Friend Barton's "Concern"

by Mary Hallock Foote

It had been "borne in" upon him, more or less, during the long winter;it had not relaxed when the frosts unlocked their hold and the streamswere set free from their long winter's silence, among the hills. He grewrestless and abstracted under "the turnings of the Lord's hand upon him,"and his speech unconsciously shaped itself into the Biblical cadences whichcame to him in his moments of spiritual exercise.The bedrabbled snows of March shrank away before the keen, quickeningsunbeams; the hills emerged, brown and sodden, like the chrysalis of thenew year; the streams woke in a tumult, and all day and night their voicescalled from the hills back of the mill: the waste-weir was a foamingtorrent, and spread itself in muddy shallows across the meadow, beyondthe old garden where the robins and bluebirds were house-hunting. FriendBarton's trouble stirred with the life-blood of the year, and pressedupon him sorely; but as yet he gave it no words. He plodded about, amonghis lean kine, tempering the winds of March to his untimely lambs, andreconciling unnatural ewes to their maternal duties.Friend Barton had never heard of the doctrine of the survival of thefittest, though it was the spring of 1812, and England and America wereinvestigating the subject on the seas, while the nations of Europe werepractically illustrating it. The "hospital tent," as the boys called an oldcorn-basket, covered with carpet, which stood beside the kitchen chimney,was seldom without an occupant,--a brood of chilled chickens, a weaklylamb, or a wee pig (with too much blue in its pinkness), that had beenleft behind by its stouter brethren in the race for existence. The oldmill hummed away through the day, and often late into the evening if timepressed, upon the grists which added a thin, intermittent stream of tributeto the family income. Whenever work was "slack," Friend Barton was sawingor chopping in the woodshed adjoining the kitchen; every moment he couldseize or make he was there, stooping over the rapidly growing pile."Seems to me, father, thee's in a great hurry with the wood this spring. Idon't know when we've had such a pile ahead.""'T won't burn up any faster for being chopped," Friend Barton said; andthen his wife Rachel knew that if he had a reason for being "forehanded"with the wood, he was not ready to give it.One rainy April afternoon, when the smoky gray distances began to take atinge of green, and through the drip and rustle of the rain the call ofthe robins sounded, Friend Barton sat in the door of the barn, oiling theroad-harness. The old chaise had been wheeled out and greased, and itscushions beaten and dusted.An ox-team with a load of grain creaked up the hill and stopped at themill door. The driver, seeing Friend Barton's broad-brimmed drab felt hatagainst the dark interior of the barn, came down the short lane leadingfrom the mill, past the house and farm-buildings."Fixin' up for travelin', Uncle Tommy?"Vain compliments, such as worldly titles of Mr. and Mrs., were unacceptableto Thomas Barton, and he was generally known and addressed as "Uncle Tommy"by the world's people of a younger generation."It is not in man that walketh to direct his own steps, neighbor Jordan.I am getting myself in readiness to obey the Lord, whichever way He shallcall me."Farmer Jordan cast a shrewd eye over the premises. They wore that patient,sad, exhumed look which old farm-buildings are apt to have in early spring.The roofs were black with rain, and brightened with patches of green moss.Farmer Jordan instinctively calculated how many "bunches o' shingle" wouldbe required to rescue them from the decline into which they had fallen,indicated by these hectic green spots."Wal, the Lord calls most of us to stay at home and look after things, suchweather as this. Good plantin' weather; good weather for breakin' ground;fust-rate weather for millin'! This is a reg'lar miller's rain, UncleTommy. You'd ought to be takin' advantage of it. I've got a grist backhere; wish ye could manage to let me have it when I come back from store."The grist was ground and delivered before Friend Barton went in to hissupper that night. Dorothy Barton had been mixing bread, and was wiping herwhite arms and hands on the roller towel by the kitchen door, as her fatherstamped and scraped his feet on the stones outside."There! I do believe I forgot to toll neighbor Jordan's rye," he said, ashe gave a final rub on the broom Dorothy handed out to him. "It's wonderfulhow careless I get!""Well, father, I don't suppose thee'd ever forget, and toll a grist twice!""I believe I've been mostly preserved from mistakes of that kind," saidFriend Barton gently. "Well, well! To be sure," he continued musingly. "Itmay be the Lord who stays my hand from gathering profit unto myself whilehis lambs go unfed."Dorothy put her hands on her father's shoulders: she was almost as tall ashe, and could look into his patient, troubled eyes."Father, I know what thee is thinking of, but do think long. It will be ahard year; the boys ought to go to school; and mother is so feeble!"Friend Barton's "concern" kept him awake that night. His wife watched byhis side, giving no sign, lest her wakeful presence should disturb hissilent wrestlings. The tall, cherry-wood clock in the entry measured thehours, as they passed, with its slow, dispassionate tick.At two o'clock Rachel Barton was awakened from her first sleep of wearinessby her husband's voice, whispering heavily in the darkness."My way is hedged up! I see no way to go forward. Lord, strengthen mypatience, that I murmur not, after all I have seen of thy goodness. I finddaily bread is very desirable; want and necessity are painful to nature;but shall I follow Thee for the sake of the loaves, or will it do toforsake Thee in times of emptiness and abasement?"There was silence again, and restless tossings and sighings continued thestruggle."Thomas," the wife's voice spoke tremulously in the darkness, "my dearhusband, I know whither thy thoughts are tending. If the Spirit is withthee, do not deny it for our sakes, I pray thee. The Lord did not givethee thy wife and children to hang as a millstone round thy neck. I am thyhelpmeet, to strengthen thee in his service. I am thankful that I have myhealth this spring better than usual, and Dorothy is a wonderful help. Herspirit was sent to sustain me in thy long absences. Go, dear, and serve ourMaster, who has called thee in these bitter strivings! Dorothy and I willkeep things together as well as we can. The way will open--never fear!" Sheput out her hand and touched his face in the darkness; there were tears onthe furrowed cheeks. "Try to sleep, dear, and let thy spirit have rest.There is but one answer to this call."With the first drowsy twitterings of the birds, when the crescent-shapedopenings in the board shutters began to define themselves clearly in theshadowy room, they arose and went about their morning tasks in silence.Friend Barton's step was a little heavier than usual, and the hollowsround his wife's pale brown eyes were a little deeper. As he sat on thesplint-bottomed chair by the kitchen fireplace, drawing on his boots, sheplaced her hands on his shoulders, and touched with her cheek the worn spoton the top of his head."Thee will lay this concern before meeting to-morrow, father?""I had it on my mind to do so,--if my light be not quenched before then."Friend Barton's light was not quenched. Words came to him, withoutseeking,--a sure sign that the Spirit was with him,--in which to "open theconcern" that had ripened in his mind, of a religious visit to the meetingconstituting the yearly meetings of Philadelphia and Baltimore. A "minute"was given him, encouraging him in the name, and with the full concurrence,of the monthly meetings of Nine Partners and Stony Valley, to go whereverthe Truth might lead him.While Friend Barton was thus freshly anointed, and "abundantly encouraged,"his wife, Rachel, was talking with Dorothy, in the low upper chamber knownas the "wheel-room."Dorothy was spinning wool on the big wheel, dressed in her light calicoshort gown and brown quilted petticoat; her arms were bare, and her hairwas gathered away from her flushed cheeks and knotted behind her ears. Theroof sloped down on one side, and the light came from a long, low windowunder the eaves. There was another window (shaped like a half-moon, highup in the peak), but it sent down only one long beam of sunlight, whichglimmered across the dust and fell upon Dorothy's white neck.The wheel was humming a quick measure and Dorothy trod lightly back andforth, the wheel-pin in one hand, the other holding the tense, lengtheningthread, which the spindle devoured again."Dorothy, thee looks warm: can't thee sit down a moment, while I talk tothee?""Is it anything important, mother? I want to get my twenty knots beforedinner." She paused as she joined a long tress of wool at the spindle. "Isit anything about father?""Yes, it's about father, and all of us.""I know," said Dorothy, with a sigh. "He's going away again!""Yes, dear. He feels that he is called. It is a time of trouble andcontention everywhere: 'the harvest,' truly, 'is plenteous, but thelaborers are few.'""There are not so many 'laborers' here, mother, though to be sure, theharvest"--"Dorothy, my daughter, don't let a spirit of levity creep into thy speech.Thy father has striven and wrestled with his urgings. I've seen it workingon him all winter. He feels, now, it is the Lord's will.""I don't see how he can be so sure," said Dorothy, swaying gloomily to andfro against the wheel. "I don't care for myself, I'm not afraid of work,but thee's not able to do what thee does now, mother. If I have outsidethings to look after, how can I help thee as I should? And the boys areabout as much dependence as a flock of barn swallows!""Don't thee fret about me, dear; the way will open. Thy father has thoughtand planned for us. Have patience while I tell thee. Thee knows that WalterEvesham's pond is small and his mill is doing a thriving business?""Yes, indeed, I know it!" Dorothy exclaimed. "He has his own share, andours too, most of it!""Wait, dear, wait! Thy father has rented him the ponds, to use when his owngives out. He is to have the control of the water, and it will give us alittle income, even though the old mill does stand idle.""He may as well take the mill, too. If father is away all summer it willbe useless ever to start it again. Thee'll see, mother, how it will end,if Walter Evesham has the custom and the water all summer. I think it'smiserable for a young man to be so keen about money.""Dorothy, seems to me thee's hasty in thy judgments. I never heard thatsaid of Walter Evesham. His father left him with capital to improve hismill. It does better work than ours; we can't complain of that. Thy fatherwas never one to study much after ways of making money. He felt he had noright to more than an honest livelihood. I don't say that Walter Evesham'sin the wrong. We know that Joseph took advantage of his opportunities,though I can't say that I ever felt much unity with some of histransactions. What would thee have, my dear? Thee's discouraged with thyfather for choosing the thorny way, which we tread with him; but thee seemsno better satisfied with one who considers the flesh and its wants'""I don't know, mother, what I want for myself; that doesn't matter; butfor thee I would have rest from all these cruel worries thee has borne solong."She buried her face in her mother's lap and put her strong young arms aboutthe frail, toil-bent form."There, there, dear. Try to rule thy spirit, Dorothy. Thee's too muchworked up about this. They are not worries to me. I am thankful we havenothing to decide one way or the other, only to do our best with what isgiven us. Thee's not thyself, dear. Go downstairs and fetch in the clothes,and don't hurry; stay out till thee gets more composed."Dorothy did not succeed in bringing herself into unity with her father'scall, but she came to a fuller realization of his struggle. When he badethem good-by his face showed what it had cost him; but Rachel was calm andcheerful. The pain of parting is keenest to those who go, but it stayslonger with those that are left behind."Dorothy, take good care of thy mother!" Friend Barton said, taking hisdaughter's face between his hands and gravely kissing her brow between thelow-parted ripples of her hair."Yes, father," she said, looking into his eyes; "Thee knows I'm thy eldestson."They watched the old chaise swing round the corner of the lane, then thepollard willows shut it from sight."Come, mother," said Dorothy, hurrying her in at the gate. "I'm goingto make a great pot of mush, and have it hot for supper, and fried forbreakfast, and warmed up with molasses for dinner, and there'll be somecold with milk for supper, and we shan't have any cooking to do at all!"They went around by the kitchen door. Rachel stopped in the woodshed, andthe tears rushed to her eyes."Dear father! How he has worked over that wood, early and late, to spareus!"We will not revive Dorothy's struggles with the farm-work, and with theboys. They were an isolated family at the mill-house; their peculiar faithisolated them still more, and they were twelve miles from meeting and thesettlement of Friends at Stony Valley. Dorothy's pride kept her silentabout her needs, lest they might bring reproach upon her father among theneighbors, who would not be likely to feel the urgency of his spiritualsummons.The summer heats came on apace and the nights grew shorter. It seemedto Dorothy that she had hardly stretched out her tired young body andforgotten her cares, in the low, attic bedroom, before the east wasstreaked with light and the birds were singing in the apple-trees, whosefalling blossoms drifted in at the window.One day in early June, Friend Barton's flock of sheep (consisting of nineexperienced ewes, six yearlings, and a sprinkling of close-curled lambswhose legs had not yet come into mature relations with their bodies) wasgathered in a wattled inclosure, beside the stream that flowed into themill-head. It was supplied by the waste from the pond, and, when the gatewas shut, rambled easily over the gray slate pebbles, with here and there afall just forcible enough to serve as a douche-bath for a well-grown sheep.The victims were panting in their heavy fleeces, and mingling their hoarse,plaintive tremolo with the ripple of the water and the sound of youngvoices in a frolic. Dorothy had divided her forces for the washing to thebest advantage. The two elder boys stood in midstream to receive the sheep,which she, with the help of little Jimmy, caught and dragged to the bank.The boys were at work now upon an elderly ewe, while Dorothy stood on thebrink of the stream braced against an ash sapling, dragging forward by thefleece a beautiful but reluctant yearling. Her bare feet were incased in apair of moccasins that laced around the ankle; her petticoats were kilted,and her broad hat bound down with a ribbon; one sleeve was rolled up, theother had been sacrificed in a scuffle in the sheep-pen. The new candidatefor immersion stood bleating and trembling with her forefeet plantedagainst the slippery bank, pushing back with all her strength while Jimmypropelled from the rear."Boys!" Dorothy's clear voice called across the stream. "Do hurry! She'sbeen in long enough, now! Keep her head up, can't you, and squeeze the woolhard! You're not half washing! Oh, Reuby! thee'll drown her! Keep herhead up!"Another unlucky douse and another half-smothered bleat,--Dorothy releasedthe yearling and plunged to the rescue. "Go after that lamb, Reuby!" shecried with exasperation in her voice. Reuby followed the yearling, thathad disappeared over the orchard slope, upsetting an obstacle in its path,which happened to be Jimmy. He was wailing now on the bank, while Dorothy,with the ewe's nose tucked comfortably in the bend of her arm, was partingand squeezing the fleece, with the water swirling round her. Her stout armsached, and her ears were stunned with the incessant bleatings; she countedwith dismay the sheep still waiting in the pen. "Oh, Jimmy! Do stop crying,or else go to the house!""He'd better go after Reuby," said Sheppard Barton, who was now Dorothy'ssole dependence."Oh yes, do, Jimmy, that's a good boy. Tell him to let the yearling go andcome back quick."The water had run low that morning in Evesham's pond. He shut down themill, and strode up the hills, across lots, to raise the gate of the lowerBarton pond, which had been heading up for his use. He passed the cornfieldwhere, a month before, he had seen pretty Dorothy Barton dropping corn withher brothers. It made him ache to think of Dorothy with her feeble mother,the boys as wild as preachers' sons proverbially are, and the old farmrunning down on her hands; the fences all needed mending, and there wentReuben Barton, now, careering over the fields in chase of a stray yearling.His mother's house was big, and lonely, and empty; and he flushed as hethought of the "one ewe-lamb" he coveted out of Friend Barton's ruggedpastures.As Evesham raised the gate, and leaned to watch the water swirl and gurglethrough the "trunk," sucking the long weeds with it, and thickening withits tumult the clear current of the stream, the sound of voices and thebleating of sheep came up from below. He had not the farming instincts inhis blood; the distant bleating, the hot June sunshine and cloudless skydid not suggest to him sheep-washing; but now came a boy's voice shoutingand a cry of distress, and he remembered with a thrill that Friend Bartonused the stream for that peaceful purpose. He shut down the gate and torealong through the ferns and tangled grass till he came to the sheep-pen,where the bank was muddy and trampled. The prisoners were bleating drearilyand looking with longing eyes across to the other side, where those who hadsuffered were now straying and cropping the short turf through the lightsand shadows of the orchard.There was no other sign of life, except a broad hat with a brown ribbonbuffeted about in an eddy among the stones. The stream dipped now below thehill, and the current, still racing fast with the impetus he had given it,shot away amongst the hazel thickets that crowded close to the brink. Hewas obliged to make a detour by the orchard and to come out below at the"mill-head," a black, deep pool with an ugly ripple setting across it tothe head-gate. He saw something white clinging there, and ran round thebrink. It was the sodden fleece of the old ewe, which had been driftedagainst the head-gate and held there to her death. Evesham, with asickening contraction of the heart, threw off his jacket for a plunge, whenDorothy's voice called rather faintly from the willows on the oppositebank."Don't jump! I'm here," she said. Evesham searched the willows and foundher seated in the sun, just beyond, half buried in a bed of ferns."I shouldn't have called thee," she said shyly, as he sank pale andpanting beside her, "but thee looked--I thought thee was going to jump intothe mill-head!""I thought you were there, Dorothy!""I was there quite long enough. Shep pulled me out; I was too tired to helpmyself much." Dorothy held her palm pressed against her temple and theblood trickled from beneath, streaking her pale, wet cheek."He's gone to the house to get me a cloak. I don't want mother to see me,not yet," she said."I'm afraid you ought not to wait, Dorothy. Let me take you to the house,won't you? I'm afraid you'll get a deadly chill."Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now, becauseEvesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she could notrise in her wet clothes, that clung to her like the calyx to a bud."Let me see that cut, Dorothy!""Oh, it's nothing. I don't wish thee to look at it!""But I will! Do you want to make me your murderer, sitting there in yourwet clothes with a cut on your head?"He drew away her hand; the wound, indeed, was no great affair, but he boundit up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Dorothy's wet curls touchedhis fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes drooped lower and lower."I think it was very stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the dam?I'm sure we made noise enough.""Yes, I heard you when it was too late. I heard the sheep before, but howcould I imagine that you, Dorothy, and three boys as big as cockerels, weresheep-washing? It's the most preposterous thing I ever heard of!","Well, I can't help being a woman, and the sheep had to be washed. I thinkthere ought to be more men in the world when half of them are preaching andfighting.""If you'd only let the men who are left help you a little, Dorothy.""I don't want any help. I only don't want to be washed into themill-head."They both laughed, and Evesham began again entreating her to let him takeher to the house."Hasn't thee a coat or something I could put around me until Shep comes?"said Dorothy. "He must be here soon.""Yes, I've a jacket here somewhere."He sped away to find it, and faithless Dorothy, as the willows closedbetween them, sprang to her feet and fled like a startled Naiad to thehouse.When Evesham, pushing through the willows, saw nothing but the bed of wet,crushed ferns and the trail through the long grass where Dorothy's feet hadfled, he smiled grimly to himself, remembering that "ewe-lambs" are notalways as meek as they look.That evening Rachel had received a letter from Friend Barton and waspreparing to read it aloud to the children. They were in the kitchen, wherethe boys had been helping Dorothy in a desultory manner to shell corn forthe chickens; but now all was silence while Rachel wiped her glasses andturned the large sheet of paper, squared with many foldings, to the candle.She read the date, "'London Grove, 5th month, 22d.--Most affectionatelybeloved.'" "He means us all," said Rachel, turning to the children with atender smile. "It's spelled with a small b.""He means thee!" said Dorothy, laughing. "Thee's not such a very bigbeloved."There was a moment's silence. "I don't know that the opening of the letteris of general interest," Rachel mused, with her eyes traveling slowly downthe page. "He says: 'In regard to my health, lest thee should concernthyself, I am thankful to say I have never enjoyed better since years havemade me acquainted with my infirmities of body, and I earnestly hope thatmy dear wife and children are enjoying the same blessing."'I trust the boys are not deficient in obedience and helpfulness. AtSheppard's age I had already begun to take the duties of a man upon myshoulders.'"Sheppard giggled uncomfortably, and Dorothy laughed outright."Oh, if father only knew how good the boys are! Mother, thee must writeand tell him about their 'helpfulness and obedience'! Thee can tell himtheir appetites keep up pretty well; they manage to take their mealsregularly, and they are always out of bed by eight o'clock to help mehang up the milking-stool!""Just wait till thee gets into the mill-head again, Dorothy Barton! Theeneedn't come to me to help thee out!""Go on, mother. Don't let the boys interrupt thee!""Well," said Rachel, rousing herself, "where was I? Oh, 'At Sheppard'sage'! Well, next come some allusions to the places where he has visited andhis spiritual exercises there. I don't know that the boys are quite oldenough to enter into this yet. Thee'd better read it thyself, Dorothy. I'mkeeping all father's letters for the boys to read when they are old enoughto appreciate them.""Well, I think thee might read to us about where he's been preachin'. Wecan understand a great deal more than thee thinks we can," said Shep inan injured voice. "Reuby can preach some himself. Thee ought to hear him,mother. It's almost as good as meetin'.""I wondered how Reuby spent his time," said Dorothy, and the motherhastened to interpose."Well! here's a passage that may be interesting: 'On sixth day attended theyouths' meeting here, a pretty favored time on the whole. Joseph' (that'sJoseph Carpenter; he mentions him aways back) 'had good service in livelytestimony, while I was calm and easy without a word to say. At a meeting atPlumstead we suffered long, but at length we felt relieved. The unfaithfulwere admonished, the youth invited, and the heavy-hearted encouraged. Itwas a heavenly time.' Heretofore he seems to have been closed up withsilence a good deal, but now the way opens continually for him to freehimself. He's been 'much favored,' he says, 'of late.' Reuby, what's theedoing to thy brothers?" (Shep and Reuby, who had been persecuting Jimmy bypouring handfuls of corn down the neck of his jacket until he had takenrefuge behind Dorothy's chair, were now recriminating with corn-cobs oneach other's faces.) "Dorothy, can't thee keep those boys quiet?""Did thee ever know them to be quiet?" said Dorothy, helping Jimmy torelieve himself of his corn."Well now, listen." Rachel continued placidly, "'Second day, 27th' (offifth month, he means; the letter's been a long time coming), 'attendedtheir mid-week meeting at London Grove, where my tongue, as it were, claveto the roof of my mouth, while Hannah Husbands was much favored and enabledto lift up her voice like the song of an angel'"--"Who's Hannah Husbands?" Dorothy interrupted."Thee doesn't know her, dear. She was second cousin to thy father'sstepmother; the families were not congenial, I believe, but she has a greatgift for the ministry.""I should think she'd better be at home with her children, if she has any.Fancy thee, mother, going about to strange meetings and lifting up thyvoice"--"Hush, hush, Dorothy! Thy tongue's running away with thee. Consider theexample thee's setting the boys.""Thee'd better write to father about Dorothy, mother. Perhaps HannahHusbands would like to know what she thinks about her preachin'.""Well, now, be quiet, all of you. Here's something about Dorothy: 'I knowthat my dear daughter Dorothy is faithful and loving, albeit somewhat quickof speech and restive under obligation. I would have thee remind her thatan unwillingness to accept help from others argues a want of ChristianMeekness. Entreat her from me not to conceal her needs from our neighbors,if so be she find her work oppressive. We know them to be of kindlyintention, though not of our way of thinking in all particulars. Let herreceive help from them, not as individuals, but as instruments of theLord's protection, which it were impiety and ingratitude to deny.'""There!" cried Shep. "That means thee is to let Luke Jordan finish thesheep-washing. Thee'd better have done it in the first place. We shouldn'thave the old ewe to pick if thee had."Dorothy was dimpling at the idea of Luke Jordan in the character of aninstrument of heavenly protection. She had not regarded him in that light,it must be confessed, but had rejected him with scorn."He may, if he wants to," she said; "but you boys shall drive them over.I'll have nothing to do with it.""And shear them too, Dorothy? He asked to shear them long ago.""Well, let him shear them and keep the wool too.""I wouldn't say that, Dorothy," said Rachel Barton. "We need the wool, andit seems as if over-payment might not be quite honest, either.""Oh, mother, mother! What a mother thee is!" cried Dorothy laughing andrumpling Rachel's cap-strings in a tumultuous embrace."She's a great deal too good for thee, Dorothy Barton.""She's too good for all of us. How did thee ever come to have such agraceless set of children, mother?""I'm very well satisfied," said Rachel. "But now do be quiet and let'sfinish the letter. We must get to bed some time to-night!"* * * * *The wild clematis was in blossom now; the fences were white with it, andthe rusty cedars were crowned with virgin wreaths; but the weeds were thickin the garden and in the potato patch. Dorothy, stretching her crampedback, looked longingly up the shadowy vista of the farm-lane that hadnothing to do but ramble off into the remotest green fields, where thedaisies' faces were as white and clear as in early June.One hot August night she came home late from the store. The stars werethick in the sky; the katydids made the night oppressive with their raspingquestionings, and a hoarse revel of frogs kept the ponds from fallingasleep in the shadow of the hills."Is thee very tired to-night, Dorothy?" her mother asked, as she took herseat on the low step of the porch. "Would thee mind turning old John outthyself?""No, mother, I'm not tired. But why? Oh, I know!" cried Dorothy witha quick laugh. "The dance at Slocum's barn. I thought those boys wereuncommonly helpful.""Yes, dear, it's but natural they should want to see it. Hark! we can hearthe music from here."They listened, and the breeze brought across the fields the sound offiddles and the rhythmic tramp of feet, softened by the distance. Dorothy'syoung pulses leaped."Mother, is it any harm for them just to see it? They have so little fun,except what they get out of teasing and shirking.""My dear, thy father would never countenance such a scene of frivolity, orpermit one of his children to look upon it; through our eyes and ears theworld takes possession of our hearts.""Then I'm to spare the boys this temptation, mother? Thee will trust meto pass the barn?""I would trust my boys, if they were thy age, Dorothy; but their resolutionis tender like their years."It might be questioned whether the frame of mind in which the boys went tobed that night under their mother's eye, for Rachel could be firm in a caseof conscience, was more improving than the frivolity of Slocum's barn."Mother," called Dorothy, looking in at the kitchen window where Rachel wasstooping over the embers in the fireplace to light a bedroom candle, "Iwant to speak to thee."Rachel came to the window, screening the candle with her hand."Will thee trust me to look at the dancing a little while? It is so verynear.""Why, Dorothy, does thee want to?""Yes, mother, I believe I do. I've never seen a dance in my life. It cannotruin me to look just once."Rachel stood puzzled."Thee's old enough to judge for thyself, Dorothy. But, my child, do nottamper with thy inclinations through heedless curiosity. Thee knows thee'smore impulsive than I could wish for thy own peace.""I'll be very careful, mother. If I feel in the least wicked I will comestraight away."She kissed her mother's hand that rested on the window-sill. Rachel didnot like the kiss, nor Dorothy's brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks, asthe candle revealed them like a fair picture painted on the darkness. Shehesitated, but Dorothy sped away up the lane with old John lagging at hishalter.Was it the music growing nearer that quickened her breathing, or only thecloseness of the night shut in between the wild grapevine curtains swungfrom one dark cedar column to another? She caught the sweetbrier's breathas she hurried by, and now a loop in the leafy curtain revealed the pond,lying black in a hollow of the hills with a whole heaven of stars reflectedin it. Old John stumbled along over the stones, cropping the grass as hewent. Dorothy tugged at his halter and urged him on to the head of thelane, where two farm-gates stood at right angles. One of them was open anda number of horses were tethered in a row along the fence within. Theywhinnied a cheerful greeting to John as Dorothy slipped his halter and shuthim into the field adjoining. Now should she walk into temptation with hereyes and ears open? The gate stood wide, with only one field of perfumedmeadow-grass between her and the lights and music of Slocum's barn. Thesound of revelry by night could hardly have taken a more innocent form thanthis rustic dancing of neighbors after a "raisin' bee," but had it been therout of Comus and his crew, and Dorothy the Lady Una trembling near, herheart could hardly have throbbed more quickly as she crossed the dewymeadow. A young maple stood within ten rods of the barn, and here shecrouched in shadow.The great doors stood wide open and lanterns were hung from the beams,lighting the space between the mows where a dance was set, with youths andmaidens in two long rows. The fiddlers sat on barrel-heads near the door;a lantern hanging just behind projected their shadows across the squareof light on the trodden space in front, where they executed a grotesquepantomime, keeping time to the music with spectral wavings and noddings.The dancers were Dorothy's young neighbors, whom she had known, and yet notknown, all her life, but they had the strangeness of familiar faces seensuddenly in some fantastic dream.Surely that was Nancy Slocum in the bright pink gown heading the line ofgirls, and that was Luke Jordan's sunburnt profile leaning from his placeto pluck a straw from the mow behind him. They were marching, and themeasured tramp of feet keeping solid time to the fiddles set a strangetumult vibrating in Dorothy's blood; and now it stopped, with a thrill, asshe recognized that Evesham was there, marching with the young men, andthat his peer was not among them. The perception of his difference cameto her with a vivid shock. He was coming forward now with his light, firmstep, formidable in evening dress and with a smile of subtle triumph in hiseyes, to meet Nancy Slocum in the bright pink gown. Dorothy felt she hatedpink of all the colors her faith had abjured. She could see, in spite ofthe obnoxious gown, that Nancy was very pretty. He was taking her first bythe right hand, then by the left, and turning her gayly about; and now theywere meeting again for the fourth or fifth time in the centre of the barn,with all eyes upon them, and the music lingered while Nancy, holding outher pink petticoats, coyly revolved around him. Then began a mysteriousturning and clasping of hands, and weaving of Nancy's pink frock andEvesham's dark blue coat and white breeches in and out of the line offigures, until they met at the door, and, taking each other by both hands,swept with a joyous measure to the head of the barn. Dorothy gave a littlechoking sigh.What a senseless whirl it was. She was thrilling with a new and strangeexcitement, too near the edge of pain to be long endured as a pleasure.If this were the influence of dancing she did not wonder so much at herfather's scruples, and yet it held her like a spell.All hands were lifted now, making an arch through which Evesham, holdingNancy by the hands, raced, stooping and laughing. As they emerged at thedoor, Evesham threw up his head to shake a brown lock back. He lookedflushed and boyishly gay, and his hazel eye searched the darkness with thatsubtle ray of triumph in it which made Dorothy afraid. She drew back behindthe tree and pressed her hot cheek to the cool, rough bark. She longedfor the stillness of the starlit meadow, and the dim lane with its faintperfumes and whispering leaves.But now suddenly the music stopped and the dance broke up in a tumult ofvoices. Dorothy stole backward in the shadow of the tree-trunk, until itjoined the darkness of the meadow, and then fled, stumbling along withblinded eyes, the music still vibrating in her ears. Then came a quick rushof footsteps behind her, swishing through the long grass. She did not lookback, but quickened her pace, struggling to reach the gate. Evesham wasthere before her. He had swung the gate to and was leaning with his backagainst it, laughing and panting."I've caught you, Dorothy, you little deceiver! You'll not get rid of meto-night with any of your tricks. I'm going to take you home to your motherand tell her you were peeping at the dancing.""Mother knows that I came; I asked her," said Dorothy. Her knees weretrembling and her heart almost choked her with its throbbing."I'm so glad you don't dance, Dorothy. This is much nicer than the barn,and the katydids are better fiddlers than old Darby and his son. I'll openthe gate if you will put your hand in mine, so that I can be sure of you,you little runaway.""I will stay here all night, first," said Dorothy, in a low, quiveringvoice."As you choose. I shall be happy as long as you are here."Dead silence, while the katydids seemed to keep time to their heart-beats;the fiddles began tuning for another reel, and the horses, tethered near,stretched out their necks with low, inquiring whinnies."Dorothy," said Evesham softly, leaning toward her and trying to see herface in the darkness, "are you angry with me? Don't you think you deserve alittle punishment for the trick you played me at the mill-head?""It was all thy fault for insisting." Dorothy was too excited and angry tocry, but she was as miserable as she had ever been in her life before. "Ididn't want thee to stay. People that force themselves where they are notwanted must take what they get.""What did you say, Dorothy?""I say I didn't want thee then. I do not want thee now. Thee may go backto thy fiddling and dancing. I'd rather have one of those dumb brutes forcompany to-night than thee, Walter Evesham.""Very well; the reel has begun," said Evesham. "Fanny Jordan is waiting todance it with me, or if she isn't she ought to be. Shall I open the gatefor you?"She passed out in silence, and the gate swung to with a heavy jar. She madegood speed down the lane and then waited outside the fence till her breathcame more quietly."Is that thee, Dorothy?" Rachel's voice called from the porch. She came outto meet her daughter and they went along the walk together. "How damp thyforehead is, child. Is the night so warm?" They sat down on the low stepsand Dorothy slid her arm under her mother's and laid her soft palm againstthe one less soft by twenty years of toil for others. "Thee's not beenlong, dear; was it as much as thee expected?""Mother, it was dreadful! I never wish to hear a fiddle again as long as Ilive."Rachel opened the way for Dorothy to speak further; she was not withoutsome mild stirrings of curiosity on the subject herself, but Dorothy had nomore to say.They went into the house soon after, and as they separated for the nightDorothy clung to her mother with a little nervous laugh."Mother, what is that text about Ephraim?""Ephraim is joined to idols?" Rachel suggested."Yes, Ephraim is joined to his idols," said Dorothy, lifting her head. "Lethim go!""Let him alone," corrected Rachel."Let him alone!" Dorothy repeated. "That is better yet.""What's thee thinking of, dear?""Oh, I'm thinking about the dance in the barn.""I'm glad thee looks at it in that light," said Rachel calmly.* * * * *Dorothy knelt by her bed in the low chamber under the eaves, crying toherself that she was not the child of her mother any more.She felt that she had lost something, that in truth had never been hers.It was but the unconscious poise of her unawakened girlhood which had beenstirred; she had mistaken it for that abiding peace which is not lost orwon in a day.Dorothy could no more stifle the spring thrills in her blood than she couldcrush the color out of her cheek or brush the ripples out of her brighthair, but she longed for the cool grays and the still waters. She prayedthat the "grave and beautiful damsel called Discretion" might take her bythe hand and lead her to that "upper chamber, whose name is Peace." She layawake listening to the music from the barn, and waiting through breathlesssilences for it to begin again. She wondered if Fanny Jordan had grown anyprettier since she had seen her as a half-grown girl, and then she despisedherself for the thought. The katydids seemed to beat their wings upon herbrain, and all the noises of the night, far and near, came to her strainedsenses as if her silent chamber were a whispering gallery. The clock strucktwelve, and in the silence that followed she missed the music; but voicestalking and laughing were coming down the lane. There was the clink of ahorse's hoof on the stones: now it was lost on the turf, and now they wereall trooping noisily past the house. She buried her head in her pillow andtried to bury with it the consciousness that she was wondering if Eveshamwere there laughing with the rest.Yes, Evesham was there. He walked with Farmer Jordan, behind the young menand girls, and discussed with him, somewhat absently, the war news and theprices of grain.As they passed the dark old house, spreading its wide roofs like a hengathering her chickens under her wing, he became suddenly silent. A whitecurtain flapped in and out of an upper window. Evesham looked up andslightly raised his hat, but his instinct failed him there,--it was thewindow of the boys' room."Queer kinks them old Friend preachers gits into their heads sometimes,"said Farmer Jordan, as they passed the empty mill. "Now what do you s'posetook Uncle Tommy Barton off right on top of plantin', leavin' his wife 'n'critters 'n' child'en to look after themselves? Mighty good preachin' itought to be to make up for such practicin'. Wonderful set ag'in the war,Uncle Tommy is. He's a-preachin' up peace now. But Lord! all the preachin'sense Moses won't keep men from fightin' when their blood's up and there'ster'tory in it.""It makes saints of the women," said Evesham shortly."Wal, yes. Saints in heaven before their time, some of 'em. There'sDorothy, now. She'll hoe her row with any saint in the kingdom or out ofit. I never see a hulsomer-lookin' gal. My Luke, he run the furrers inher corn-patch last May. Said it made him sick to see a gal like thata-staggerin' after a plough. She wouldn't more 'n half let him. She's aproud little piece. They're all proud, Quakers is. I never could see no'poorness of spirit,' come to git at 'em. And they're wonderful clannish,too. My Luke, he'd a notion he'd like to run the hull concern, Dorothy 'n'all; but I told him he might's well p'int off. Them Quaker gals don't nevermarry out o' meetin'. Besides, the farm's too poor.""Good-night, Mr. Jordan," said Evesham suddenly. "I'm off across lots." Heleaped the fence, crashed through the alder hedgerow, and disappeared inthe dusky meadow.Evesham was by no means satisfied with his experiments in planetarydistances. Somewhere, he felt sure, either in his orbit or hers, theremust be a point where Dorothy would be less insensible to the attractionof atoms in the mass. Thus far she had reversed the laws of the spheres,and the greater had followed the less. When she had first begun to hold apermanent place in his thoughts he had invested her with something of thatatmosphere of peace and cool passivity which hedges in the women of herfaith. It had been like a thin, clear glass, revealing her loveliness,but cutting off the magnetic currents. A young man is not long satisfiedwith the mystery his thoughts have woven around the woman who is theirobject. Evesham had grown impatient; he had broken the spell of hersweet remoteness. He had touched her and found her human, deliciously,distractingly human, but with a streak of that obduracy which historyhas attributed to the Quakers under persecution. In vain he haunted themill-dam, and bribed the boys with traps and pop-guns, and lingered at thewell-curb to ask Dorothy for water that did not reach his thirst. She wasthere in the flesh, with her arms aloft balancing the well-sweep, while hestooped with his lips at the bucket; but in spirit she was unapproachable.He felt, with disgust at his own persistence, that she even grudged him thewater. He grew savage and restless, and fretted over the subtle changesthat he counted in Dorothy as the summer waned. She was thinner and paler;perhaps with the heats of harvest, which had not, indeed, been burdensomefrom its abundance. Her eyes were darker and shyer, and her voice morelanguid. Was she wearing down with all this work and care? A fierce disgustpossessed him that this sweet life should be cast into the breach betweenfaith and works.He did not see that Rachel Barton had changed, too, with a change thatmeant more, at her age, than Dorothy's flushings and palings. He did notmiss the mother's bent form from the garden, or the bench by the kitchendoor where she had been used to wash the milk-things.Dorothy washed the milk-things now, and the mother spent her days in thesunny east room, between her bed and the easy-chair, where she sat andmused for hours over the five letters that she had received from herhusband in as many months. The boys had, in a measure, justified theirfather's faith in them, since Rachel's illness, and Dorothy was releasedfrom much of her out-door work; but the silence of the kitchen, when shewas there alone with her ironing and dish washing, was a heavier burdenthan she had yet known.Nature sometimes strikes in upon the hopeless monotony of life in remotefarmhouses with one of her phenomenal moods. They come like besoms ofdestruction, but they scatter the web of stifling routine; they fling intothe stiffening pool the stone which jars the atoms into crystal.The storms, that had ambushed in the lurid August skies and circledominously round the horizon during the first weeks of September, broke atlast in an equinoctial which was long remembered in the mill-house. It tookits place in the family calendar of momentous dates with the hard winter of1800, with the late frost that had coated the incipient apples with ice andfrozen the new potatoes in the ground in the spring of '97, and with theyear the typhus had visited the valley.The rain had been falling a night and a day; it had been welcomed withthanksgiving, but it had worn out its welcome some hours since, and now theearly darkness was coming on without a lull in the storm. Dorothy and thetwo older boys had made the rounds of the farm-buildings, seeing all safefor the second night. The barns and mill stood on high ground, while thehouse occupied the sheltered hollow between. Little streams from the hillswere washing in turbid currents across the lower levels; the waste-weirroared as in early spring, the garden was inundated, and the meadowa shallow pond. The sheep had been driven into the upper barn floor:the chickens were in the corn-bin; and old John and the cows had beentransferred from the stable, that stood low, to the weighing floor of themill. A gloomy echoing and gurgling sounded from the dark wheel-chamberwhere the water was rushing under the wheel and jarring it with its tumult.At eight o'clock the woodshed was flooded and water began to creep underthe kitchen door. Dorothy and the boys carried armfuls of wood and stackedthem in the passage to the sitting-room, two steps higher up. At nineo'clock the boys were sent protesting to bed, and Dorothy, looking out oftheir window as she fumbled about in the dark for a pair of Shep's trousersthat needed mending, saw a lantern flickering up the road. It was Eveshamon his way to the mill-dams. The light glimmered on his oilskin coat as heclimbed the stile behind the well-curb."He raised the flood-gates at noon," Dorothy said to herself. "I wonder ifhe is anxious about the dams." She resolved to watch for his return, butshe was busy settling her mother for the night when she heard his footstepson the porch. The roar of water from the hills startled Dorothy as sheopened the door; it had increased in violence within an hour. A gust ofwind and rain followed Evesham into the entry."Come in," she said, running lightly across the sitting-room to close thedoor of her mother's room.He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug and looked into her eyes, acrossthe estrangement of the summer. It was not Dorothy of the mill-head, orof Slocum's meadow, or the cold maid of the well; it was a very anxious,lonely little girl in a crumbling old house, with a foot of water in thecellar and a sick mother in the next room. She had forgotten about Ephraimand his idols; she picked up Shep's trousers from the rug, where she haddropped them, and, looking intently at her thimble finger, told him she wasvery glad that he had come."Did you think I would not come?" said he. "I'm going to take you home withme, Dorothy,--you and your mother and the boys. It's not fit for you to behere alone.""Does thee know of any danger?""I know of none, but water's a thing you can't depend on. It's an uglyrain; older men than your father remember nothing like it.""I shall be glad to have mother go, and Jimmy; the house is very damp. It'san awful night for her to be out, though.""She must go!" said Evesham. "You must all go. I'll be back in half anhour"--"I shall not go," Dorothy said; "the boys and I must stay and look afterthe stock.""What's that?" Evesham was listening to a trickling of water outside thedoor."Oh! it's from the kitchen. The door has blown open, I guess."Dorothy looked out into the passage; a strong wind was blowing in from thekitchen, where the water covered the floor and washed against the chimney."This is a nice state of things! What's all this wood here for?""The woodshed's under water.""You must get yourself ready, Dorothy. I'll come for your mother first inthe chaise.""I cannot go," she said. "I don't believe there is any danger. This oldhouse has stood for eighty years; it's not likely this is the first bigrain in all that time." Dorothy's spirits had risen. "Besides, I have afamily of orphans to take care of. See here," she said, stooping over abasket in the shadow of the chimney. It was the "hospital tent," and as sheuncovered it, a brood of belated chickens stretched out their thin neckswith plaintive peeps.Dorothy covered them with her hands and they nestled with comfortabletwitterings into silence."You're a kind of special providence, aren't you, Dorothy? But I've nosympathy with chickens who will be born just in time for the equinoctial.""I didn't want them," said Dorothy, anxious to defend her management."The old hen stole her nest and she left them the day before the rain.She's making herself comfortable now in the corn-bin.""She ought to be made an example of; that's the way of the world,however,--retribution doesn't fall always on the right shoulders. I must gonow. We'll take your mother and Jimmy first, and then, if you won't come,you shall let me stay with you. The mill is safe enough, anyhow."Evesham returned with the chaise and a man, who, he insisted, should driveaway old John and the cows, so that Dorothy should have less care. Themother was packed into the chaise with a vast collection of wraps, whichalmost obliterated Jimmy. As they started, Dorothy ran out in the rain withher mother's spectacles and the five letters, which always lay in a box onthe table by her bed. Evesham took her gently by the arms and lifted herback across the puddles to the stoop.As the chaise drove off, she went back into the sitting-room and crouchedon the rug, her wet hair shining in the firelight. She took out herchickens one by one and held them under her chin, with tender words andfinger-touches. If September chickens have feelings as susceptible as theirbodies, Dorothy's orphans must have been imperiled by her caresses."Look here, Dorothy! Where's my trousers?" cried Shep, opening the door atthe foot of the stairs.Reuby was behind him, fully arrayed in his own garment aforesaid, andcarrying the bedroom candle."Here they are--with a needle in them," said Dorothy. "What are you gettingup in the middle of the night for?""Well, I guess it's time somebody's up. Who's that man driving off ourcows?""Goosey! It's Walter Evesham's man. He came for mother and all of us, andhe's taken old John and the cows to save us so much foddering.""Ain't we going too?""I don't see why we should, just because there happens to be a little waterin the kitchen. I've often seen it come in there before.""Well, thee never saw anything like this before--nor anybody else,either," said Shep."I don't care," said Reuby, "I wish there'd come a reg'lar flood. We couldclimb up in the mill-loft and go sailin' down over Jordan's meadows.Wouldn't Luke Jordan open that big mouth of his to see us heave in sightabout cock-crow, wing and wing, and the old tackle a-swingin'!""Do hush!" said Dorothy. "We may have to try it yet.""There's an awful roarin' from our window," said Shep. "Thee can't halfhear it down here. Come out on the stoop. The old ponds have got theirdander up this time."They opened the door and listened, standing together on the low step. Therewas, indeed, a hoarse murmur from the hills, which grew louder as theylistened."Now she's comin'! There goes the stable-door. There was only one hingeleft, anyway," said Reuby. "Mighty! Look at that wave!"It crashed through the gate, swept across the garden and broke at theirfeet, sending a thin sheet of water over the floor of the porch."Now it's gone into the entry. Why didn't thee shut the door, Shep?""Well, I think we'd better clear out, anyhow. Let's go over to the mill.Say, Dorothy, shan't we?""Wait. There comes another wave."The second onset was not so violent; but they hastened to gather togethera few blankets, and the boys filled their pockets with cookies, with adelightful sense of unusualness and peril almost equal to a shipwreck or anattack by Indians. Dorothy took her unlucky chickens under her cloak, andthey made a rush all together across the road and up the slope to the mill."Why didn't we think to bring a lantern?" said Dorothy, as they huddledtogether on the platform of the scale. "Will thee go back after one, Shep?""If Reuby'll go, too.""Well, my legs are wet enough now. What's the use of a lantern? MightyMoses! What's that?""The old mill's got under way," cried Shep. "She's going to tune up forKingdom Come."A furious head of water was rushing along the race; the great wheel creakedand swung over, and with a shudder the old mill awoke from its long sleep.The cogs clenched their teeth, the shafting shook and rattled, the stoneswhirled merrily round."Now she goes it!" cried Shep, as the humming increased to a tremor, andthe tremor to a wild, unsteady din, till the timbers shook and the boltsand windows rattled. "I just wish father could hear them old stones hum.""Oh, this is awful!" said Dorothy. She was shivering and sick with terrorat this unseemly midnight revelry of her grandfather's old mill. It wasas if it had awakened in a fit of delirium, and given itself up to a wildtravesty of its years of peaceful work.Shep was creeping about in the darkness."Look here! We've got to stop this clatter somehow. The stones are hot now.The whole thing'll burn up like tinder if we can't chock her wheels.""Shep! Does thee mean it?""Thee'll see if I don't. Thee won't need any lantern either.""Can't we break away the race?""Oh, there's a way to stop it. There's the tip-trough, but it's downstairsand we can't reach the pole.""I'll go," said Dorothy."It's outside, thee knows. Thee'll get awful wet, Dorothy.""Well, I'd just as soon be drowned as burned up. Come with me to the headof the stairs."They felt their way hand in hand in the darkness, and Dorothy went downalone. She had forgotten about the "tip-trough," but she understood itssignificance. In a few moments a cascade shot out over the wheel, sendingthe water far into the garden."Right over my chrysanthemum bed," sighed Dorothy.The wheel swung slower and slower, the mocking tumult subsided, and the oldmill sank into sleep again.There was nothing now to drown the roaring of the floods and the steadydrive of the storm."There's a lantern," Shep called from the door. He had opened the upperhalf and was shielding himself behind it. "I guess it's Evesham coming backfor us. He's a pretty good sort of a fellow after all; don't thee think so,Dorothy? He owes us something for drowning us out at the sheep-washing.""What does all this mean?" said Dorothy, as Evesham swung himself over thehalf-door and his lantern showed them to each other in their various phasesof wetness."There's a big leak in the lower dam; I've been afraid of it all along;there's something wrong in the principle of the thing."Dorothy felt as if he had called her grandfather a fraud, and her fathera delusion and a snare. She had grown up in the belief that the mill-damswere part of Nature's original plan in laying the foundations of the hills;but it was no time to be resentful, and the facts were against her."Dorothy," said Evesham, as he tucked the buffalo about her, "this is thesecond time I've tried to save you from drowning, but you never will wait.I'm all ready to be a hero, but you won't be a heroine.""I'm too practical for a heroine," said Dorothy. "There! I've forgotten mychickens.""I'm glad of it. Those chickens were a mistake. They oughtn't to beperpetuated."Youth and happiness can stand a great deal of cold water; but it was not tobe expected that Rachel Barton would be especially benefited by her nightjourney through the floods. Evesham waited in the hall when he heard thedoor of her room open next morning. Dorothy came slowly down the stairs;he knew by her lingering-step and the softly closed door that she was nothappy."Mother is very sick," she answered his inquiry. "It is like the turn ofinflammation and rheumatism she had once before. It will be very slow,--andoh, it is such suffering! Why do the best women in the world have to sufferso?""Will you let me talk things over with you after breakfast, Dorothy?""Oh yes," she said, "there is so much to do and think about. I wish fatherwould come home!"The tears came into Dorothy's eyes as she looked at him. Rest, such as shehad never known or felt the need of till now, and strength immeasurable,since it would multiply her own by an unknown quantity, stood within reachof her hand, but she might not put it out.Evesham was dizzy with the struggle between longing and resolution. Hehad braced his nerves for a long and hungry waiting, but fate had yieldedsuddenly; the floods had brought her to him,--his flotsam and jetsam moreprecious than all the guarded treasures of the earth. She had come, withall her girlish, unconscious beguilements, and all her womanly cares andanxieties too. He must strive against her sweetness, while he helped her tobear her burdens."Now about the boys, Dorothy," he said, two hours later, as they stoodtogether by the fire in the low, oak-finished room, which was his officeand book-room. The door was ajar so that Dorothy might hear her mother'sbell. "Don't you think they had better be sent to school somewhere?""Yes," said Dorothy, "they ought to go to school,--but--well, I may as welltell thee the truth. There's very little to do it with. We've had a poorsummer. I suppose I've managed badly, and mother has been sick a goodwhile.""You've forgotten about the pond-rent, Dorothy.""No," she said, with a quick flush, "I hadn't forgotten it, but I couldn'task thee for it.""I spoke to your father about monthly payments, but he said better leaveit to accumulate for emergencies. Shouldn't you call this an 'emergency,'Dorothy?""But does thee think we ought to ask rent for a pond that has all leakedaway?""Oh, there's pond enough left, and I've used it a dozen times over thissummer. I should be ashamed to tell you, Dorothy, how my horn has beenexalted in your father's absence. However, retribution has overtaken me atlast; I'm responsible, you know, for all the damage last night. It was inthe agreement that I should keep up the dams.""Oh!" said Dorothy; "is thee sure?"Evesham laughed."If your father was like any other man, Dorothy, he'd make me 'sure,' whenhe gets home. I will defend myself to this extent; I've patched and proppedthem all summer, after every rain, and tried to provide for the fallstorms; but there's a flaw in the original plan"--"Thee said that once before," said Dorothy. "I wish thee wouldn't say itagain.""Why not?""Because I love those old mill-dams. I've trotted over them ever since Icould walk alone.""You shall trot over them still. We will make them as strong as theeverlasting hills. They shall outlast our time, Dorothy.""Well, about the rent," said Dorothy. "I'm afraid it will not take usthrough the winter, unless there is something I can do. Mother couldn'tpossibly be moved now; and if she could, it will be months before the houseis fit to live in. But we cannot stay here in comfort, unless thy motherwill let me make up in some way. Mother will not need me all the time, andI know thy mother hires women to spin.""She'll let you do all you like if it will make you any happier. But youdon't know how much money is coming to you. Come, let us look over thefigures."He lowered the lid of the black mahogany secretary, placed a chair forDorothy and opened a great ledger before her, bending down, with one handon the back of the chair, the other turning the leaves of the ledger.Considering the index and the position of the letter B in the alphabet, hewas a long time finding his place. Dorothy looked out of the window overthe tops of the yellowing woods to the gray and turbid river below. Wherethe hemlocks darkened the channel of the glen she heard the angry floodsrushing down. The formless rain mists hung low and hid the opposite shore."See!" said Evesham, his finger wandering rather vaguely down the page."Your father went away on the 3d of May. The first month's rent came due onthe 3d of June. That was the day I opened the gate and let the water downon you, Dorothy. I'm responsible for everything, you see,--even for the oldewe that was drowned."His words came in a dream as he bent over her, resting his unsteady handheavily on the ledger.Dorothy laid her cheek on the date that she could not see and burst intotears."Don't,--please don't!" he said, straightening himself and locking hishands behind him. "I am human, Dorothy."The weeks of Rachel's sickness that followed were perhaps the bestdiscipline Evesham's life had ever known. He held the perfect flower of hisbliss unclosing in his hand; yet he might barely permit himself to breatheits fragrance. His mother had been a strong and prosperous woman; there hadbeen little he had ever been able to do for her. It was well for him tofeel the weight of helpless infirmity in his arms as he lifted Dorothy'smother from side to side of her bed, while Dorothy's hands smoothed thecoverings. It was well for him to see the patient endurance of suffering,such as his youth and strength defied. It was bliss to wait on Dorothyand follow her with little watchful homages, received with a shy wonderwhich was delicious to him; for Dorothy's nineteen years had been too fullof service to others to leave much room for dreams of a kingdom of herown. Her silent presence in her mother's sick-room awed him. Her gentle,decisive voice and ways, her composure and unshaken endurance throughnights of watching and days of anxious confinement and toil, gave him a newreverence for the powers and mysteries of her unfathomable womanhood.The time of Friend Barton's return drew near. It must be confessed thatDorothy welcomed it with something of dread, and that Evesham did notwelcome it at all. On the contrary, the thought of it roused all his latentobstinacy and aggressiveness. The first day or two after the momentousarrival wore a good deal upon every member of the family, except MargaretEvesham, who was provided with a philosophy of her own, that amountedalmost to a gentle obtuseness and made her a comfortable non-conductor,preventing more electric souls from shocking each other.On the morning of the fourth day, Dorothy came out of her mother's roomwith a tray of empty dishes in her hands. She saw Evesham at the stair-headand hovered about in the shadowy part of the hall till he should go down."Dorothy," he said, "I'm waiting for you." He took the tray from her andrested it on the banisters. "Your father and I have talked over all thebusiness. He's got the impression that I'm one of the most generous fellowsin the world. I intend to leave him in that delusion for the present. Nowmay I speak to him about something else, Dorothy? Have I not waited longenough for my heart's desire?""Take care," said Dorothy softly,--"thee'll upset the tea-cups.""Confound the tea-cups!" He stooped to place the irrelevant tray on thefloor, but now Dorothy was halfway down the staircase. He caught her on thelanding, and taking both her hands drew her down on the step beside him."Dorothy, this is the second time you've taken advantage of my trustingnature. This time you shall be punished. You needn't try to hide your face,you little traitor. There's no repentance in you!""If I'm to be punished there's no need of repentance.""Oh, is that your Quaker doctrine? Dorothy, do you know, I've never heardyou speak my name, except once, and then you were angry with me.""When was that?""The night I caught you at the gate. You said, 'I had rather have one ofthose dumb brutes for company than thee, Walter Evesham.' You said it inthe fiercest little voice. Even the 'thee' sounded as if you hated me.""I did," said Dorothy promptly. "I had reason to.""Do you hate me now, Dorothy?""Not so much as I did then.""What an implacable little Quaker you are.""A tyrant is always hated," said Dorothy, trying to release her hands."If you will look in my eyes, Dorothy, and call me by my name, just once,I'll let 'thee' go.""Walter Evesham," said Dorothy, with great firmness and decision."No, that won't do! You must look at me, and say it softly, in a littlesentence, Dorothy.""Will thee please let me go, Walter?"Walter Evesham was a man of his word, but as Dorothy sped away, he lookedas if he wished that he was not.The next evening Friend Barton sat by his wife's easy-chair drawn into thecircle of firelight, with his elbows on his knees and his head between hishands.The worn spot on the top of his head had widened considerably during thesummer, but Rachel looked stronger and brighter than she had done for manya day. There was even a little flush on her cheek, but this might have comefrom the excitement of a long talk with her husband."I'm sorry thee takes it so hard, Thomas. I was afraid thee would. But theway didn't seem to open for me to do much. I can see now that Dorothy'sinclinations have been turning this way for some time; though it's notlikely she would own it, poor child; and Walter Evesham's not one who iseasily gainsaid. If thee could only feel differently about it, I can't saybut that it would make me very happy to see Dorothy's heart satisfied.Can't thee bring thyself into unity with it, father? He's a nice young man.They're nice folks. Thee can't complain of the blood. Margaret Eveshamtells me a cousin of hers married one of the Lawrences, so we are kind ofkin after all.""I don't complain of the blood; they're well enough placed, as far as theworld is concerned. But their ways are not our ways, Rachel; their faith isnot our faith.""Well, I can't see such a very great difference, come to live amongthem. 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' To comfort the widow and thefatherless, and keep ourselves unspotted from the world;--thee's alwayspreached that, father. I really can't see any more worldliness here thanamong many households with us; and I'm sure if we haven't been the widowand the fatherless this summer, we've been next to it."Friend Barton raised his head: "Rachel," he said, "look at that!" Hepointed upward to an ancient sword with belt and trappings which gleamed onthe paneled chimney-piece, crossed by an old queen's-arm. Evesham had givenup his large, sunny room to Dorothy's mother, but he had not removed allhis lares and penates."Yes, dear; that's his grandfather's sword--Colonel Evesham, who was killedat Saratoga.""Why does he hang up that thing of abomination for a light and a guide tohis footsteps, if his way be not far from ours?""Why, father! Colonel Evesham was a good man. I dare say he fought for thesame reason that thee preaches, because he felt it to be his duty.""I find no fault with him, Rachel. Doubtless he followed his light, as theesays, but he followed it in better ways too. He cleared land and built ahomestead and a meeting-house. Why doesn't his grandson hang up his oldbroadaxe and plowshare and worship them, if he must have idols, instead ofthat symbol of strife and bloodshed. Does thee want our Dorothy's childrento grow up under the shadow of the sword?"There was a stern light of prophecy in the old man's eyes."May be Walter Evesham would take it down," said Rachel simply, leaningback and closing her eyes. "I never was much of a hand to argue, even ifI had the strength for it; but it would hurt me a good deal--I must sayit--if thee should deny Dorothy in this matter, Thomas. It's a very seriousthing for old folks to try to turn young hearts the way they think theyought to go. I remember now,--I was thinking about it last night, and itall came back as fresh--I don't know that I ever told thee about that youngFriend who visited me before I heard thee preach at Stony Valley? Well,father, he was wonderful pleased with him, but I didn't feel any drawingthat way. He urged me a good deal, more than was pleasant for either of us.He wasn't at all reconciled to thee, Thomas, if thee remembers.""I remember," said Thomas Barton. "It was an anxious time.""Well, dear, if father had insisted and had sent thee away, I can't saybut life would have been a very different thing to me.""I thank thee for saying it, Rachel." Friend Barton's head drooped. "Theehas suffered much through me; thee's had a hard life, but thee's been wellbeloved."The flames leaped and flickered in the chimney; they touched the wrinkledhands whose only beauty was in their deeds; they crossed the room and litthe pillows where, for three generations, young heads had dreamed and grayheads had watched and wearied; then they mounted to the chimney and strucka gleam from the sword."Well, father," said Rachel, "what answer is thee going to give WalterEvesham?""I shall say no more, my dear. Let the young folks have their way. There'sstrife and contention enough in the world without my stirring up more. Andit may be I'm resisting the Master's will. I left her in his care; this maybe his way of dealing with her."Walter Evesham did not take down his grandfather's sword. Fifty years lateranother went up beside it, the sword of a young Evesham who never left thefield of Shiloh; and beneath them both hangs the portrait of the Quakergrandmother, Dorothy Evesham, at the age of sixty-nine.The golden ripples, silver now, are hidden under a "round-eared cap;" thequick flush has faded in her cheek, and fold upon fold of snowy gauze andcreamy silk are crossed over the bosom that once thrilled to the fiddles ofSlocum's barn. She has found the cool grays and the still waters; but onDorothy's children rests the "Shadow of the Sword."

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