' belongin' to him gone. Ever sence they've lived on there at the old place, an' seen lots o' trouble. One by one the children were taken, an' then on a cold winter mornin' mother slip't away, as quiet's if she were goin' to sleep. Zoe an' me went over the next day, but Gilead an' Naomi never appeared.

"An' so the years went by, filled with hard work, the best thing in the world to keep a man from thinkin'. When Zoe came to twenty-six, she went to a good home an' a husband who knowed she was wuth the tenderest love an' care; they both wanted me to go an' live with 'em, but I felt I'd be best content by myself.

"Last night, jest as the sun was goin' down, I was busy settin' out cabbages in my yard, when Seth Chapin's boy come drivin' up, to say that Gilead Pinney was dyin' an' wanted to see me. I was so kind o' struck, I jest climbed into the wagon, an' rode on as if I was sort o' dreamin', never askin' a question nor wond'rin' about nothin'; for I was 'way back livin' old days over agin - days when Gilead an' me trudged four miles to school together, or went chasin' woodchucks an' squirrels 'mong the pine trees; happy days we spent fishin' in the slowgoin' Agawam, or drove the cows night an' mornin' to the far pasture, little Zoe on my back laughin' an' screamin' an'

Gilead runnin' ahead to let down the bars; long blithe days in hayin' time, when work was fun to us, years, an' years, an' years ago.

"When I reached the door o' the old place, Naomi was there to meet me; only at fust I couldn't sense it, thet that totterin', wrinkled, white-haired body, with the tears in her dim eyes, an' her hands shakin' like palsied, could be the Naomi I'd never see'd sence the night I left her by the gate among the laylock bushes.

"She led me into the old east room, which looked barer an' poorer'n ever." Mather choked down a great sob and his lips trembled. "An' there," he added after a moment, "there lay Gileadworn to skin an' bone, with a look o' death in his face. Everythin' bad an' hateful seemed to die out o' my heart in one moment. I could only remember the little lad I'd wandered with through the woods many a long summer day; the Gilead thet mother an' me had set sech store by. As I come in, his big holler eyes turned eagerly to me, the pinched wan face lit up with a glad smile, an' two wasted hands, cold as death already, were stretched out feebly to grasp mine. Gilead, brother,' says I, 'it's all right agin, ain't it?'

"Then he nodded faintly, an' closed his eyes, but the happy look still stayed round his lips; once in a spell he'd squeeze my fingers an' smile he was past talkin' only there wan't no need o' words.

"Naomi hovered round, now an' then touchin' his thin white hair fondly, but he never once noticed her; an' yit the old love was strong in her heart, tender, faithful, an' steadfast, after fifty years toil an' hardship, an' poverty an' mebbe neglect, for I don't think Gilead ever loved her.

"All the long still night we two stayed by him, an' he never once let go his faint hold o' my hand till the dawn come, when he went away. Jest once he tried to speak, an' then he asked me in a hoarse whisper if I'd see to Naomi as long's she needed it, 'cause he had nothin' to leave. Of course he knew I would."