A Native of Winby
I.On the teacher's desk, in the little roadside school-house, there wasa bunch of Mayflowers, beside a dented and bent brass bell, a smallWorcester's Dictionary without any cover, and a worn morocco-coveredBible. These were placed in an orderly row, and behind them was asmall wooden box which held some broken pieces of blackboard crayon.The teacher, whom no timid new scholar could look at boldly, wore heraccustomed air of authority and importance. She might have beennineteen years old,--not more,--but for the time being she scorned thefrivolities of youth.The hot May sun was shining in at the smoky small-paned windows;sometimes an outside shutter swung to with a creak, and eclipsed theglare. The narrow door stood wide open, to the left as you faced thedesk, and an old spotted dog lay asleep on the step, and looked wiseand old enough to have gone to school with several generations ofchildren. It was half past three o'clock in the afternoon, and theprimer class, settled into the apathy of after-recess fatigue,presented a straggling front, as they stood listlessly on the floor.As for the big boys and girls, they also were longing to be atliberty, but the pretty teacher, Miss Marilla Hender, seemed quite asenergetic as when school was begun in the morning.The spring breeze blew in at the open door, and even fluttered theprimer leaves, but the back of the room felt hot and close, as if itwere midsummer. The children in the class read their lessons in thosehigh-keyed, droning voices which older teachers learn to associatewith faint powers of perception. Only one or two of them had anawakened human look in their eyes, such as Matthew Arnold delightedhimself in finding so often in the school-children of France. Most ofthese poor little students were as inadequate, at that weary moment,to the pursuit of letters as if they had been woolly spring lambs on asunny hillside. The teacher corrected and admonished with greatpatience, glancing now and then toward points of danger andinsurrection, whence came a suspicious buzz of whispering from behinda desk-lid or a pair of widespread large geographies. Now and then atoiling child would rise and come down the aisle, with his forefingerfirm upon a puzzling word as if it were an unclassified insect. It wasa lovely beckoning day out-of-doors. The children felt like captives;there was something that provoked rebellion in the droning voices, thebuzzing of an early wild bee against the sunlit pane, and even in thestuffy familiar odor of the place,--the odor of apples and crumbs ofdoughnuts and gingerbread in the dinner pails on the high entry nails,and of all the little gowns and trousers that had brushed throughjunipers and young pines on their way to school.The bee left his prisoning pane at last, and came over to theMayflowers, which were in full bloom, although the season was verylate, and deep in the woods there were still some graybackedsnowdrifts, speckled with bits of bark and moss from the trees above."Come, come, Ezra!" urged the young teacher, rapping her desk sharply."Stop watchin' that common bee! You know well enough what thoseletters spell. You won't learn to read at this rate until you are agrown man. Mind your book, now; you ought to remember who went to thisschool when he was a little boy. You've heard folks tell about theHonorable Joseph K. Laneway? He used to be in primer just as you arenow, and 't wasn't long before he was out of it, either, and wascalled the smartest boy in school. He's got to be a general and aSenator, and one of the richest men out West. You don't seem to havethe least mite of ambition to-day, any of you!"The exhortation, entirely personal in the beginning, had swiftlypassed to a general rebuke. Ezra looked relieved, and the otherchildren brightened up as they recognized a tale familiar to theirears. Anything was better than trying to study in that dull last hourof afternoon school."Yes," continued Miss Hender, pleased that she had at last rousedsomething like proper attention, "you all ought to be proud that youare schoolmates of District Number Four, and can remember that thecelebrated General Laneway had the same early advantages as you, andthink what he has made of himself by perseverance and ambition."The pupils were familiar enough with the illustrious history of theirnoble predecessor. They were sure to be told, in lawless moments, thatif Mr. Laneway were to come in and see them he would be mortified todeath; and the members of the school committee always referred to him,and said that he had been a poor boy, and was now a self-mademan,--as if every man were not self-made as to his character andreputation!At this point, young Johnny Spencer showed his next neighbor, in theback of his Colburn's Arithmetic, an imaginary portrait of theirdistrict hero, which caused them both to chuckle derisively. TheHonorable Mr. Laneway figured on the flyleaf as an extremelycross-eyed person, with strangely crooked legs and arms and a terrificexpression. He was outlined with red and blue pencils as to coat andtrousers, and held a reddened scalp in one hand and a blue tomahawk inthe other; being closely associated in the artist's mind with theearly settlements of the far West.There was a noise of wheels in the road near by, and, though MissHender had much more to say, everybody ceased to listen to her, andturned toward the windows, leaning far forward over their desks to seewho might be passing. They caught a glimpse of a shiny carriage; theold dog bounded out, barking, but nothing passed the open door. Thecarriage had stopped; some one was coming to the school; somebody wasgoing to be called out! It could not be the committee, whose pompousand uninspiring spring visit had taken place only the week before.Presently a well-dressed elderly man, with an expectant, masterfullook, stood on the doorstep, glanced in with a smile, and knocked.Miss Marilla Hender blushed, smoothed her pretty hair anxiously withboth hands, and stepped down from her little platform to answer thesummons. There was hardly a shut mouth in the primer class."Would it be convenient for you to receive a visitor to the school?"the stranger asked politely, with a fine bow of deference to MissHender. He looked much pleased and a little excited, and the teachersaid,--"Certainly; step right in, won't you, sir?" in quite another tone fromthat in which she had just addressed the school.The boys and girls were sitting straight and silent in their places,in something like a fit of apprehension and unpreparedness at such agreat emergency. The guest represented a type of person previouslyunknown in District Number Four. Everything about him spoke of wealthand authority. The old dog returned to the doorstep, and after acareful look at the invader approached him, with a funny doggish grinand a desperate wag of the tail, to beg for recognition.The teacher gave her chair on the platform to the guest, and stoodbeside him with very red cheeks, smoothing her hair again once ortwice, and keeping the hard-wood ruler fast in hand, like a badge ofoffice. "Primer class may now retire!" she said firmly, although thelesson was not more than half through; and the class promptly escapedto their seats, waddling and stumbling, until they all came up behindtheir desks, face foremost, and added themselves to the number ofstaring young countenances. After this there was a silence, which grewmore and more embarrassing."Perhaps you would be pleased to hear our first class in geography,sir?" asked the fair Marilla, recovering her presence of mind; and theguest kindly assented.The young teacher was by no means willing to give up a certainty foran uncertainty. Yesterday's lesson had been well learned; she turnedback to the questions about the State of Kansota, and at the firstsentence the mysterious visitor's dignity melted into an unconscioussmile. He listened intently for a minute, and then seemed to reoccupyhimself with his own thoughts and purposes, looking eagerly about theold school-house, and sometimes gazing steadily at the children. Thelesson went on finely, and when it was finished Miss Hender asked thegirl at the head of the class to name the States and Territories,which she instantly did, mispronouncing nearly all the names of thelatter; then others stated boundaries and capitals, and the resourcesof the New England States, passing on finally to the names of thePresidents. Miss Hender glowed with pride; she had worked hard overthe geography class in the winter term, and it did not fail her onthis great occasion. When she turned bravely to see if the gentlemanwould like to ask any questions, she found that he was apparentlylost in a deep reverie, so she repeated her own question moredistinctly."They have done very well,--very well indeed," he answered kindly; andthen, to every one's surprise, he rose, went up the aisle, pushedJohnny Spencer gently along his bench, and sat down beside him. Thespace was cramped, and the stranger looked huge and uncomfortable, sothat everybody laughed, except one of the big girls, who turned palewith fright, and thought he must be crazy. When this girl gave a faintsqueak Miss Hender recovered herself, and rapped twice with the rulerto restore order; then became entirely tranquil. There had been talkof replacing the hacked and worn old school-desks with patent desksand chairs; this was probably an agent connected with that business.At once she was resolute and self-reliant, and said, "No whispering!"in a firm tone that showed she did not mean to be trifled with. Thegeography class was dismissed, but the elderly gentleman, in hishandsome overcoat, still sat there wedged in at Johnny Spencer's side."I presume, sir, that you are canvassing for new desks," said MissHender, with dignity. "You will have to see the supervisor and theselectmen." There did not seem to be any need of his lingering, butshe had an ardent desire to be pleasing to a person of such evidentdistinction. "We always tell strangers--I thought, sir, you might begratified to know--that this is the school-house where the HonorableJoseph K. Laneway first attended school. All do not know that he wasborn in this town, and went West very young; it is only about a milefrom here where his folks used to live."At this moment the visitor's eyes fell. He did not look at prettyMarilla any more, but opened Johnny Spencer's arithmetic, and, seeingthe imaginary portrait of the great General Laneway, laughed alittle,--a very deep-down comfortable laugh it was,--while Johnnyhimself turned cold with alarm, he could not have told why.It was very still in the school-room; the bee was buzzing and bumpingat the pane again; the moment was one of intense expectation.The stranger looked at the children right and left. "The fact isthis, young people," said he, in a tone that was half pride and halfapology, "I am Joseph K. Laneway myself."He tried to extricate himself from the narrow quarters of the desk,but for an embarrassing moment found that he was stuck fast. JohnnySpencer instinctively gave him an assisting push, and once free thegreat soldier, statesman, and millionaire took a few steps forward tothe open floor; then, after hesitating a moment, he mounted the littleplatform and stood in the teacher's place. Marilla Hender was as paleas ashes."I have thought many times," the great guest began, "that some day Ishould come back to visit this place, which is so closely interwovenwith the memories of my childhood. In my counting-room, on the fieldsof war, in the halls of Congress, and most of all in my Western home,my thoughts have flown back to the hills and brooks of Winby and tothis little old school-house. I could shut my eyes and call back thebuzz of voices, and fear my teacher's frown, and feel my boyishambitions waking and stirring in my breast. On that bench where I justsat I saw some notches that I cut with my first jackknife fifty-eightyears ago this very spring. I remember the faces of the boys and girlswho went to school with me, and I see their grandchildren before me. Iknow that one is a Goodsoe and another a Winn by the old family look.One generation goes, and another comes."There are many things that I might say to you. I meant, even in thoseearly restricted days, to make my name known, and I dare say that youtoo have ambition. Be careful what you wish for in this world, for ifyou wish hard enough you are sure to get it. I once heard a very wiseman say this, and the longer I live the more firmly I believe it to betrue. But wishing hard means working hard for what you want, and theworld's prizes wait for the men and women who are ready to take painsto win them. Be careful and set your minds on the best things. I meantto be a rich man when I was a boy here, and I stand before you a richman, knowing the care and anxiety and responsibility of wealth. Imeant to go to Congress, and I am one of the Senators from Kansota. Isay this as humbly as I say it proudly. I used to read of the valorand patriotism of the old Greeks and Romans with my youthful bloodleaping along my veins, and it came to pass that my own country was indanger, and that I could help to fight her battles. Perhaps some oneof these little lads has before him a more eventful life than I havelived, and is looking forward to activity and honor and the pride offame. I wish him all the joy that I have had, all the toil that I havehad, and all the bitter disappointments even; for adversity leads aman to depend upon that which is above him, and the path of glory is alonely path, beset by temptations and a bitter sense of the weaknessand imperfection of man. I see my life spread out like a greatpicture, as I stand here in my boyhood's place. I regret my failures.I thank God for what in his kind providence has been honest and right.I am glad to come back, but I feel, as I look in your young faces,that I am an old man, while your lives are just beginning. When youremember, in years to come, that I came here to see the oldschool-house, remember that I said: Wish for the best things, and workhard to win them; try to be good men and women, for the honor of theschool and the town, and the noble young country that gave you birth;be kind at home and generous abroad. Remember that I, an old man whohad seen much of life, begged you to be brave and good."The Honorable Mr. Laneway had rarely felt himself so moved in any ofhis public speeches, but he was obliged to notice that for once hecould not hold his audience. The primer class especially had begun toflag in attention, but one or two faces among the elder scholarsfairly shone with vital sympathy and a lovely prescience of theirfuture. Their eyes met his as if they struck a flash of light. Therewas a sturdy boy who half rose in his place unconsciously, the colorcoming and going in his cheeks; something in Mr. Laneway's words litthe altar flame in his reverent heart.Marilla Hender was pleased and a little dazed; she could not haverepeated what her illustrious visitor had said, but she longed to telleverybody the news that he was in town, and had come to school to makean address. She had never seen a great man before, and really neededtime to reflect upon him and to consider what she ought to say. Shewas just quivering with the attempt to make a proper reply and thankMr. Laneway for the honor of his visit to the school, when he askedher which of the boys could be trusted to drive back his hired horseto the Four Corners. Eight boys, large and small, nearly every boy inthe school, rose at once and snapped insistent fingers; but JohnnySpencer alone was desirous not to attract attention to himself. TheColburn's Intellectual Arithmetic with the portrait had been wellsecreted between his tight jacket and his shirt. Miss Hender selecteda trustworthy freckled person in long trousers, who was half way tothe door in an instant, and was heard almost immediately to shoutloudly at the quiet horse.Then the Hero of District Number Four made his acknowledgments to theteacher. "I fear that I have interrupted you too long," he said, withpleasing deference.Marilla replied that it was of no consequence; she hoped he would callagain. She may have spoken primly, but her pretty eyes said everythingthat her lips forgot. "My grandmother will want to see you, sir," sheventured to say. "I guess you will remember her,--Mis' Hender, shethat was Abby Harran. She has often told me how you used to get yourlessons out o' the same book.""Abby Harran's granddaughter?" Mr. Laneway looked at her again withfresh interest. "Yes, I wish to see her more than any one else. Tellher that I am coming to see her before I go away, and give her mylove. Thank you, my dear," as Marilla offered his missing hat."Good-by, boys and girls." He stopped and looked at them once morefrom the boys' entry, and turned again to look back from the verydoorstep."Good-by, sir,--good-by," piped two or three of the young voices; butmost of the children only stared, and neither spoke nor moved."We will omit the class in Fourth Reader this afternoon. The class ingrammar may recite," said Miss Hender in her most contained andofficial manner.The grammar class sighed like a single pupil, and obeyed. She was verystern with the grammar class, but every one in school had an innersense that it was a great day in the history of District Number Four.
II.The Honorable Mr. Laneway found the outdoor air very fresh and sweetafter the closeness of the school-house. It had just that same odor inhis boyhood, and as he escaped he had a delightful sense of playingtruant or of having an unexpected holiday. It was easier to think ofhimself as a boy, and to slip back into boyish thoughts, than to bearthe familiar burden of his manhood. He climbed the tumble-down stonewall across the road, and went along a narrow path to the spring thatbubbled up clear and cold under a great red oak. How many times he hadlonged for a drink of that water, and now here it was, and the thirstof that warm spring day was hard to quench! Again and again he stoppedto fill the birchbark dipper which the school-children had made, justas his own comrades made theirs years before. The oak-tree was dyingat the top. The pine woods beyond had been cut and had grown againsince his boyhood, and looked much as he remembered them. Beyond thespring and away from the woods the path led across overgrown pasturesto another road, perhaps three quarters of a mile away, and near thisroad was the small farm which had been his former home. As he walkedslowly along, he was met again and again by some reminder of hisyouthful days. He had always liked to refer to his early life in NewEngland in his political addresses, and had spoken more than once ofgoing to find the cows at nightfall in the autumn evenings, and beingglad to warm his bare feet in the places where the sleepy beasts hadlain, before he followed their slow steps homeward through bush andbrier. The Honorable Mr. Laneway had a touch of true sentiment whichadded much to his really stirring and effective campaign speeches. Hehad often been called the "king of the platform" in his adopted State.He had long ago grown used to saying "Go" to one man, and "Come" toanother, like the ruler of old; but all his natural power ofleadership and habit of authority disappeared at once as he trod thepasture slopes, calling back the remembrance of his childhood. Herewas the place where two lads, older than himself, had killed aterrible woodchuck at bay in the angle of a great rock; and justbeyond was the sunny spot where he had picked a bunch of pink andwhite anemones under a prickly barberry thicket, to give to AbbyHarran in morning school. She had put them into her desk, and let themwilt there, but she was pleased when she took them. Abby Harran, thelittle teacher's grandmother, was a year older than he, and hadwakened the earliest thought of love in his youthful breast.It was almost time to catch the first sight of his birthplace. Fromthe knoll just ahead he had often seen the light of his mother's lamp,as he came home from school on winter afternoons; but when he reachedthe knoll the old house was gone, and so was the great walnut-treethat grew beside it, and a pang of disappointment shot through thisdevout pilgrim's heart. He never had doubted that the old farm wassomebody's home still, and had counted upon the pleasure of spending anight there, and sleeping again in that room under the roof, where therain sounded loud, and the walnut branches brushed to and fro when thewind blew, as if they were the claws of tigers. He hurried across theworn-out fields, long ago turned into sheep pastures, where the lastyear's tall grass and golden-rod stood gray and winter-killed; tracingthe old walls and fences, and astonished to see how small the fieldshad been. The prosperous owner of Western farming lands could not helpremembering those widespread luxuriant acres, and the broad outlooksof his Western home.It was difficult at first to find exactly where the house had stood;even the foundations had disappeared. At last in the long, faded grasshe discovered the doorstep, and near by was a little mound where thegreat walnut-tree stump had been. The cellar was a mere dent in thesloping ground; it had been filled in by the growing grass and slowprocesses of summer and winter weather. But just at the pilgrim'sright were some thorny twigs of an old rosebush. A sudden brighteningof memory brought to mind the love that his mother--dead since hisfifteenth year--had kept for this sweetbrier. How often she had wishedthat she had brought it to her new home! So much had changed in theworld, so many had gone into the world of light, and here the faithfulblooming thing was yet alive! There was one slender branch where greenbuds were starting, and getting ready to flower in the new year.The afternoon wore late, and still the gray-haired man lingered. Hemight have laughed at some one else who gave himself up to sadthoughts, and found fault with himself, with no defendant to plead hiscause at the bar of conscience. It was an altogether lonely hour. Hehad dreamed all his life, in a sentimental, self-satisfied fashion, ofthis return to Winby. It had always appeared to be a grand affair, butso far he was himself the only interested spectator at his pooroccasion. There was even a dismal consciousness that he had beenundignified, perhaps even a little consequential and silly, in the oldschool-house. The picture of himself on the war-path, in JohnnySpencer's arithmetic, was the only tribute that this longed-for dayhad held, but he laughed aloud delightedly at the remembrance andreally liked that solemn little boy who sat at his own old desk. Therewas another older lad, who sat at the back of the room, who remindedMr. Laneway of himself in his eager youth. There was a spark of lightin that fellow's eyes. Once or twice in the earlier afternoon, as hedrove along, he had asked people in the road if there were a Lanewayfamily in that neighborhood, but everybody had said no in indifferentfashion. Somehow he had been expecting that every one would know himand greet him, and give him credit for what he had tried to do, butold Winby had her own affairs to look after, and did very well withoutany of his help.Mr. Laneway acknowledged to himself at this point that he was weak andunmanly. There must be some old friends who would remember him, andgive him as hearty a welcome as the greeting he had brought for them.So he rose and went his way westward toward the sunset. The air wasgrowing damp and cold, and it was time to make sure of shelter. Thiswas hardly like the visit he had meant to pay to his birthplace. Hewished with all his heart that he had never come back. But he walkedbriskly away, intent upon wider thoughts as the fresh evening breezequickened his steps. He did not consider where he was going, but wasfor a time the busy man of affairs, stimulated by the unconsciousinfluence of his surroundings. The slender gray birches and pitchpines of that neglected pasture had never before seen a hat and coatexactly in the fashion. They may have been abashed by the presence ofa United States Senator and Western millionaire, though a piece of NewEngland ground that had often felt the tread of his bare feet was notlikely to quake because a pair of smart shoes stepped hastily alongthe school-house path.
III.There was an imperative knock at the side door of the Henderfarmhouse, just after dark. The young school-mistress had come homelate, because she had stopped all the way along to give people thenews of her afternoon's experience. Marilla was not coy and speechlessany longer, but sat by the kitchen stove telling her eager grandmothereverything she could remember or could imagine."Who's that knocking at the door?" interrupted Mrs. Hender. "No, I'llgo myself; I'm nearest."The man outside was cold and foot-weary. He was not used to spending awhole day unrecognized, and, after being first amused, and evenenjoying a sense of freedom at escaping his just dues of considerationand respect, he had begun to feel as if he were old and forgotten, andwas hardly sure of a friend in the world.Old Mrs. Hender came to the door, with her eyes shining with delight,in great haste to dismiss whoever had knocked, so that she might hearthe rest of Marilla's story. She opened the door wide to whoever mighthave come on some country errand, and looked the tired andfaint-hearted Mr. Laneway full in the face."Dear heart, come in!" she exclaimed, reaching out and taking him bythe shoulder, as he stood humbly on a lower step. "Come right in, Joe.Why, I should know you anywhere! Why, Joe Laneway, you same boy!"In they went to the warm, bright, country kitchen. The delight andkindness of an old friend's welcome and her instant sympathy seemedthe loveliest thing in the world. They sat down in two oldstraight-backed kitchen chairs. They still held each other by thehand, and looked in each other's face. The plain old room was aglowwith heat and cheerfulness; the tea-kettle was singing; a drowsy catsat on the wood-box with her paws tucked in; and the house dog cameforward in a friendly way, wagging his tail, and laid his head ontheir clasped hands."And to think I haven't seen you since your folks moved out West, thenext spring after you were thirteen in the winter," said the goodwoman. "But I s'pose there ain't been anybody that has followed yourcareer closer than I have, accordin' to their opportunities. You'vedone a great work for your country, Joe. I'm proud of you cleanthrough. Sometimes folks has said, 'There, there, Mis' Hender, what beyou goin' to say now?' but I've always told 'em to wait. I knew yousaw your reasons. You was always an honest boy." The tears started andshone in her kind eyes. Her face showed that she had waged a bitterwar with poverty and sorrow, but the look of affection that it wore,and the warm touch of her hard hand, misshapen and worn with toil,touched her old friend in his inmost heart, and for a minute neithercould speak."They do say that women folks have got no natural head for politics,but I always could seem to sense what was goin' on in Washington, ifthere was any sense to it," said grandmother Hender at last."Nobody could puzzle you at school, I remember," answered Mr. Laneway,and they both laughed heartily. "But surely this granddaughter doesnot make your household? You have sons?""Two beside her father. He died; but they're both away, up towardCanada, buying cattle. We are getting along considerable well theselast few years, since they got a mite o' capital together; but the oldfarm wasn't really able to maintain us, with the heavy expenses thatfell on us unexpected year by year. I've seen a great sight oftrouble, Joe. My boy John, Marilla's father, and his nice wife,--Ilost 'em both early, when Marilla was but a child. John was the flowero' my family. He would have made a name for himself. You would havetaken to John.""I was sorry to hear of your loss," said Mr. Laneway. "He was a braveman. I know what he did at Fredericksburg. You remember that I lost mywife and my only son?"There was a silence between the friends, who had no need for wordsnow; they understood each other's heart only too well. Marilla, whosat near them, rose and went out of the room."Yes, yes, daughter," said Mrs. Hender, calling her back, "we ought tobe thinkin' about supper.""I was going to light a little fire in the parlor," explained Marilla,with a slight tone of rebuke in her clear girlish voice."Oh, no, you ain't,--not now, at least," protested the elder womandecidedly. "Now, Joseph, what should you like to have for supper? Iwish to my heart I had some fried turnovers, like those you used tocome after when you was a boy. I can make 'em just about the same asmother did. I'll be bound you've thought of some old-fashioned dishthat you'd relish for your supper.""Rye drop-cakes, then, if they wouldn't give you too much trouble,"answered the Honorable Joseph, with prompt seriousness, "and don'tforget some cheese." He looked up at his old playfellow as she stoodbeside him, eager with affectionate hospitality."You've no idea what a comfort Marilla's been," she stopped towhisper. "Always took right hold and helped me when she was a baby.She's as good as made up already to me for my having no daughter. Iwant you to get acquainted with Marilla."The granddaughter was still awed and anxious about the entertainmentof so distinguished a guest when her grandmother appeared at last inthe pantry."I ain't goin' to let you do no such a thing, darlin'," said AbbyHender, when Marilla spoke of making something that she called "fairygems" for tea, after a new and essentially feminine recipe. "You justlet me get supper to-night. The Gen'ral has enough kickshaws to eat;he wants a good, hearty, old-fashioned supper,--the same countrycooking he remembers when he was a boy. He went so far himself as tospeak of rye drop-cakes, an' there ain't one in a hundred, nowadays,knows how to make the kind he means. You go an' lay the table just aswe always have it, except you can get out them old big sprigged cupso' my mother's. Don't put on none o' the parlor cluset things."Marilla went off crestfallen and demurring. She had a noble desire toshow Mr. Laneway that they knew how to have things as well asanybody, and was sure that he would consider it more polite to beasked into the best room, and to sit there alone until tea was ready;but the illustrious Mr. Laneway was allowed to stay in the kitchen, inapparent happiness, and to watch the proceedings from beginning toend. The two old friends talked industriously, but he saw his ryedrop-cakes go into the oven and come out, and his tea made, and hispiece of salt fish broiled and buttered, a broad piece of honeycombset on to match some delightful thick slices of brown-crusted loafbread, and all the simple feast prepared. There was a sufficient pieceof Abby Hender's best cheese; it must be confessed that there werealso some baked beans, and, as one thing after another appeared, theHonorable Joseph K. Laneway grew hungrier and hungrier, until hefairly looked pale with anticipation and delay, and was bidden at thatvery moment to draw up his chair and make himself a supper if hecould. What cups of tea, what uncounted rye drop-cakes, went to themaking of that successful supper! How gay the two old friends became,and of what old stories they reminded each other, and how late thedark spring evening grew, before the feast was over and thestraight-backed chairs were set against the kitchen wall!Marilla listened for a time with more or less interest, but at lastshe took one of her school-books, with slight ostentation, and wentover to study by the lamp. Mrs. Hender had brought her knitting-work,a blue woolen stocking, out of a drawer, and sat down serene andunruffled, prepared to keep awake as late as possible. She was a womanwho had kept her youthful looks through the difficulties of farm lifeas few women can, and this added to her guest's sense of homelikenessand pleasure. There was something that he felt to be sisterly andcomfortable in her strong figure; he even noticed the little plaidwoolen shawl that she wore about her shoulders. Dear, uncomplainingheart of Abby Hender! The appealing friendliness of the good womanmade no demands except to be allowed to help and to serve everybodywho came in her way.Now began in good earnest the talk of old times, and what had becomeof this and that old schoolmate; how one family had come to want andanother to wealth. The changes and losses and windfalls of goodfortune in that rural neighborhood were made tragedy and comedy byturns in Abby Hender's dramatic speech. She grew younger and moreentertaining hour by hour, and beguiled the grave Senator intoconfidential talk of national affairs. He had much to say, to whichshe listened with rare sympathy and intelligence. She astonished himby her comprehension of difficult questions of the day, and by hersimple good sense. Marilla grew hopelessly sleepy, and departed, butneither of them turned to notice her as she lingered a moment at thedoor to say good-night. When the immediate subjects of conversationwere fully discussed, however, there was an unexpected interval ofsilence, and, after making sure that her knitting stitches countedexactly right, Abby Hender cast a questioning glance at the Senator tosee if he had it in mind to go to bed. She was reluctant to end herevening so soon, but determined to act the part of consideratehostess. The guest was as wide awake as ever: eleven o'clock was thebest part of his evening."Cider?" he suggested, with an expectant smile, and Abby Hender was onher feet in a moment. When she had brought a pitcher from the pantry,he took a candle from the high shelf and led the way."To think of your remembering our old cellar candlestick all theseyears!" laughed the pleased woman, as she followed him down the steepstairway, and then laughed still more at his delight in the familiarlook of the place."Unchanged as the pyramids!" he said. "I suppose those pound sweetingsthat used to be in that farthest bin were eaten up months ago?"It was plain to see that the household stores were waning low, asbefitted the time of year, but there was still enough in the oldcellar. Care and thrift and gratitude made the poor farmhouse a richplace. This woman of real ability had spent her strength from youth toage, and had lavished as much industry and power of organization inher narrow sphere as would have made her famous in a wider one. JosephLaneway could not help sighing as he thought of it. How many thingsthis good friend had missed, and yet how much she had been able to winthat makes everywhere the very best of life! Poor and early widowed,there must have been a constant battle with poverty on that stonyHarran farm, whose owners had been pitied even in his early boyhood,when the best of farming life was none too easy. But Abby Hender hadalways been one of the leaders of the town."Now, before we sit down again, I want you to step into my best room.Perhaps you won't have time in the morning, and I've got something toshow you," she said persuasively.It was a plain, old-fashioned best room, with a look of pleasantnessin spite of the spring chill and the stiffness of the best chairs.They lingered before the picture of Mrs. Hender's soldier son, a poorwork of a poorer artist in crayons, but the spirit of the young faceshone out appealingly. Then they crossed the room and stood beforesome bookshelves, and Abby Hender's face brightened into a beamingsmile of triumph."You didn't expect we should have all those books, now, did you, JoeLaneway?" she asked.He shook his head soberly, and leaned forward to read the titles.There were no very new ones, as if times had been hard of late; almostevery volume was either history, or biography, or travel. Their ownerhad reached out of her own narrow boundaries into other lives and intofar countries. He recognized with gratitude two or three congressionalbooks that he had sent her when he first went to Washington, and therewas a life of himself, written from a partisan point of view, andissued in one of his most exciting campaigns; the sight of it touchedhim to the heart, and then she opened it, and showed him the three orfour letters that he had written her,--one, in boyish handwriting,describing his adventures on his first Western journey."There are a hundred and six volumes now," announced the proud ownerof such a library. "I lend 'em all I can, or most of them would lookbetter. I have had to wait a good while for some, and some weren'twhat I expected 'em to be, but most of 'em's as good books as there isin the world. I've never been so situated that it seemed best for meto indulge in a daily paper, and I don't know but it's just as well;but stories were never any great of a temptation. I know pretty wellwhat's goin' on about me, and I can make that do. Real life'sinterestin' enough for me."Mr. Laneway was still looking over the books. His heart smote him fornot being thoughtful; he knew well enough that the overflow of his ownlibrary would have been delightful to this self-denying, eager-mindedsoul. "I've been a very busy man all my life, Abby," he saidimpulsively, as if she waited for some apology for his forgetfulness,"but I'll see to it now that you have what you want to read. I don'tmean to lose hold of your advice on state matters." They both laughed,and he added, "I've always thought of you, if I haven't shown it.""There's more time to read than there used to be; I've had what wasbest for me," answered the woman gently, with a grateful look on herface, as she turned to glance at her old friend. "Marilla takes holdwonderfully and helps me with the work. In the long winter eveningsyou can't think what a treat a new book is. I wouldn't change placeswith the queen."They had come back to the kitchen, and she stood before the cupboard,reaching high for two old gayly striped crockery mugs. There were somedoughnuts and cheese at hand; their early supper seemed quiteforgotten. The kitchen was warm, and they had talked themselvesthirsty and hungry; but with what an unexpected tang the ciderfreshened their throats! Mrs. Hender had picked the apples herselfthat went to the press; they were all chosen from the old russet treeand the gnarly, red-cheeked, ungrafted fruit that grew along the lane.The flavor made one think of frosty autumn mornings on high hillsides,of north winds and sunny skies. "It 'livens one to the heart," as Mrs.Hender remarked proudly, when the Senator tried to praise it as muchas it deserved, and finally gave a cheerful laugh, such as he had notlaughed for many a day."Why, it seems like drinking the month of October," he told her; andat this the hostess reached over, protesting that the striped mug wastoo narrow to hold what it ought, and filled it up again."Oh, Joe Laneway, to think that I see you at last, after all theseyears!" she said. "How rich I shall feel with this evening to liveover! I've always wanted to see somebody that I'd read about, and nowI've got that to remember; but I've always known I should see youagain, and I believe 't was the Lord's will."Early the next morning they said good-by. The early breakfast had tobe hurried, and Marilla was to drive Mr. Laneway to the station,three miles away. It was Saturday morning, and she was free fromschool.Mr. Laneway strolled down the lane before breakfast was ready, andcame back with a little bunch of pink anemones in his hand. Marillathought that he meant to give them to her, but he laid them beside hergrandmother's plate. "You mustn't put those in your desk," he saidwith a smile, and Abby Hender blushed like a girl."I've got those others now, dried and put away somewhere in one of mybooks," she said quietly, and Marilla wondered what they meant.The two old friends shook hands warmly at parting. "I wish you couldhave stayed another day, so I could have had the minister come and seeyou," urged Mrs. Hender regretfully."You couldn't have done any more for me. I have had the best visit inthe world," he answered, a little shaken, and holding her hand amoment longer, while Marilla sat, young and impatient, in the highwagon. "You're a dear good woman, Abby. Sometimes when things havegone wrong I've been sorry that I ever had to leave Winby."The woman's clear eyes looked straight into his; then fell. "Youwouldn't have done everything you have for the country," she said."Give me a kiss; we're getting to be old folks now," said the General;and they kissed each other gravely.A moment later Abby Hender stood alone in her dooryard, watching andwaving her hand again and again, while the wagon rattled away down thelane and turned into the high-road.Two hours after Marilla returned from the station, and rushed into thekitchen."Grandma!" she exclaimed, "you never did see such a crowd in Winby asthere was at the depot! Everybody in town had got word about GeneralLaneway, and they were pushing up to shake hands, and cheering sameas at election, and the cars waited much as ten minutes, and all thefolks was lookin' out of the windows, and came out on the platformswhen they heard who it was. Folks say that he'd been to see theselectmen yesterday before he came to school, and he's goin' to buildan elegant town hall, and have the names put up in it of all the Winbymen that went to the war." Marilla sank into a chair, flushed withexcitement. "Everybody was asking me about his being here last nightand what he said to the school. I wished that you'd gone down to thedepot instead of me.""I had the best part of anybody," said Mrs. Hender, smiling and goingon with her Saturday morning work. "I'm real glad they showed himproper respect," she added a moment afterward, but her voice faltered."Why, you ain't been cryin', grandma?" asked the girl. "I guess you'retired. You had a real good time, now, didn't you?""Yes, dear heart!" said Abby Hender. "'T ain't pleasant to be growin'old, that's all. I couldn't help noticin' his age as he rode away.I've always been lookin' forward to seein' him again, an' now it's allover."
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