The Umbrella Man

by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

IT was an insolent day. There are days which,to imaginative minds, at least, possess strangelyhuman qualities. Their atmospheres predispose peo-ple to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, tosneaking vice, or fierce, unprovoked aggression. Theday was of the last description. A beast, or a humanbeing in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood,might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lashbefore storms, perform wild and wicked deeds afterinhaling that hot air, evil with the sweat of sin-evoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering soresof nature and the loathsome emanations of sufferinglife.It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity wasgreat. The clouds of dust which arose beneath theman's feet had a horrible damp stickiness. His faceand hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap,ready-made suit, and his straw hat. However, theman felt a pride in his clothes, for they were at leastthe garb of freedom. He had come out of prison theday before, and had scorned the suit proffered himby the officials. He had given it away, and boughta new one with a goodly part of his small stock ofmoney. This suit was of a small-checked pattern.Nobody could tell from it that the wearer had justleft jail. He had been there for several years forone of the minor offenses against the law. His termwould probably have been shorter, but the judgehad been careless, and he had no friends. Stebbinshad never been the sort to make many friends,although he had never cherished animosity towardany human being. Even some injustice in his sen-tence had not caused him to feel any rancor.During his stay in the prison he had not beenreally unhappy. He had accepted the inevitable --the yoke of the strong for the weak -- with a patiencewhich brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But,now that he was free, he had suddenly become alert,watchful of chances for his betterment. From beinga mere kenneled creature he had become as ahound on the scent, the keenest on earth -- that ofself-interest. He was changed, while yet living, froma being outside the world to one with the worldbefore him. He felt young, although he was amiddle-aged, almost elderly man. He had in hispocket only a few dollars. He might have had morehad he not purchased the checked suit and had henot given much away. There was another man whoseterm would be up in a week, and he had a sicklywife and several children. Stebbins, partly fromnative kindness and generosity, partly from a senti-ment which almost amounted to superstition, hadgiven him of his slender store. He had been de-prived of his freedom because of money; he said tohimself that his return to it should be heralded by themusic of it scattered abroad for the good of another.Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed hisnew straw hat, wiped his forehead with a stiff newhandkerchief, looked with some concern at the grimeleft upon it, then felt anxiously of his short cropof grizzled hair. He would be glad when it grewonly a little, for it was at present a telltale to obser-vant eyes. Also now and then he took from anotherpocket a small mirror which he had just purchased,and scrutinized his face. Every time he did so herubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed with satis-faction the hard glow which replaced the yellowprison pallor. Every now and then, too, he remem-bered to throw his shoulders back, hold his chinhigh, and swing out his right leg more freely. Atsuch times he almost swaggered, he became fairlyinsolent with his new sense of freedom. He felthimself the equal if not the peer of all creation.Whenever a carriage or a motor-car passed him on thecountry road he assumed, with the skill of an actor,the air of a business man hastening to an importantengagement. However, always his mind was work-ing over a hard problem. He knew that his store ofmoney was scanty, that it would not last long evenwith the strictest economy; he had no friends; aprison record is sure to leak out when a man seeksa job. He was facing the problem of bare existence.Although the day was so hot, it was late summer;soon would come the frost and the winter. He wishedto live to enjoy his freedom, and all he had for assetswas that freedom; which was paradoxical, for itdid not signify the ability to obtain work, whichwas the power of life. Outside the stone wall of theprison he was now inclosed by a subtle, intangible,yet infinitely more unyielding one -- the prejudiceof his kind against the released prisoner. He wasto all intents and purposes a prisoner still, for all hisspurts of swagger and the youthful leap of his pulses,and while he did not admit that to himself, yetalways, since he had the hard sense of the land ofhis birth -- New England -- he pondered that problemof existence. He felt instinctively that it would bea useless proceeding for him to approach any humanbeing for employment. He knew that even thefreedom, which he realized through all his senseslike an essential perfume, could not yet overpowerthe reek of the prison. As he walked through theclogging dust he thought of one after another whomhe had known before he had gone out of the worldof free men and had bent his back under the hand ofthe law. There were, of course, people in his littlenative village, people who had been friends andneighbors, but there were none who had ever lovedhim sufficiently for him to conquer his resolve tonever ask aid of them. He had no relatives exceptcousins more or less removed, and they would havenothing to do with him.There had been a woman whom he had meant tomarry, and he had been sure that she would marryhim; but after he had been a year in prison thenews had come to him in a roundabout fashion thatshe had married another suitor. Even had she re-mained single he could not have approached her,least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his termshe had made no sign, there had been no letter, nomessage; and he had received at first letters andflowers and messages from sentimental women.There had been nothing from her. He had acceptednothing, with the curious patience, carrying an oddpleasure with it, which had come to him when theprison door first closed upon him. He had not for-gotten her, but he had not consciously mournedher. His loss, his ruin, had been so tremendous thatshe had been swallowed up in it. When one'swhole system needs to be steeled to trouble and pain,single pricks lose importance. He thought of herthat day without any sense of sadness. He imaginedher in a pretty, well-ordered home with her husbandand children. Perhaps she had grown stout. Shehad been a slender woman. He tried idly to imaginehow she would look stout, then by the sequence ofself-preservation the imagination of stoutness in an-other led to the problem of keeping the coveringof flesh and fatness upon his own bones. The ques-tion now was not of the woman; she had passedout of his life. The question was of the keeping thatlife itself, the life which involved everything else,in a hard world, which would remorselessly as a steeltrap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he wasbecome its prey.He walked and walked, and it was high noon, andhe was hungry. He had in his pocket a small loafof bread and two frankfurters, and he heard thesplashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture theroad was bordered by thick woodland. He followed,pushing his way through the trees and undergrowth,the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool,green solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent overthe clear run, made a cup of his hand, and drank,then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew somewintergreen, and when he had finished his bread andfrankfurters he began plucking the glossy, aromaticleaves and chewing them automatically. The savorreached his palate, and his memory awakened beforeit as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boyhow he had loved this little green low-growing plant!It had been one of the luxuries of his youth. Now,as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in his verysoul. What a wonder youth had been, what asplendor, what an immensity to be rejoiced overand regretted! The man lounging beside the brook,chewing wintergreen leaves, seemed to realize anti-podes. He lived for the moment in the past, andthe immutable future, which might contain the pastin the revolution of time. He smiled, and his facefell into boyish, almost childish, contours. Heplucked another glossy leaf with his hard, veinousold hands. His hands would not change to suit hismood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. Hestared at the brook gurgling past in brown ripples,shot with dim prismatic lights, showing here cleargreen water lines, here inky depths, and he thoughtof the possibility of trout. He wished for fishing-tackle.Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked twogirls, with wide, startled eyes, and rounded mouthsof terror which gave vent to screams. There was ascuttling, then silence. The man wondered whythe girls were so silly, why they ran. He did notdream of the possibility of their terror of him. Heate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of thewoman he had expected to marry when he was ar-rested and imprisoned. She did not go back to hischildish memories. He had met her when first youthhad passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of thewintergreen leaves brought her face before him. Itis strange how the excitement of one sense will some-times act as stimulant for the awakening of another.Now the sense of taste brought into full activitythat of sight. He saw the woman just as she hadlooked when he had last seen her. She had not beenpretty, but she was exceedingly dainty, and pos-sessed of a certain elegance of carriage which at-tracted. He saw quite distinctly her small, irregu-lar face and the satin-smooth coils of dark hairaround her head; he saw her slender, dusky handswith the well-cared-for nails and the too prominentveins; he saw the gleam of the diamond which hehad given her. She had sent it to him just after hisarrest, and he had returned it. He wondered idlywhether she still owned it and wore it, and what herhusband thought of it. He speculated childishly --somehow imprisonment had encouraged the returnof childish speculations -- as to whether the woman'shusband had given her a larger and costlier diamondthan his, and he felt a pang of jealousy. He re-fused to see another diamond than his own uponthat slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silkgown which had been her best. There had beensome red about it, and a glitter of jet. He hadthought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in itlike a princess. He could see her leaning back, inher long slim grace, in a corner of a sofa, and thesoft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over herknees and just allowing a glimpse of one little foot.Her feet had been charming, very small and highlyarched. Then he remembered that that eveningthey had been to a concert in the town hall, andthat afterward they had partaken of an oyster stewin a little restaurant. Then back his mind traveledto the problem of his own existence, his food andshelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman fromhis thought. He was concerned now with the primalconditions of life itself. How was he to eat whenhis little stock of money was gone? He sat staringat the brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves nolonger. Instead he drew from his pocket an oldpipe and a paper of tobacco. He filled his pipewith care -- tobacco was precious; then he began tosmoke, but his face now looked old and broodingthrough the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming,and he had not a shelter. He had not money enoughto keep him long from starvation. He knew nothow to obtain employment. He thought vaguely ofwood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for people. Hismind traveled in a trite strain of reasoning. Some-how wood-piles seemed the only available tasks formen of his sort.Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arosewith an air of decision. He went at a brisk paceout of the wood and was upon the road again. Heprogressed like a man with definite business in viewuntil he reached a house. It was a large whitefarm-house with many outbuildings. It looked mostpromising. He approached the side door, and adog sprang from around a corner and barked, buthe spoke, and the dog's tail became eloquent. Hewas patting the dog, when the door opened and aman stood looking at him. Immediately the taintof the prison became evident. He had not cringedbefore the dog, but he did cringe before the manwho lived in that fine white house, and who hadnever known what it was to be deprived of liberty.He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner,who was older than he, was slightly deaf. Helooked him over curtly. The end of it was he wasordered off the premises, and went; but the dogtrailed, wagging at his heels, and had to be roughlycalled back. The thought of the dog comfortedStebbins as he went on his way. He had alwaysliked animals. It was something, now he was pasta hand-shake, to have the friendly wag of a dog'stail.The next house was an ornate little cottage withbay-windows, through which could be seen the flowerpatterns of lace draperies; the Virginia creeperwhich grew over the house walls was turning crim-son in places. Stebbins went around to the backdoor and knocked, but nobody came. He waiteda long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncutwood. Finally he slunk around to the front door.As he went he suddenly reflected upon his state ofmind in days gone by; if he could have known thatthe time would come when he, Joseph Stebbins,would feel culpable at approaching any front door!He touched the electric bell and stood close to thedoor, so that he might not be discovered from thewindows. Presently the door opened the lengthof a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. Shewas one of the girls who had been terrified by himin the woods, but that he did not know. Now againher eyes dilated and her pretty mouth rounded!She gave a little cry and slammed the door in hisface, and he heard excited voices. Then he saw twopale, pretty faces, the faces of the two girls who hadcome upon him in the wood, peering at him arounda corner of the lace in the bay-window, and he under-stood what it meant -- that he was an object of ter-ror to them. Directly he experienced such a senseof mortal insult as he had never known, not evenwhen the law had taken hold of him. He held hishead high and went away, his very soul boiling witha sort of shamed rage. "Those two girls are afraidof me," he kept saying to himself. His knees shookwith the horror of it. This terror of him seemed thehardest thing to bear in a hard life. He returnedto his green nook beside the brook and sat downagain. He thought for the moment no more of wood-piles, of his life. He thought about those two younggirls who had been afraid of him. He had never hadan impulse to harm any living thing. A curioushatred toward these living things who had accusedhim of such an impulse came over him. He laughedsardonically. He wished that they would againcome and peer at him through the bushes; he wouldmake a threatening motion for the pleasure of seeingthe silly things scuttle away.After a while he put it all out of mind, and againreturned to his problem. He lay beside the brookand pondered, and finally fell asleep in the hot air,which increased in venom, until the rattle of thun-der awoke him. It was very dark -- a strange, lividdarkness. "A thunder-storm," he muttered, andthen he thought of his new clothes -- what a mis-fortune it would be to have them soaked. He aroseand pushed through the thicket around him into acart path, and it was then that he saw the thingwhich proved to be the stepping-stone toward hishumble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrellawith a handle tipped with pearl. He seized upon itwith joy, for it meant the salvation of his preciousclothes. He opened it and held it over his head,although the rain had not yet begun. One rib ofthe umbrella was broken, but it was still serviceable.He hastened along the cart path; he did not knowwhy, only the need for motion, to reach protectionfrom the storm, was upon him; and yet what pro-tection could be ahead of him in that woodlandpath? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blindinstinct which led him on.He had not gone far, not more than half a mile,when he saw something unexpected -- a small un-tenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of joy,which had in it something child-like and pathetic,and pushed open the door and entered. It wasnothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with one roomand a small one opening from it. There was noceiling; overhead was the tent-like slant of theroof, but it was tight. The dusty floor was quitedry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, afterlooking into the other room to make sure that theplace was empty, sat down, and a wonderful waveof content and self-respect came over him. Thepoor human snail had found his shell; he had ahabitation, a roof of shelter. The little dim placeimmediately assumed an aspect of home. The raincame down in torrents, the thunder crashed, theplace was filled with blinding blue lights. Stebbinsfilled his pipe more lavishly this time, tilted hischair against the wall, smoked, and gazed abouthim with pitiful content. It was really so little,but to him it was so much. He nodded with satis-faction at the discovery of a fireplace and a rustycooking-stove.He sat and smoked until the storm passed over.The rainfall had been very heavy, there had beenhail, but the poor little house had not failed of per-fect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwestblew through the door. The hail had brought abouta change of atmosphere. The burning heat wasgone. The night would be cool, even chilly.Stebbins got up and examined the stove and thepipe. They were rusty, but appeared trustworthy.He went out and presently returned with some fuelwhich he had found unwet in a thick growth ofwood. He laid a fire handily and lit it. The littlestove burned well, with no smoke. Stebbins lookedat it, and was perfectly happy. He had found othertreasures outside -- a small vegetable-garden in whichwere potatoes and some corn. A man had squattedin this little shack for years, and had raised his owngarden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago,and his furniture had been pre-empted with the ex-ception of the stove, the chair, a tilting lounge inthe small room, and a few old iron pots and frying-pans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, andput them on the stove to cook, then he hurried outto the village store and bought a few slices of bacon,half a dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea,and some salt. When he re-entered the house helooked as he had not for years. He was beaming."Come, this is a palace," he said to himself, andchuckled with pure joy. He had come out of theawful empty spaces of homeless life into home. Hewas a man who had naturally strong domestic in-stincts. If he had spent the best years of his lifein a home instead of a prison, the finest in him wouldhave been developed. As it was, this was not evennow too late. When he had cooked his bacon andeggs and brewed his tea, when the vegetables weredone and he was seated upon the rickety chair, withhis supper spread before him on an old board proppedon sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with arelish which seemed to reach his soul. He was athome, and eating, literally, at his own board. Ashe ate he glanced from time to time at the two win-dows, with broken panes of glass and curtainless.He was not afraid -- that was nonsense; he hadnever been a cowardly man, but he felt the need ofcurtains or something before his windows to shutout the broad vast face of nature, or perhaps pryinghuman eyes. Somebody might espy the light in thehouse and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an oldbottle by way of illumination. Still, although hewould have preferred to have curtains before thosewindows full of the blank stare of night, he WASsupremely happy.After he had finished his supper he looked long-ingly at his pipe. He hesitated for a second, for herealized the necessity of saving his precious tobacco;then he became reckless: such enormous good for-tune as a home must mean more to follow; it mustbe the first of a series of happy things. He filledhis pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on theold couch in the other room, and slept like a childuntil the sun shone through the trees in flickeringlines. Then he rose, went out to the brook whichran near the house, splashed himself with water,returned to the house, cooked the remnant of theeggs and bacon, and ate his breakfast with the sameexultant peace with which he had eaten his supperthe night before. Then he sat down in the doorwayupon the sunken sill and fell again to consideringhis main problem. He did not smoke. His tobaccowas nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless.His head was not turned now by the feeling thathe was at home. He considered soberly as to theprobable owner of the house and whether he wouldbe allowed to remain its tenant. Very soon, how-ever, his doubt concerning that was set at rest. Hesaw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the thickboughs over the cart path by a long outreach ofdarker shadow which he knew at once for that of aman. He sat upright, and his face at first assumeda defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of achild who desires to retain possession of some dearthing. His heart beat hard as he watched the ad-vance of the shadow. It was slow, as if cast by anold man. The man was old and very stout, sup-porting one lopping side by a stick, who presentlyfollowed the herald of his shadow. He looked likea farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the twomen stood staring at each other."Who be you, neighbor?" inquired the new-comer.The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieveda tentative friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for asecond; a suspicious look came into the farmer'smisty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of hisprison record and fiercely covetous of his new home,gave another name. The name of his maternalgrandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printedcharacters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly."David Anderson," he said, and he did not realizea lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. Surelyold David Anderson, who had been a good man,would not grudge the gift of his unstained name toreplace the stained one of his grandson. "DavidAnderson," he replied, and looked the other manin the face unflinchingly."Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer;and the new David Anderson gave unhesitatinglythe name of the old David Anderson's birth andlife and death place -- that of a little village in NewHampshire."What do you do for your living?" was the nextquestion, and the new David Anderson had an in-spiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella whichhe had found the night before."Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and theother man nodded. Men with sheaves of umbrellas,mended or in need of mending, had always beenfamiliar features for him.Then David assumed the initiative; possessedof an honorable business as well as home, he grewbold. "Any objection to my staying here?" heasked.The other man eyed him sharply. "Smokemuch?" he inquired."Smoke a pipe sometimes.""Careful with your matches?"David nodded."That's all I think about," said the farmer."These woods is apt to catch fire jest when I'mabout ready to cut. The man that squatted herebefore -- he died about a month ago -- didn't smoke.He was careful, he was.""I'll be real careful," said David, humbly andanxiously."I dun'no' as I have any objections to your stay-ing, then," said the farmer. "Somebody has alwayssquat here. A man built this shack about twentyyear ago, and he lived here till he died. Thent'other feller he came along. Reckon he must havehad a little money; didn't work at nothin'! Raisedsome garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I tookthem home after he died. You can have them nowif you want to take care of them. He rigged upthat little chicken-coop back there.""I'll take care of them," answered David, fer-vently."Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em.There's nine hens and a rooster. They lay prettywell. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the hensof my own I want to bother with.""All right," said David. He looked blissful.The farmer stared past him into the house. Hespied the solitary umbrella. He grew facetious."Guess the umbrellas was all mended up whereyou come from if you've got down to one," said he.David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess."Well, our umbrella got turned last week," saidthe farmer. "I'll give you a job to start on. Youcan stay here as long as you want if you're carefulabout your matches." Again he looked into thehouse. "Guess some boys have been helpin' them-selves to the furniture, most of it," he observed."Guess my wife can spare ye another chair, andthere's an old table out in the corn-house betterthan that one you've rigged up, and I guess she'llgive ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable.Got any money?""A little.""I don't want any pay for things, and my wifewon't; didn't mean that; was wonderin' whetherye had anything to buy vittles with.""Reckon I can manage till I get some work,"replied David, a trifle stiffly. He was a man whohad never lived at another than the state's expense."Don't want ye to be too short, that's all," saidthe other, a little apologetically."I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoesin the garden, anyway.""So there be, and one of them hens had betterbe eat. She don't lay. She'll need a good deal ofb'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want topick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind thator there'll be trouble.""I won't cut a stick.""Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark,and I guess myself I am easy up to a certain point,and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roofdidn't leak in that shower last night, did it?""Not a bit.""Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller washandy, and he kept tinkerin' all the time. Well,I'll be goin'; you can stay here and welcome ifyou're careful about matches and don't cut my wood.Come over for them hens any time you want to.I'll let my hired man drive you back in the wagon.""Much obliged," said David, with an inflectionthat was almost tearful."You're welcome," said the other, and ambledaway.The new David Anderson, the good old grand-father revived in his unfortunate, perhaps gracelessgrandson, reseated himself on the door-step andwatched the bulky, receding figure of his visitorthrough a pleasant blur of tears, which made thebroad, rounded shoulders and the halting columns oflegs dance. This David Anderson had almost for-gotten that there was unpaid kindness in the wholeworld, and it seemed to him as if he had seen angelswalking up and down. He sat for a while doingnothing except realizing happiness of the presentand of the future. He gazed at the green spreadof forest boughs, and saw in pleased anticipationtheir red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleasedanticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter,and himself, the unmailed, defenseless human crea-ture, housed and sheltered, sitting before hisown fire. This last happy outlook aroused him.If all this was to be, he must be up and doing.He got up, entered the house, and examined thebroken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade.David was a handy man. He at once knew thathe was capable of putting it in perfect repair.Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrongwas not blunted, he had no compunction whateverin keeping this umbrella, although he was reasonablycertain that it belonged to one of the two younggirls who had been so terrified by him. He had a con-viction that this monstrous terror of theirs, whichhad hurt him more than many apparently cruelerthings, made them quits.After he had washed his dishes in the brook, andleft them in the sun to dry, he went to the villagestore and purchased a few simple things necessaryfor umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the storeand back he kept his eyes open. He realized thathis capital depended largely upon chance and goodluck. He considered that he had extraordinarygood luck when he returned with three more umbrel-las. He had discovered one propped against thecounter of the store, turned inside out. He had in-quired to whom it belonged, and had been answeredto anybody who wanted it. David had seized uponit with secret glee. Then, unheard-of good fortune,he had found two more umbrellas on his way home;one was in an ash-can, the other blowing along likea belated bat beside the trolley track. It began toseem to David as if the earth might be strewn withabandoned umbrellas. Before he began his workhe went to the farmer's and returned in triumph,driven in the farm-wagon, with his cackling hensand quite a load of household furniture, besidessome bread and pies. The farmer's wife was one ofthose who are able to give, and make receivinggreater than giving. She had looked at David,who was older than she, with the eyes of a mother,and his pride had melted away, and he had held outhis hands for her benefits, like a child who has nocompunctions about receiving gifts because he knowsthat they are his right of childhood.Henceforth David prospered -- in a humble way,it is true, still he prospered. He journeyed aboutthe country, umbrellas over his shoulder, little bagof tools in hand, and reaped an income more thansufficient for his simple wants. His hair had grown,and also his beard. Nobody suspected his history.He met the young girls whom he had terrified onthe road often, and they did not know him. Hedid not, during the winter, travel very far afield.Night always found him at home, warm, well fed,content, and at peace. Sometimes the old farmeron whose land he lived dropped in of an eveningand they had a game of checkers. The old man wasa checker expert. He played with unusual skill,but David made for himself a little code of honor.He would never beat the old man, even if he wereable, oftener than once out of three evenings. Hemade coffee on these convivial occasions. He madevery good coffee, and they sipped as they movedthe men and kings, and the old man chuckled, andDavid beamed with peaceful happiness.But the next spring, when he began to realize thathe had mended for a while all the umbrellas in thevicinity and that his trade was flagging, he set hisprecious little home in order, barricaded door andwindows, and set forth for farther fields. He waslucky, as he had been from the start. He foundplenty of employment, and slept comfortably enoughin barns, and now and then in the open. He hadtraveled by slow stages for several weeks before heentered a village whose familiar look gave him ashock. It was not his native village, but near it.In his younger life he had often journeyed there.It was a little shopping emporium, almost a city.He recognized building after building. Now andthen he thought he saw a face which he had onceknown, and he was thankful that there was hardlyany possibility of any one recognizing him. He hadgrown gaunt and thin since those far-off days; hewore a beard, grizzled, as was his hair. In thosedays he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimesthe humor of the situation struck him. What wouldhe have said, he the spruce, plump, head-in-the-airyoung man, if anybody had told him that it wouldcome to pass that he would be an umbrella man lurk-ing humbly in search of a job around the back doorsof houses? He would laugh softly to himself as hetrudged along, and the laugh would be without theslightest bitterness. His lot had been so infinitelyworse, and he had such a happy nature, yieldingsweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now onlycause for amusement.He had been in that vicinity about three weekswhen one day he met the woman. He knew herat once, although she was greatly changed. Shehad grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed asif there had been no reason for it. She was notunwieldy, but she was stout, and all the contours ofearlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh.Her hair was not gray, but the bright brown hadfaded, and she wore it tightly strained back fromher seamed forehead, although it was thin. One hadonly to look at her hair to realize that she was awoman who had given up, who no longer cared.She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton wrapper, shewore a dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pailhalf full of raspberries. When the man and womanmet they stopped with a sort of shock, and eachchanged face grew like the other in its pallor. Sherecognized him and he her, but along with thatrecognition was awakened a fierce desire to keep itsecret. His prison record loomed up before theman, the woman's past loomed up before her. Shehad possibly not been guilty of much, but her lifewas nothing to waken pride in her. She felt shamedbefore this man whom she had loved, and who feltshamed before her. However, after a second thesilence was broken. The man recovered his self-possession first.He spoke casually."Nice day," said he.The woman nodded."Been berrying?" inquired David. The womannodded again.David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. "I sawbetter berries real thick a piece back," said he.The woman murmured something. In spite ofherself, a tear trickled over her fat, weather-beatencheek. David saw the tear, and something warmand glorious like sunlight seemed to waken withinhim. He felt such tenderness and pity for thispoor feminine thing who had not the strengthto keep the tears back, and was so pitiably shornof youth and grace, that he himself expanded. Hehad heard in the town something of her history.She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy andsuspicion had entered her life, and the direst poverty.However, he had not known that she was in the vi-cinity. Somebody had told him she was out West."Living here?" he inquired."Working for my board at a house back there,"she muttered. She did not tell him that she hadcome as a female "hobo" in a freight-car from theWestern town where she had been finally stranded."Mrs. White sent me out for berries," she added."She keeps boarders, and there were no berries inthe market this morning.""Come back with me and I will show you whereI saw the berries real thick," said David.He turned himself about, and she followed a littlebehind, the female failure in the dust cast by themale. Neither spoke until David stopped andpointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thickon bending, slender branches."Here," said David. Both fell to work. Davidpicked handfuls of berries and cast them gaily intothe pail. "What is your name?" he asked, in anundertone."Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her hus-band's name had been Waters, or the man who hadcalled himself her husband, and her own middlename was Jane. The first was Sara. David remem-bered at once. "She is taking her own middle nameand the name of the man she married," he thought.Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted:"Married?""No," said the woman, flushing deeply.David's next question betrayed him. "Husbanddead?""I haven't any husband," she replied, like theSamaritan woman.She had married a man already provided withanother wife, although she had not known it. Theman was not dead, but she spoke the entire miser-able truth when she replied as she did. David as-sumed that he was dead. He felt a throb of relief,of which he was ashamed, but he could not down it.He did not know what it was that was so alive andtriumphant within him: love, or pity, or the naturalinstinct of the decent male to shelter and protect.Whatever it was, it was dominant."Do you have to work hard?" he asked."Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to.""And you don't get any pay?""That's all right; I don't expect to get any,"said she, and there was bitterness in her voice.In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong asthe man. She was not at all strong, and, moreover,the constant presence of a sense of injury at thehands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison,to her weakening vitality. She was a child hurt andworried and bewildered, although she was to theaverage eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged wom-an; but David had not the average eye, and hesaw her as she really was, not as she seemed. Therehad always been about her a little weakness anddependency which had appealed to him. Now theyseemed fairly to cry out to him like the despairingvoices of the children whom he had never had, andhe knew he loved her as he had never loved her be-fore, with a love which had budded and floweredand fruited and survived absence and starvation.He spoke abruptly."I've about got my business done in these parts,"said he. "I've got quite a little money, and I'vegot a little house, not much, but mighty snug, backwhere I come from. There's a garden. It's in thewoods. Not much passing nor going on."The woman was looking at him with incredulous,pitiful eyes like a dog's. "I hate much goin' on,"she whispered."Suppose," said David, "you take those berrieshome and pack up your things. Got much?""All I've got will go in my bag.""Well, pack up; tell the madam where you livethat you're sorry, but you're worn out --""God knows I am," cried the woman, with suddenforce, "worn out!""Well, you tell her that, and say you've got an-other chance, and --""What do you mean?" cried the woman, and shehung upon his words like a drowning thing."Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You packyour bag and come to the parson's back there, thatwhite house.""I know --""In the mean time I'll see about getting a license,and --"Suddenly the woman set her pail down andclutched him by both hands. "Say you are notmarried," she demanded; "say it, swear it!""Yes, I do swear it," said David. "You are theonly woman I ever asked to marry me. I can sup-port you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but wecan be comfortable, and -- I rather guess I can makeyou happy.""You didn't say what your name was," said thewoman."David Anderson."The woman looked at him with a strange ex-pression, the expression of one who loves and re-spects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy ofanother soul. She understood, down to the depthsof her being she understood. She had lived a hardlife, she had her faults, but she was fine enough tocomprehend and hold sacred another personality.She was very pale, but she smiled. Then she turnedto go."How long will it take you?" asked David."About an hour.""All right. I will meet you in front of the par-son's house in an hour. We will go back by train.I have money enough.""I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke withthe utmost humility of love and trust. She hadnot even asked where the man lived. All her lifeshe had followed him with her soul, and it wouldgo hard if her poor feet could not keep pace withher soul."No, it is too far; we will take the train. Onegoes at half past four."At half past four the couple, made man and wife,were on the train speeding toward the little homein the woods. The woman had frizzled her thinhair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples;on her left hand gleamed a white diamond. She hadkept it hidden; she had almost starved rather thanpart with it. She gazed out of the window at theflying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in acharming smile. The man sat beside her, staringstraight ahead as if at happy visions.They lived together afterward in the little housein the woods, and were happy with a strange crys-tallized happiness at which they would have mockedin their youth, but which they now recognized as theessential of all happiness upon earth. And alwaysthe woman knew what she knew about her husband,and the man knew about his wife, and each recog-nized the other as old lover and sweetheart cometogether at last, but always each kept the knowledgefrom the other with an infinite tenderness of deli-cacy which was as a perfumed garment veiling theinnermost sacredness of love.

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