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Title: The Captain's Toll-Gate
Author: Stockton, Frank Richard, 1834-1902
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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_With a Memorial Sketch by Mrs. Stockton_



      I. OLIVE


Portrait of Prank B. Stockton _Etching by Jacques Reich from a

The Holt, Mr. Stockton's home near Convent, N.J.

Claymont, Mr. Stockton's home near Charles Town, West Virginia.

A corner in Mr. Stockton's study at Claymont.

The upper terraces of Mr. Stockton's garden at Claymont.


As this--The Captain's Toll-Gate--is the last of the works of Frank R.
Stockton that will be given to the public, it is fitting that it be
accompanied by some account of the man whose bright spirit illumined
them all. It is proper, also, that something be said of the stories
themselves; of the circumstances in which they were written, the
influences that determined their direction, and the history of their
evolution. It seems appropriate that this should be done by the one who
knew him best; the one who lived with him through a long and beautiful
life; the one who walked hand in hand with him along the whole of a
wonderful road of ever-changing scenes: now through forests peopled with
fairies and dryads, griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an
ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable shipwrecks; now on the
beaten track of European tourists, sharing their novel adventures and
amused by their mistakes; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with
human interest; now helping the young to make happy homes for
themselves; now sympathizing with the old as they look longingly toward
a heavenly home; and, oftenest, perhaps, watching girls and young men as
they were trying to work out the problems of their lives. All this, and
much more, crowded the busy years until the Angel of Death stood in the
path; and the journey was ended.

In regard to the present story--The Captain's Toll-Gate--although it is
now after his death first published, it was all written and completed by
Mr. Stockton himself. No other hand has been allowed to add to, or to
take from it. Mr. Stockton had so strong a feeling upon the literary
ethics involved in such matters that he once refused to complete a book
which a popular and brilliant author, whose style was thought to
resemble his own, had left unfinished. Mr. Stockton regarded the
proposed act in the light of a sacrilege. The book, he said, should be
published as the author left it. Knowing this fact, readers of the
present volume may feel assured that no one has been permitted to tamper
with it. Although the last book by Mr. Stockton to be published, it is
not the last that he wrote. He had completed The Captain's Toll-Gate,
and was considering its publication, when he was asked to write another
novel dealing with the buccaneers. He had already produced a book
entitled Buccaneers and Pirates of our Coasts. The idea of writing a
novel while the incidents were fresh in his mind pleased him, and he put
aside The Captain's Toll-Gate, as the other book--Kate Bonnet--was
wanted soon, and he did not wish the two works to conflict in
publication. Steve Bonnet, the crazy-headed pirate, was a historical
character, and performed the acts attributed to him. But the charming
Kate, and her lover, and Ben Greenaway were inventions.

Francis Richard Stockton, born in Philadelphia in 1834, was, on his
father's side, of purely English ancestry; on his mother's side, there
was a mixture of English, French, and Irish. When he began to write
stories these three nationalities were combined in them: the peculiar
kind of inventiveness of the French; the point of view, and the humor
that we find in the old English humorists; and the capacity of the Irish
for comical situations.

Soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of the first American
Stockton settled in Princeton, N.J., and founded that branch of the
family; while the father, with the other sons, settled in Burlington
County, in the same State, and founded the Burlington branch of the
family, from which Frank R. Stockton was descended. On the female side
he was descended from the Gardiners, also of New Jersey. His was a
family with literary proclivities. His father was widely known for his
religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, which had a
powerful influence in the denomination to which he belonged. His
half-brother (much older than Frank) was a preacher of great eloquence,
famous a generation ago as a pulpit orator.

When Frank and his brother John, two years younger, came to the age to
begin life for themselves, they both showed such decided artistic genius
that it was thought best to start them in that direction, and to have
them taught engraving; an art then held in high esteem. Frank chose
wood, and John steel engraving. Both did good work, but their hearts
were not in it, and, as soon as opportunity offered, they abandoned
engraving. John went into journalism; became editorially connected with
prominent newspapers; and had won a foremost place in his chosen
profession; when he was cut off by death at a comparatively early age.


Frank chose literature. He had, while in the engraving business, written
a number of fairy tales, some of which had been published in juvenile
magazines; also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious long story,
which was published in a prominent magazine. He was then sufficiently
well known as a writer to obtain without difficulty a place on the
staff of Hearth and Home, a weekly New York paper, owned by Orange Judd,
and conducted by Edward Eggleston. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge had charge of
the juvenile department, and Frank went on the paper as her assistant.
Not long after Scribner's Monthly was started by Charles Scribner (the
elder), in conjunction with Roswell Smith, and J.G. Holland. Later Mr.
Smith and his associates formed The Century Company; and with this
company Mr. Stockton was connected for many years: first on the Century
Magazine, which succeeded Scribner's Monthly, and afterward on St.
Nicholas, as assistant to Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, and, still later, when
he decided to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. After a
few years he resigned his position in the company with which he had been
so pleasantly associated in order to devote himself exclusively to his
own work. By this time he had written and published enough to feel
justified in taking, what seemed to his friends, a bold, and even rash,
step, because so few writers then lived solely by the pen. He was never
very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do his editorial work,
and at the same time write out the fancies and stories with which his
mind was full. This venture proved to be the wisest thing for him; and
from that time his life was, in great part, in his books; and he gave
to the world the novels and stories which bear his name.

I have mentioned his fairy stories. Having been a great lover of fairy
lore when a child, he naturally fell into this form of story writing as
soon as he was old enough to put a story together. He invented a goodly
number; and among them the Ting-a-Ling stories, which were read aloud in
a boys' literary circle, and meeting their hearty approval, were
subsequently published in The Riverside Magazine, a handsome and popular
juvenile of that period; and, much later, were issued by Hurd & Houghton
in a very pretty volume. In regard to these, he wrote long afterward as

"I was very young when I determined to write some fairy tales because my
mind was full of them. I set to work, and in course of time produced
several which were printed. These were constructed according to my own
ideas. I caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of
fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were
inhabitants of the real world. I did not dispense with monsters and
enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I obliged these creatures
to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common

It was about this time, while very young, that he and his brother
became ambitious to write stories, poems, and essays for the world at
large. They sent their effusions to various periodicals, with the result
common to ambitious youths: all were returned. They decided at last that
editors did not know a good thing when they saw it, and hit upon a
brilliant scheme to prove their own judgment. One of them selected an
extract from Paradise Regained (as being not so well known as Paradise
Lost), and sent it to an editor, with the boy's own name appended,
expecting to have it returned with some of the usual disparaging
remarks, which they would greatly enjoy. But they were disappointed. The
editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that he did know a good
thing if he did not know his Milton. Mr. Stockton was fond of telling
this story, and it may have given rise to a report, extensively
circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodicals for many
years before he succeeded. This is not true. Some rebuffs he had, of
course--some with things which afterward proved great successes--but not
as great a number as falls to the lot of most beginners.

The Ting-a-Ling tales proved so popular that Mr. Stockton followed them
at intervals with long and short stories for the young which appeared in
various juvenile publications, and were afterward published in book
form--Roundabout Rambles. Tales out of School, A Jolly Fellowship,
Personally Conducted, The Story of Viteau, The Floating Prince, and
others. Some years later, after he had begun to write for older readers,
he wrote a series of stories for St. Nicholas, ostensibly for children,
but really intended for adults. Children liked the stories, but the
deeper meaning underlying them all was beyond the grasp of a child's
mind. These stories Mr. Stockton took very great pleasure in writing,
and always regarded them as some of his best work, and was gratified
when his critics wrote of them in that way. They have become famous, and
have been translated into several languages, notably Old Pipes and the
Dryad, The Bee Man of Orne, and The Griffin and the Minor Canon. This
last story was suggested by Chester Cathedral, and he wrote it in that
venerable city. The several tales were finally collected into a volume
under the title: The Bee Man of Orne and Other Stories, which is
included in the complete edition of his novels and stories. During the
whole of his literary career Mr. Stockton was an occasional contributor
of short stories and essays to The Youth's Companion.

Mr. Stockton considered his career as an editor of great advantage to
him as an author. In an autobiographical paper he writes:
"Long-continued reading of manuscripts submitted for publication which
are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up to the standard of
the magazine, can not but be of great service to any one who proposes a
literary career. Bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most of
us know, or think we know, what that is. Fine literary work we get
outside the editorial room. But the great mass of literary material
which is almost good enough to print is seen only by the editorial
reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great degree unless he is,
or intends to be, a literary worker."

The first house in which we set up our own household goods stood in
Nutley, N.J. We had with us an elderly _attaché_ of the Stockton family
as maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her duties I went
into New York, and procured from an orphans' home a girl whom Mr.
Stockton described as "a middle-sized orphan." She was about fourteen
years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, with strong
characteristics which so appealed to Mr. Stockton's sense of humor that
he liked to talk with her and draw out her opinions of things in
general, and especially of the books she had read. Her spare time was
devoted to reading books, mostly of the blood-curdling variety; and she
read them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed fashion,
which was at first amusing, and then irritating. We never knew her real
name, nor did the people at the orphanage. She had three or four very
romantic ones she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, for
she was very sentimental.

Mr. Stockton bestowed upon her the name of Pomona, which is now a
household word in myriads of homes. This extraordinary girl, and some
household experiences, induced Mr. Stockton to write a paper for
Scribner's Monthly which he called Rudder Grange. This one paper was all
he intended to write, but it attracted immediate attention, was
extensively noticed, and much talked about. The editor of the magazine
received so many letters asking for another paper that Mr. Stockton
wrote the second one; and as there was still a clamor for more, he,
after a little time, wrote others of the series. Some time later they
were collected in a book. For those interested in Pomona I will add,
that while the girl was an actual personage, with all the
characteristics given to her by her chronicler, the woman Pomona was a
development in Mr. Stockton's mind of the girl as he imagined she would
become, for the original passed out of our lives while still a girl.

Rudder Grange was Mr. Stockton's first book for adult readers, and a
good deal of comment has been made upon the fact that he had reached
middle life when it was published. His biographers and critics assume
that he was utterly unknown at that time, and that he suddenly jumped
into favor, and they naturally draw the inference that he had until then
vainly attempted to get before the public. This is all a misapprehension
of the facts. It will be seen from what I have previously stated, that
at this time he was already well known as a juvenile writer, and not
only had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but editors and
publishers were asking him for stories. He had made but few slight
attempts to obtain a larger audience. That he confined himself for so
long a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted for. For one
thing, it grew out of his regular work of constantly catering for the
young, and thinking of them. Then, again, editorial work makes urgent
demands upon time and strength, and until freed from it he had not the
leisure or inclination to fashion stories for more exacting and critical
readers. Perhaps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities.
Certain it is that the public were not slow to recognize him. He did,
however, experience difficulties in getting the collected papers of
Rudder Grange published in book form. I will quote his own account,
which is interesting as showing how slow he was to appreciate the fact
that the public would gladly accept the writings of a humorist:

"The discovery that humorous compositions could be used in journals
other than those termed comic marked a new era in my work. Periodicals
especially devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those days, and
as this sort of writing came naturally to me, it was difficult, until
the advent of Puck, to find a medium of publication for writings of this
nature. I contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only partly
satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic paper must be terse and
short, and I wanted to write humorous tales which should be as long as
ordinary magazine stories. I had good reason for my opinion of the
gravity of the situation, for the editor of a prominent magazine
declined a humorous story (afterward very popular) which I had sent him,
on the ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the publication
of stories strictly humorous. Therefore, when I found an editor at last
who actually _wished_ me to write humorous stories, I was truly
rejoiced. My first venture in this line was Rudder Grange. And, after
all, I had difficulty in getting the series published in book form. Two
publishers would have nothing to do with them, assuring me that although
the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing of ephemeral nature,
the book-reading public would not care for them. The third publisher to
whom I applied issued the work, and found the venture satisfactory."

The book-reading public cared so much for this book that it would not
remain satisfied with it alone. Again and again it demanded of the
author more about Pomona, Euphemia, and Jonas. Hence The Rudder Grangers
Abroad and Pomona's Travels.

The most famous of Mr. Stockton's stories, The Lady or the Tiger?, was
written to be read before a literary society of which he was a member.
It caused such an interesting discussion in the society that he
published it in the Century Magazine. It had no especial announcement
there, nor was it heralded in any way, but it took the public by storm,
and surprised both the editor and the author. All the world must love a
puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the little story had made the
circuit of the world. Debating societies everywhere seized upon it as a
topic; it was translated into nearly all languages; society people
discussed it at their dinners; plainer people argued it at their
firesides; numerous letters were sent to nearly every periodical in the
country; and public readers were expounding it to their audiences. It
interested heathen and Christian alike; for an English friend told Mr.
Stockton that in India he had heard a group of Hindoo men gravely
debating the problem. Of course, a mass of letters came pouring in upon
the author.

A singular thing about this story has been the revival of interest in it
that has occurred from time to time. Although written many years ago, it
seems still to excite the interest of a younger generation; for, after
an interval of silence on the subject of greater or less duration,
suddenly, without apparent cause, numerous letters in relation to it
will appear on the author's table, and "solutions" will be printed in
the newspapers. This ebb and flow has continued up to the present time.
Mr. Stockton made no attempt to answer the question he had raised.

We both spent much time in the South at different periods. The dramatic
and unconsciously humorous side of the negroes pleased his fancy. He
walked and talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their
"meetin's," and in the fields. He has drawn with an affectionate hand
the genial, companionable Southern negro as he is--or rather as he
was--for this type is rapidly passing away. Soon there will be no more
of these "old-time darkies." They would be by the world forgot had they
not been embalmed in literature by Mr. Stockton, and the best Southern

There is one other notable characteristic that should be referred to in
writing of Mr. Stockton's stories--the machines and appliances he
invented as parts of them. They are very numerous and ingenious. No
matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, the machine to
accomplish the end was made on strictly scientific principles, to
accomplish that exact piece of work. It would seem that if he had not
been an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor of instruments.
This idea is sustained by the fact that he had been a wood-engraver only
a short time when he invented and patented a double graver which cuts
two parallel lines at the same time. It is somewhat strange that more
than one of these extraordinary machines has since been exploited by
scientists and explorers, without the least suspicion on their part that
the enterprising romancer had thought of them first. Notable among these
may be named the idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one
that the center of the earth is an immense crystal (Great Stone of
Sardis), and the attempt to manufacture a gun similar to the Peace
Compeller in The Great War Syndicate.

In all of Mr. Stockton's novels there were characters taken from real
persons who perhaps would not recognize themselves in the peculiar
circumstances in which he placed them. In the crowd of purely
imaginative beings one could easily recognize certain types modified and
altered. In The Casting away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine he
introduced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and who were never
surprised at anything that might happen. Whatever emergency arose, they
took it as a matter of course, and prepared to meet it. Mr. Stockton
amused himself at their expense by writing this story. He was not at
first interested in the Dusantes, and had no intention of ever saying
anything further about them. When there was a demand for knowledge of
the Dusantes Mr. Stockton did not heed it. He was opposed to writing
sequels. But when an author of distinction, whose work and friendship he
highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not write something about the
Dusantes, and what they said when they found the board money in the
ginger jar, he would do it himself, Mr. Stockton set himself to writing
The Dusantes.

I have been asked to give some account of the places in which Mr.
Stockton's stories and novels were written, and their environments. Some
of the Southern stories were written in Virginia, and, now and then, a
short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, but the most of his
work was done under his own roof-tree. He loved his home; it had to be a
country home, and always had to have a garden. In the care of a garden
and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of recreation.


I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York. His
dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some
chickens, and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, and here
Rudder Grange was written. It was a rented place. The next home we
owned. It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place called
Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New Jersey. Here we
lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work; and
here the greater number of his tales were written. It was a much larger
place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much
larger garden.

Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot
for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here,
in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be
near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book
was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed
him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of
incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to
dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly;
but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good
deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair
in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of
blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.

I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New
York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton
thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was
fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the
obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual
report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago
that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which
he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them
all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and
kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an
extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the
Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share
in his ever fresh and varying companionship."]

I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and
disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying
labor. But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with
courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would
not be intimidated. On the whole, as one looks back through the long
vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been
full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness.
At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had
long indulged. He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing
what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his

He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, and was much interested in
improving it. His neighbors and friends there were valued companions.
But in his heart there had always been a longing for a home, not
suburban--a place in the _real_ country, and with more land. Finally,
the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing. He liked
the Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place somewhere in that
State, not far from the city of Washington. After a rather prolonged
search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the Shenandoah Valley. It
won our hearts, and ended our search. It had absolutely everything that
Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once, and we moved into it as
speedily as possible.

Claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern
improvements"--an unusual combination. It lies near the historic old
town of Charles Town, in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont is
itself an historic place. The land was first owned by "the Father of his
Country." This great personage designed the house, with its main
building, two cottages (or lodges), and courtyards, for his nephew
Bushrod, to whom he had given the land. Through the wooded park runs the
old road, now grass grown, over which Braddock marched to his celebrated
"defeat," guided by the youthful George Washington, who had surveyed the
whole region for Lord Fairfax. During the civil war the place twice
escaped destruction because it had once been the property of Washington.

But it was not for its historical associations, but for the place
itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From the main road to the house
there is a drive of three-quarters of a mile through a park of great
forest-trees and picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side of
the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and from the piazzas, a
noble view of the valley and the Blue Ridge Mountains is obtained.
Besides the park and other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of
considerable size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared for farming,
except in so far as it enabled him to have horses and stock. But his
soul delighted in the big, old terraced garden of his West Virginia
home. Compared with other gardens he had had, the new one was like
paradise to the common world. At Claymont several short stories were
written. John Gayther's Garden was prepared for publication here by
connecting stories previously published into a series, told in a garden,
and suggested by the one at Claymont. John Gayther, however, was an
invention. Kate Bonnet and The Captain's Toll-Gate were both written at

desk at which all his later books were written.]

Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three
years. They were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can
rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his
life, and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never sweeter to
him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when
he shut his eyes upon it. He was returning from a winter in New York to
his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer
and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and
died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet
was published in book form.

Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. And yet his
death was a surprise to us all. He had never been in better health,
apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he
seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to give up his work; no
thought of old age; no mental decay. His last novels, his last short
stories, showed no falling-off. They were the equals of those written in
younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He was always sure
of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than
ever before. His was truly a passing away. He gently glided from the
homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in
heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he
had ever imagined.

Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed happiness all around
him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving
nature. His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but
he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it.
He hated mourning and gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until
his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his
balance. He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of
life. Pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers
who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. To his friends
his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in
such charming qualities of head and heart.


This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R.
Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. The
bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the
sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life;
the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in
himself. He had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily. He knew
that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore
it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are
numerous in this tangled world. There is much philosophy underlying a
good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not
insistent, and is never morbid. He could not write an impure word, or
express an impure thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who,
we are assured, "shall see God."

[Footnote 2: I may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared by
Mr. Gary for the Century Club: "He brought to his later work the
discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by
acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the
sparkling miracles that we know. He has been called the representative
American humorist. He was that in the sense that the characters he
created had much of the audacity of the American spirit, the thirst for
adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious
seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at
home no matter what happens. But how amazingly he mingled a broad
philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending
than his fun was compelling! If his humor was American, it was also
cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our British
kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier
of translation. The fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in
the hearts of his hearers. It was at once appealing and revealing. It
flashed its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being,
and wove close bonds with those at whom we laughed. There was no
bitterness in it. He was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set
purpose a teacher, though it must be a dull reader that does not gather
from his books the lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear,
level outlook upon our perplexing world."]


CLAYMONT, _May 15, 1903_.




A long, wide, and smoothly macadamized road stretched itself from the
considerable town of Glenford onward and northward toward a gap in the
distant mountains. It did not run through a level country, but rose and
fell as if it had been a line of seaweed upon the long swells of the
ocean. Upon elevated points upon this road, farm lands and forests could
be seen extending in every direction. But there was nothing in the
landscape which impressed itself more obtrusively upon the attention of
the traveler than the road itself. White in the bright sunlight and gray
under the shadows of the clouds, it was the one thing to be seen which
seemed to have a decided purpose. Northward or southward, toward the gap
in the long line of mountains or toward the wood-encircled town in the
valley, it was always going somewhere.

About two miles from the town, and at the top of the first long hill
which was climbed by the road, a tall white pole projected upward
against the sky, sometimes perpendicularly, and sometimes inclined at a
slight angle. This was a turnpike gate or bar, and gave notice to all in
vehicles or on horses that the use of this well-kept road was not free
to the traveling public. At the approach of persons not known, or too
well known, the bar would slowly descend across the road, as if it were
a musket held horizontally while a sentinel demanded the password.

Upon the side of the road opposite to the great post on which the
toll-gate moved, was a little house with a covered doorway, from which
toll could be collected without exposing the collector to sun or rain.
This tollhouse was not a plain whitewashed shed, such as is often seen
upon turnpike roads, but a neat edifice, containing a comfortable room.
On one side of it was a small porch, well shaded by vines, furnished
with a settle and two armchairs, while over all a large maple stretched
its protecting branches. Back of the tollhouse was a neatly fenced
garden, well filled with old-fashioned flowers; and, still farther on, a
good-sized house, from which a box-bordered path led through the garden
to the tollhouse.

It was a remark that had been made frequently, both by strangers and
residents in that part of the country, that if it had not been for the
obvious disadvantages of a toll-gate, this house and garden, with its
grounds and fields, would be a good enough home for anybody. When he
happened to hear this remark Captain John Asher, who kept the toll-gate,
was wont to say that it was a good enough home for him, even with the
toll-gate, and its obvious disadvantages.

It was on a morning in early summer, when the garden had grown to be so
red and white and yellow in its flowers, and so green in its leaves and
stalks, that the box which edged the path was beginning to be
unnoticed, that a girl sat in a small arbor standing on a slight
elevation at one side of the garden, and from which a view could be had
both up and down the road. She was rather a slim girl, though tall
enough; her hair was dark, her eyes were blue, and she sat on the back
of a rustic bench with her feet resting upon the seat; this position she
had taken that she might the better view the road.

With both her hands this girl held a small telescope which she was
endeavoring to fix upon a black spot a mile or more away upon the road.
It was difficult for her to hold the telescope steadily enough to keep
the object-glass upon the black spot, and she had a great deal of
trouble in the matter of focusing, pulling out and pushing in the
smaller cylinder in a manner which showed that she was not accustomed to
the use of this optical instrument.

"Field-glasses are ever so much better," she said to herself; "you can
screw them to any point you want. But now I've got it. It is very near
that cross-road. Good! it did not turn there; it is coming along the
pike, and there will be toll to pay. One horse, seven cents."

She put down the telescope as if to rest her arm and eye. Presently,
however, she raised the glass again. "Now, let us see," she said, "Uncle
John? Jane? or me?" After directing the glass to a point in the air
about two hundred feet above the approaching vehicle, and then to
another point half a mile to the right of it, she was fortunate enough
to catch sight of it again. "I don't know that queer-looking horse," she
said. "It must be some stranger, and Jane will do. No, a little boy is
driving. Strangers coming along this road would not be driven by little
boys. I expect I shall have to call Uncle John." Then she put down the
glass and rubbed her eye, after which, with unassisted vision, she gazed
along the road. "I can see a great deal better without that old thing,"
she continued. "There's a woman in that carriage. I'll go myself." With
this she jumped down from the rustic seat, and with the telescope under
her arm, she skipped through the garden to the little tollhouse.

The name of this girl was Olive Asher. Captain John Asher, who took the
toll, was her uncle, and she had now been living with him for about six
weeks. Olive was what is known in certain social circles as a navy girl.
About twenty years before she had come to her uncle's she had been born
in Genoa, her father at the time being a lieutenant on an American
war-vessel lying in the harbor of Villa Franca. Her first schooldays
were passed in the south of France, and she spent some subsequent years
in a German school in Dresden. Here she was supposed to have finished
her education but when her father's ship was stationed on our Pacific
coast and Olive and her mother went to San Francisco they associated a
great deal with army people, and here the girl learned so much more of
real life and her own country people that the few years she spent in the
far West seemed like a post-graduate course, as important to her true
education as any of the years she had spent in schools.

After the death of her mother, when Olive was about eighteen, the girl
had lived with relatives, East and West, hoping for the day when her
father's three years' cruise would terminate, and she could go and make
a home for him in some pleasant spot on shore. Now, in the course of
these family visits she had come to stay with her father's brother, John
Asher, who kept the toll-gate on the Glenford pike.

Captain John Asher was an older man than his brother, the naval officer,
but he was in the prime of life, and able to hold the command of a ship
if he had cared to do it. But having been in the merchant service for a
long time, and having made some money, he had determined to leave the
sea and to settle on shore; and, finding this commodious house by the
toll-gate, he settled there. There were some people who said that he had
taken the position of toll-gate keeper because of the house, and there
were others who believed that he had bought the house on account of the
toll-gate. But no matter what people thought or said, the good captain
was very well satisfied with his home and his official position. He
liked to meet with people, and he preferred that they should come to him
rather than that he should go to them. He was interested in most things
that were going on in his neighborhood, and therefore he liked to talk
to the people who were going by. Sometimes a good talking acquaintance
or an interesting traveler would tie his horse under the shade of the
maple-tree and sit a while with the captain on the little porch. Certain
it was, it was the most hospitable toll-gate in that part of the

There was a road which branched off from the turnpike, about a mile from
the town, and which, after some windings, entered the pike again beyond
the toll-gate, and although this road was not always in very good
condition, it had seen a good deal of travel, which, in time, gave it
the name of the shunpike. But since Captain Asher had lived at the
toll-gate it was remarked that the shunpike was not used as much as in
former times. There were penurious people who had once preferred to go a
long way round and save money whose economical dispositions now gave way
before the combined attractions of a better road, and a chat with
Captain Asher.

It had been predicted by some of her relatives that Olive would not be
content with her life in her uncle's somewhat peculiar household. He was
a bachelor, and seldom entertained company, and his ordinary family
consisted of an elderly housekeeper and another servant. But Olive was
not in the least dissatisfied. From her infancy up, she had lived so
much among people that she had grown tired of them; and her good-natured
uncle, with his sea stories, the garden, the old-fashioned house, the
fields and the woods beyond, the little stream, which came hurrying down
from the mountains, where she could fish or wade as the fancy pleased
her, gave her a taste of some of the joys of girlhood which she had not
known when she was really a girl.

Another thing that greatly interested her was the toll-gate. If she had
been allowed to do so, she would have spent the greater part of her time
taking money, making change, and talking to travelers. But this her
uncle would not permit. He did not object to her doing some occasional
toll-gate work, and he did not wonder that she liked it, remembering how
interesting it often was to himself, but he would not let her take toll

So they made a regular arrangement about it. When the captain was at his
meals, or shaving, or otherwise occupied, old Jane attended to the
toll-gate. At ordinary times, and when any of his special friends were
seen approaching, the captain collected toll himself, but when women
happened to be traveling on the road, then it was arranged that Olive
should go to the gate.

Two or three times it had happened that some young men of the town,
hearing their sisters talk of the pretty girl who had taken their toll,
had thought it might be a pleasant thing to drive out on the pike, but
their money had always been taken by the captain, or else by the
wooden-faced Jane, and nothing had come of their little adventures.

The garden hedge which ran alongside the road was very high.


_Maria Port._

Olive stood impatiently at the door of the little tollhouse. In one hand
she held three copper cents, because she felt almost sure that the
person approaching would give her a dime or two five-cent pieces.

"I never knew horses to travel so slowly as they do on this pike!" she
said to herself. "How they used to gallop on those beautiful roads in

In due course of time the vehicle approached near enough to the
toll-gate for Olive to take an observation of its occupant. This was a
middle-aged woman, dressed in black, holding a black fan. She wore a
black bonnet with a little bit of red in it. Her face was small and
pale, its texture and color suggesting a boiled apple dumpling. She had
small eyes of which it can be said that they were of a different color
from her face, and were therefore noticeable. Her lips were not
prominent, and were closely pressed together as if some one had begun to
cut a dumpling, but had stopped after making one incision.

This somewhat somber person leaned forward in the seat behind her young
driver, and steadily stared at Olive. When the horse had passed the
toll-bar the boy stopped it so that his passenger and Olive were face
to face and very near each other.

"Seven cents, please," said Olive.

The cleft in the dumpling enlarged itself, and the woman spoke. "Bless
my soul," she said, "are you Captain Asher's niece?"

"I am," said Olive in surprise.

"Well, well," said the other, "that just beats me! When I heard he had
his niece with him I thought she was a plain girl, with short frocks and
her hair plaited down her back."

Olive did not like this woman. It is wonderful how quickly likes and
dislikes may be generated.

"But you see I am not," she replied. "Seven cents, please."

"Don't you suppose I know what the toll is?" said the woman in the
carriage. "I'm sure I've traveled over this road often enough to know
that. But what I'm thinkin' about is the difference between what I
thought the captain's niece was and what she really is."

"It does not make any difference what the difference is," said Olive,
speaking quickly and with perhaps a little sharpness in her voice, "all
I want is for you to pay me the toll."

"I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other.

Olive's face flushed. "Little boy," she exclaimed, "back that horse!" As
the youngster obeyed her peremptory request Olive gave a quick jerk to a
rope and brought down the toll-gate bar so that it stretched itself
across the road, barely missing in its downward sweep the nose of the
unoffending horse. "Now," said Olive, "if you are ready to pay your
toll you can go through this gate, and if you are not, you can turn
round and go back where you came from."

"I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other, "and I don't want to go
through the gate. I came to see Captain Asher.--Johnny, turn your horse
a little and let me get out. Then you can stop in the shade of this tree
and wait until I'm ready to go back.--I suppose the captain's in," she
said to Olive, "but if he isn't, I can wait."

"Oh, he's at home," said Olive, "and, of course, if I had known you were
coming to see him, I would not have asked you for your toll. This way,
please," and she stepped toward a gate in the garden hedge.

"When I've been here before," said the visitor, "I always went through
the tollhouse. But I suppose things is different now."

"This is the entrance for visitors," said Olive, holding open the gate.

Captain Asher had heard the voices, and had come out to his front door.
He shook hands with the newcomer, and then turned to Olive, who was
following her.

"This is my niece, my brother Alfred's daughter," he said, "and Olive,
let me introduce you to Miss Maria Port."

"She introduced herself to me," said Miss Port, "and tried to get seven
cents out of me by letting down the bar so that it nearly broke my
horse's nose. But we'll get to know each other better. She's very
different from what I thought she was."

"Most people are," said Captain Asher, as he offered a chair to Miss
Port in his parlor, and sat down opposite to her. Olive, who did not
care to hear herself discussed, quietly passed out of the room.

"Captain," said Miss Port, leaning forward, "how old is she, anyway?"

"About twenty," was the answer.

"And how long is she going to stay?"

"All summer, I hope," said Captain John.

"Well, she won't do it, I can tell you that," remarked Miss Port.
"She'll get tired enough of this place before the summer's out."

"We shall see about that," said the captain, "but she is not tired yet."

"And her mother's dead, and she's wearin' no mournin'."

"Why should she?" said the captain. "It would be a shame for a young
girl like her to be wearing black for two years."

"She's delicate, ain't she?"

"I have not seen any signs of it."

"What did her mother die of?"

"I never heard," said the captain; "perhaps it was the bubonic plague."

Miss Port pushed back her chair and drew her skirts about her.

"Horrible!" she exclaimed. "And you let that child come here!"

The captain smiled. "Perhaps it wasn't that," he said. "It might have
been an avalanche, and that is not catching."

Miss Port looked at him seriously. "It's a great pity she's so
handsome," she said.

"I don't think so; I am glad of it," replied the captain.

Miss Port heaved a sigh. "What that girl is goin' to need," she said,
"is a female guardeen."

"Would you like to take the place?" asked the captain with a grin.

At that instant it might have been supposed that a certain dumpling
which has been mentioned was made of very red apples and that its
covering of dough was somewhat thin in certain places. Miss Port's eyes
were bent for an instant upon the floor.

"That is a thing," she said, "which would need a great deal of

A sudden thrill ran through the captain which was not unlike a moment in
his past career when a gentle shudder had run through his ship as its
keel grazed an unsuspected sand-bar, and he had not known whether it was
going to stick fast or not; but he quickly got himself into deep water

"Oh, she is all right," said he briskly; "she has been used to taking
care of herself almost ever since she was born. And by the way, Miss
Port, did you know that Mr. Easterfield is at his home?"

Miss Port was not pleased with the sudden change in the conversation,
and she remembered, too, that in other days it had been the captain's
habit to call her Maria.

"I did not know he had a home," she answered. "I thought it was her'n.
But since you've mentioned it, I might as well say that it was about him
I came to see you. I heard that he came to town yesterday, and that her
carriage met him at the station, and drove him out to her house. I
hoped he had stopped a minute as he drove through your toll-gate, and
that you might have had a word with him, or at least a good look at him.
Mercy me!" she suddenly ejaculated, as a look of genuine disappointment
spread over her face; "I forgot. The coachman would have paid the toll
as he went to town, and there was no need of stoppin' as they went back.
I might have saved myself this trip."

The captain laughed. "It stands to reason that it might have been that
way," he said, "but it wasn't. He stopped, and I talked to him for about
five minutes."

The face of Miss Port now grew radiant, and she pulled her chair nearer
to Captain Asher. "Tell me," said she, "is he really anybody?"

"He is a good deal of a body," answered the captain. "I should say he is
pretty nearly six feet high, and of considerable bigness."

"Well!" exclaimed Miss Port, "I'd thought he was a little dried-up sort
of a mummy man that you might hang up on a nail and be sure you'd find
him when you got back. Did he talk?"

"Oh, yes," said the captain, "he talked a good deal."

"And what did he tell you?"

"He did not tell me anything, but he asked a lot of questions."

"What about?" said Miss Port quickly.

"Everything. Fishing, gunning, crops, weather, people."

"Well, well!" she exclaimed. "And don't you suppose his wife could have
told him all that, and she's been livin' here--this is the second
summer. Did he say how long he's goin' to stay?"


"And you didn't ask him?"

"I told you he asked the questions," replied the captain.

"Well, I wish I'd been here," Miss Port remarked fervently. "I'd got
something out of him."

"No doubt of that," thought the captain, but he did not say so.

"If he expects to pass himself off as just a common man," continued Miss
Port, "that's goin' to spend the rest of his summer here with his
family, he can't do it. He's first got to explain why he never came near
that young woman and her two babies for the whole of last summer, and,
so far as I've heard, he was never mentioned by her. I think, Captain
Asher, that for the sake of the neighborhood, if you don't care about
such things yourself, you might have made use of this opportunity. As
far as I know, you're the only person in or about Glenford that's spoke
to him."

The captain smiled. "Sometimes, I suppose," said he, "I don't say
enough, and sometimes I say too much, but--"

"Then I wish he'd struck you more on an average," interrupted Miss Port.
"But there's no use talkin' any more about it. I hired a horse and a
carriage and a boy to come out here this mornin' to ask you about that
man. And what's come of it? You haven't got a single thing to tell
anybody except that he's big."

The captain changed the subject again. "How is your father?" he asked.

"Pop's just the same as he always is," was the answer. "And now, as I
don't want to lose the whole of the seventy-five cents I've got to pay,
suppose you call in that niece of yours, and let me have a talk with
her. Perhaps I can get something interesting out of her."

The captain left the room, but he did not move with alacrity. He found
Olive with a book in a hammock at the back of the house. When he told
her his errand she sat up with a sudden bounce, her feet upon the

"Uncle," she said, "isn't that woman a horrid person?"

The captain was a merry-minded man, and he laughed. "It is pretty hard
for me to answer that question," said he; "suppose you go in and find
out for yourself."

Olive hesitated; she was a girl who had a very high opinion of herself
and a very low opinion of such a person as this Miss Port seemed to be.
Why should she go in and talk to her? Still undecided, she left the
hammock and made a few steps toward the house. Then, with a sudden
exclamation, she stopped and dropped her book.

"Buggy coming," she exclaimed, "and that thing is running to take the
toll!" With these words she started away with the speed of a colt.

An approaching buggy was on the road; Miss Maria Port, walking rapidly,
had nearly reached the back door of the tollhouse when Olive swept by
her so closely that the wind of her fluttering garments almost blew
away the breath of the elder woman.

"Seven cents!" cried Olive, standing in the covered doorway, but she
might have saved herself the trouble of repeating this formula, for the
man in the buggy was not near enough to hear her.

When Olive saw it was a man, she turned, and perceiving her uncle
approaching the tollhouse, she hurried by him up the garden path,
looking neither to the right nor to the left.

"A pretty girl that is of yours!" exclaimed Miss Port. "She might just
as well have slapped me in the face!"

"But what were you going to do in here?" asked Captain Asher. "You know
that's against the rules."

"The rules be bothered," replied the irate Maria. "I thought it was Mr.
Smiley. He's been away from his parish for a week, and there are a good
many things I want to ask him."

"Well, it is the Roman Catholic priest from Marlinsville," said Captain
Asher, "and he wouldn't tell you anything if you asked him."

The captain had a cheerful little chat with the priest, who was one of
his most valued road friends; and when he returned to his garden he
found Miss Port walking up and down the main path in a state of

"I should think," said she, "that the company would have something to
say about your takin' up your time talkin' to people on the road. I've
heard that sometimes they get out, and spend hours talkin' and smokin'
with you. I guess that's against the rules."

"It is all right between the company and me," replied the captain. "You
know I am a stockholder in a small way."

"You are!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Well, I've got somethin' by comin'
here, anyway." Stowing away this bit of information in regard to the
captain's resources in her mind for future consideration, she continued:
"I don't think much of that niece of your'n. Has she never lived
anywhere where the people had good manners?"

Olive, who had gone to her room in order to be out of the way of this
queer visitor, now sat by an upper window, and it was impossible that
she should fail to hear this remark, made by Miss Port in her most
querulous tones. Olive immediately left the window, and sat down on the
other side of the room.

"Good manners!" she ejaculated, and fell to thinking. Her present
situation had suddenly presented itself to her in a very different light
from that in which she had previously regarded it. She was living in a
very plain house in a very plain way, with a very plain uncle who kept a
tollhouse; but she liked him; and, until this moment, she had liked the
life. But now she asked herself if it were possible for her longer to
endure it if she were to be condemned to intercourse with people like
that thing down in the garden. If her uncle's other friends in Glenford
were of that grade she could not stay here. She smiled in spite of her
irritation as she thought of the woman's words--"Anywhere where the
people had good manners."

Good manners, indeed! She remembered the titled young officers in
Germany with whom she had talked and danced when she was but seventeen
years old, and who used to send her flowers. She remembered the people
of rank in the army and navy and in the state who used to invite her
mother and herself to their houses. She remembered the royal prince who
had wished to be presented to her, and whose acquaintance she had
declined because she did not like what she had heard of him. She
remembered the good friends of her father in Europe and America, ladies
and gentlemen of the army and navy. She remembered the society in which
she had mingled when living with her Boston aunt during the past winter.
Then she thought of Miss Port's question. Good manners, indeed!

"Well," said the perturbed Maria, after having been informed by the
captain that his niece was accustomed to move in the best circles, "I
don't want to go into the house again, for if I was to meet her, I'm
sure I couldn't keep my temper. But I'll say this to you, Captain Asher,
that I pity the woman that's her guardeen. And now, if you'll help my
boy turn round so he won't upset the carriage, I'll be goin'. But before
I go I'll just say this, that if you'd been in the habit of takin'
advantage of the chances that come to you, I believe that you'd be a
good deal better off than you are now, even if you do own shares in the
turnpike company."

It was not difficult for the captain to recognize some of the chances to
which she alluded; one of them she herself had offered him several

"Oh, I am very well off as I am," he answered, "but perhaps some day I
may have something to tell you of the Easterfields and about their
doings up on the mountain."

"About her doin's, you might as well say," retorted Miss Port. "No
matter what you tell me, I don't believe a word about his ever doin'
anything." With this she walked to the little phaeton, into which the
captain helped her.

"Uncle John," said Olive, a few minutes later, "are there many people
like that in Glenford?"

"My dear child," said the captain, "the people in Glenford, the most of
them, I mean, are just as nice people as you would want to meet. They
are ladies and gentlemen, and they are mighty good company. They don't
often come out here, to be sure, but I know most of them, and I ought to
be ashamed of myself that I have not made you acquainted with them
before this. As to Maria Port, there is only one of her in Glenford,
and, so far as I know, there isn't another just like her in the whole
world. Now I come to think of it," he continued, "I wonder why some of
the young people have not come out to call on you. But if that Maria
Port has been going around telling them that you are a little girl in
short frocks it is not so surprising."

"Oh, don't bother yourself, Uncle John, about calls and society," said
Olive. "If you can only manage that that woman takes the shunpike
whenever she drives this way, I shall be perfectly satisfied with
everything just as it is."


_Mrs. Easterfield._

On the side of the mountain, a few miles to the west of the gap to which
the turnpike stretched itself, there was a large estate and a large
house which had once belonged to the Sudley family. For a hundred years
or more the Sudleys had been important people in this part of the
country, but it had been at least two decades since any of them had
lived on this estate. Some of them had gone to cities and towns, and
others had married, or in some other fashion had melted away so that
their old home knew them no more.

Although it was situated on the borders of the Southern country, the
house, which was known as Broadstone, from the fact that a great flat
rock on the level of the surrounding turf extended itself for many feet
at the front of the principal entrance, was not constructed after
ordinary Southern fashions. Some of the early Sudleys were of English
blood and proclivities, and so it was partly like an English house; some
of them had taken Continental ideas into the family, and there was a
certain solidity about the walls; while here and there the narrowness of
the windows suggested southern Europe. Some parts of the great stone
walls had been stuccoed, and some had been whitewashed. Here and there
vines climbed up the walls and stretched themselves under the eaves. As
the house stood on a wide bluff, there was a lawn from which one could
see over the tree tops the winding river sparkling far below. There were
gardens and fields on the open slopes, and beyond these the forests rose
to the top of the mountains.

The ceilings of the house were high, and the halls and rooms were wide
and airy; the trees on the edge of the woods seemed always to be
rustling in a wind from one direction or another, and a lady; Mrs.
Easterfield; who several years before had been traveling in that part of
the country; declared that Broadstone was the most delightful place for
a summer residence that she had ever seen, either in this country or
across the ocean. So, with the consent and money of her husband, she had
bought the estate the summer before the time of our story, and had gone
there to live.

Mr. Easterfield was what is known as a railroad man, and held high
office in many companies and organizations. When his wife first went to
Broadstone he was obliged to spend the summer in Europe, and had agreed
with her that the estate on the mountains would be the best place for
her and the two little girls while he was away. This state of affairs
had occasioned a good deal of talk, especially in Glenford, a town with
which the Easterfields had but little to do, and which therefore had
theorized much in order to explain to its own satisfaction the conduct
of a comparatively young married woman who was evidently rich enough to
spend her summers at any of the most fashionable watering-places, but
who chose to go with her young family to that old barracks of a house,
and who had a husband who never came near her or his children, and who,
so far as the Glenford people knew, she never mentioned.

Mrs. Margaret Easterfield was a very fine woman, both to look at and to
talk to, but she did not believe that her duty to her fellow-beings
demanded that she should devote her first summer months at her new place
to the gratification of the eyes and ears of her friends and
acquaintances, so she had gone to Broadstone with her family--all
females--with servants enough, and for the whole of the summer they had
all been very happy.

But this summer things were going to be a little different at
Broadstone, for Mrs. Easterfield had arranged for some house parties.
Her husband was very kind and considerate about her plans, and promised
her that he would make one of the good company at Broadstone whenever it
was possible for him to do so.

So now it happened that he had come to see his wife and children and the
house in which they lived; and, having had some business at a railroad
center in the South, he had come through Glenford, which was unusual, as
the intercourse between Broadstone and the great world was generally
maintained through the gap in the mountains.

With his wife by his side and a little girl on each shoulder, Mr. Tom
Easterfield walked through the grounds and the gardens and out on the
lawn, and looked down over the tops of the trees upon the river which
sparkled far below, and he said to his wife that if she would let him do
it he would send a landscape-gardener, with a great company of Italians,
and they would make the place a perfect paradise in about five days.

"It could be ruined a great deal quicker by an army of locusts," she
said, "and so, if you do not mind, I think I will wait for the locusts."

It was not time yet for any of the members of the house parties to make
their appearance, and it was the general desire of his family that Mr.
Easterfield should remain until some of the visitors arrived, but he
could not gratify them. Three days after his arrival he was obliged to
be in Atlanta; and so, soon after breakfast one fine morning, the
Easterfield carriage drove over the turnpike to the Glenford station,
Mr. and Mrs. Easterfield on the back seat, and the two little girls
sitting opposite, their feet sticking out straight in front of them.

When they stopped at the toll-gate Captain Asher came down to collect
the toll--ten cents for two horses and a carriage. Olive was sitting in
the little arbor, reading. She had noticed the approaching equipage and
saw that there was a lady in it, but for some reason or other she was
not so anxious as she had been to collect toll from ladies. If she could
have arranged the matter to suit herself she would have taken toll from
the male travelers, and her Uncle John might attend to the women; she
did not believe that men would have such absurd ideas about people or
ask ridiculous questions.

There was no conversation at the gate on this occasion, for the
carriage was a little late, but as it rolled on Mrs. Margaret said to
Mr. Tom:

"It seems to me as though I have just had a glimpse of Dresden. What do
you suppose could have suggested that city to me?"

Mr. Tom could not imagine, unless it was the dust. She laughed, and said
that he had dust and ballast and railroads on the brain; and when the
oldest little girl asked what that meant, Mrs. Margaret told her that
the next time her father came home she would make him sit down on the
floor and then she would draw on that great bald spot of his head, which
they had so often noticed, a map of the railroad lines in which he was
concerned, and then his daughters would understand why he was always
thinking of railroad-tracks and that sort of thing with the inside of
his head, which, as she had told them, was that part of a person with
which he did his thinking.

"Don't they sell some sort of annual or monthly tickets for this
turnpike?" asked Mr. Tom. "If they do, you would save yourself the
trouble of stopping to pay toll and make change."

"I so seldom use this road," she said, "that it would not be worth
while. One does not stop on returning, you know."

But notwithstanding this speech, when Mrs. Easterfield returned from the
Glenford station, one little girl sitting beside her and the other one
opposite, both of them with their feet sticking out, she ordered her
coachman to stop when he reached the toll-gate.

Olive was still sitting in the arbor, reading. The captain was not
visible, and the wooden-faced Jane, noticing that the travelers were a
lady and two little girls, did not consider that she had any right to
interfere with Miss Olive's prerogatives; so that young lady felt
obliged to go to the toll-gate to see what was wanted.

"You know you do not have to pay going back," she said.

"I know that," answered Mrs. Easterfield, "but I want to ask about
tickets or monthly payments of toll, or whatever your arrangements are
for that sort of thing."

"I really do not know," said Olive, "but I will go and ask about it."

"But stop one minute," exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield, leaning over the side
of the carriage. "Is it your father who keeps this toll-gate?"

For some reason or other which she could not have explained to herself,
Olive felt that it was incumbent upon her to assert herself, and she
answered: "Oh, no, indeed. My father is Lieutenant-Commander Alfred
Asher, of the cruiser Hopatcong."

Without another word Mrs. Easterfield pushed open the door of the
carriage and stepped to the ground, exclaiming: "As I passed this
morning I knew there was something about this place that brought back to
my mind old times and old friends, and now I see what it was; it was
you. I caught but one glimpse of you and I did not know you. But it was
enough. I knew your father very well when I was a girl, and later I was
with him and your mother in Dresden. You were a girl of twelve or
thirteen, going to school, and I never saw much of you. But it is either
your father or your mother that I saw in your face as you sat in that
arbor, and I knew the face, although I did not know who owned it. I am
Mrs. Easterfield, but that will not help you to know me, for I was not
married when I knew your father."

Olive's eyes sparkled as she took the two hands extended to her. "I
don't remember you at all," she said, "but if you are the friend of my
father and mother--"

"Then I am to be your friend, isn't it?" interrupted Mrs. Easterfield.

"I hope so," answered Olive.

"Now, then," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I want you to tell me how in the
world you come to be here."

There were two stools in the tollhouse, and Olive, having invited her
visitor to seat herself on the better one, took the other, and told Mrs.
Easterfield how she happened to be there.

"And that handsome elderly man who took the toll this morning is your

"Yes, my father's only brother," said Olive.

"A good deal older," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Oh, yes, but I do not know how much."

"And you call him captain. Was he also in the navy?"

"No," said Olive, "he was in the merchant service, and has retired. It
seems queer that he should be keeping a toll-gate, but my father has
often told me that Uncle John does not care for appearances, and likes
to do things that please him. He likes to keep the tollhouse because it
brings him in touch with the world."

"Very sensible in him," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think I would like to
keep a toll-gate myself."

Captain Asher had seen the carriage stop, and knew that Mrs. Easterfield
was talking to Olive, but he did not think himself called upon to
intrude upon them. But now it was necessary for him to go to the
tollhouse. Two men in a buggy with a broken spring and a coffee bag laid
over the loins of an imperfectly set-up horse had been waiting for
nearly a minute behind Mrs. Easterfield's carriage, desiring to pay
their toll and pass through. So the captain went out of the garden-gate,
collected the toll from the two men, and directed them to go round the
carriage and pass on in peace, which they did.

Then Mrs. Easterfield rose from her stool, and approached the tollhouse
door, and, as a matter of course, the captain was obliged to step
forward and meet her. Olive introduced him to the lady, who shook hands
with him very cordially.

"I have found the daughter of an old friend," said she, and then they
all went into the tollhouse again, where the two ladies reseated
themselves, and after some explanatory remarks Mrs. Easterfield said:

"Now, Captain Asher, I must not stay here blocking up your toll-gate all
the morning, but I want to ask of you a very great favor. I want you to
let your niece come and make me a visit. I want a good visit--at least
ten days. You must remember that her father and I, and her mother, too,
were very good friends. Now there are so many things I want to talk over
with Miss Olive, and I am sure you will let me have her just for ten
short days. There are no guests at Broadstone yet, and I want her. You
do not know how much I want her."

Captain Asher stood up tall and strong, his broad shoulders resting
against the frame of the open doorway. It was a positive delight to him
to stand thus and look at such a beautiful woman. So far as he could
see, there was nothing about her with which to find fault. If she had
been a ship he would have said that her lines were perfect, spars and
rigging just as he would have them. In addition to her other
perfections, she was large enough. The captain considered himself an
excellent judge of female beauty, and he had noticed that a great many
fine women were too small. With Olive's personal appearance he was
perfectly satisfied, although she was slight, but she was young, and
would probably expand. If he had had a daughter he would have liked her
to resemble Mrs. Easterfield, but that feeling did not militate in the
least against Olive. In his mind it was not necessary for a niece to be
quite as large as a daughter ought to be.

"But what does Olive say about it?" he asked.

"I have not been asked yet," replied Olive, "but it seems to me that

"Would like to do it," interrupted Mrs. Easterfield. "Now, isn't that
so, dear Olive?"

The girl looked at the captain. "It depends upon what you say about it,
Uncle John."

The captain slightly knitted his brows. "If it were for one night, or
perhaps a couple of days," he said, "it would be different. But what am
I to do without Olive for nearly two weeks? I am just beginning to
learn what a poor place my house would be without her."

At this minute a man upon a rapidly trotting pony stopped at the

"Excuse me one minute," continued the captain, "here is a person who can
not wait," and stepping outside he said good morning to a bright-looking
young fellow riding a sturdy pony and wearing on his cap a metal plate
engraved "United States Rural Delivery."

The carrier brought but one letter to the tollhouse, and that was for
Captain Asher himself. As the man rode away the captain thought he might
as well open his letter before he went back. This would give the ladies
a chance to talk further over the matter. He read the letter, which was
not long, put it in his pocket, and then entered the tollhouse. There
was now no doubt or sign of disturbance on his features.

"I have considered your invitation, madam," said he, "and as I see Olive
wants to visit you, I shall not interfere."

"Of course she does," cried Mrs. Easterfield, springing to her feet,
"and I thank you ever and ever so much, Captain Asher. And now, my
dear," said she to Olive, "I am going to send the carriage for you
to-morrow morning." And with this she put her arm around the girl and
kissed her. Then, having warmly shaken hands with the captain, she

"Do you know, Uncle John," said Olive, "I believe if you were twenty
years older she would have kissed you."

With a grim smile the captain considered; would he have been willing to
accept those additional years under the circumstances? He could not
immediately make up his mind, and contented himself with the reflection
that Olive did not think him old enough for the indiscriminate caresses
of young people.


_The Son of an Old Shipmate._

When Olive came down to breakfast the next morning she half repented
that she had consented to go away and leave her uncle for so long a
time. But when she made known her state of mind the captain laughed at

"My child," said he, "I want you to go. Of course, I did not take to the
notion at first, but I did not consider then what you will have to tell
when you come home. The people of Glenford will be your everlasting
debtors. It might be a good thing to invite Maria Port out here. You
could give her the best time she ever had in her life, telling her about
the Broadstone people."

"Maria Port, indeed!" said Olive. "But we won't talk of her. And you
really are willing I should go?"

"I speak the truth when I say I want you to go," replied the captain.

Whereupon Olive assured him that he was truly a good uncle.

After the Easterfield carriage had rolled away with Olive alone on the
back seat, waving her handkerchief, the captain requested Jane to take
entire charge of the toll-gate for a time; and, having retired to his
own room, he took from his pocket the letter he had received the day

"I must write an answer to this," he said, "before the postman comes."

The letter was from one of the captain's old shipmates, Captain Richard
Lancaster, the best friend he had had when he was in the merchant
service. Captain Lancaster had often been asked by his old friend to
visit him at the toll-gate, but, being married and rheumatic, he had
never accepted the invitation. But now he wrote that his son, Dick, had
planned a holiday trip which would take him through Glenford, and that,
if it suited Captain Asher, the father would accept for the son the
long-standing invitation. Captain Lancaster wrote that as he could not
go himself to his old friend Asher, the next best thing would be for his
son to go, and when the young man returned he could tell his father all
about Captain Asher. There would be something in that like old times.
Besides, he wanted his former shipmate to know his son Dick, who was, in
his eyes, a very fine young fellow.

"There never was such a lucky thing in the world," said Captain Asher to
himself, when he had finished rereading the letter. "Of course, I want
to have Dick Lancaster's son here, but I could not have had him if Olive
had been here. But now it is all right. The young fellow can stay here a
few days, and he will be gone before she gets back. If I like him I can
ask him to come again; but that's my business. Handsome women, like that
Mrs. Easterfield, always bring good luck. I have noticed that many and
many a time."

Then he set himself to work to write a letter to invite young Richard
Lancaster to spend a few days with him.

For the rest of that day, and the greater part of the next, Captain
Asher gave a great deal of thinking time to the consideration of the
young man who was about to visit him, and of whom, personally, he knew
very little. He was aware that Captain Lancaster had a son and no other
children, and he was quite sure that this son must now be a grown-up
young man. He remembered very well that Captain Lancaster was a fine
young fellow when he first knew him, and he did not doubt at all that
the son resembled the father. He did not believe that young Dick was a
sailor, because he and old Dick had often said to each other that if
they married their sons should not go to sea. Of course he was in some
business; and Captain Lancaster ought to be well able to give him a good
start in life; just as able as he himself was to give Olive a good start
in housekeeping when the time came.

"Now, what in the name of common sense," ejaculated Captain Asher, "did
I think of that for? What has he to do with Olive, or Olive with him?"
And then he said to himself, thinking of the young man in the bosom of
his family and without reference to anybody outside of it: "Yes, his
father must be pretty well off. He did a good deal more trading than
ever I did. But after all, I don't believe he invested his money any
better than I did mine, and it is just as like as not if we were to show
our hands, that Olive would get as much as Dick's son. There it is
again. I can't keep my mind off the thing." And as he spoke he knocked
the ashes out of his pipe, and began to stride up and down the garden
walk; and as he did so he began to reproach himself.

What right had he to think of his niece in that way? It was not doing
the fair thing by her father, and perhaps by her, for that matter. For
all he knew she might be engaged to somebody out West or down East, or
in some other part of the world where she had lived. But this idea made
very little impression on him. Knowing Olive as he did, he did not
believe that she was engaged to anybody anywhere; he did not want to
think that she was the kind of girl who would conceal her engagement
from him, or who could do it, for that matter. But, everything
considered, he was very glad Olive had gone to Broadstone, for, whatever
the young fellow might happen to be, he wanted to know all about him
before Olive met him.

Captain Asher firmly believed that there was nothing of the matchmaker
in his disposition, but notwithstanding this estimate of himself, he
went on thinking of Olive and the son of his old shipmate, both
separately and together. He had never said to anybody, nor intimated to
anybody, that he was going to give any of his moderate fortune to his
niece. In fact, before this visit to him he had not thought much about
it, nor did it enter his mind that Olive's Boston aunt, her mother's
sister, had favored this visit of the girl to her toll-gate uncle,
hoping that he might think about it.

In consequence of these cogitations, and in spite of the fact that he
despised matchmaking, Captain Asher was greatly interested in the coming
advent of his shipmate's son.

When the same phaeton, the same horse, and the same boy that had brought
Maria Port to the tollhouse, conveyed there a young man with two
valises, one rather large, Captain Asher did not hurry from the house to
meet his visitor. He had seen him coming, and had preferred to stand in
his doorway and take a preliminary observation of him. Having taken
this, Captain Asher was obliged to confess to himself that he was

The first cause of his disappointment was the fact that the young man
wore a colored shirt and no vest, and a yellow leather belt. Now,
Captain Asher for the greater part of his active life had worn colored
shirts, sometimes very dark ones, with no vests, but he had not supposed
that a young man coming to a house where there was a young lady
accustomed to the best society would present himself in such attire. The
captain instantly remembered that his visitor could not know that there
was a young lady at the house, but this did not satisfy him. Such attire
was not respectful, even to him. The leather belt especially offended
him. The captain was not aware of the _negligé_ summer fashions for men
which then prevailed.

The next thing that disappointed him was that young Lancaster, seen
across the garden, did not appear to be the strapping young fellow he
had expected to see. He was moderately tall, and moderately broad, and
handled his valise with apparent ease, but he did not look as though he
were his father's son. Dick Lancaster had married the daughter of a
captain when he was only a second mate, and that piece of good fortune
had been generally attributed to his good looks.

But these observations and reflections occupied a very short time, and
Captain Asher walked quickly to meet his visitor. As he stepped out of
the garden-gate he was disappointed again. The young man's trousers were
turned up above his shoes. The weather was not wet, there was no mud,
and if Dick Lancaster's son had not bought a pair of ready-made trousers
that were too long for him, why should he turn them up in that
ridiculous way?

In spite of these first impressions, the captain gave his old friend's
son a hearty welcome, and took him into the house. After dinner he
subjected the young man to a crucial test; he asked him if he smoked. If
the visitor had answered in the negative he would have dropped still
further in the captain's estimation. It was not that the captain had any
theories in regard to the sanitary advantages or disadvantages of
tobacco; he simply remembered that nearly all the rascals with whom he
had been acquainted had been eager to declare that they never used
tobacco in any form, and that nearly all the good fellows he had known
enjoyed their pipes. In fact, he could not see how good fellowship could
be maintained without good talk and good tobacco, so he waited with an
anxious interest for his guest's answer.

"Oh, yes," said he, "I am fond of a smoke, especially in company," and
so, having risen several inches in the good opinion of his host, he
followed him to the little arbor in the garden.

"Now, then," said Captain Asher, when his pipe was alight, "you have
told me a great deal about your father, now tell me something about
yourself. I do not even know what your business is."

"I am Assistant Professor of Theoretical Mathematics in Sutton College,"
answered the young man.

Captain Asher put down his pipe and gazed at his visitor across the
arbor. This answer was so different from anything he had expected that
for the moment he could not express his astonishment, and was obliged to
content himself with asking where Sutton College was.

"It is what they call a fresh-water college," replied the young man,
"and I do not wonder that you do not know where it is. It is near our
town. I graduated there and received my present appointment about three
years ago. I was then twenty-seven."

"Your father was good at mathematics," said Captain Asher. "He was a
great hand at calculations, but he went in for practise, as I did, and
not for theories. I suppose there are other professors who teach regular
working mathematics."

"Oh, yes," replied the young man, with a smile, "there is the Professor
of Applied Mathematics, but of course the thorough student wants to
understand the theories on which his practise is to be based."

"I do not see why he should," replied the other. "If a good ship is
launched for me, I don't care anything about the stocks she slides off

"Perhaps not," said Lancaster, "but somebody has to think about them."

In the afternoon Captain Asher showed his visitor his little farm, and
took him out fishing. During these recreations he refrained, as far as
possible, from asking questions, for he did not wish the young man to
suppose that for any reason he had been sent there to undergo an
examination. But in the evening he could not help talking about the
college, not in reference to the work and life of the students, a
subject that did not interest him, but in regard to the work and the
prospects of the faculty.

"What does your president teach?" he asked. "I believe all presidents
have charge of some branch or other."

"Oh, yes," said Lancaster, "our president is Professor of Mental and
Moral Philosophy."

"I thought it would be something of the kind," said the captain to
himself. "Even the head Professor of Mathematical Theories would never
get to the top of the heap. He is not useful enough for that."

After he had gone to bed that night Captain Asher found himself laughing
about the events of the day. He could not help it when he remembered how
his mind had been almost constantly occupied with a consideration of his
old shipmate's son with reference to his brother's daughter. And when he
remembered that neither of these two young people had ever seen or heard
of the other, it is not surprising that he laughed a little.

"It's none of my business, anyway," thought the captain, "and I might as
well stop bothering my head about it. I suppose I might as well tell
him about Olive, for it is nothing I need keep secret. But first I'll
see how long he is going to stay. It's none of his business, anyway,
whether I have a niece staying with me or not."


_Olive pays Toll._

It is needless to say that Olive was charmed with Broadstone; with its
mistress; with the two little girls; with the woods; the river; the
mountains; and even the sky; which seemed different from that same sky
when viewed from the tollhouse. She was charmed also with the rest of
the household, which was different from anything of that kind that she
had known, being composed entirely, with the exception of some servants,
of women and little girls. Olive, accustomed all her life to men, men,
men, grew rapturous over this Amazonian paradise.

"Don't be too enthusiastic," said Mrs. Easterfield; "for a while you may
like fresh butter without salt, but the longing for the condiment will
be sure to come."

There was Mrs. Blynn, the widow of a clergyman, with dark-brown eyes and
white hair, who was always in a good humor, who acted as the general
manager of the household, and also as particular friend to any one in
the house who needed her services in that way. Then there was Miss
Raleigh, who was supposed to be Mrs. Easterfield's secretary. She was a
slender spinster of forty or more, with sad eyes and very fine teeth.
She had dyspeptic proclivities, and never differed with anybody except
in regard to her own diet. She seldom wrote for Mrs. Easterfield, for
that lady did not like her handwriting, and she did not understand the
use of the typewriter; nor did she read to the lady of the house, for
Mrs. Easterfield could not endure to have anybody read to her. But in
all the other duties of a secretary she made herself very useful. She
saw that the books, which every morning were found lying about the
house, were put in their proper places on the shelves, and, if
necessary, she dusted them; if she saw a book turned upside down she
immediately set it up properly. She was also expected to exert a certain
supervision over the books the little girls were allowed to look at. She
was an excellent listener and an appropriate smiler; Mrs. Easterfield
frequently said that she never knew Miss Raleigh to smile in the wrong
place. She took a regular walk every day, eight times up and down the
whole length of the lawn.

Mrs. Easterfield gave herself almost entirely to the entertainment of
her guest. They roamed over the grounds, they found the finest points of
view, at which Olive was expert, being a fine climber, and they tramped
for long distances along the edge of the woods, where together they
killed a snake. Mrs. Easterfield also allowed Olive the great privilege
of helping her work in her garden of nature. This was a wide bed which
was almost entirely shaded by two large trees. The peculiarity about
this bed was that its mistress carefully pulled up all the flowering
plants and cultivated the weeds.

"You see," said she to Olive, "I planted here a lot of flower-seeds
which I thought would thrive in the shade, but they did not, and after a
while I found that they were all spindling and puny-looking, while the
weeds were growing as if they were out in the open sunshine, so I have
determined to acknowledge the principle of the survival of the fittest,
and whenever anything that looks like a flower shows itself I jerk it
out. I also thin out all but the best weeds. I hoe and rake the others,
and water them if necessary. Look at that splendid Jamestown weed--here
they call it jimson weed--did you ever see anything finer than that with
its great white blossoms and dark-green leaves? I expect it to be twice
as large before the summer is over. And all these others. See how
graceful they are, and what delicate flowers some of them have!"

"I wonder," said Olive, "if I should have had the strength of mind to
pull up my flowers and leave my weeds."

"The more you think about it," said Mrs. Easterfield, "the more you like
weeds. They have such fine physiques, and they don't ask anybody to do
anything for them. They are independent, like self-made men, and come up
of themselves. They laugh at disadvantages, and even bricks and
flagstones will not keep them down."

"But, after all," said Olive, "give me the flowers that can not take
care of themselves." And she turned toward a bed of carnations, bright
under the morning sun.

"Do you suppose, little girl," said Mrs. Easterfield, following her,
"that I do not like flowers because I do like weeds? Everything in its
place; weeds are for the shady spots, but I keep my flowers out of such
places. This flower, for instance," touching Olive on the cheek. "And
now let us go into the house and see what pleasant thing we can find to
do there."

In the afternoon the two ladies went out rowing on the river, and Mrs.
Easterfield was astonished at Olive's proficiency with the oar. She had
thought herself a good oarswoman, but she was nothing to Olive. She
good-naturedly acknowledged her inferiority, however. How could she
expect to compete with a navy girl? she said.

"Are you fond of swimming?" asked Olive, as she looked down into the
bright, clear water.

"Oh, very," said Mrs. Easterfield. "But I am not allowed to swim in this
river. It is considered dangerous."

Olive looked up in surprise. It seemed odd that there should be anything
that this bright, free woman was not allowed to do, or that there should
be anybody who would not allow it.

Then followed some rainy days, and the first clear day Mrs. Easterfield
told Olive that she would take her a drive in the afternoon.

"I shall drive you myself with my own horses," she said, "but you need
not be afraid, for I can drive a great deal better than I can row. We
must lose no time in seizing all the advantages of this Amazonian life,
for to-morrow some of our guests will arrive, the Foxes and Mr. Claude

"Who are the Foxes?" asked Olive.

"They are the pleasantest visitors that any one could have," was the
answer. "They always like everything. They never complain of being
cold, nor talk about the weather being hot. They are interested in all
games, and they like all possible kinds of food that one can give them
to eat. They are always ready to go to bed when they think they ought
to, and sit up just as long as they are wanted. Of course, they have
their own ideas about things, but they don't dispute. They take care of
themselves all the morning, and are ready for anything you want to do in
the afternoon or evening. They have two children at home, but they never
talk about them unless they are particularly asked to do so. They know a
great many people, and you can tell by the way they speak of them that
they won't talk scandal about you. In fact, they are model guests, and
they ought to open a school to teach the art of visiting."

"And what about Mr. Claude Locker?"

Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "Oh, he is different," she said; "he is so
different from the Poxes that words would not describe it. But you won't
be long in becoming acquainted with him."

The road over which the two ladies drove that afternoon was a beautiful
one, sometimes running close to the river under great sycamores, then
making a turn into the woods and among the rocks. At last they came to a
cross-road, which led away from the river, and here Mrs. Easterfield
stopped her horses.

"Now, Olive," said she, for she was now very familiar with her guest, "I
will leave the return route to you. Shall we go back by the river
road--and the scenery will be very different when going in the other
direction--or shall we drive over to Glenford, and go home by the
turnpike? That is a little farther, but the road is a great deal

"Oh, let us go that way," cried Olive. "We will go through Uncle John's
toll-gate, and you must let me pay the toll. It will be such fun to pay
toll to Uncle John, or old Jane."

"Very well," said Mrs. Easterfield, "we will go that way."

When the horses had passed through Glenford and had turned their heads
homeward, they clattered along at a fine rate over the smooth turnpike,
and Olive was in as high spirits as they were.

"Whoever comes out to take toll," said she, "I intend to be treated as
an ordinary traveler and nothing else. I have often taken toll, but I
never paid it in my life. And they must take it--no gratis traveling for
me. But I hope you won't mind stopping long enough for me to say a few
words after I have transacted the regular business."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Easterfield, "you can chat as much as you like. We
have plenty of time."

Olive held in her hand a quarter of a dollar; she was determined they
should make change for her, and that everything should be done properly.

Dick Lancaster sat in the garden arbor, reading. He was becoming a
little tired of this visit to his father's old friend. He liked Captain
Asher and appreciated his hospitality, but there was nothing very
interesting for him to do in this place, and he had thought that it
might be a very good thing if the several days for which he had been
invited should terminate on the morrow. There were some very attractive
plans ahead of him, and he felt that he had now done his full duty by
his father and his father's old friend.

Captain Asher was engaged with some matters about his little farm, and
Lancaster had asked as a favor that he might be allowed to tend the
toll-gate during his absence. It would be something to do, and,
moreover, something out of the way.

When he perceived the approach of Mrs. Easterfield's carriage Lancaster
walked down to the tollhouse, and stopped for a minute to glance over
the rates of toll which were pasted up inside the door as well as out.

The carriage stopped, and when a young man stepped out from the
tollhouse Olive gave a sudden start, and the words with which she had
intended to greet her uncle or old Jane instantly melted away.

"Don't push me out of the carriage," said Mrs. Easterfield,
good-naturedly, and she, too, looked at the young man.

"For two horses and a vehicle," said Dick Lancaster, "ten cents, if you

Olive made no answer, but handed him the quarter with which he retired
to make change. Mrs. Easterfield opened her mouth to speak, but Olive
put her finger on her lips and shook her head; the situation astonished
her, but she did not wish to ask that stranger to explain it.

Lancaster came out and dropped fifteen cents into Olive's hand. He could
not help regarding with interest the occupants of the carriage, and Mrs.
Easterfield looked hard at him. Suddenly Olive turned in her seat; she
looked at the house, she looked at the garden, she looked at the little
piazza by the side of the tollhouse. Yes, it was really the same place.
For an instant she thought she might have been mistaken, but there was
her window with the Virginia creeper under the sill where she had
trained it herself. Then she made a motion to her companion, who
immediately drove on.

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Who is that young
man? Why didn't you give me a chance to ask after the captain, even if
you did not care to do so?"

"I never saw him before!" cried Olive. "I never heard of him. I don't
understand anything about it. The whole thing shocked me, and I wanted
to get on."

"I don't think it a very serious matter," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Some
passer-by might have relieved your uncle for a time."

"Not at all, not at all," replied Olive. "Uncle John would never give
the toll-gate into the charge of a passer-by, especially as old Jane was
there. I know she was there, for the basement door was open, and she
never goes away and leaves it so. That man is somebody who is staying
there. I saw an open book on the arbor bench. Nobody reads in that arbor
but me."

"And that young man apparently," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I agree with
you that it is surprising."

For some minutes Olive did not speak. "I am afraid," she said,
presently, "that my uncle is not acting quite frankly with me. I noticed
how willing he was that I should go to your house."

"Perhaps he expected this person and wanted to get you out of the way,"
laughed Mrs. Easterfield.

"Well, my dear, I do not believe your uncle is such a schemer. He does
not look like it. Take my word for it, it will all be as simple as a-b-c
when it is explained to you."

But Olive could not readily take this view of the case, and the drive
home was not nearly so pleasant as it would have been if her uncle or
old Jane had taken her quarter and given her fifteen cents in change.

That night, soon after the family at Broadstone had retired to their
rooms, Olive knocked at the door of Mrs. Easterfield's chamber.

"Do you know," she exclaimed, when she had been told to enter, "that a
horrible idea has come into my head? Uncle John may have been taken
sick, and that man looked just like a doctor. Old Jane was busy with
uncle, and as the doctor had to wait, he took the toll. Oh, I wish we
had asked! It was cruel in me not to!"

"Now, that is all nonsense," said Mrs. Easterfield. "If anything serious
is the matter with your uncle he most surely would have let you know,
and, besides, both the doctors in Glenford are elderly men. I do not
believe there is the slightest reason for your anxiety. But to make you
feel perfectly satisfied, I will send a man to Glenford early in the
morning. I want to send there anyway."

"But I would not like my uncle to think that I was trying to find out
anything he did not care to tell me," said Olive.

"Oh, don't trouble yourself about that," answered Mrs. Easterfield. "I
will instruct the man. He need not ask any questions at the toll-gate.
But when he gets to Glenford he can find out everything about that
young man without asking any questions. He is a very discreet person.
And I am also a discreet person," she added, "and you shall have no
connection with my messenger's errand."

After breakfast the next morning Mrs. Easterfield took Olive aside. "My
man has returned," she said; "he tells me that Captain Asher took the
toll, and was smoking his pipe in perfect health. He also saw the young
man, and his natural curiosity prompted him to ask about him in the
town. He heard that he is the son of one of the captain's old shipmates
who is making him a visit. Now I hope this satisfies you."

"Satisfies me!" exclaimed Olive. "I should have been a great deal better
satisfied if I had heard he was sick, provided it was nothing dangerous.
I think my uncle is treating me shamefully. It is not that I care a snap
about his visitor, one way or another, but it is his want of confidence
in me that hurts me. Could he have supposed I should have wanted to stay
with him if I had known a young man was coming?"

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I can not send anybody to find
out what he supposed. But I am as certain as I can be certain of
anything that there is nothing at all in this bugbear you have conjured
up. No doubt the young man dropped in quite accidentally, and it was his
bad luck that prevented him from dropping in before you left."

Olive shook her head. "My uncle knew all about it. His manner showed it.
He has treated me very badly."


_Mr. Claude Locker._

The Foxes arrived at Broadstone at the exact hour of the morning at
which they had been expected. They always did this; even trains which
were sometimes delayed when other visitors came were always on time when
they carried the Foxes. They were both perfectly well and happy, as they
always were.

As rapidly as it was possible for human beings to do so they absorbed
the extraordinary advantages of the house and it surroundings, and they
said the right things in such a common-sense fashion that their hostess
was proud that she owned such a place, and happy that she had invited
them to see it.

In their hearts they liked everything about the place except Olive, and
they wondered how they were going to get along with such a glum young
person, but they did not talk about her to Mrs. Easterfield; there was
too much else.

Mr. Claude Locker was expected on the train by which the Foxes had come,
but he did not arrive; and this made it necessary to send again for him
in the afternoon.

Mrs. Easterfield tried very hard to cheer up Olive, and to make her
entertain the Foxes in her usual lively way, but this was of no use;
the young person was not in a good humor, and retired for an afternoon
nap. But as this was an indulgence she very seldom allowed herself, it
was not likely that she napped.

Mr. Fox spoke to Mrs. Fox about her. "A queer girl," he said; "what do
you suppose is the matter with her?"

"The symptoms are those of green apples," replied Mrs. Fox, "and
probably she will be better to-morrow."

The carriage came back without Mr. Locker. But just as the soup-plates
were being removed from the dinner-table he arrived in a hired vehicle,
and appeared at the dining-room door with his hat in one hand, and a
package in the other. He begged Mrs. Easterfield not to rise.

"I will slip up to my room," said he, "if you have one for me, and when
I come down I will greet you and be introduced."

With this he turned and left the room, but was back in a moment. "It was
a woman," he said, "who was at the bottom of it. It is always a woman,
you know, and I am sure you will excuse me now that you know this. And
you must let me begin wherever you may be in the dinner."

"I have heard of Mr. Locker," said Mr. Fox, "but I never met him before.
He must be very odd."

"He admits that himself," said Mrs. Easterfield, "but he asserts that he
spends a great deal of his time getting even with people."

In a reasonable time Mr. Locker appeared and congratulated himself upon
having struck the roast.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "we will now all begin dinner together.
What has gone before was nothing but overture. If I can help it I never
get in until the beginning of the play."

He bowed parenthetically as Mrs. Easterfield introduced him to the
company; and, as she looked at him, Olive forgot for a moment her uncle
and his visitor.

"Don't send for soup, I beg of you," said Mr. Locker, as he took his
seat. "I regard it as a rare privilege to begin with the inside cut of

Mr. Locker was not allowed to do all the talking; his hostess would not
permit that; but under the circumstances he was allowed to explain his

"You know I have been spending a week with the Bartons," he said, "and
last night I came over from their house to the station in a carriage.
There is a connecting train, but I should have had to take it very early
in the evening, so I saved time by hiring a carriage."

"Saved time?" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield.

"I saved all the time from dinner until the Bartons went to bed, which
would have been lost if I had taken the train. Besides, I like to travel
in carriages. One is never too late for a carriage; it is always bound
to wait for you."

In the recesses of his mind Mr. Fox now said to himself, "This is a
fool." And Mrs. Fox, in the recesses of her mind, remarked, "I am quite
sure that Mr. Fox will look upon this young man as a fool."

"I spent what was left of the night at a tavern near the station,"
continued Mr. Locker, "where I would have had to stay all night if I
had not taken the carriage. And I should have been in plenty of time for
the morning train if I had not taken a walk before breakfast. Apparently
that is a part of the world where it takes a good deal longer to go back
to a place than it does to get away from it."

"But where did the woman come in?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"Oh, she came in with some tea and sandwiches in the middle of the
afternoon," said Mr. Locker. "I was waiting in the parlor of the tavern.
She was fairly young, and as I ate she stood and talked. She talked
about Horace Walpole." At this even Olive smiled. "It was odd, wasn't
it?" continued Mr. Locker, glancing from one to the other. "But that is
what she did. She had been reading about him in an old book. She asked
me if I knew anything about him, and I told her a great deal. It was so
very interesting to tell her, and she was so interested, that when the
train arrived I was too much occupied to think that it might start again
immediately, but it did that very thing, and so I was left. However, the
Walpole young woman told me there was a freight-train along in about an
hour, and so we continued our conversation. When this train came I asked
the engineer how many cigars he would take to let me ride in the cab. He
said half a dozen, but as I only had five, I promised to send him the
other by mail. However, as I smoked two of his five, I suppose I ought
to send him three."

"This young man," said Mr. Fox to himself, "is trying to appear more of
a fool than he really is."

"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Fox to herself, "that Mr. Fox is of the
opinion that this young man is making an effort to appear foolish."

That evening was a dull one. Mrs. Easterfield did her best, Claude
Locker did his best, and Mr. and Mrs. Fox did their best to make things
lively, but their success was poor. Miss Raleigh, the secretary, sat
ready to give an approving smile to any liveliness which might arise,
and Mrs. Blynn, with the dark eyes and soft white hair, sat sewing and
waiting; never before had it been necessary for her to wait for
liveliness in Mrs. Easterfield's house. A mild rain somewhat assisted
the dullness, for everybody was obliged to stay indoors.

Early the next morning Olive Asher went down-stairs, and stood in the
open doorway looking out upon the landscape, glowing in the sunshine and
brighter and more odorous from the recent rain. Some time during the
night this young woman had made up her mind to give no further thought
to her uncle who kept the toll-gate. There was no earthly reason why he,
or anything he wanted to do, or did not want to do, or did, should
trouble and annoy her. A few months before she had scarcely known him,
not having seen him since she was a girl; and, in fact, he was no more
to her now than he was before she went to his house. If he chose to
offer her any explanation of his strange conduct, that would be very
well; if he did not choose, that would also be very well. The whole
affair was of no consequence; she would drop it entirely from her mind.

Olive's bounding spirits now rose very high, and when Claude Locker came
in with his shoes soaked from a tramp in the wet grass she greeted him
in such a way that he could scarcely believe she was the grumpy girl of
the day before. As they went into breakfast Mrs. Fox remarked to her
husband in a low voice that Miss Asher seemed to have recovered entirely
from her indisposition.

In the course of the morning Mr. Locker found an opportunity to speak in
private with Mrs. Easterfield. "I am in great trouble," he said; "I want
to marry Miss Asher."

"You show unusual promptness," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Not at all," replied Locker. "This sort of thing is not unusual with
me. My mind is a highly sensitive plate, and receives impressions almost
instantaneously. If it were a large mind these impressions might be
placed side by side, and each one would perhaps become indelible. But it
is small, and each impression claps itself down on the one before. This
last one, however, is the strongest of them all, and obliterates
everything that went before."

"It strikes me," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that if you were to pay more
attention to your poems and less to young ladies it would be better."

"Hardly," said Mr. Locker; "for it would be worse for the poems."

The general appearance of Mr. Locker gave no reason to suppose that he
would be warranted in assuming a favorable issue from any of the
impressions to which his mind was so susceptible. He was small, rather
awkwardly set up, his head was large, and the features of his face
seemed to have no relation to each other. His nose was somewhat stubby,
and had nothing to do with his mouth or eyes. One of his eyebrows was
drawn down as if in days gone by he had been in the habit of wearing a
single glass. The other brow was raised over a clear and wide-open
light-blue eye. His mouth was large, and attended strictly to its own
business. It transmitted his odd ideas to other people, but it never
laughed at them. His chin was round and prominent, suggesting that it
might have been borrowed from somebody else. His cheeks were a little
heavy, and gave no assistance in the expression of his ideas.

His profession was that of a poet. He called himself a practical poet,
because he made a regular business of it, turning his poetic
inspirations into salable verse with the facility and success, as he
himself expressed it, of a man who makes boxes out of wood. Moreover, he
sold these poems as readily as any carpenter sold his boxes. Like
himself, Claude Locker's poems were always short, always in request, and
sometimes not easy to understand.

The poem he wrote that night was a word-picture of the rising moon
entangled in a sheaf of corn upon a hilltop, with a long-eared rabbit
sitting near by as if astonished at the conflagration.

"A very interesting girl, that Miss Asher," said Mr. Fox to his wife
that evening. "I do not know when I have laughed so much."

"I thought you were finding her interesting," said Mrs. Fox. "To me it
was like watching a game of roulette at Monte Carlo. It was intensely
interesting, but I could not imagine it as having anything to do with

"No, my dear," said Mr. Fox, "it could have nothing to do with you."

After Mrs. Easterfield retired she sat for a long time, thinking of
Olive. That young person and Mr. Locker had been boating that afternoon,
and Olive had had the oars. Mr. Locker had told with great effect how
she had pulled to get out of the smooth water, and how she had dashed
over the rapids and between the rocks in such a way as to make his heart
stand still.

"I should like to go rowing with her every day," he had remarked
confidentially. "Each time I started I should make a new will."

"Why a new one?" Mrs. Easterfield had asked.

"Each time I should take something more from my relatives to give to
her," had been the answer.

As she sat and thought, Mrs. Easterfield began to be a little
frightened. She was a brave woman, but it is the truly brave who know
when they should be frightened, and she felt her responsibility, not on
account of the niece of the toll-gate keeper, but on account of the
daughter of Lieutenant Asher, whom she had once known so well. The thing
which frightened her was the possibility that before anybody would be
likely to think of such a thing Olive might marry Claude Locker. He was
always ready to do anything he wanted to do at any time; and for all
Mrs. Easterfield knew, the girl might be of the same sort.

But Mrs. Easterfield rose to the occasion. She looked upon Olive as a
wild young colt who had broken out of her paddock, but she remembered
that she herself had a record for speed. "If there is to be any running
I shall get ahead of her," she said to herself, "and I will turn her
back. I think I can trust myself for that."

Olive slept the sound sleep of the young, but for all that she had a
dream. She dreamed of a kind, good, thoughtful, and even affectionate,
middle-aged man; a man who looked as though he might have been her
father, and whom she was beginning to look upon as a father,
notwithstanding the fact that she had a real father dressed in a uniform
and on a far-away ship. She dreamed ever so many things about this
newer, although elder, father, and her dream made her very happy.

But in the morning when she woke her dream had entirely passed from her
mind, and she felt just as much like a colt as when she had gone to bed.


_The Captain and his Guest go Fishing and come Home Happy._

When Dick Lancaster told Captain Asher he had taken toll from two ladies
in a phaeton he was quite eloquent in his description of said ladies. He
declared with an impressiveness which the captain had not noticed in him
before that he did not know when he had seen such handsome ladies. The
younger one, who paid the toll, was absolutely charming. She seemed a
little bit startled, but he supposed that was because she saw a strange
face at the toll-gate. Dick wanted very much to know who these ladies
were. He had not supposed that he would find such stylish people, and
such a handsome turnout in this part of the country.

"Oh, ho," said Captain Asher, "do you suppose we are all farmers and
toll-gate keepers? If you do, you are very much mistaken, although I
must admit that the stylish people, as you call them, are scattered
about very thinly. I expect that carriage was from Broadstone over on
the mountain. Was the team dapple gray, pony built?"

"Yes," said Lancaster.

"Then it was Mrs. Easterfield driving some of her company. I have seen
her with that team. And by George," he exclaimed, "I bet my head the
other one was Olive! Of course it was. And she paid toll! Well, well, if
that isn't a good one! Olive paying toll! I wish I had been here to take
it! That truly would have been a lark!"

Dick Lancaster did not echo this wish of his host. He was very glad,
indeed, that the captain had not been at the toll-gate when the ladies
passed through. Captain Asher was still laughing.

"Olive must have been amazed," he said. "It was queer enough for her to
go through my gate and pay toll, but to pay it to an Assistant Professor
of Theoretical Mathematics was a good deal queerer. I can't imagine what
she thought about it."

"She did not know I am that!" exclaimed Dick Lancaster. "There is
nothing of the professor in my outward appearance--at least, I hope

"No, I don't think there is," replied the captain. "But she must have
been amazed, all the same. I wish I had been here, or old Jane, anyway.
But, of course, when a stranger showed himself she would not have said

"But who is Olive?" asked Lancaster.

"She's my niece," said the captain. "I don't think I have mentioned her
to you. She is on a visit to me, but just now she is staying at
Broadstone. I suppose she will be there about a week longer."

"It's odd he has not mentioned her to me," thought Lancaster, and then,
as the captain went to ask old Jane if she had seen Olive pass, the
young man retired to the arbor with a book which he did not read.

His desire to inform his host that it would be necessary to take leave
of him on the morrow had very much abated. It would be very pleasant, he
thought, to be a visitor in a family of which that girl was a member.
But if she were not to return for a week, how could he expect to stay
with the captain so long? There would be no possible excuse for such a
thing. Then he thought it would be very pleasant to be in a country of
which that young woman was one of the inhabitants. Anyway, he hoped the
captain would invite him to make a longer stay. The great blue eyes with
which the young lady had regarded him as she paid the toll would not
fade out of his mind.

"She must have wondered who it was that took the toll," said old Jane.
"And there wasn't no need of it, anyway. I could have took it as I
always have took it when you was not here, and before either of them

"Either of them" struck the captain's ear strangely. Here was this old
woman coupling these two young people in her mind!

The next morning Captain Asher sat on his little piazza, smoking his
pipe and thinking about Olive driving through the gate and paying toll
to a stranger. But he now considered the incident from a different point
of view. Of course, Olive had been surprised when she had seen the young
man, but she might also have wondered how he happened to be there and
she not know of it. If he were staying long enough to be entrusted with
toll-taking it might--in fact, the captain thought it probably
would--appear very strange to her that she should not know of it. So
now he asked himself if it would not be a good thing if he were to write
her a little note in which he should mention Mr. Lancaster and his
visit. In fact, he thought the best thing he could do would be to write
her a playful sort of a note, and tell her that she should feel honored
by having her toll taken up by a college professor. But he did not
immediately write the note. The more he thought about it, the more he
wished he had been at the toll-gate when Mrs. Easterfield's phaeton
passed by.

Captain Asher did not write his note at all. He did not know what to
say; he did not want to make too much of the incident, for it was really
a trifling matter, only worthy of being mentioned in case he had
something more important to write about. But he had nothing more
important; there was no reason why he should write to Olive during her
short stay with Mrs. Easterfield. Besides, she would soon be back, and
then he could talk to her; that would be much better. Now, two strong
desires began to possess him; one was for Olive to come home; and the
other for Dick Lancaster to go away. There had been moments when he had
had a shadowy notion of bringing the two together, but this idea had
vanished. His mind was now occupied very much with thoughts of his
beautiful niece and very little with the young man in the colored shirt
and turned-up trousers who was staying with him.

Dick Lancaster, in his arbor, was also thinking a great deal about
Olive, and very little about that stalwart sailor, her uncle. If he had
merely seen the young woman, and had never heard anything about her,
her face would have impressed him, but the knowledge that she was an
inmate of the house in which he was staying could not fail to affect him
very much. He was puzzling his mind about the girl who had given him a
quarter of a dollar, and to whom he had handed fifteen cents in change.
He wondered how such a girl happened to be living at such a place. He
wondered if there were any possibility of his staying there, or in the
neighborhood, until she should come back; he wondered if there were any
way by which he could see her again. He might have wondered a good many
other things if Captain Asher had not approached the arbor. The captain
having been aroused from his mental contemplation of Olive by a man in a
wagon, had glanced over at the arbor and had suddenly been struck with
the conviction that that young man looked bored, and that, as his host,
he was not doing the right thing by him.

"Dick," said the captain, "let's go fishing. It's not late yet, and I'll
put my mare to the buggy, and we can drive to the river. We will take
something to eat with us, and make a day of it."

Lancaster hesitated a moment; he had been thinking that the time had
come when he should say something about his departure, but this
invitation settled the matter for that day; and in half an hour the two
had started away, leaving the toll-gate in charge of old Jane, who was a
veteran in the business, having lived at the toll-gate years before the

As they drove along the smooth turnpike Lancaster remembered with great
interest that this road led to the gap in the mountains; that the
captain had told him Broadstone was not very far from the gap; and that
the river was not very far from Broadstone; and his face glowed with
interest in the expedition.

But when, after a few miles, they turned into a plain country road
which, as the captain informed him, led in a southeasterly direction, to
a point on the river where black bass were to be caught and where a boat
could be hired, the corners of Dick Lancaster's mouth began to droop. Of
necessity that road must reach the river miles to the south of

It was a very good day for fishing, and the captain was pleased to see
that the son of his old shipmate was a very fair angler. Toward the
close of the afternoon, with the conviction that they had had a good
time and that their little expedition had been a success, the two
fishermen set out for home with a basket of bass: some of them quite a
respectable size; stowed away under the seat of the buggy. When they
reached the turnpike the old mare, knowing well in which direction her
supper lay, turned briskly to the left, and set out upon a good trot.
But this did not last very long. To her great surprise she was suddenly
pulled up short; a carriage with two horses which had been approaching
had also stopped.

On the back seat of this carriage sat Mrs. Easterfield; on one side of
her was a little girl, and on the other side was another little girl,
each with her feet stuck out straight in front of her.

"Oh, Captain Asher," exclaimed the lady, with a most enchanting smile,
"I am so glad to meet you. I was obliged to go to Glenford to take one
of my little girls to the dentist, and I inquired for you each time I
passed your gate."

The captain was very glad he had been so fortunate as to meet her, and
as her eyes were now fixed upon his companion, he felt it incumbent upon
him to introduce Mr. Richard Lancaster, the son of an old shipmate.

"But not a sailor, I imagine," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Oh, no," said the captain, "Mr. Lancaster is Assistant Professor of
Theoretical Mathematics in Sutton College."

Dick could not imagine why the captain said all this, and he flushed a

"Sutton College?" said Mrs. Easterfield. "Then, of course, you know
Professor Brent."

"Oh, yes," said Lancaster. "He is our president."

"I never met him," said she, "but he was a classmate of my husband, and
I have often heard him speak of him. And now for my errand, Captain
Asher. Isn't it about time you should be wanting to see your niece?"

The captain's heart sank. Did she intend to send Olive home?

"I always want to see her," he said, but without enthusiasm.

"But don't you think it would be nice," said the lady, "if you were to
come to lunch with us to-morrow? It was to ask you this that I inquired
for you at the toll-gate."

Now, this was another thing altogether, and the captain's earnest
acceptance would have been more coherent if it had not been for the
impatience of his mare.

"And I want you to bring your friend with you," continued Mrs.
Easterfield. "The invitation is for you both, of course."

Dick's face said that this would be heavenly, but his mouth was more

"It will be strictly informal," continued Mrs. Easterfield. "Only myself
and family, three guests, and Olive. We shall sit down at one. Good-by."

Mrs. Easterfield was entirely truthful when she said she was glad to
meet the captain. Her anxiety about Olive and Claude Locker was somewhat
on the increase. She was very well aware that the most dangerous thing
for one young woman is one young man; and in thinking over this truism
she had been impressed with the conviction that it was not well for Mr.
Claude Locker to be the one man at Broadstone. Then, in thinking of
possible young men, her mind naturally turned to the young man who was
visiting Olive's uncle. She did not know anything about him, but he was
a young man, and if he proved to be worth something, he could be asked
to come again. So it was really to Dick Lancaster, and not to Captain
Asher, that the luncheon invitation had been given.

The appointment with the Glenford dentist had made it necessary for her
to leave home that afternoon. To be sure, she had sent the Foxes with
Olive and Claude Locker upon the drive through the gap, and, under
ordinary circumstances, and with ordinary people, there would have been
no reason for her to trouble herself about them, but neither the
circumstances nor the people were ordinary, and she now felt anxious to
get home and find out what Claude Locker and Olive had done with Mrs.
and Mr. Fox.


_Captain Asher is not in a Good Humor._

The next morning was very bright for Captain Asher; he was going to see
Olive, and he did not know before how much he wished to see her.

When Dick Lancaster came from the house to take his seat in the buggy
the sight of the handsome suit of dark-blue serge, white shirt and
collar, and patent-leather shoes, with the trousers hanging properly
above them, placed Dick very much higher in the captain's estimation
than the young man with the colored shirt and rolled-up trousers could
ever have reached. The captain, too, was well dressed for the occasion,
and Mrs. Easterfield had no reason whatever to be ashamed of these two
gentlemen when she introduced them to her other visitors.

She liked Professor Lancaster. Having lately had a good deal of Claude
Locker, she was prepared to like a quiet and thoroughly self-possessed
young man.

Olive was the latest of the little company to appear, and when she came
down she caused a genuine, though gentle sensation. She was most
exquisitely dressed, not too much for a luncheon, and not enough for a
dinner. This navy girl had not studied for nothing the art of dressing
in different parts of the world. Her uncle regarded her with open-eyed

"Is this my brother's daughter?" he asked himself. "The little girl who
poured my coffee in the morning and went out to take toll?"

Olive greeted her uncle with absolute propriety, and made the
acquaintance of Mr. Lancaster with a formal courtesy to which no
objection could be made. Apparently she forgot the existence of Mr.
Locker, and for the greater part of the meal she conversed with Mr. Fox
about certain foreign places with which they were both familiar.

The luncheon was not a success; there was a certain stiffness about it
which even Mrs. Easterfield could not get rid of; and when the gentlemen
went out to smoke on the piazza Olive disappeared, sending a message to
Mrs. Easterfield that she had a bad headache and would like to be
excused. Her excuse was a perfectly honest one, for she was apt to have
a headache when she was angry; and she was angry now.

The reason for her indignation was the fact that her uncle's visitor was
an extremely presentable young man. Had it been otherwise, Olive would
have given the captain a good scolding, and would then have taken her
revenge by making fun of him and his shipmate's son. But now she felt
insulted that her uncle should conceal from her the fact that he had an
entirely proper young gentleman for a visitor. Could he think she would
want to stay at his house to be with that young man? Was she a girl from
whom the existence of such a person was to be kept secret? She was very
angry, indeed, and her headache was genuine.

Captain Asher was also angry. He had intended to take Olive aside and
tell her all about Dick Lancaster, and how he had refrained from saying
anything about him until he found out what sort of a young man he was.
If, then, she saw fit to scold him, he was perfectly willing to submit,
and to shake hands all around. But now he would have no chance to speak
to her; she had not treated him properly, even if she had a headache. He
admitted to himself that she was young and probably sensitive, but it
was also true that he was sensitive, although old. Therefore, he was

Mrs. Easterfield was disturbed; she saw there was something wrong
between Olive and her uncle, and she did not like it. She had invited
Lancaster with an object, and she did not wish that other people's
grievances should interfere with said object. Olive was grumpy up-stairs
and Claude Locker was in the doleful dumps under a tree, and if these
two should grump and dump together, it might be very bad; consequently,
Mrs. Easterfield was more anxious than ever that there should be at
least two young men at Broadstone.

For this reason she asked Lancaster if he were fond of rowing; and when
he said he was, she invited him to join them in a boat party the next
day to help her and Olive pull the big family boat. Mr. Fox did not like
rowing, and Mr. Locker did not know how.

On the drive home Captain Asher and Lancaster did not talk much. Even
the young man's invitation to the rowing party did not excite much
interest in the captain. These two men were both thinking of the same
girl; one pleasantly, and the other very unpleasantly. Dick was charmed
with her, although he had had very little opportunity of becoming
acquainted with her, but he hoped for better luck the next day.

The captain did not know what to make of her. He felt sure that she was
at fault, and that he was at fault, and he could not see how things
could be made straight between them. Only one thing seemed plain to him,
and this was that, with things as they were at present, she was not
likely to come back to his house; and this would not be necessary; he
knew very well that there were other places she could visit; and that
early in the fall her father would be home.

Dick Lancaster walked to Broadstone the next morning because Captain
Asher was obliged to go to Glenford on business, but the young man did
not in the least mind a six-mile walk on a fine morning.

All the way to Glenford the captain thought of Olive; sometimes he
wished she had never come to him. Even now, with Lancaster to talk to,
he missed her grievously, and if she should not come back, the case
would be a great deal worse than if she had never come at all. But one
thing was certain: If she returned as the young lady with whom he had
lunched at Broadstone, he did not want her. He felt that he had been in
the wrong, that she had been in the wrong; and it seemed as if things in
this world were gradually going wrong. He was not in a good humor.

When he stopped his mare in front of a store, Maria Port stepped up to
him and said: "How do you do, captain? What have you done with your
young man?"

The captain got down from his buggy, hitched his mare to a post, and
then shook hands with Miss Port.

"Dick Lancaster has gone boating to-day with the Broadstone people," he

"What!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Gone there again already? Why it was only
yesterday you took dinner with them."

"Lunch," corrected the captain.

"Well, you may call it what you please," said Maria, "but I call it
dinner. And them two's together without you, that you tried so hard to
keep apart!"

"I did not try anything of the kind," said the captain a little sharply;
"it just happened so."

"Happened so!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Well, I must say, Captain Asher,
that you've a regular genius for makin' things happen. The minute she
goes, he conies. I wish I could make things happen that way."

The captain took no notice of this remark, and moved toward the door of
the store.

"Look here, captain," continued Miss Port, "can't you come and take
dinner with us? You haven't seen Pop for ever so long. It won't be
lunch, though, but an honest dinner."

The captain accepted the invitation; for old Mr. Port was one of his
ancient friends; and then he entered the store. Miss Port was on the
point of following him; she had something to say about Olive; but she

"I'll keep that till dinner-time," she said to herself.

Old Mr. Port had always been a very pleasant man to visit, and he had
not changed now, although he was nearly eighty years old. He had been a
successful merchant in the days when Captain Asher commanded a ship, and
there was good reason to believe that a large measure of his success was
due to his constant desire to make himself agreeable to the people with
whom he came in business contact. He was just as agreeable to his
friends, of whom Captain Asher was one of the oldest.

The people of Glenford often puzzled themselves as to what sort of a
woman Maria's mother could have been. None of them had ever seen her,
for she had died years before old Mr. Port had come into that healthful
region to reside; but all agreed that her parents must have been a
strangely assorted pair, unless, indeed, as some of the wiser suggested,
she got her disposition from a grandparent.

"That navy niece of yours must be a wild girl," said Miss Port to the
captain as she carved the beef.

"Wild!" exclaimed the captain. "I never saw anything wild about her."

"Perhaps not," said his hostess, "but there's others that have. It was
only three days ago that she took that young man, that goggle-eyed one,
out on the river in a boat, and did her best to upset him. Whether she
stood up and made the boat rock while he clung to the side, or whether
she bumped the boat against rocks and sand-bars, laughin' the louder the
more he was frightened, I wasn't told. But she did skeer him awful. I
know that."

"You seem to know a good deal about what is going on at Broadstone,"
remarked the captain, somewhat sarcastically.

"Indeed I do," said she; "a good deal more than they think. They've got
such fine stomachs that they can't eat the beef they get at the gap, and
Mr. Morris goes there three times a week, all the way from Glenford, to
take them Chicago beef. The rest of the time they mostly eat chickens,
I'm told."

"And so your butcher takes meat and brings back news," said the captain.
"The next time he passes the toll-gate I will tell him to leave the news
with me, and I will see that it is properly distributed." And with this,
he began to talk with Mr. Port.

"Oh, you needn't be so snappish about her," insisted Maria. "If you are
in that temper often, I don't wonder the young woman wanted to go away."

The captain made no answer, but his glance at the speaker was not
altogether a pleasant one. Old Mr. Port did not hear very well; but his
eyesight was good, and he perceived from the captain's expression that
his daughter had been saying something sharp. This he never allowed at
his table; and, turning to her, he said gently, but firmly:

"Maria, don't you think you'd better go up-stairs and go to bed?"

"He's all the time thinkin' I'm a child," said Miss Maria, with a grin;
"but how awfully he's mistook." Then she added: "Has that teacher got
money enough to support a wife when he marries her? I don't suppose his
salary amounts to much. I'm told it's a little bit of a college he
teaches at."

"I do not know anything about his salary," said the captain, and again
attempted to continue the conversation with the father.

But the daughter was not to be put down. "When is Olive Asher coming
back to your house?" she asked.

The captain turned upon her with a frown. "I did not say she was coming
back at all," he snapped.

Now old Mr. Port thought it time for him to interfere. To him Maria had
always been a young person to be mildly counseled, but to be firmly
punished if she did not obey said counsels. It was evident that she was
now annoying his old friend; Maria had a great habit of annoying people,
but she should not annoy Captain Asher.

"Maria," said Mr. Port, "leave the table instantly, and go to bed."

Miss Port smiled. She had finished her dinner, and she folded her napkin
and dusted some crumbs from her lap. She always humored her father when
he was really in earnest; he was very old and could not be expected to
live much longer, and it was his daughter's earnest desire that she
should be in good favor with him when he died. With a straight-cut smile
at the captain, she rose and left the two old friends to their talk, and
went out on the front piazza. There she saw Mr. Morris, the butcher, on
his way home with an empty wagon. She stepped out to the edge of the
sidewalk and stopped him.

"Been to Broadstone?" she asked.

"Yes," said the butcher with a sigh, and stopping his horse. Miss Port
always wanted to know so much about Broadstone, and he was on his way to
his dinner.

"Well," said Miss Port, "what monkey tricks are going on there now? Has
anybody been drowned yet? Did you see that young man that's stayin' at
the toll-gate?"

"Yes," said the butcher, "I saw him as I was crossing the bridge. He was
in the big boat helping to row. Pretty near the whole family was in the
boat, I take it."

"That's like them, just like them!" she exclaimed. "The next thing we'll
hear will be that they've all gone to the bottom together. I don't
suppose one of them can swim. Was the captain's niece standin' up, or
sittin' down?"

"They were all sitting down," said the butcher, "and behaving like other
people do in a boat." And he prepared to go on.

"Stop one minute," said Miss Port. "Of course you are goin' out there
day after to-morrow?"

"No," said Mr. Morris. "I'm going to-morrow. They've ordered some extra
things." Then he said, with a sort of conciliatory grin, "I'll get some
more news, and have more time to tell it."

"Now, don't be in such a hurry," said Miss Port, advancing to the side
of the wagon. "I want very much to go to Broadstone. I've got some
business with that Mrs. Blynn that I ought to have attended to long ago.
Now, why can't I ride out with you to-morrow? That's a pretty broad seat
you've got."

The butcher looked at her in dismay. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Miss
Port," he said. "I always have a heavy load, and I can't take
passengers, too."

"Now, what's the sense of your talkin' like that?" said Miss Port.
"You've got a great big horse, and plenty of room, and would you have
me go hire a carriage and a driver to go out there when you can take me
just as well as not?"

The butcher thought he would be very willing. He did not care for her
society, and, moreover, he knew that both at Broadstone and in the town
he would be ridiculed when it should be known that he had been taking
Maria Port to drive.

"Oh, I couldn't do it," he replied. "Of course, I'm willing to oblige--"

"Oh, don't worry yourself any more, Mr. Morris," interrupted Miss Port.
"I'm not askin' you to take me now, and I won't keep you from your

The next morning as Mr. Morris, the butcher, was driving past the Port
house at rather a rapid rate for a man with a heavy wagon, Miss Maria
appeared at her door with her bonnet on. She ran out into the middle of
the street, and so stationed herself that Mr. Morris was obliged to
stop. Then, without speaking, she clambered up to the seat beside him.

"Now, you see," said she, settling herself on the leather cushion, "I've
kept to my part of the bargain, and I don't believe your horse will
think this wagon is a bit heavier than it was before I got in. What's
the name of the new people that's comin' to Broadstone?"


_Miss Port takes a Drive with the Butcher._

As the butcher and Miss Port drove out of town the latter did not talk
quite so much as was her wont. She seemed to have something on her mind,
and presently she proposed to Mr. Morris that he should take the
shunpike for a change.

"That would be a mile and a half out of my way!" he exclaimed. "I can't
do it."

"I should think you'd get awfully tired of this same old road," said

"The easiest road is the one I like every time," said Mr. Morris, who
was also not inclined to talk.

Miss Port did not care to pass the toll-gate that day; she was afraid
she might see the captain, and that in some way or other he would
interfere with her trip, but fortune favored her, as it nearly always
did. Old Jane came to the gate, and as this stolid old woman never asked
any questions, Miss Port contented herself with bidding her good
morning, and sitting silent during the process of making change.

This self-restraint very much surprised old Jane, who straightway
informed the captain that Miss Port was riding with the butcher to
Broadstone--she knew it was Broadstone, for he had no other customers
that way--and she guessed something must be the matter with her, for
she kept her mouth shut, and didn't say nothing to nobody.

As the wagon moved on Miss Port heaved a sigh. Fearful that she might
see the captain somewhere, she had not even allowed herself to survey
the premises in order to catch a glimpse of the shipmate's son. This was
a rare piece of self-denial in Maria, but she could do that sort of
thing on occasion.

When the butcher's wagon neared the Broadstone house Miss Port promptly
got down, and Mr. Morris went to the kitchen regions by himself. She
never allowed herself to enter a house by the back or side door, so now
she went to the front, where, disappointed at not seeing any of the
family although she had made good use of her eyes, she was obliged to
ask a servant to conduct her to Mrs. Blynn. Before she had had time to
calculate the cost of the rug in the hall, or to determine whether the
walls were calcimined or merely whitewashed, she found herself with that
good lady.

Miss Port's business with Mrs. Blynn indicated a peculiar intelligence
on the part of the visitor. It was based upon very little; it had not
much to do with anything; it amounted to almost nothing; and yet it
appeared to contain certain elements of importance which made Mrs. Blynn
give it her serious consideration.

After she had talked and peered about as long as she thought was
necessary, Maria said she was afraid Mr. Morris would be waiting for
her, and quickly took her leave, begging Mrs. Blynn not to trouble
herself to accompany her to the door. When she left the house Maria did
not seek the butcher's wagon, but started out on a little tour of
observation through the grounds. She was quite sure Mr. Morris was
waiting for her, but for this she did care a snap of her finger; he
would not dare to go and leave her. Presently she perceived a young
gentleman approaching her, and she recognized him instantly--it was the
goggle-eyed man who had been described to her. Stepping quickly toward
Mr. Locker, she asked him if he could tell her where she could find Miss
Asher; she had been told she was in the grounds.

The young man goggled his eye a little more than usual. "Do you know
her?" said he.

"Oh, yes," replied Maria; "I met her at the house of her uncle, Captain

"And, knowing her, you want to see her"

Astonished, Miss Port replied, "Of course."

"Very well, then," said he; "beyond that clump of bushes is a seat. She
sits thereon. Accept my condolences."

"I will remember every word of that," said Miss Port to herself, "but I
haven't time to think of it now. He's just ravin'."

Olive had just had an interview with Mr. Locker which, in her eyes, had
been entirely too protracted, and she had sent him away. He had just
made her an offer of marriage, but she had refused even to consider it,
assuring him that her mind was occupied with other things. She was busy
thinking of those other things when she heard footsteps near her.

"How do you do" said Miss Port, extending her hand.

Olive rose, but she put her hands behind her back.

"Oh!" said Miss Port, dropping her hand, but allowing herself no verbal
resentment. She had come there for information, and she did not wish to
interfere with her own business. "I happened to be here," she said, "and
I thought I'd come and tell you how your uncle is. He took dinner with
us yesterday, and I was sorry to see he didn't have much appetite. But I
suppose he's failin', as most people do when they get to his age. I
thought you might have some message you'd like to send him."

"Thank you," said Olive with more than sufficient coldness, "but I have
no message."

"Oh!" said Miss Port. "You're in a fine place here," she continued,
looking about her, "very different from the toll-gate; and I expect the
Easterfields has everything they want that money can more than pay for."
Having delivered this little shot at the reported extravagance of the
lady of the manor, she remarked: "I don't wonder you don't want to go
back to your uncle, and run out to take the toll. It must have been a
very great change to you if you're used to this sort of thing."

"Who said I was not going back?" asked Olive sharply.

"Your uncle," said Miss Port. "He told me at our house. Of course, he
didn't go into no particulars, but that isn't to be expected, he's not
the kind of man to do that."

Olive stood and looked at this smooth-faced, flat-mouthed spinster. She
was pale, she trembled a little, but she spoke no word; she was a girl
who did not go into particulars, especially with a person such as this
woman standing before her.

Miss Port did not wish to continue the conversation; she generally knew
when she had said enough. "Well," she remarked, "as you haven't no
message to send to your uncle, I might as well go. But I did think that
as I was right on my way, you'd have at least a word for him. Good
mornin'." And with this she promptly walked away to join Mr. Morris,
cataloguing in her mind as she went the foolish and lazy hammocks and
garden chairs, the slow motions of a man who was sweeping leaves from
the broad stone, and various other evidences of bad management and
probable downfall which met her eyes in every direction.

When Miss Port approached the toll-gate on her return she was very
anxious to stop, and hoped that the captain would be at the gate.
Fortune favored her again, and there he stood in the doorway of the
little tollhouse.

"Oh, captain," she exclaimed, extending herself somewhat over the
butcher's knees in order to speak more effectively, "I've been to
Broadstone, and I've seen your niece. She's dressed up just like the
other fine folks there, and she's stiffer than any of them, I guess. I
didn't see Mrs. Easterfield, although I did want to get a chance to tell
her what I thought about her plantin' weeds in her garden, and spreadin'
new kinds of seeds over this country, which goes to weeds fast enough in
the natural way. As to your niece, I must say she didn't show me no
extra civility, and when I asked her if she had any message for you, she
said she hadn't a word to say."

The captain was not in the least surprised to hear that Olive had not
treated Miss Port with extra civility. He remembered his niece treating
this prying gossip with positive rudeness, and he had been somewhat
amused by it, although he had always believed that young people should
be respectful to their elders. He did not care to talk about Olive with
Miss Port, but he had to say something, and so he asked if she seemed to
be having a good time.

"If settin' behind bushes with young men, and goggle-eyed ones at that,
is havin' a good time," replied Miss Port, "I'm sure she's enjoyin'
herself." And then, as she caught sight of Lancaster: "I suppose that's
the young man who's visitin' you. I hope he makes his scholars study
harder than he does. He isn't readin' his book at all; he's just starin'
at nothin'. You might be polite enough to bring him out and introduce
him, captain," she added in a somewhat milder tone.

The captain did not answer; in fact, he had not heard all that Miss Port
had said to him. If Olive had refused to send him a word, even the
slightest message, she must be a girl of very stubborn resentments, and
he was sorry to hear it. He himself was beginning to get over his
resentment at her treatment of him at the Broadstone luncheon, and if
she had been of his turn of mind everything might have been smoothed
over in a very short time.

"Well?" remarked Maria in an inquiring tone.

"Excuse me," said the captain, "what were you saying?"

Miss Maria settled herself in her seat. "If you and that young man
wastin' his time in the garden can't keep your wits from
wool-gatherin'," said she, "I hope old Jane has got sense enough to go
on with the housekeepin'. I'll call again when you've sent your young
man away, and got your young woman back."

Maria said little to the taciturn butcher on their way to Glenford, but
she smiled a good deal to herself. For years it had been the desire of
her life to go to live in the toll-gate--not with any idea of ousting
Captain Asher--oh, no, by no means. Old Mr. Port could not live much
longer, and his daughter would not care to reside in the Glenford house
by herself. But the toll-gate would exactly suit her; there was life;
there was passing to and fro; there was money enough for good living and
good clothes without any encroachment on whatever her father might leave
her; and, above all, there was the captain, good for twenty years yet,
in spite of his want of appetite, which she had mentioned to his niece.
This would be a settlement which would suit her in every way, but so
long as that niece lived there, there would be no hope of it; even the
shipmate's son would be in the way. But she supposed he would soon be


_Mrs. Easterfield writes a Letter._

When Miss Port had left her, Olive was so much disturbed by what that
placid spinster had told her that she totally forgot Claude Locker's
proposal of marriage, as well as the other things she had been thinking
about. These things had been not at all unpleasant; she had been
thinking of her uncle and her return to the toll-gate house. Her visit
to Broadstone was drawing to a close, and she was getting very tired of
Mr. Locker and Mr. and Mrs. Fox. She found, now her anger had cooled
down, that she was actually missing her uncle, and was thinking of him
as of some one who belonged to her. Her own father had never seemed to
belong to her; for periods of three years he was away on his ship; and,
even when he had been on shore duty, she had sometimes been at school;
and when she and her parents had been stationed somewhere together, the
lieutenant had been a good deal away from home on this or that naval
business. When a girl she had taken these absences as a matter of
course, but since she had been living with her uncle her ideas on the
subject had changed. She wanted now to be at home with him: and as
Broadstone was so near the toll-gate she had no doubt that Mrs.
Easterfield would sometimes want her to come to her when, perhaps, she
would have different people staying with her.

This was a very pleasant mental picture, and the more Olive had looked
at it, the better she had liked it. As to the reconciliation with her
uncle, it troubled her mind but little. So often had she been angry with
people, and so often had everything been made all right again, that she
felt used to the process. Her way was simple enough; when she was tired
of her indignation she quietly dropped it; and then, taking it for
granted that the other party had done the same, she recommenced her
usual friendly intercourse, just as if there had never been a quarrel or
misunderstanding. She had never found this method to fail--although, of
course, it might easily have failed with one who was not Olive--and she
had not the slightest doubt that if she wrote to her uncle that she was
coming on a certain day, she would be gladly received by him when she
should arrive.

But now? After what that woman had told her, what now? If her uncle had
said she was not coming back, there was an end to her mental pictures
and her pleasant plans. And what a hard man he must be to say that!

Slowly walking over the grass, Olive went to look for Mrs. Easterfield,
and found her in her garden on her knees by a flower-bed digging with a
little trowel.

"Mrs. Easterfield," said she, "I am thinking of getting married."

The elder lady sprang to her feet, dropping her trowel, which barely
missed her toes. She looked frightened. "What?" she exclaimed. "To

"Not to anybody in particular," replied Olive. "I am considering the
subject in general. Let's go sit on that bench, and talk about it."

A little relieved, Mrs. Easterfield followed her. "I don't know what you
mean," she said, when they were seated. "Women don't think of marriage
in a general way; they consider it in a particular way."

"Oh, I am different," said Olive; "I am a navy girl, and more like a
man. I have to look out for myself. I think it is time I was married,
and therefore I am giving the subject attention. Don't you think that is

"And you say you have no particular leanings?" the other inquired.

"None whatever," said Olive. "Mr. Locker proposed to me less than an
hour ago, but I gave him no answer. He is too precipitate, and he is
only one person, anyway."

"You don't want to marry more than one person!" exclaimed Mrs.

"No," said Olive, "but I want more than one to choose from."

Mrs. Easterfield did not understand the girl at all. But this was not to
be expected so soon; she must wait a little, and find out more.
Notwithstanding her apparent indifference to Claude Locker, there was
more danger in that direction than Mrs. Easterfield had supposed. A
really persistent lover is often very dangerous, no matter how
indifferent a young woman may be.

"Have you been considering the professor?" she asked, with a smile. "I
noticed that you were very gracious to him yesterday."

"No, I haven't," said Olive. "But I suppose I might as well. I did try
to make him have a good time, but I was still a little provoked and felt
that I would like him to go back to my uncle and tell him that he had
enjoyed himself. But now I suppose I must consider all the eligibles."

"Why now?" asked Mrs. Easterfield quickly; "why now more than any
previous time?"

Olive did not immediately answer, but presently she said: "I am not
going back to my uncle. There was a woman here just now--I don't know
whether she was sent or not--who informed me that he did not expect me
to return to his house. When my mother was living we were great
companions for each other, but now you see I am left entirely alone. It
will be a good while before father comes back, and then I don't know
whether he can settle down or not. Besides, I am not very well
acquainted with him, but I suppose that would arrange itself in time. So
you see all I can do is to visit about until I am married, and therefore
the sooner I am married and settled the better."

"Perhaps this is a cold-blooded girl!" said Mrs. Easterfield to herself.
"But perhaps it is not!" Then, speaking aloud, she said: "Olive Asher,
were you ever in love?"

The girl looked at her with reflective eyes. "Yes," she said. "I was
once, but that was the only time."

"Would you mind telling me about it?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"Not at all," replied the girl. "I was between thirteen and fourteen,
and wore short dresses, and my hair was plaited. My father was on duty
at the Philadelphia Navy-Yard, and we lived in that city. There was a
young man who used to come to bring messages to father; I think he was a
clerk or a draftsman. I do not remember his name, except that his first
name was Rupert, and father always called him by that. He was a
beautiful man-boy or boy-man, however you choose to put it. His eyes
were heavenly blue, his skin was smooth and white, his cheeks were red,
and he had the most charming mouth I ever saw. He was just the right
height, well shaped, and wore the most becoming clothes. I fell madly in
love with him the second time I saw him, and continued so for a long
time. I used to think about him and dream about him, and write little
poems about him which nobody ever saw. I tried to make a sketch of his
face once, but I failed and tore it up."

"What did he do?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"Nothing whatever," said Olive. "I never spoke to him, or he to me. I
don't believe he ever noticed me. Whenever I could I went into the room
where he was talking to father, but I was very quiet and kept in the
background, and I do not think his eyes ever fell upon me. But that did
not make any difference at all. He was beautiful above all other men in
the world, and I loved him. He was my first, my only love, and it almost
brings tears in my eyes now to think of him."

"Then you really could love the right person if he were to come along,"
said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Why do you think I couldn't? Of course I could. But the trouble is he
doesn't come, so I must try to arrange the matter with what material I

When Mrs. Easterfield left the garden she went rapidly to her room.
There was a smile on her lips, and a light in her eye. A novel idea had
come to her which amused her, pleased her, and even excited her. She sat
down at her writing-table and began a letter to her husband. After an
opening paragraph she wrote thus:

"Is not Mr. Hemphill, of the central office of the D. and J., named
Rupert? It is my impression that he is. You know he has been to our
house several times to dinner when you invited railroad people, and I
remember him very well. If his name is Rupert will you find out, without
asking him directly, whether or not he was engaged about seven years ago
at the navy-yard. I am almost positive I once had a conversation with
him about the navy-yard and the moving of one of the great buildings
there. If you find that he had a position there, don't ask him any more
questions, and drop the subject as quickly as you can. But I then want
you to send him here on whatever pretext you please--you can send me any
sort of an important message or package--and if I find it desirable, I
shall ask him to stay here a few days. These hard-worked secretaries
ought to have more vacations. In fact, I have a very interesting scheme
in mind, of which I shall say nothing now for fear you may think it
necessary to reason about it. By the time you come it will have been
worked out, and I will tell you all about it. Now, don't fail to send
Mr. Hemphill as promptly as possible, if you find his name is Rupert,
and that he has ever been engaged in the navy-yard."

This letter was then sent to the post-office at the gap with an
immediate-delivery stamp on it.

When Mrs. Easterfield went down-stairs, her face still glowing with the
pleasure given by the writing of her letter, she met Claude Locker,
whose face did not glow with pleasure.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked.

"I feel like a man who has been half decapitated," said he. "I do not
know whether the execution is to be arrested and my wound healed, or
whether it is to go on and my head roll into the dust."

"A horrible idea!" said Mrs. Easterfield. "What do you really mean?"

"I have proposed to Miss Asher and I was treated with indifference, but
have not been discarded. Don't you see that I can not live in this
condition? I am looking for her."

"It will be a great deal better for you to leave her alone," replied
Mrs. Easterfield. "If she has any answer for you she will give it when
she is ready. Perhaps she is trying to make up her mind, and you may
spoil all by intruding yourself upon her."

"That will not do at all," said Locker, "not at all. The more Miss Asher
sees of me in an unengaged condition the less she will like me. I am
fully aware of this. I know that my general aspect must be very
unpleasant, so if I expect any success whatever, the quicker I get this
thing settled the better."

"Even if she refuses you," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Yes," he answered; "then down comes the axe again, away goes my head,
and all is over! Then there is another thing," he said, without giving
Mrs. Easterfield a chance to speak. "There is that mathematical person.
When will he be here again?"

"I do not know," replied Mrs. Easterfield; "he has merely a general

"I don't like him," said Locker. "He has been here twice, and that is
two times too many. I hate him."

"Why so?"

"Because he is unobjectionable," Locker answered, "and I am very much
afraid Miss Asher likes unobjectionable people. Now I am
objectionable--I know it--and the longer I remain unengaged the more
objectionable I shall become. I wish you would invite nobody but such
people as the Foxes."


"Because they are married," replied Locker. "But I must not wait here.
Can you tell me where I shall be likely to find her?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield, "she is with the Foxes, and they are


_Mr. Locker is released on Bail._

Nearly the whole of that morning Dick Lancaster sat in the arbor in the
tollhouse garden, his book in his hand. Part of the time he was thinking
about what he would like to do, and part of the time he was thinking
about what he ought to do. He felt sure he had stayed with the captain
as long as he had been expected to, but he did not want to go away. On
the contrary, he greatly desired to remain within walking distance of
Broadstone. He was in love with Olive. When he had seen her at luncheon,
cold and reserved, he had been greatly impressed by her, and when he
went out boating with her the next day he gave her his heart
unreservedly. When people fell in love with Olive they always did it

As he sat, with Olive standing near the footlights of his mental stage
and the drop-curtain hanging between her and all the rest of the world,
the captain strolled up to him.

"Dick," said he, "somehow or other my tobacco does not taste as it ought
to. Give me a pipeful of yours."

When the captain had filled his pipe from Dick's bag he lighted it and
gave a few puffs. "It isn't a bit better than mine," said he, "but I
will keep on and smoke it. Dick, let's go and take a walk over the
hills. I feel rather stupid to-day. And, by the way, I hope you will be
able to stay with me for the rest of your vacation. Have you made plans
to go anywhere else?"

"No plans of the slightest importance," answered Lancaster with joyous
vivacity. "I shall be delighted to stay."

This prompt acceptance somewhat surprised the captain. He had spoken
without premeditation, and without thinking of anything at all except
that he did not want everybody to go away and leave him. He had begun to
know something of the pleasures of family life; of having some one to
sit at the table with him; to whom he could talk; on whom he could look.
In fact, although he did not exactly appreciate such a state of things,
some one he could love. He was getting really fond of Dick Lancaster.

As for Olive, he did not know what to think of her; sometimes he was
sure she was not coming back, and at other times he thought it likely he
might get a letter that very day appointing the time for her return. He
stood puffing his pipe and thinking about this after Dick had spoken.

"But it does not matter," he said to himself, "which way it happens. If
she doesn't come I want him here, and if she does come, he is good
enough for anybody, and perhaps she may be pleased." And then he
indulged in a little fragment of the dream which had come to him before;
he saw two young people in a charming home, not at the toll-gate, and
himself living with them. Plenty of money for all moderate needs, and
all happy and satisfied. Then with a sigh he knocked the tobacco from
his pipe and said to himself: "If I hear she is coming, I will let her
know he is still here, and then she must judge for herself."

As they walked together over the hills, Dick Lancaster was very anxious
to know something about Olive's return, but he did not like to ask. The
captain had been very reticent on the subject of his niece, and Dick was
a gentleman. But to his surprise, and very much to his delight, the
captain soon began to talk about Olive. He told Dick how his brother had
entered the navy when the elder was first mate on a merchant vessel; how
Alfred had risen in the service; had married; and how his wife and
daughter had lived in various parts of the world. Then he spoke of a
good many things he had heard about Olive, and other things he had found
out since she had lived with him; and as he went on his heart warmed,
and Dick Lancaster listened with as warm a heart as that from which the
captain spoke.

And thus they walked over the hills, this young man and this elderly
man, each in love with the same girl.

During all the walk Dick never asked when Miss Asher was coming back to
the tollhouse, nor did Captain Asher make any remarks upon the subject.
It was not really of vital importance to Dick, as Broadstone was so
near, and it was of such vital importance to the captain that it was
impossible for him to speak of it.

The next day the bright-hearted Richard trod buoyantly upon the earth;
he did not care to read; he did not want to smoke; and he was not much
inclined to conversation; he was simply buoyant, and undecided. The
captain looked at him and smiled.

"Why don't you walk over to Broadstone?" he said. "It will do you good.
I want you to stay with me, but I don't expect you to be stuck down to
this tollhouse all day. I am going about the farm to-day, but I shall
expect you to supper."

When he was ready to start Dick Lancaster felt a little perplexed. His
ideas of friendly civility impelled him to ask the captain if there was
anything he could do for him, if there was any message or missive he
could take to his niece, or anything he could bring from her, but he was
prudent and refrained; if the captain wished service of this sort he was
a man to ask for it.

The first person Dick met at Broadstone was Mrs. Easterfield, cutting

"I am very glad to see you, Professor Lancaster," said she, as she put
down her roses and her scissors. "Would you mind, before you enter into
the general Broadstone society, sitting down on this bench and talking a
little to me?"

Dick could not help smiling. What man in the world, even if he were in
love with somebody else, could object to sitting down by such a woman
and talking to her?

"What I am going to say," said Mrs. Easterfield, "is impertinent,
unwarranted, and of an officious character. You and I know each other
very slightly; neither of us has long been acquainted with Captain
Asher, you have met his niece but twice, and I have never really known
her until what you might call the other day. But in spite of all this, I
propose that you and I shall meddle a little in their affairs. I have
taken the greatest fancy to Miss Asher, and, if you can do it without
any breach of confidence, I would like you to tell me if you know of any
misunderstanding between her and her uncle."

"I know of nothing of the kind," said Dick with great interest, "but I
admit I thought there might be something wrong somewhere. He knew I was
coming here to-day--in fact, he suggested it--but he sent Miss Asher no
sort of message."

"Can it be possible he is cherishing any hard feelings against her?" she
remarked. "I should not have supposed he was that sort of man."

"He is not that sort of man," said Dick warmly. "He was talking to me
about her yesterday, and from what he said, I am sure he thinks she is
the finest girl in the world."

"I am glad to hear that," said she, "but it makes the situation more
puzzling. Can it be possible that she is treating him badly?"

"Oh, I could not believe that!" exclaimed Dick fervently. "I can not
imagine such a thing."

Mrs. Easterfield smiled. He had really known the girl but for one day,
for the first meeting did not count; and here he was defending the
absolute beauty of her character. But the assumption of the genus young
man often overtops the pyramids. She now determined to take him a little
more into her confidence.

"Miss Asher has intimated to me that she does not expect to go back to
her uncle's house, and this morning she made a reference to the end of
her visit here, but I thought you might be able to tell me something
about her uncle. If he really does not expect her back I want her to
stay here."

"Alas," said Dick, "I can not tell you anything. But of one thing I feel
sure, and that is that he would like her to come back."

"Well," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I am not going to let her go away at
present, and if Captain Asher should say anything to you on the subject,
you are at liberty to tell him that. From what you said the other day, I
suppose you will soon be leaving this quiet valley for the haunts of

"Oh, no," exclaimed Dick. "He wants me to stay with him as long as I
can, and I shall certainly do it."

"Now," said Mrs. Easterfield, rising, "I must go and finish cutting my
roses. I think you will find everybody on the tennis grounds."

Mrs. Easterfield had cut in all twenty-three roses when Claude Locker
came to her from the house. His face was beaming, and he skipped over
the short grass.

"Congratulate me," he said, as he stepped before her.

Mrs. Easterfield dropped her roses and her scissors and turned pale.
"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"Oh, don't be frightened," he said. "I have not been acquitted, but the
execution has been stopped for the present, and I am out on bail. I
really feel as though the wound in my neck had healed."

"What stuff!" said Mrs. Easterfield, her color returning. "Try to speak

"Oh, I can do that," said Mr. Locker; "upon occasion I can do that very
well. I proposed again to Miss Asher not twenty minutes ago. She gave me
no answer, but she made an arrangement with me which I think is going to
be very satisfactory; she said she could not have me proposing to her
every time I saw her--it would attract attention, and in the end might
prove annoying--but she said she would be willing to have me propose to
her every day just before luncheon, provided I did not insist upon an
answer, and would promise to give no indication whatever at any other
time that I entertained any unusual regard for her. I agreed to this,
and now we understand each other. I feel very confident and happy. The
other person has no regular time for offering himself, and if any effort
of mine can avail he shall not find an irregular opportunity."

Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "Come pick up my roses," she said. "I must go

"It is like making love," said Locker as he picked up the flowers,
"charming, but prickly." At this moment he started. "Who is that?" he

Mrs. Easterfield turned. "Oh, that is Monsieur Emile Du Brant. He is one
of the secretaries of the Austrian legation. He is to spend a week with
us. Suppose you take my flowers into the house and I will go to meet

Claude Locker, his arms folded around a mass of thorny roses, and a pair
of scissors dangling from one finger, stood and gazed with savage
intensity at the dapper little man--black eyes, waxed mustache, dressed
in the height of fashion--who, with one hand outstretched, while the
other held his hat, advanced with smiles and bows to meet the lady of
the house. Locker had seen him before; he had met him in Washington; and
he had received forty dollars for a poem of which this Austrian young
person was the subject.

He allowed the lady and her guest to enter the house before him, and
then, like a male Flora, he followed, grinding his teeth, and indulging
in imprecations.

"He will have to put on some other kind of clothes," he muttered, "and
perhaps he may shave and curl his hair. That will give me a chance to
see her before lunch. I do not know that she expected me to begin
to-day, but I am going to do it. I have a clear field so far, and nobody
knows what may happen to-morrow."

As Locker stood in the hallway waiting for some one to come and take his
flowers, or to tell him where to put them, he glanced out of the back
door. There, to his horror, he saw that Mrs. Easterfield had conducted
her guest through the house, and that they were now approaching the
tennis ground, where Professor Lancaster and Miss Asher were standing
with their rackets in their hands, while Mr. and Mrs. Fox were playing
chess under the shade of a tree.

"Field open!" he exclaimed, dropping the roses and the scissors. "Field
clear! What a double-dyed ass am I!" And with this he rushed out to the
tennis ground; Mrs. Easterfield did not play.

Before Mrs. Easterfield returned to the house she stood for a moment
and looked at the tennis players.

"Olive and three young men," she said to herself; "that will do very

A little before luncheon Claude Locker became very uneasy, and even
agitated. He hovered around Olive, but found no opportunity to speak to
her, for she was always talking to somebody else, mostly to the
newcomer. But she was a little late in entering the dining-room, and
Locker stepped up to her in the doorway.

"Is this your handkerchief?" he asked.

"No," said she, stopping; "isn't it yours?"

"Yes," he replied, "but I had to have some way of attracting your
attention. I love you so much that I can scarcely see the table and the

"Thank you," she said, "and that is all for the next twenty-four hours."


_Mr. Rupert Hemphill._

That afternoon it rained, so that the Broadstone people were obliged to
stay indoors. Dick Lancaster found Mr. Fox a very agreeable and
well-informed man, and Mrs. Fox was also an excellent conversationalist.
Mrs. Easterfield, who, after the confidences of the morning, could not
help looking at him as something more than an acquaintance, talked to
him a good deal, and tried to make the time pass pleasantly, at which
business she was an adept. All this was very pleasant to Dick, but it
did not compensate him for the almost entire loss of the society of
Olive, who seemed to devote herself to the entertainment of the Austrian
secretary. Mrs. Easterfield was very sorry that the young foreigner had
come at this time, but he had been invited the winter before; the time
had been appointed; and the visit had to be endured.

When the rain had ceased, and Dick was about to take his leave, his
hostess declared she would not let him walk back through the mud.

"You shall have a horse," she said, "and that will insure an early visit
from you, for, of course, you will not trust the animal to other hands
than your own. I would ask you to stay, but that would not be treating
the captain kindly."

As Dick was mounting Mr. Du Brant was standing at the front door, a
smile on his swarthy countenance. This smile said as plainly as words
could have done so that it was very amusing to this foreign young man to
see a person with rolled-up trousers and a straw hat mount upon a horse.
Claude Locker, whose soul had been chafing all the afternoon under his
banishment from the society of the angel of his life, was also at the
front door, and saw the contemptuous smile. Instantly a new and powerful
emotion swept over his being in the shape of a strong feeling of
fellowship for Lancaster. It made his soul boil with indignation to see
the sneer which the Austrian directed toward the young man, a thoroughly
fine young man, who, by said foreigner's monkeyful impudence, and
another's mistaken favor, had been made a brother-in-misfortune of
himself, Claude Locker.

"I will make common cause with him against the enemy," thought Locker.
"If I should fail to get her I will help him to." And although Dick's
brown socks were plainly visible as he cantered away, Mr. Locker looked
after him as a gallant and honored brother-in-arms.

That evening Claude Locker fought for himself and his comrade. He
persisted in talking French with Mr. Du Brant; and his remarkable
management of that language, in which ignorance and a subtle facility in
intentional misapprehension were so adroitly blended that it was
impossible to tell one from the other, amused Olive, and so provoked the
Austrian that at last he turned away and began to talk American
politics with Mr. Fox, which so elated the poet that the ladies of the
party passed a merry evening.

"Would you like me to take him out rowing to-morrow?" asked Claude apart
to his hostess.

"With you at the oars?" she asked.

"Of course," said Locker.

"I am amazed," said she, "that you should suspect me of such
cold-blooded cruelty."

"You know you don't want him here," said Claude. "His salary can not be
large, and he must spend the greater part of it on clothes--and oil."

"Is it possible," she asked, "that you look upon that young man as a

"By no means," he replied; "such persons never marry. They only prevent
other people from marrying anybody. Therefore it is that I remember what
sort of a boatman I am."

"My dear," said Mr. Fox, when he and his wife had retired to their room,
"after hearing what that Austrian has to say of the American people, I
almost revere Mr. Locker."

"I heard some of his remarks," she said, "and I imagined they would have
an effect of that kind upon you."

When the Broadstone surrey came from the train the next morning it
brought a gentleman.

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox, when from the other side of the lawn she saw
him alight. "Another young man with a valise! It seems to me that this
is an overdose!"

"Overdoses," remarked Mr. Fox, "are often less dangerous than just
enough poison."

Mrs. Easterfield received this visitor at the door. She had been waiting
for him, and did not wish him to meet anybody when she was not present.
After offering his respectful salutations, Mr. Hemphill, Mr.
Easterfield's secretary in the central office of the D. and J.,
delivered without delay a package of which he was the bearer, and
apologized for his valise, stating that Mr. Easterfield had told him he
must spend the night at Broadstone.

"Most assuredly you would do that," said she, and to herself she added,
"If I want you longer I will let you know."

Mr. Rupert Hemphill was a very handsome man; his nose was fine; his eyes
were dark and expressive; he wore silky side-whiskers, which, however,
did not entirely conceal the bloom upon his cheeks; his teeth were very
good; he was well shaped; and his clothes fitted him admirably.

As has been said before, Mrs. Easterfield was exceedingly interested;
she was even a little agitated, which was not common with her. She had
Mr. Hemphill conducted to his room, and then she waited for him to come
down; this also was not common with her.

"Mr. Locker," she called from the open door, "do you know where Miss
Asher is?"

The poet stopped in his stride across the lawn, and approached the lady.
"Oh, she is with the Du Brant," said he. "I have been trying to get in
some of my French, but neither of them will rise to the fly. However, I
am content; it is now three hours before luncheon, and if she has him
to herself for that length of time, I think she will be thoroughly
disgusted. Then it will be my time, as per agreement."

Mrs. Easterfield was a little disappointed. She wanted Olive by herself,
but she did not want to make a point of sending for her. But fortune
favored her.

"There she is," exclaimed Locker; "she is just going into the library.
Let me go tell her you want her."

"Not at all," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Don't put yourself into danger of
breaking your word by seeing her alone before luncheon. I'll go to her."

Mr. Locker continued his melancholy stroll, and Mrs. Easterfield entered
the library. Olive must not be allowed to go away until the moment
arrived which had been awaited with so much interest.

"I am looking for a copy of _Tartarin sur les Alps_. I am sure I saw it
among these French books," said Olive, on her knees before a low
bookcase. "Would you believe it, Mr. Du Brant has never read it, and he
seems to think so much of education."

Mrs. Easterfield knew exactly where the book was, but she preferred to
allow Olive to occupy herself in looking for it, while she kept her eyes
on the hall.

"Wait a moment, Olive," said she; "a visitor has just arrived, and I
want to make him acquainted with you."

Olive rose with a book in her hand, and Mrs. Easterfield presented Mr.
Hemphill to Miss Asher. As she did so, Mrs. Easterfield kept her eyes
steadily fixed upon the young lady's face. With a pleasant smile Olive
returned Mr. Hemphill's bow. She was generally glad to make new

"Mr. Hemphill is one of my husband's business associates," said Mrs.
Easterfield, still with her eyes on Olive. "He has just come from him."

"Did he send us this fine day by you?" said Olive. "If so, we are
greatly obliged to him."

The young man answered that, although he had not brought the day, he was
delighted that he had come in company with it.

"What atrocious commonplaces!" thought Mrs. Easterfield. "The girl does
not know him from Adam!"

Here was a disappointment; the thrill, the pallor, the involuntary
start, were totally absent; and the first act of the little play was a
failure. But Mrs. Easterfield hoped for better things when the curtain
rose again. She conducted Mr. Hemphill to the Foxes and let Olive go
away with her book; and, as soon as she had the opportunity, she read
the letter from her husband.

"With this I send you Mr. Hemphill," he wrote. "I don't know what you
want to do with him, but you must take good care of him. He is a most
valuable secretary, and an estimable young man. As soon as you have done
with him please send him back."

"I am glad he is estimable," said Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "That
will make the matter more satisfactory to Tom when I explain it to him."

When Dick Lancaster, properly booted and wearing a felt hat, returned
the borrowed horse, he was met by Mr. Locker, who had been wandering
about the front of the house, and when he had dismounted Dick was
somewhat surprised by the hearty handshake he received.

"I am sorry to have to tell you," said the poet, "that there is another

"Another what?" asked Dick.

"Another unnecessary victim," replied Locker. And with this he returned
to the front of the house.

At last Olive came down the stairs, and she was alone. Locker stepped
quickly up to her.

"If I should marry," he said, "would I be expected to entertain that

She stopped, and gave the question her serious consideration. "I should
think," she said, "that that would depend a good deal upon whom you
should marry."

"How can you talk in that way?" he exclaimed. "As if there were anything
to depend upon!"

"Nothing to depend upon," said Olive, slightly raising her eyebrows.
"That is bad." And she went into the dining-room.

The afternoon was an exceptionally fine one, but the party at Broadstone
did not take advantage of it; there seemed to be a spirit of unrest
pervading the premises, and when the carriage started on a drive along
the river only Mr. and Mrs. Fox were in it. Mrs. Easterfield would not
leave Olive and Mr. Hemphill, and she did not encourage them to go.
Consequently there were three young men who did not wish to go.

"It seems to me," said Mr. Fox, as they rolled away, "that a young
woman, such as Miss Asher, has it in her power to interfere very much
with the social feeling which should pervade a household like this. If
she were to satisfy herself with attracting one person, all the rest of
us might be content to make ourselves happy in such fashions as might
present themselves."

"The rest of us!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox.

"Yes," replied her husband. "I mean you, and Mrs. Easterfield, and
myself, and the rest. That young woman's indeterminate methods of
fascination interfere with all of us."

"I don't exactly see how they interfere with me," said Mrs. Fox rather

"If the carriage had been filled, as was expected," said her husband, "I
might have had the pleasure of driving you in a buggy."

She turned to him with a smile. "Immediately after I spoke," she said,
"I imagined you might be thinking of something of that kind."

Mrs. Easterfield was not a woman to wait for things to happen in their
own good time. If possible, she liked to hurry them up. In this Olive
and Hemphill affair there was really nothing to wait for; if she left
them to themselves there would be no happenings. As soon as was
possible, she took Olive into her own little room, where she kept her
writing-table, and into whose sacred precincts her secretary was not
allowed to penetrate.

"Now, then," said she, "what do you think of Mr. Hemphill?"

"I don't think of him at all," said Olive, a little surprised. "Is there
anything about him to think of?"

"He sat by you at luncheon," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"I know that," said Olive, "and he was better than an empty chair. I
hate sitting by empty chairs."

"Olive," exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield with vivacity, "you ought to
remember that young man!"

"Remember him?" the girl ejaculated.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Easterfield. "After what you told me about him, I
expected you would recognize him the moment you saw him. But you did not
know him; you did not do anything I expected you to do; and I was very
much disappointed."

"What are you talking about?" asked Olive.

"I am talking about Mr. Hemphill; Mr. Rupert Hemphill; who, about seven
years ago, was engaged in the Philadelphia Navy-Yard, and who came to
your house on business with your father. From what you told me of him I
conjectured that he might now be my husband's Philadelphia secretary,
for his name is Rupert, and I had reason to believe that he was once
engaged in the navy-yard. When I found out I was entirely correct in my
supposition I had him sent here, and I looked forward with the most
joyous anticipations to being present when you first saw him. But it was
all a fiasco! I suppose some people might think I was unwarrantably
meddling in the affairs of others, but as it was in my power to create a
most charming romance, I could not let the opportunity pass."

Olive did not hear a word of Mrs. Easterfield's latest remarks; her
round, full eyes were fixed upon the wall in front of her, but they saw
nothing. Her mind had gone back seven years.

"Is it possible," she exclaimed presently, "that that is my Rupert, my
beautiful Rupert of the roseate cheeks, the Rupert of my heart, my only
love! The Endymion-like youth I watched for every day; on whom I gazed
and gazed and worshiped and longed for when he had gone; of whom I
dreamed; to whom my soul went out in poetry; whose miniature I would
have painted on the finest ivory if I had known how to paint; and whose
image thus created I would have worn next my heart to look at every
instant I found myself alone, if it had not been that my dresses were
all fastened down the back! I am going to him this instant! I must see
him again! My Rupert, my only love!" And with this she started to the

"Olive," cried Mrs. Easterfield, springing from her chair, "stop, don't
you do that! Come back. You must not--"

But the girl had flown down the stairs, and was gone.


_Mr. Lancaster's Backers._

Olive found Mr. Hemphill under a tree upon the lawn. He was sitting on a
low bench with one little girl upon each knee. He was not a stranger to
the children, for they had frequently met him during their winter
residences in cities. He was telling them a story when Olive approached.
He made an attempt to rise, but the little girls would not let him put
them down.

"Don't move, Mr. Hemphill," said Olive; "I am going to sit down myself."
And as she spoke she drew forward a low bench. "I am so glad to see you
are fond of children, Mr. Hemphill," she continued; "you must have
changed very much."

"Changed!" he exclaimed. "I have always been fond of them."

"Excuse me," said Olive, "not always. I remember a child you did not
care for, on whom you did not even look, who was absolutely nothing to
you, although you were so much to her."

Mr. Hemphill stared. "I do not remember such a child," said he.

"She existed," said Olive. "I was that child." And then she told him
how she had seen him come to her father's house.

Mr. Hemphill remembered Lieutenant Asher, he remembered going to his
house, but he did not remember seeing there a little girl.

"I was not so very little," said Olive; "I was fourteen, and I was just
at an age to be greatly attracted by you. I thought you were the most
beautiful young man I had ever beheld. I don't mind telling you, because
I can not look upon you as a stranger, that I fell deeply in love with

As Mr. Hemphill sat and listened to these words his face turned redder
than the reddest rose, even his silky whiskers seemed to redden, his
fine-cut red lips were parted, but he could not speak. The two little
girls had been gazing earnestly at Olive. Now the elder one spoke.

"I am in love," she said.

"And so am I," piped up the younger one.

"She's in love with Martha's little Jim," said the first girl, "but I am
in love with Henry. He's eight. Both boys."

"I wouldn't be in love with a girl," said the little one contemptuously.

This interruption was a help to Mr. Hemphill, and his redness paled a

"Of course you could not be expected to know anything of my feelings for
you," said Olive, "and perhaps it is very well you did not, for business
is business, and the feelings of girls should not be allowed to
interfere with it. But my heart went out to you all the same. You were
my first love."

Now Mr. Hemphill crimsoned again worse than before. He had not yet
spoken a word, and there was no word in the English language which he
thought would be appropriate for the occasion.

"You may think I am a little cruel to plump this sort of thing upon
you," said Olive, "in such a sudden way, but I am not. All this was
seven years ago, and a person of my age can surely speak freely of what
happened seven years ago. I did not even know you when I met you, but
Mrs. Easterfield told me about you, and now I remember everything, and I
think it would have been inhuman if I had not told you of the part you
used to play in my life. You have a right to know it."

If Mr. Hemphill could have reddened any more he would have done so, but
it was not possible. The thought flashed into his mind that it might be
well to say something about her having found him very much changed, but
in the next instant he saw that that would not do. How could he assume
that he had ever been beautiful; how could he force her to say that he
was not beautiful now, or that he still remained so?

"I am very glad I have met you," said Olive, "and that I know who you
are. And I am glad, too, to tell you that I forgive you for not taking
notice of me seven years ago."

"Is that all of your story?" asked the elder little girl.

"Yes," said Olive, laughing, "that is all."

"Well, then, let Mr. Hemphill go on with his," said she.

"Oh, certainly," said Olive, jumping up; "and you must all excuse me
for interfering with your story."

Mr. Hemphill sat still, a little girl on each knee. He had not spoken a
word since that beautiful girl had told him she had once loved him. And
he could not speak now.

"You look as if you had a plaster taken off," said the younger little
girl. And, after waiting a moment for an answer, she slipped off his
knee; the other followed; and the story was postponed.

When Mrs. Easterfield heard Olive's account of this incident she was
utterly astounded. "What sort of a girl are you" she exclaimed. "What
are you going to do about it now?"

"Do?" said Olive quietly. "I have done."

Mrs. Easterfield was in a state of great perplexity. She had already
asked Mr. Hemphill to stay until Saturday, three days off, and she could
not tell him to go away, and the awkwardness of his remaining in the
same house with Olive was something not easy to deal with.

During Olive's interview with Mr. Hemphill and the little girls Claude
Locker had been sitting alone at a distance, gazing at the group. He was
waiting for an opportunity of social converse, for this was not
forbidden him even if the time did not immediately precede the luncheon
hour. He saw Hemphill's blazing face, and deeply wondered. If it had
been the lady who had flushed he would have bounced upon the scene to
defend her, but Olive was calm, and it was the conscious guilt of the
man that made his face look like a freshly painted tin roof. This was an
affair into which he had no right to intrude himself, and so he sat and
sighed, and his heart grew heavy. How many ante-luncheon avowals would
have to be made before she would take so much interest in him, one way
or the other!

Mr. Du Brant also sat at a distance. He was reading, or at least
appearing to read; but he was so unaccustomed to holding a book in his
hands that he did it very awkwardly, and Miss Raleigh, who was looking
at him from the library window, made up her mind that if he dropped it,
as she expected him to do, she would get the book and rub the dirt off
the corners before it was put back into the bookcase. But when Olive
left Mr. Hemphill she went so quickly into the house that the Austrian
was unable to join her, and he, therefore, went to his room to prepare
for dinner.

Dick Lancaster had also been waiting, although not watching. He had
hoped that he might have a chance for a little talk with Olive. But
there was really no good reason to expect it, for he knew that two, and
perhaps three, young men had stayed at home that afternoon in the hope
that they might have the same opportunity. The odds against him were

He began to think that perhaps he was engaged in a foolish piece of
business, and was in danger of making himself disagreeably conspicuous.
The other young men were guests at Broadstone, but if he came there
every day as he had been doing, and as he wanted to do, it might be
thought that he was taking advantage of Mrs. Easterfield's kindness. At
that moment he heard the rustle of skirts, and, glancing up, saw Mrs.
Easterfield, who was looking for him.

Mrs. Easterfield's regard for Lancaster was growing, partly on account
of the confidence she had already reposed in him. In her present state
of mind she would have been glad to give him still more, for she did not
know what to do about Olive and Mr. Hemphill, and there was no one with
whom she could talk upon the subject; even if she had known Dick better
her loyalty to Olive would have prevented that.

"Have you found out anything about the captain and Olive?" she asked.
"Has he spoken of her return?"

"No," replied Dick; "he has not said a word on the subject, but I am
very sure he would be overjoyed to have her come back. Every day when
the postman arrives I believe he looks for a letter from her, and he
shows that he feels it when he finds none. He is good-natured, and
pleasant, but he is not as cheerful as when I first came."

"Every day," said Mrs. Easterfield, as they walked together, "I love
Olive more and more."

"So do I," thought Dick.

"But every day I understand her less and less," she continued. "She is
truly a navy girl, and repose does not seem to be one of her
characteristics. From what she has told me, I believe she has never
lived in domestic peace and quiet until she came to stay with her uncle.
It would delight me to see her properly married. I wish you would marry

Dick stopped, and so did she, and they stood looking at each other. He
did not redden, for he was not of the flushing kind; his face even grew
a little hard.

"Do you believe," said he, in a very different tone from his ordinary
voice, "that I have the slightest chance?"

"Of course I do," she answered. "I believe you have a very good chance,
or I should not have spoken to you. I flatter myself that I have
excellent judgment concerning young men, and I am very fond of Olive."

"Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you know I am in love with her. I
suppose that has been easy enough to see, but it has all been very quick
work with me; in fact, I have had very little to say to her, and have
never said anything that could in the slightest degree indicate how I
felt toward her. But I believe I loved her the second day I met her, and
I am not sure it did not begin the day before."

"I think that sort of thing is always quick work where Olive is
concerned," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think it likely that many young
men have fallen in love with her, and that they have to be very lively
if they want a chance to tell her so. But don't be jealous. I know
positively that none of them ever had the slightest chance. But now all
that is passed. I know she is tired of an unsettled life, and it is
likely she may soon be thinking of marrying, and there will be no lack
of suitors. She has them now. But I want her to marry you."

"Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you have known me but a very little

"Don't mention that," she interrupted. "I do quick work as well as other
people. I never before engaged in any matchmaking business, but if this
succeeds, I shall be proud of it to the end of my days. You are in love
with Olive, and she is worthy of you. I want you to try to win her, and
I will do everything I can to help you. Here is my hand upon it."

As Dick held that hand and looked into that face a courage and a belief
in himself came into his heart that had never been there before. By day
and by night his soul had been filled with the image of Olive, but up to
this moment he had not thought of marrying her. That was something that
belonged to the future, not even considered in his state of inchoate
adoration. But now that he had been told he had reason to hope, he
hoped; and the fact that one beautiful woman told him he might hope to
win another beautiful woman was a powerful encouragement. Henceforth he
would not be content with simply loving Olive; if it were within his
power he would win, he would have her.

"You look like a soldier going forth to conquest," said Mrs. Easterfield
with a smile.

"And you," said he impulsively, "you not only look like, but you are an

This was pretty strong for the young professor, but the lady understood
him. She was very glad, indeed, that he could express himself
impulsively, for without that power he could not win Olive.

As Dick started away from Broadstone on his walk to the toll-gate he
heard quick steps behind him and was soon overtaken by Claude Locker.

"Hello," said that young man, "if you are on your way home I am going to
walk a while with you. I have not done a thing to-day."

When Dick heard these words his heart sank. He was on his way home
accompanied by Olive--Olive in his heart, Olive in his soul, Olive in
his brain, Olive in the sky and all over the earth--how dared a common
mortal intrude himself upon the scene?

"There is another thing," said Locker, who was now keeping step with
him. "My soul is filled with murderous intent. I thirst for human life,
and I need the restraints of companionship."

"Who is it you want to kill?" asked Dick coldly.

"It is an Austrian," replied the other. "I will not say what Austrian,
leaving that to your imagination. I don't suppose you ever killed an
Austrian. Neither have I, but I should like to do it. It would be a
novel and delightful experience."

Dick did not think it necessary that he should be told more; he
perfectly understood the state of the case, for it was impossible not to
see that this young man was paying marked attention to Olive, while Mr.
Du Brant was doing the same thing. But still it seemed well to say
something, and he remarked:

"What is the matter with the Austrian?"

"He is in love with Miss Asher," said Locker, "and so am I. I am
beginning to believe he is positively dangerous. I did not think so at
first, but I do now. He has actually taken to reading. I know that man;
I have often seen him in Washington. He was always running after some
lady or other, but I never knew him to read before. It is a dangerous
symptom. He reads with one eye, while the other sweeps the horizon to
catch a glimpse of her. By the way, that would be a splendid idea for a
district policeman; if he stood under a lamp-post in citizen's dress
reading a book, no criminal would suspect his identity, and he could
keep one eye on the printed page, and devote the other to the cause of
justice. But to return to our sallow mutton, or black sheep, if you
choose. That Austrian ought to be killed!"

Dick smiled sardonically. "He is not your only obstacle," he said.

"I know it," replied Locker. "There's that Chinese laundried fellow,
smooth-finished, who came up this morning. He must be an old offender,
for I saw her giving it to him hot this morning. I am sure she was
telling him exactly what she thought of him, for he turned as red as a
pickled beet. So he will have to scratch pretty hard if he expects to
get into her good graces again, and I suppose that is what he came here
for. But I am not so much afraid of him as I am of that Austrian. If he
keeps on the literary lay, and reads books with her, looking up the
words in the dictionary, it is dangerous."

"I do not see," said Lancaster, somewhat loftily, "why you speak of
these things to me."

"Then I'll tell you," said Locker quickly. "I speak of them to you
because you are just as much concerned in them as I am. You are in love
with Miss Asher--anybody can see that--and, in fact, I should think you
were a pretty poor sort of a fellow if you were not, after having seen
and talked with her. Consequently that Austrian is just as dangerous to
you as he is to me. And as I have chosen you for my brother-in-arms, it
is right that I tell you everything I know."

"Brother-in-arms?" ejaculated Dick.

"That is what it is," said Locker, "and I will tell you how it came
about. The Austrian looked upon you with scorn and contempt because you
rode a horse wearing rolled-up trousers and low shoes. As you did not
see him and could not return the contempt, I did it for you. Having done
this, a fellow feeling for you immediately sprang up within me. That is
what always happens, you know. After that the feeling became a good deal
stronger, and I said to myself that if I found I could not get Miss
Asher; and it's seventy-six I don't, for that's generally the state of
my luck; I would help you to get her, partly because I like you, and
partly because that Austrian must be ousted, no matter what happens or
how it is done. So I became your brother-in-arms, and if I find I am out
of the race, I am going to back you up just as hard as I can, and here's
my hand upon it."

Dick stopped as he had stopped half an hour before, and gazed upon his

"Now don't thank me," continued Locker, "or say anything nice, because
if I find I can come in ahead of you I am going to do it. But if we work
together, I am sure we need not be afraid of that Austrian, or of that
fiery-faced model for a ready-made-clothes shop. It is to be either you
or me--first place for me, if possible."

Dick could not help laughing. "You are a jolly sort of a fellow," said
he, "and I will be your brother-in-arms. But it is to be first place for
me, if possible." And they shook hands upon the bargain.

That evening Mr. Hemphill found Olive alone. "I have been trying to get
a chance to speak to you, Miss Asher," said he. "I want to ask you to
help me, for I do not know what in the world to do."

Olive looked at him inquiringly.

"Since you spoke to me this afternoon," he went on, "I have been in a
state of most miserable embarrassment; I can not for the life of me
decide what I ought to say or what I ought to do, or what I ought not to
say or what I ought not to do. If I should pass over as something not
necessary to take into consideration the--the--most unusual statement
you made to me, it might be that you would consider me as a boor, a man
incapable of appreciating the--the--highest honors. Then again, if I do
say anything to show that I appreciate such honors, you may well
consider me presumptuous, conceited, and even insulting. I thought a
while ago that I would leave this house before it would be necessary for
me to decide how I should act when I met you, but I could not do that.
Explanations would be necessary, and I would not be able to make them,
and so, in sheer despair, I have come to you. Whatever you say I ought
to do I will do. Of myself, I am utterly helpless."

Olive looked at him with serious earnestness. "You are in a queer
position," she said, "and I don't wonder you do not know what to do. I
did not think of this peculiar consequence which would result from my
revelation. As to the revelation itself, there is no use talking about
it; it had to be made. It would have been unjust and wicked to allow a
man to live in ignorance of the fact that such a thing had happened to
him without his knowing it. But I think I can make it all right for
you. If you had known when you were very young, in fact, when you were
in another age of man, that a young girl in short dresses was in love
with you, would you have disdained her affection?"

"I should say not!" exclaimed Rupert Hemphill, his eyes fixed upon the
person who had once been that girl in short dresses.

"Well, then," said Olive, "there could have been nothing for her to
complain of, no matter what she knew or what she did not know, and there
is nothing he could complain of, no matter what he knew or did not know.
And as both these persons have passed entirely out of existence, I think
you and I need consider them no longer. And we can talk about tennis or
bass fishing, or anything we like. And if you are a fisherman you will
be glad to hear that there is first-rate bass fishing in the river now,
and that we are talking of getting up a regular fishing party. We shall
have to go two or three miles below here where the water is deeper and
there are not so many rocks."

That night Mr. Hemphill dreamed hard of a girl who had loved him when
she was little, and who continued to love him now that she had grown to
be wonderfully handsome. He was going out to sail with her in a boat far
and far away, where nobody could find them or bring them back.


_A Letter for Olive._

The next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Mr. Du Brant proposed
to Olive. He had received a letter the day before which made it probable
that he might be recalled to Washington before the time which had been
fixed for the end of his visit at Broadstone, and he consequently did
not wish to defer for a moment longer than was necessary this most
important business of his life. He told Miss Asher that he had never
truly loved before; which was probably correct; and that as she had
raised his mind from the common things of earth, upon which it had been
accustomed to grovel, she had made a new man of him in an astonishingly
short time; which, it is likely, was also true.

He assured her that without any regard to outside circumstances, he
could not live without her. If at any other time he had allowed his mind
to dwell for a moment upon matrimony, he had thought of family,
position, wealth, social station, and all that sort of thing, but now he
thought of nothing but her, and he came to offer her his heart. In fact,
the man was truly and honestly in love.

Inwardly Olive smiled. "I can not ask him," she said to herself, "to say
this again every day before dinner. He hasn't the wit of Claude Locker,
and would not be able to vary his remarks; but I can not blast his hopes
too suddenly, for, if I do that, he will instantly go away, and it would
not be treating Mrs. Easterfield properly if I were to break up her
party without her knowledge. But I will talk to her about it. And now
for him.--Mr. Du Brant," she said aloud, speaking in English, although
he had proposed to her in French, because she thought she could make her
own language more impressive, "it is a very serious thing you have said
to me, and I don't believe you have had time enough to think about it
properly. Now don't interrupt. I know exactly what you would say. You
have known me such a little while that even if your mind is made up it
can not be properly made up, and therefore, for your own sake, I am
going to give you a chance to think it all over. You must not say you
don't want to, because I want you to; and when you have thought, and
thought, and know yourself better--now don't say you can not know
yourself better if you have a thousand years in which to consider
it--for though you think that it is true it is not"

"And if I rack my brains and my heart," interrupted Mr. Du Brant, "and
find out that I can never change nor feel in any other way toward you
than I feel now, may I then----"

"Now, don't say anything about that," said Olive. "What I want to do now
is to treat you honorably and fairly, and to give you a chance to
withdraw if, after sober consideration, you think it best to do so. I
believe that every young man who thinks himself compelled to propose
marriage in such hot haste ought to have a chance to reflect quietly
and coolly, and to withdraw if he wants to. And that is all, Mr. Du
Brant. I must be off this minute, for Mrs. Easterfield is over there
waiting for me."

Mr. Du Brant walked thoughtfully away. "I do not understand," he said to
himself in French, "why she did not tell me I need not speak to her
again about it. The situation is worthy of diplomatic consideration, and
I will give it that."

From a distance Claude Locker beheld his Austrian enemy walking alone,
and without a book.

"Something has happened," he thought, "and the fellow has changed his
tactics. Before, under cover of a French novel, he was a snake in the
grass, now he is a snake hopping along on the tip of his tail. Perhaps
he thinks this is a better way to keep a lookout upon her. I believe he
is more dangerous than he was before, for I don't know whether a snake
on tip tail jumps or falls down upon his victims."

One thing Mr. Locker was firmly determined upon. He was going to try to
see Olive as soon as it was possible before luncheon, and impress upon
her the ardent nature of his feelings toward her; he did not believe he
had done this yet. He looked about him. The party, excepting himself and
Mr. Du Brant, were on the front lawn; he would join them and satirize
the gloomy Austrian. If Olive could be made to laugh at him it would be
like preparing a garden-bed with spade and rake before sowing his seeds.

The rural mail-carrier came earlier than usual that day, and he brought
Olive but one letter, but as it was from her father, she was entirely
satisfied, and retired to a bench to read it.

In about ten minutes after that she walked into Mrs. Easterfield's
little room, the open letter in her hand. As Mrs. Easterfield looked up
from her writing-table the girl seemed transformed; she was taller, she
was straighter, her face had lost its bloom, and her eyes blazed.

"Would you believe it!" she said, grating out the words as she spoke.
"My father is going to be married!"

Mrs. Easterfield dropped her pen, and her face lost color. She had
always been greatly interested in Lieutenant Asher. "What!" she
exclaimed. "He? And to whom?"

"A girl I used to go to school with," said Olive, standing as if she
were framed in one solid piece. "Edith Marshall, living in Geneva. She
is older than I am, but we were in the same classes. They are to be
married in October, and she is to sail for this country about the time
his ship comes home. He is to be stationed at Governor's Island, and
they are to have a house there. He writes, and writes, and writes, about
how lovely it will be for me to have this dear new mother. Me! To call
that thing mother! I shall have no mother, but I have lost my father."
With this she threw herself upon a lounge, and burst into passionate
tears. Mrs. Easterfield rose, and closed the door.

Claude Locker had no opportunity to press his suit before luncheon, for
Olive did not come to that meal; she had one of her headaches. Every one
seemed to appreciate the incompleteness of the party, and even Mrs.
Easterfield looked serious, which was not usual with her. Mr. Hemphill
was much cast down, for he had made up his mind to talk to Olive in such
a way that she should not fail to see that he had taken to heart her
advice, and might be depended upon to deport himself toward her as if he
had never heard the words she had addressed to him. He had prepared
several topics for conversation, but as he would not waste these upon
the general company, he indulged only in such remarks as were necessary
to good manners.

Mr. Du Brant talked a good deal in a perfunctory manner, but inwardly he
was somewhat elated. "Her emotions must have been excited more than I
supposed," he thought. "That is not a bad sign."

Mrs. Fox was a little bit--a very little bit--annoyed because Mr. Fox
did not make as many facetious remarks as was his custom. He seemed like
one who, in a degree, felt that he lacked an audience; Mrs. Fox could
see no good reason for this.

When Mrs. Easterfield went up to Olive's room she found her bathing her
eyes in cold water.

"Will you lend me a bicycle" said Olive. "I am sure you have one."

Mrs. Easterfield looked at her in amazement.

"I want to go to my uncle," said Olive. "He is now all I have left in
this world. I have been thinking, and thinking about everything, and I
want to go to him. Whatever has come between us will vanish as soon as
he sees me, I am sure of that. I do not know why he did not want me to
come back to him, but he will want me now, and I should like to start
immediately without anybody seeing me."

"But a bicycle!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "You can't go that way. I
will send you in the carriage."

"No, no, no," cried Olive; "I want to go quietly. I want to go so that I
can leave my wheel at the door and go right in. I have a short
walking-skirt, and I can wear that. Please let me have the bicycle."

Mrs. Easterfield made Olive sit down and she talked to her, but there
was no changing the girl's determination to go to her uncle, to go
alone, and to go immediately.


_Olive's Bicycle Trip._

Despite Olive's desire to set forth immediately on her bicycle trip, it
was past the middle of the afternoon when she left Broadstone. She went
out quietly, not by the usual driveway, and was soon upon the turnpike
road. As she sped along the cool air upon her face refreshed her; and
the knowledge that she was so rapidly approaching the dear old
toll-gate, where, even if she did not find her uncle at the house, she
could sit with old Jane until he came back, gave her strength and

Up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country. Then there
was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she
saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the
thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and
the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the
opposite side of the road. Down the little hill she went; and then,
steadily and swiftly, onward. Presently she saw that some one was on the
piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was
sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was
her uncle.

Now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should
say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of
preconceived salutations, or explanations. She would be there, and that
would be enough. Her father's letter was in her pocket, and that was too
much. All she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the
steps, and present herself to her uncle's astonished gaze before he had
any idea that any one was approaching.

She was within twenty feet of the piazza when she saw that her uncle was
not alone; there was some one sitting in front of him who had been
concealed by his broad shoulders. This person was a woman. She had
caught sight of Olive, and stuck her head out on one side to look at
her. Upon her dough-like face there was a grin, and in her eye a light
of triumph. With one quick glance she seemed to say: "Ah, ha, you find
me here, do you? What have you to say to that?"

Olive's heart stood still. That woman, that Maria Port, sitting in close
converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen
any one but men! That horrid woman at such a moment as this! She could
not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence. She
could not stop. With what she had on her mind, and with what she had in
her pocket, it would be impossible to say a word before that Maria Port!
Without a swerve she sped on, and passed the toll-gate. She only knew
one thing; she could not stop.

The wildest suspicions now rushed into her mind. Why should her uncle
be thus exposing himself to the public gaze with Maria Port? Why did it
give the woman such diabolical pleasure to be seen there with him? With
a mind already prepared for such sickening revelations, Olive was
convinced that it could mean nothing but that her uncle intended to
marry Maria Port. What else could it mean? But no matter what it meant,
she could not stop. She could not go back.

On went her bicycle, and presently she gained sufficient command over
herself to know that she should not ride into the town. But what else
could she do? She could not go back while those two were sitting on the
piazza. Suddenly she remembered the shunpike. She had never been on it,
but she knew where it left the road, and where it reentered it. So she
kept on her course, and in a few minutes had reached the narrow country
road. There were ruts here and there, and sometimes there were stony
places; there were small hills, mostly rough; and there were few
stretches of smooth road; but on went Olive; sometimes trying with much
effort to make good time, and always with tears in her eyes, dimming the
roadway, the prospect, and everything in the world.

"There now!" exclaimed Maria Port, springing to her feet. "What have you
got to say to that? If that isn't brazen I never saw brass!"

"What do you mean?" said the captain, rising in his chair.

"Mean?" said Maria Port, leaning over the railing. "Look there! Do you
see that girl getting away as fast as she can work herself? That's your
precious niece, Olive Asher, scooting past us with her nose in the air
as if we was sticks and stones by the side of the road. What have you
got to say to that, Captain John, I'd like to know?"

The captain ran down the path. "You don't mean to say that is Olive!" he

"That's who it is," answered Miss Port. "She looked me square in the
face as she dashed by. Not a word for you, not a word for me. Impudence!
That doesn't express it!"

The captain paid no attention to her, but ran into the garden. Old Jane
was standing near the house door. "Was that Miss Olive?" he cried. "Did
you see her?"

"Yes," said old Jane, "it was her. I saw her comin', and I came out to
meet her. But she just shot through the toll-gate as if she didn't know
there was a toll on bicycles."

The captain stood still in the garden-path. He could not believe that
Olive had done this to treat him with contempt. She must have heard some
news. There must be something the matter. She was going into town at the
top of her speed to send a telegram, intending to stop as she came back.
She might have stopped anyway if it had not been for that
good-for-nothing Maria Port. She hated Maria, and he hated her himself,
at this moment, as she stood by his side, asking him what was the matter
with him.

"It's no more than you have to expect," said she. "She's a fine lady, a
navy lady, a foreign lady, that's been with the aristocrats! She's got
good clothes on that she never wore here, and where I guess she had a
pretty stupid time, judgin' from how they carry on at that Easterfield
place. Why in the world should she want to stop and speak to such
persons as you and me?"

The captain paid no attention to these remarks. "If she doesn't want to
send a telegram, I don't see what she is going to town for in such a
hurry. I suppose she thought she could get there sooner than a man could
go on a horse," he said.

"Telegram!" sneered Miss Port. "It's a great deal easier to send
telegrams from the gap."

"Then it is something worse," he thought. Perhaps she might be running
away, though what in the world she was running from he could not
imagine. Anyway, he must see her; he must find out. When she came back
she must not pass again, and if she did not come back he must go after
her. He ran to the road and put down the bar, calling to old Jane to
come there and keep a sharp lookout. Then he quickly returned to the

"What are you going to do" asked Miss Port. "I never saw a man in such a

"If she does not come back very soon," said he, "I shall go to town
after her."

"Then I suppose I might as well be going myself," said she. "And by the
way, captain, if you are going to town, why don't you take a seat in my
carriage? Dear knows me and the boy don't fill it."

But the captain would consider no such invitation. When he met Olive he
did not want Maria Port to be along. He did not answer, and went into
the house to make some change in his attire. Old Jane would not let
Olive pass, and if he met her on the road or in the town he wanted to be
well dressed.

Miss Port still stood in the path by the house door. "That's not what I
call polite," said she, "but he's awful flustered, and I don't mind."

Far from minding, Maria was pleased; it pleased her to know that his
niece's conduct had flustered him. The more that girl flustered him the
better it would be, and she smiled with considerable satisfaction. If
she could get that girl out of the way she believed she would find but
little difficulty in carrying out her scheme to embitter the remainder
of the good captain's life. She did not put it in that way to herself;
but that was the real character of the scheme.

Suddenly an idea struck her. It was of no use for her to stand and wait,
for she knew she would not be able to induce the captain to go with her.
It would be a great thing if she could, for to drive into town with him
by her side would go far to make the people of Glenford understand what
was going to happen. But, if she could not do this, she could do
something else. If she started away immediately she might meet that
Asher girl coming back, and it would be a very fine thing if she could
have an interview with her before she saw her uncle.

She made a quick step toward the house and looked in. The captain was
not visible, but old Jane was standing near the back door of the
tollhouse. The opportunity was not to be lost.

"Good-by, John," said she in a soft tone, but quite loud enough for the
old woman to hear. "I'll go home first, for I've got to see to gettin'
supper ready for you. So good-by, John, for a little while." And she
kissed her hand to the inside of the house.

Then she hurried out of the gate; got into the little phaeton which was
waiting for her under a tree; and drove away. She had come there that
afternoon on the pretense of consulting the captain about her father's
health, which she said disturbed her, and she had requested the
privilege of sitting on the toll-gate piazza because she had always
wanted to sit there, and had never been invited. The captain had not
invited her then, but as she had boldly marched to the piazza and taken
a seat, he had been obliged to follow.

Captain Asher, wearing a good coat and hat, relieved old Jane at her
post, and waited and waited for Olive to come back. He did not for a
moment think she might return by the shunpike, for that was a rough
road, not fit for a bicycle. And if she passed this way once, why should
she object to doing it again?

When more than time enough had elapsed for her return from the town, he
started forth with a heavy heart to follow her. He told old Jane that if
for any reason he should be detained in town until late, he would take
supper with Mr. Port, and if, although he did not expect this, he should
not come back that night, the Ports would know of his whereabouts. He
did not take his horse and buggy because he thought it would be in his
way. If he met Olive in the road he could more easily stop and talk to
her if he were walking than if he had a horse to take care of.

"I hope you're not runnin' after Miss Olive," said old Jane.

The captain did not wish his old servant to imagine that it was
necessary for him to run after his niece, and so he answered rather
quickly: "Of course not." Then he set off toward the town. He did not
walk very fast, for if he met Olive he would rather have a talk with her
on the road than in Glenford.

He walked on and on, not with his eyes on the smooth surface of the
pike, but looking out afar, hoping that he might soon see the figure of
a girl on a bicycle; and thus it was that he passed the entrance to the
shunpike without noticing that a bicycle track turned into it.

Olive struggled on, and the road did not improve. She worked hard with
her body, but still harder with her mind. It seemed to her as though
everything were endeavoring to crush her, and that it was almost
succeeding. If she had been in her own room, seated, or walking the
floor, indignation against her uncle would have given her the same
unnatural vigor and energy which had possessed her when she read her
father's letter; but it is impossible to be angry when one is physically
tired and depressed, and this was Olive's condition now. Once she
dismounted, sat down on a piece of rock, and cried. The rest was of
service to her, but she could not stay there long; the road was too
lonely. She must push on. So on she pressed, sometimes walking, and
sometimes on her wheel, the pedals apparently growing stiffer at every
turn. Slight mishaps she did not mind, but a fear began to grow upon her
that she would never be able to reach Broadstone at all. But after a
time--a very long time it seemed--the road grew more level and smooth;
and then ahead she saw the white surface of the turnpike shining as it
passed the end of her road. When she should emerge on that smooth, hard
road it could not be long, even if she went slowly, before she reached
home. She was still some fifty yards from the pike when she saw a man
upon it, walking southward.

As Dick Lancaster passed the end of the road he lifted his head, and
looked along it. It was strange that he should do so, for since he had
started on his homeward walk he had not raised his eyes from the ground.
He had reached Broadstone soon after luncheon, before Olive had left on
her wheel, and had passed rather a stupid time, playing tennis with
Claude Locker, he had seen but little of Mrs. Easterfield, whose mind
was evidently occupied. Once she had seemed about to take him into her
confidence, but had suddenly excused herself, and had gone into the
house. When the game was finished Locker advised him to go home.

"She is not likely to be down until dinner time," he had said, "and this
evening I'll defend our cause against those other fellows. I have
several good things in my mind that I am sure will interest her, and I
don't believe there's any use courting a girl unless you interest her."

Lancaster had taken the advice, and had left much earlier than was


_Mr. Lancaster accepts a Mission._

When Dick Lancaster saw Olive he stopped with a start, and then ran
toward her.

"Miss Asher!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? What is the
matter? You look pale."

When she saw him coming Olive had dismounted, not with the active spring
usual with her, but heavily and clumsily. She did not even smile as she
spoke to him.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Lancaster," she said. "I am on my way back to
Broadstone, and I would like to send a message to my uncle by you."

"Back from where? And why on this road?" he was about to ask, but he
checked himself. He saw that she trembled as she stood.

"Miss Asher," said he, "you must stop and rest. Let me take your wheel
and come over to this bank and sit down."

She sat down in the shade and took off her hat; and for a moment she
quietly enjoyed the cool breeze upon her head. He did not want to annoy
her with questions, but he could not help saying:

"You look very tired."

"I ought to be tired," she answered, "for I have gone over a perfectly
dreadful road. Of course, you wonder why I came this way, and the best
thing for me to do is to begin at the beginning and to tell you all
about it, so that you will know what I have been doing, and then
understand what I would like you to do for me."

So she told him all her tale, and, telling it, seemed to relieve her
mind while her tired body rested. Dick listened with earnest avidity. He
lost not the slightest change in her expression as she spoke. He was
shocked when he heard of her father; he was grieved when he imagined how
she must have felt when the news came to her; he was angry when he heard
of the impertinent glare of Maria Port; and his heart was torn when he
knew of this poor girl's disappointment, of her soul-harrowing
conjectures, of her wearisome and painful progress along that rough
road; of which progress she said but little, although its consequences
he could plainly see. All these things showed themselves upon his
countenance as he gazed upon her and listened, not only with his ears,
but his heart.

"I shall be more than glad," he said, when she had finished, "to carry
any message, or to do anything you want me to do. But I must first
relieve you of one of your troubles. Your uncle has not the slightest
idea of marrying Miss Port. I don't believe he would marry anybody; but,
of all women, not that vulgar creature. Let me assure you, Miss Asher,
that I have heard him talk about her, and I know he has the most
contemptuous opinion of her. I have heard him make fun of her, and I
don't believe he would have anything to do with her if it were not for
her father, who is one of his oldest friends."

She looked at him incredulously. "And yet they were sitting close
together," she said; "so close that at first I did not see her;
apparently talking in the most private manner in a very public place.
They surely looked very much like an engaged couple as I have noticed
them. And old Jane has told me that everybody knows she is trying to
trap him; and surely there is good reason to believe that she has

Dick shook his head. "Impossible, Miss Asher," he said. "He never would
have such a woman. I know him well enough to be absolutely sure of that.
Of course, he treats her kindly, and perhaps he is sociable with her. It
is his nature to be friendly, and he has known her for a long time. But
marry her! Never! I am certain, Miss Asher, he would never do that."

"I wish I could believe it," said she.

"I can easily prove it to you," he said. "I will take your message to
your uncle, I will tell him all you want me to tell him, and then I will
ask him, frankly and plainly, about Miss Port. I do not in the least
object to doing it. I am well enough acquainted with him to know that he
is a frank, plain man. I am sure he will be much amused at your
supposition, and angry, too, when I tell him of the way that woman
looked at you and so prevented you from stopping when you had come
expressly to see him. Then I will immediately come to Broadstone to
relieve your mind in regard to the Maria Port business, and to bring
you whatever message your uncle has to send you."

"No, no," said Olive, "you must not do that. It would be too much to
come back to-day. You have relieved my mind somewhat about that woman,
and I am perfectly willing to wait until to-morrow, when you can tell me
exactly how everything is, and let me know when my uncle would like me
to come and see him. I think it will be better next time not to take him
by surprise. But I would be very, very grateful to you, Mr, Lancaster,
if you would come as early in the morning as you can. I can wait very
well until then, now that my mind is easier, but I am afraid that when
to-morrow begins I shall be very impatient. My troubles are always worse
in the morning. But you must not walk. My uncle has a horse and buggy.
But perhaps it would be better to let Mrs. Easterfield send for you. I
know she will be glad to do it."

Dick assured her that he did not wish to be sent for; that he would
borrow the captain's horse, and would be at Broadstone as early as was
proper to make a visit.

"Proper!" exclaimed Olive. "In a case like this any time is proper. In
Mrs. Easterfield's name I invite you to breakfast. I know she will be
glad to have me do it. And now I must go on. You are very, very good,
and I am very grateful."

Dick could not say that he was more grateful for being allowed to help
her than she could possibly be for being helped, but his face showed it,
and if she had looked at him she would have known it.

"Miss Asher," he exclaimed as she rose, "your skirt is covered with
dust. You must have fallen."

"I did have one fall," she said, "but I was so worried I did not mind."

"But you can not go back in that plight," he said; "let me dust your
skirt." And breaking a little branch from a bush, he proceeded to make
her look presentable. "And now," said he, when she had complimented him
upon his skill, "I will walk with you to the entrance of the grounds.
Perhaps as you are so tired," he said hesitatingly, "I can help you
along, so that you will not have to work so hard yourself."

"Oh, no," she answered; "that is not at all necessary. When I am on the
turnpike I can go beautifully. I feel ever so much rested and stronger,
and it is all due to you. So you see, although you will not go with me,
you will help me very much." And she smiled as she spoke. He truly had
helped her very much.

Dick was unwilling that she should go on alone, although it was still
broad daylight and there was no possible danger, and he was also
unwilling because he wanted to go with her, but there was no use saying
anything or thinking anything, and so he stood and watched her rolling
along until she had passed the top of a little hill, and had departed
from his view. Then he ran to the top of the little hill, and watched
her until she was entirely out of sight.

The rest of the way to the toll-gate seemed very short to Dick, but he
had time enough to make up his mind that he would see the captain at the
earliest possible moment; that he would deliver his message and the
letter of Lieutenant Asher; that he would immediately bring up the
matter of Maria Port and let the captain know the mischief that woman
had done. Then, armed with the assurances the captain would give him, he
would start for Broadstone after supper, and carry the good news to
Olive. It would be a shame to let that dear girl remain in suspense for
the whole night, when he, by riding, or even walking an inconsiderable
number of miles, could relieve her. He found old Jane in the tollhouse.

"Where is the captain" he asked.

"The captain?" she repeated. "He's in town takin' supper with his

Dick stared at her.

"Perhaps you haven't heard that he's engaged to Maria Port," said the
woman; "and I don't wonder you're taken back! But I suppose everybody
will soon know it now, and the sooner the better, I say."

"What are you talking about" exclaimed Dick. "You don't mean to tell me
that the captain is going to marry Miss Port?"

"Whether he wants to or not, he's gone so far he'll have to. I've knowed
for a long time she's been after him, but I didn't think she'd catch him
just yet."

"I don't believe it." cried Dick. "It must be a mistake! How do you know

"Know!" said old Jane, who, ordinarily a taciturn woman, was now excited
and inclined to volubility. "Don't you suppose I've got eyes and ears?
Didn't I see them for ever and ever so long sittin' out on this piazza,
where everybody could see 'em, a-spoonin' like a couple of young people?
And didn't I see 'em tearin' themselves asunder as if they couldn't
bear to be apart for an hour? And didn't I hear her tell him she was
goin' home to get an extry good supper for him? And didn't I hear her
call him 'dear John,' and kiss her hand to him. And if you don't believe
me you can go into the kitchen and ask Mary; she heard the 'dear John'
and saw the hand-kissin'. And then didn't he tell me he was goin' to the
Ports' to supper, and if he stayed late and anybody asked for
him--meaning you, most probable, and I think he might have left
somethin' more of a message for you--that he was to be found with the
Ports--with Maria most likely, for the old man goes to bed early?"

Dick made no answer; he was standing motionless looking out upon the
flowers in the garden.

"And perhaps you haven't heard of Miss Olive comin' past on a bicycle,"
old Jane remarked. "I saw her comin', and I knew by the look on her face
that it made her sick to see that woman sittin' here, and I don't blame
her a bit. When he started so early for town I thought he might be
intendin' to look for her, and yet be in time for the Ports' supper, but
she didn't come back this way at all, and I expect she went home by the

"Which she did," said Dick, showing by this remark that he was listening
to what the old woman was saying.

"But he cut me mighty short when I asked him," continued old Jane. "I
tried to ease his mind, but as I found his mind didn't need no easin', I
minded my own business, just as he was mindin' his. And now, sir, you'll
have to eat your supper alone this time."

If Dick's supper had consisted of nectar and the brains of nightingales
he would not have noticed it; and, until late in the evening, he sat in
the arbor, anxiously waiting for the captain's return. About ten o'clock
old Jane, sleepy from having sat up so long, called to him from the door
that he might as well come in and let her lock up the house. The captain
was not coming home that night. He had stayed with the Ports once
before, when the old man was sick.

"I guess he's got a better reason for stayin' tonight," she said. "It'll
be a great card for that Maria when the Glenford people knows it, and
they'll know it you may be sure, if she has to go and walk the soles of
her feet off tellin' them. One thing's mighty sure," she continued. "I'm
not goin' to stay here with her in the house. He'll have to get somebody
else to help him take toll. But I guess she'll want to do that herself.
Nothin' would suit her better than to be sittin' all day in the
tollhouse talkin' scandal to everybody that goes by."


_Dick is not a Prompt Bearer of News._

When the captain reached Glenford, and before he went to the Ports' he
went to the telegraph-office, and made inquiries at various other
places, but his niece had not been seen in town. He wandered about so
long and asked so many questions that it was getting dark when he
suddenly thought of the shunpike. He had not thought of it before, for
it was an unfit road for bicycles, but now he saw that he had been a
fool. That was the only way she could have gone back.

Hurrying to a livery-stable, he hired a horse and buggy and a lantern,
and drove to the shunpike. There he plainly saw the track of the bicycle
as it had turned into that rough road. Then he drove on, examining every
foot of the way, fearful that he might see, lying senseless by the side
of the road, the figure of a girl, perhaps unconscious from fatigue,
perhaps dead from an accident.

When at last he emerged upon the turnpike he lost the track of the
bicycle, but still he went on, all the way to Broadstone; a girl might
be lying senseless by the side of the road, even on the pike, which at
this time was not much frequented. Thus assuring himself that Olive had
reached Broadstone in safety, or at least had not fallen by the way, he
turned and drove back to town upon the pike, passing his own toll-gate,
where the bar was always up after dark. He had promised to return the
horse that night, and, as he had promised, he intended to do it. It was
after nine o'clock when, returning from the livery-stable, he reached
the Port house, and saw Maria sitting in the open doorway.

She instantly ran out to meet him, asking him somewhat sharply why he
had disappointed them. She had kept the supper waiting ever so long. He
went in to see her father, who was sitting up for him, and she busied
herself in getting him a fresh supper. Nice and hot the supper was, and
although his answers to her questions had not been satisfactory, she
concealed her resentment, if she had any. When the meal was over both
father and daughter assured him that it was too late for him to go home
that night, and that he must stay with them. Tired and troubled, Captain
Asher accepted the invitation.

As soon as he could get away from the Port residence the next morning
Captain Asher went home. He had hoped he would have been able to leave
before breakfast, but the solicitous Maria would not listen to this. She
prepared him a most tempting breakfast, cooking some of the things with
her own hands, and she was so attentive, so anxious to please, so kind
in her suggestions, and in every way so desirous to make him happy
through the medium of savory food and tender-hearted concern, that she
almost made him angry. Never before, he thought, had he seen a woman
make such a coddling fool of herself. He knew very well what it meant,
and that provoked him still more.

When at last he got away he walked home in a bad humor; he was even
annoyed with Olive. Granting that what she had done was natural enough
under the circumstances, and that she had not wished to stop when she
saw him in company with a woman she did not like, he thought she might
have considered him as well as herself. She should have known that it
would give him great trouble for her to dash by in that way and neither
stop nor come back to explain matters. She must have known that Maria
Port was not going to stay always, and she might have waited somewhere
until the woman had gone. If she had had the least idea of how much he
wanted to see her she would have contrived some way to come back to him.
But no, she went back to Broadstone to please herself, and left him to
wander up and down the roads looking for her in the dark.

When the captain met old Jane at the door of the tollhouse her
salutation did not smooth his ruffled spirits, for she told him that she
and Mr. Lancaster had sat up until nearly the middle of the night
waiting for him, and that the poor young man must have felt it, for he
had not eaten half a breakfast.

The captain paid but little attention to these remarks and passed in,
but before he crossed the garden he met Dick, who informed him that he
had something very important to communicate. Important communications
that must be delivered without a moment's loss of time are generally
unpleasant, and knowing this, the captain knit his brows a little, but
told Dick he would be ready for him as soon as he lighted his pipe. He
felt he must have something to soothe his ruffled spirits while he
listened to the tale of the woes of some one else.

But at the moment he scratched his match to light his pipe his soul was
illuminated by a flash of joy; perhaps Dick was going to tell him he was
engaged to Olive; perhaps that was what she had come to tell him the day
before. He had not expected to hear anything of this kind, at least not
so soon, but it had been the wish of his heart--he now knew that without
appreciating the fact--it had been the earnest wish of his heart for
some time, and he stepped toward the little arbor with the alacrity of
happy anticipation.

As soon as they were seated Dick began to speak of Olive, but not in the
way the captain had hoped for. He mentioned the great trouble into which
she had been plunged, and gave the captain his brother's letter to read.
When he had finished it the captain's face darkened, and his frown was

"An outrageous piece of business," he said, "to treat a daughter in this
way; to put a schoolmate over her head in the family! It is shameful!
And this is what she was coming to tell me?"

"Yes," said Dick, "that is it."

Now there was another flash of joy in the captain's heart, which cleared
up his countenance and made his frown disappear. "She was coming to me,"
he thought. "I was the one to whom she turned in her trouble." And it
seemed to this good captain as if he had suddenly become the father of a
grown-up daughter.

"But what message did she send me?" he asked quickly. "Did she say when
she was coming again?"

Dick hesitated; Olive had said that she wanted her uncle to say when he
wanted to see her, so that there should be no more surprising, but this
request had been conditional. Dick knew that she did not want to come if
her uncle were going to marry Miss Port; therefore it was that he

"Before we go any further," he said, "I think I would better mention a
little thing which will make you laugh, but still it did worry Miss
Asher, and was one reason why she went back to Broadstone without

"What is it" asked the captain, putting down his pipe.

Dick did not come out plainly and frankly, as he had told Olive he would
do when he mentioned the Maria Port matter. In his own heart he could
not help believing now that Olive's suspicions had had good foundations,
and old Jane's announcements, combined with the captain's own actions in
regard to the Port family, had almost convinced him that this miserable
engagement was a fact. But, of course, he would not in any way intimate
to the captain that he believed in such nonsense, and therefore, in an
offhand manner, he mentioned Olive's absurd anxiety in regard to Miss

When the captain heard Dick's statement he answered it in the most frank
and plain manner; he brought his big hand down on his knee and swore as
if one of his crew had boldly contradicted him. He did not swear at
anybody in particular; there was the roar and the crash of the thunder
and the flash of the lightning, but no direct stroke descended upon any
one. He was angry that such a repulsive and offensive thing as his
marriage to Maria Port should be mentioned, or even thought of, but he
was enraged when he heard that his niece had believed him capable of
such disgusting insanity. With a jerk he rose to his feet.

"I will not talk about such a thing as this," he said. "If I did I am
sure I should say something hard about my niece, and I don't want to do
that." With this he strode away, and proceeded to look after the
concerns of his little farm.

Old Jane came cautiously to Dick. "Did he tell you when it was going to
be, or anything about it?" she asked.

"No," said Dick, "he would not even speak of it."

"I suppose he expects us to mind our own business," said she, "and of
course we'll have to do it, but I can tell him one thing--I'm goin' to
make it my business to leave this place the day before that woman comes

Dejected and thoughtful, Dick sat in the arbor. Here was a state of
affairs very different from what he had anticipated. He had not been
able to hurry to her the evening before; he had not gone to breakfast as
she had invited him; he had not started off early in the forenoon; and
now he asked himself when should he go, or, indeed, why should he go at
all? She had no anxieties he could relieve. Anything he could tell her
would only heap more unhappiness upon her, and the longer he could keep
his news from her the better it would be for her.

Olive had not joined the Broadstone party at dinner the night before.
She had been too tired, and had gone directly to her room, where, after
a time, Mrs. Easterfield joined her; and the two talked late. One who
had overheard their conversation might well have supposed that the elder
lady was as much interested in Lieutenant Asher's approaching nuptials
as was the younger one. When she was leaving Mrs. Easterfield said:

"You have enough on your mind to give it all the trouble it ought to
bear, and so I beg of you not to think for a moment of that absurd idea
about your uncle's engagement. I never saw the woman, but I have heard
of her; she is a professional scandal-monger; and Captain Asher would
not think for a moment of marrying her. When Mr. Lancaster comes
to-morrow you will hear that she was merely consulting him on business,
and that you are to go to the toll-gate to-morrow as soon as you can.
But remember, this time I am going to send you in the carriage. No more

In spite of this well-intentioned admonition, Olive did not sleep well,
and dreamed all night of Miss Port in the shape of a great cat covered
with feathers like a chicken, and trying to get a chance to jump at her.
Very early she awoke, and looking at her clock, she began to calculate
the hours which must pass before Mr. Lancaster could arrive. It was
rather strange that of the two troubles which came to her as soon as she
opened her eyes, the suspected engagement of her uncle pushed itself in
front of the actual engagement of her father; the one was something she
_knew_ she would have to make up her mind to bear; the other was
something she _feared_ she would have to make up her mind to bear.


_What Olive determined to do._

Olive was very much disappointed at breakfast time, and as soon as she
had finished that meal she stationed herself at a point on the grounds
which commanded the entrance. People came and talked to her, but she did
not encourage conversation, and about eleven o'clock she went to Mrs.
Easterfield in her room.

"He is not coming," she said. "He is afraid."

"What is he afraid of?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"He is afraid to tell me that the optimistic speculations with which he
tried to soothe my mind arose entirely from his own imagination. The
whole thing is exactly what I expected, and he hasn't the courage to
come and say so. Now, really, don't you think this is the state of the
case, and that if he had anything but the worst news to bring me he
would have been here long ago?"

Mrs. Easterfield looked very serious. "I would not give up," she said,
"until I saw Mr. Lancaster and heard what he has to say."

"That would not suit me," said Olive. "I have waited and waited just as
long as I can. It is as likely as not that he has concluded that he can
not do anything here which will be of service to any one, and has
started off to finish his vacation at some place where people won't
bother him with their own affairs. He told me when I first met him that
he was on his way North. And now, would you like me to tell you what I
have determined to do?"

"I would," said Mrs. Easterfield, but her expression did not indicate
that she expected Olive's announcement to give her any pleasure.

"I have been considering it all the morning," said Olive, "and I have
determined to marry without delay. The greatest object of my life at
present is to write to my father that I am married. I don't wish to tell
him anything until I can tell him that. I would also be glad to be able
to send the same message to the toll-gate house, but I don't suppose it
will make much difference there."

"Do you think," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that my inviting you here made
all this trouble?"

"No," said Olive. "It was not the immediate cause, but uncle knows I do
not like that woman, and she doesn't like me, and it would not have
suited him to have me stay very much longer with him. I thought at first
he was glad to have me go on account of Mr. Lancaster, but now I do not
believe that had anything to do with it. He did not want me with him,
and what that woman came here and told me about his not expecting me
back again was, I now believe, a roundabout message from him."

"Now, Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield, "it would be a great deal better
for you to stop all this imagining until you hear from Mr. Lancaster,
if you don't see him. Perhaps the poor young man has sprained his ankle,
or was prevented in some ordinary way from coming. But what is this
nonsense about getting married?"

"There is no nonsense about it," said Olive. "I am going to marry, but I
have not chosen any one yet."

Mrs. Easterfield uttered an exclamation of horror. "Choose!" she
exclaimed. "What have you to do with choosing? I don't think you are
much like other girls, but I did think you had enough womanly qualities
to make you wait until you are chosen."

"I intend to wait until I am chosen," said Olive, "but I shall choose
the person who is to choose me. I have always thought it absurd for a
young woman to sit and wait and wait until some one comes and sees fit
to propose to her. Even under ordinary circumstances, I think the young
woman has not a fair chance to get what she wants. But my case is
extraordinary, and I can't afford to wait; and as I don't want to go out
into the world to look for a husband, I am going to take one of these
young men here."

"Olive," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "you don't mean you are going to marry
Mr. Locker?"

"You forget," said Olive, "that I told you I have not made up my mind
yet. But although I have not come to a decision, I have a leaning toward
one of them. The more I think of it the more I incline in the direction
of my old love."

"Mr. Hemphill!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Olive, you are crazy, or
else you are joking in a very disagreeable manner. There could be no
one more unfit for you than he is."

"I am not crazy, and I am not joking," replied the girl, "and I think
Rupert would suit me very well. You see, I think a great deal more of
Rupert than I do of Mr. Hemphill, although the latter gentleman has
excellent points. He is commonplace, and, above everything else, I want
a commonplace husband. I want some one to soothe me, and quiet me, and
to give me ballast. If there is anything out of the way to be done I
want to do it myself. I am sure he is in love with me, for his anxious
efforts to make me believe that the frank avowal of my early affection
had no effect upon him proves that he was very much affected. I believe
that he is truly in love with me."

Mrs. Easterfield's sharp eyes had seen this, and she had nothing to say.

"I believe," continued Olive, "that a retrospect love will be a better
foundation for conjugal happiness than any other sort of affection. One
can always look back to it no matter what happens, and be happy in the
memory of it. It would be something distinct which could never be
interfered with. You can't imagine what an earnest and absorbing love I
once had for that man!"

Mrs. Easterfield sprang to her feet. "Olive Asher," she cried, "I can't
listen to you if you talk in this way!"

"Well, then," said Olive, "if you object so much to Rupert--you must not
forget that it would be Rupert that I would really marry if I became the
wife of Mr. Hemphill--do you advise me to take Mr. Locker? And I will
tell you this, he is not to be rudely set aside; he has warm-hearted
points which I did not suspect at first. I will tell you what he just
said to me. As I was coming up-stairs he hurried toward me, and his face
showed that he was very anxious to speak to me. So before he could utter
a word, I told him that he was too early; that his hour had not yet
arrived. Then that good fellow said to me that he had seen I was in
trouble, and that he had been informed it had been caused by bad news
from my family. He had made no inquiries because he did not wish to
intrude upon my private affairs, and all he wished to say now was that
while my mind was disturbed and worried he did not intend to present his
own affairs to my attention, even though I had fixed regular times for
his doing so. But although he wished me to understand that I need not
fear his making love to me just at this time, he wanted me to remember
that his love was still burning as brightly as ever, and would be again
offered me just as soon as he would be warranted in doing so."

"And what did you say to that?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"I felt like patting him on the head," Olive answered, "but instead of
doing that I shook his hand just as warmly as I could, and told him I
should not forget his consideration and good feeling."

Mrs. Easterfield sighed. "You have joined him fast to your car," she
said, "and yet, even if there were no one else, he would be impossible."

"Why so?" asked Olive quickly. "I have always liked him, and now I like
him ever so much better. To be sure he is queer; but then he is so much
queerer than I am that perhaps in comparison I might take up the part
of commonplace partner. Besides, he has money enough to live on. He told
me that when he first addressed me. He said he would never ask any woman
to live on pickled verse feet, and he has also told me something of his
family, which must be a good one."

"Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I don't believe at all in the necessity
or the sense in your precipitating plans of marrying. It is all airy
talk, anyway. You can't ask a man to step up and marry you in order that
you may sit down and write a letter to your father. But if you are
thinking of marrying, or rather of preparing to marry at some suitable
time, why, in the name of everything that is reasonable, don't you take
Mr. Lancaster? He is as far above the other young men you have met here
as the mountains are above the plains; he belongs to another class
altogether. He is a thoroughly fine young man, and has a most honorable
profession with good prospects, and I know he loves you. You need not
ask me how I know it--it is always easy for a woman to find out things
like that. Now, here is a prospective husband for you whose cause I
should advocate. In fact, I should be delighted to see you married to
him. He possesses every quality which would make you a good husband."

Olive smiled. "You seem to know a great deal about him," said she, "and
I assure you that so far as he himself is concerned, I have no
objections to him, except that I think he might have had the courage to
come and tell me the truth this morning, whatever it is."

"Perhaps he has not found out the truth yet," quickly suggested Mrs.

Olive fixed her eyes upon her companion and for a few moments reflected,
but presently she shook her head.

"No, that can not be," she answered. "He would have let me know he had
been obliged to wait. Oh, no, it is all settled, and we can drop that
subject. But as for Mr. Lancaster, his connections would make any
thought of him impossible. He, and his father, too, are both close
friends of my uncle, and he would be a constant communication between me
and that woman unless there should be a quarrel, which I don't wish to
cause. No, I want to leave everything of that sort as far behind me as
it used to be in front of me, and as Professor Lancaster is mixed up
with it I could not think of having anything to do with him."

Mrs. Easterfield was silent. She was trying to make up her mind whether
this girl were talking sense or nonsense. What she said seemed to be
extremely nonsensical, but as she said it, it was difficult to believe
that she did not consider it to be entirely rational.

"Well," said Olive, "you have objected to two of my candidates, and I
positively decline the one you offer, so we have left only the diplomat.
He has proposed, and he has not yet received a definite answer. You have
told me yourself that he belongs to an aristocratic family in Austria,
and I am sure that would be a grand match. We have talked together a
great deal, and he seems to like the things I like. I should see plenty
of court life and high society, for he will soon be transferred from
this legation, and if I take him I shall go to some foreign capital. He
is very sharp and ambitious, and I have no doubt that some day he will
be looked upon as a distinguished foreigner. Now, as it is the ambition
of many American girls to marry distinguished foreigners, this alliance
is certainly worthy of due consideration."

"Stuff!" said Mrs. Easterfield.

Olive was not annoyed, and replied very quietly: "It is not stuff. You
must know young women who have married foreigners and who did not do
anything like so well as if they had married rising diplomats."

Mrs. Blynn now knocked at the door on urgent household business.

"I shall want to see you again about all this, Olive," said Mrs.
Easterfield as they parted.

"Of course," replied the girl, "whenever you want to."

"Mrs. Blynn," said the lady of the house, "before you mention what you
have come to talk about, please tell one of the men to put a horse to a
buggy and come to the house. I want to send a message by him."

The letter which was speedily on its way to Mr. Richard Lancaster was a
very brief one. It simply asked the young gentleman to come to
Broadstone, with bad news or good news, or without any news at all. It
was absolutely necessary that the writer should see him, and in order
that there might be no delay she sent a conveyance for him. Moreover,
she added, it would give her great pleasure if Mr. Lancaster would come
prepared to spend a couple of days at her house. She felt sure good
Captain Asher would spare him for that short time. She believed that at
this moment more gentlemen were needed at Broadstone, and, although she
did not go on to say that she thought Dick was not having a fair chance
at this very important crisis, that is what she expected the young man
to understand.

Just before luncheon, at the time when Claude Locker might have been
urging his suit had he been less kind-hearted and generous, Olive found
an opportunity to say a few words to Mrs. Easterfield.

"A capital idea has come into my head," she said. "What do you think of
holding a competitive examination among these young men?"

"More stuff, and more nonsense!" ejaculated Mrs. Easterfield. "I never
knew any one to trifle with serious subjects as you are trifling with
your future."

"I am not trifling," said Olive. "Of course, I don't mean that I should
hold an examination, but that you should. You know that parents--foreign
parents, I mean--make all sorts of examinations of the qualifications
and merits of candidates for the hands of their daughters, and I should
be very grateful if you would be at least that much of a mother to me."

"No examination would be needed," said the other quickly; "I should
decide upon Mr. Lancaster without the necessity of any questions or

"But he is not a candidate," said Olive; "he has been ruled out.
However," she added with a little laugh, "nothing can be done just now,
for they have not all entered themselves in the competition; Mr.
Hemphill has not proposed yet."

At that instant the rest of the family joined them on their way to

The meal was scarcely over when Olive disappeared up-stairs, but soon
came down attired in a blue sailor suit, which she had not before worn
at Broadstone, and although the ladies of that house had been astonished
at the number of costumes this navy girl carried in her unostentatious
baggage, this was a new surprise to them.

"Mr. Hemphill and I are going boating," said Olive to Mrs. Easterfield.

"Olive!" exclaimed the other.

"What is there astonishing about it?" asked the girl. "I have been out
boating with Mr. Locker, and it did not amaze you. You need not be
afraid; Mr. Hemphill says he has had a good deal of practise in rowing,
and if he does not understand the management of a boat I am sure I do.
It is only for an hour, and we shall be ready for anything that the rest
of you are going to do this afternoon."

With this, away she went, skipping over the rocks and grass, down to the
river's edge, followed by Mr. Hemphill, who could scarcely believe he
was in a world of common people and common things, while he, in turn,
was followed by the mental anathemas of a poet and a diplomat.


_The Captain and Dick Lancaster desert the Toll-Gate._

When Captain Asher, in an angry mood, left his young friend and guest
and went out into his barnyard and his fields in order to quiet his soul
by the consideration of agricultural subjects, he met with but little
success. He looked at his pigs, but he did not notice their plump
condition; he glanced at his two cows, cropping the grass in the little
meadow, but it did not impress him that they also were in fine
condition; nor did he care whether the pasture were good or not. He
looked at this; and he looked at that; and then he folded his arms and
looked at the distant mountains. Suddenly he turned on his heel, walked
straight to the stable, harnessed his mare to the buggy, and, without
saying a word to anybody, drove out of the gate, and on to Glenford.

Dick Lancaster, who was in the arbor, looked in amazement after the
captain's departing buggy, and old Jane, with tears in her eyes, came
out and spoke to him.

"Isn't this dreadful" she said to him. "Supper with that woman and there
all night, and back again as soon as he can get off this mornin'!"

"Perhaps he is not going to her house," Dick suggested. "He may have
business in town which he forgot yesterday."

"If he'd had it he'd forgot it," replied the old woman. "But he hadn't
none. He's gone to Maria Port's, and he may bring her back with him,
married tight and fast, for all you or me knows. It would be just like
his sailor fashion. When the captain's got anything to do he just does
it sharp and quick."

"I don't believe that," said Dick. "If he had had any such intention as
that he certainly would have mentioned it to you or to me."

The good woman shook her head. "When an old man marries a girl," she
said, "she just leads him wherever she wants him to go, and he gives up
everything to her, and when an old man marries a tough and seasoned and
smoked old maid like Maria Port, she just drives him wherever she wants
him to go, and he hasn't nothin' to say about it. It looks as if she
told him to come in this mornin', and he's gone. It may be for a
weddin', or it may be for somethin' else, but whatever it is, it'll be
her way and not his straight on to the end of the chapter."

Dick had nothing to answer. He was very much afraid that old Jane knew
what she was talking about, and his mind was occupied with trying to
decide what he, individually, ought to do about it. Old Jane was now
obliged to go to the toll-gate to attend to a traveler, but when she
came back she took occasion to say a few more words.

"It's hard on me, sir," she said, "at my age to make a change. I've
lived at this house, and I've took toll at that gate ever since I was a
girl, long before the captain came here, and I've been with him a long
time. My people used to own this house, but they all died, and when the
place was sold and the captain bought it, he heard about me, and he said
I should always have charge of the old toll-gate when he wasn't
attendin' to it himself, just the same as when my father was alive and
was toll-gate keeper, and I was helpin' him. But I've got to go now, and
where I'm goin' to is more'n I know. But I'd rather go to the county
poorhouse than stay here, or anywhere else, with Maria Port. She's a
regular boa-constrictor, that woman is! She's twisted herself around
people before this and squeezed the senses out of them; and that's
exactly what she's doin' with the captain. If she could come here to
live and bring her old father, and get him to sell the house in town and
put the money in bank, and then if she could worry her husband and her
father both to death, and work things so she'd be a widow with plenty of
money and a good house and as much farm land as she wanted, and a
toll-gate where she could set all day and take toll and give back lies
and false witness as change, she'd be the happiest woman on earth."

It had been long since old Jane had said as much at any one time to any
one person, but her mind was stirred. Her life was about to change, and
the future was very black to her.

When dinner was ready the captain had not yet returned, and Dick ate his
meal by himself. He was now beginning to feel used to this sort of
thing. He had scarcely finished, and gone down to the garden-gate to
look once more over the road toward Glenford, when the man in the buggy
arrived, and he received Mrs. Easterfield's letter.

He lost no moments in making up his mind. He would go to Broadstone, of
course, and he did not think it at all necessary to stand on ceremony
with the captain. The latter had gone off and left him without making
any statement whatever, but he would do better, and he wrote a note
explaining the state of affairs. As he was leaving old Jane came to bid
him good-by.

"I don't know," said she, "that you will find me here when you come
back. The fact of it is I don't know nothin'. But one thing's certain,
if she's here I ain't, and if she's too high and mighty to take toll in
her honeymoon, the captain'll have to do it himself, or let 'em pass
through free."

Mrs. Easterfield was on the lawn when Lancaster arrived, and in answer
to the involuntary glance with which Dick's eyes swept the surrounding
space, even while he was shaking hands with her, she said: "No, she is
not here. She has gone boating, and so you must come and tell me
everything, and then we can decide what is best to tell her."

For an instant Dick's soul demurred. If he told Olive anything he would
tell her all he knew, and exactly what had happened. But he would not
lose faith in this noble woman who was going to help him with Olive if
she could. So they sat down, side by side, and he told her everything he
knew about Captain Asher and Miss Port.

"It does look very much as if he were going to marry the woman," said
Mrs. Easterfield. Then she sat silent and looked upon the ground, a
frown upon her face.

Dick was also silent, and his countenance was clouded. "Poor Olive," he
thought, "it is hard that this new trouble should come upon her just at
this time."

But Mrs. Easterfield said in her heart: "Poor fellow, how little you
know what has come upon you! The woman who has turned her uncle from
Olive has turned Olive from you."

"Well," said the lady at length, "do you think it is worth while to say
anything to her about it? She has already surmised the state of affairs,
and, so far as I can see, you have nothing of importance to tell her."

"Perhaps not," said Dick, "but as she sent me on a mission I want to
make known to her the result of it so far as there has been any result.
It will be very unpleasant, of course--it will be even painful--but I
wish to do it all the same."

"That is to say," said Mrs. Easterfield with a smile that was not very
cheerful, "you want to be with her, to look at her and to speak to her,
no matter how much it may pain her or you to do it."

"That's it," answered Dick.

Mrs. Easterfield sat and reflected. She very much liked this young man,
and, considering herself as his friend, were there not some things she
ought to tell him? She concluded that there were such things.

"Mr. Lancaster," she said, "have you noticed that there are other young
men in love with Miss Asher?"

"I know there is one," said Dick, "for he told me so himself."

"That was Claude Locker?" said she with interest.

"And he promised," continued Dick, "that if he failed he would do all he
could to help me. I can not say that this is really for love of me, for
his avowed object is to prevent Mr. Du Brant from getting her. We
assumed that he was her lover, although I do not know that there is any
real ground for it."

"There is very good ground for it," said she, "for he has already
proposed to her. What do you think of that?"

"It makes no difference to me," said Dick; "that is, if he has not been
accepted. What I want is to find myself warranted in telling Miss Asher
how I feel toward her; it does not matter to me how the rest of the
world feels."

"Then there is another," said Mrs. Easterfield, "with whom she is now on
the river--Mr. Hemphill. He is in love with her; and as he can not stay
here very long, I think he will soon propose."

"I can not help it," said Dick; "I love her, and the great object of my
life just at present is to tell her so. You said you would help me, and
I hope you will not withdraw from that promise."

"No, indeed," said she, "but I do not know her as well as I thought I
did. But here she comes now, and without the young man. I hope she has
not drowned him!"

Without heeding anything that had just been said to him Dick kept his
eyes fixed upon the sparkling girl who now approached them. Every step
she made was another link in his chain; Mrs. Easterfield glanced at him
and knew this. She pitied him for what he had to tell her now, and more
for what he might have to hear from her at another time. But Olive saved
Dick from any present ordeal. She stepped up to him and offered him her

"I do not wonder, Mr. Lancaster," she said, "that you did not want to
come back and tell me your doleful story, but as I know what it is, we
need not say anything about it now, except that I am ever so much
obliged to you for all your kindness to me. And now I am going to ask
another favor. Won't you let me speak to Mrs. Easterfield a few

As soon as they were seated, with the door shut, Olive began.

"Well," said she, "he has proposed."

"Mr. Hemphill!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield.

"Rupert," Olive answered, "yes, it is truly Rupert who proposed to me."

"I declare," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "you come to me and tell me this as
if it were a piece of glad news. Yesterday, and even this morning, you
were plunged in grief, and now your eyes shine as if you were positively

"I have told you my aim and object in life," said the girl. "I am trying
to do something, and to do it soon, and everything is going on smoothly.
And as to being happy, I tell you, Mrs. Easterfield, there is no woman
alive who could help being made happy by such a declaration as I have
just received. No matter what answer she gave him, she would be bound
to be happy."

"Most other women would not have let him make it," said Mrs. Easterfield
a little severely.

"There is something in that," said Olive, "but they would not have the
object in life I have. I may be unduly exalted, but you would not wonder
at it if you had seen him and heard him. Mrs. Easterfield, that man
loves me exactly as I used to love him, and he has told me his love just
as I would have told him mine if I could have carried out the wish of my
heart. His eyes glowed, his frame shook with the ardor of his passion.
Two or three times I had to tell him that if he did not trim boat we
should be upset. I never saw anything like his impassioned vehemence. It
reminded me of Salvini. I never was loved like that before."

"And what answer did you make to him?" asked Mrs. Easterfield, her voice

"I did not make him any. It would not have been fair to the others or to
myself to do that. I shall not swerve from my purpose, but I shall not
be rash."

Mrs. Easterfield rose suddenly and stepped to the open window; she could
not sit still a moment longer; she needed air. "Olive," she said, "this
is mad and wicked folly in you, and it is impertinent in him, no matter
how much you encouraged him. I would like to send him back to his desk
this minute. He has no right to come to his employer's house and behave
in this manner."

Olive did not get angry. "He is not impertinent," said she. "He knows
nothing in this world but that I once loved him, and that now he loves
me. Employer and employee are nothing to him. I don't believe he would
go if you told him to, even if you could do such a thing, which I don't
believe you would, for, of course, you would think of me as well as of

"Olive Asher," cried Mrs. Easterfield in a voice which was almost a
wail, "do you mean to say that you are to be considered in this matter,
that for a moment you think of marrying this man?"

"Yes," said Olive; "I do think of it, and the more I think of it the
better I think of it. He is a good man; you have told me that yourself;
and I can feel that he is good. I know he loves me. There can be no
mistake about his words and his eyes. I feel as I never felt toward any
other man, that I might become attached to him. And in my opinion a real
attachment is the foundation of love, and you must never forget that I
once loved him." The girl now stepped close to Mrs. Easterfield. "I am
sorry to see those tears," she said; "I did not come here to make you

"But you have made me very unhappy," said the elder lady, "and I do not
think I can talk any more about this now."

When Olive had gone Mrs. Easterfield hurried down-stairs in search of
Lancaster. She did not care what any one might think of her
unconventional eagerness; she wanted to find him, and she soon
succeeded. He was sitting in the shade with a book, which, when she
approached him, she did not believe he was reading.

"Yes," said she, as he started to his feet in evident concern, "I have
been crying, and there is no use in trying to conceal it. Of course, it
is about Olive, but I can not confide in you now, and I do not know that
I have any right to do so, anyway. But I came here to beg you most
earnestly not to propose to Miss Asher, no matter how good an
opportunity you may have, no matter how much you want to do so, no
matter how much hope may spring up in your heart."

"Do you mean," said Dick, "that I must never speak to her? Am I too
late? Is she lost to me?"

"Not at all," said she, "you are not too late, but you may be too early.
She is not lost to anybody, but if you should speak to her before I tell
you to she will certainly be lost to you."


_Mr. Locker determines to rush the Enemy's Position._

The party at Broadstone was not in what might be called a congenial
condition. There were among them elements of unrest which prevented that
assimilation which is necessary to social enjoyment. Even the ordinarily
placid Mr. Fox was dissatisfied. The trouble with him was--although he
did not admit it--that he missed the company of Miss Asher. He had found
her most agreeable and inspiriting, but now things had changed, and he
did not seem to have any opportunity for the lively chats of a few days
before. He remarked to his wife that he thought Broadstone was getting
very dull, and he should be rather glad when the time came for them to
leave. Mrs. Fox was not of his opinion; she enjoyed the state of affairs
more than she had done when her husband had been better pleased. There
was something going on which she did not understand, and she wanted to
find out what it was. It concerned Miss Asher and one of the young men,
but which one she could not decide. In any case it troubled Mrs.
Easterfield, and that was interesting.

Claude Locker seemed to be a changed man; he no longer made jokes or
performed absurdities. He had become wonderfully vigilant, and seemed to
be one who continually bided his time. He bided it so much that he was
of very little use as a member of the social circle.

Mr. Du Brant was also biding his time, but he did not make the fact
evident. He was very vigilant also, but was very quiet, and kept himself
in the background. He had seen Olive and Mr. Hemphill go out in the
boat, but he determined totally to ignore that interesting occurrence.
The moment he had an opportunity he would speak to Olive again, and the
existence of other people did not concern him.

Mr. Hemphill was walking by the river; Olive had not allowed him to come
to the house with her, for his face was so radiant with the ecstasy of
not having been discarded by her that she did not wish him to be seen.
From her window Mrs. Easterfield saw this young man on his return from
his promenade, and she knew it would not be many minutes before he would
reach the house. She also saw the diplomat, who was glaring across the
grounds at some one, probably Mr. Locker, who, not unlikely, was glaring
back at him. She had come up-stairs to do some writing, but now she put
down her pen and called to her secretary.

"Miss Raleigh," said she, "it has been a good while since you have done
anything for me."

"Indeed it has," said the other with a sigh.

"But I want you to do something this minute. It is strictly confidential
business. I want you to go down on the lawn, or any other place where
Miss Asher may be, and make yourself _mal à propos_. I am busy now, but
I will relieve you before very long. Can you do that? Do you

The aspect of the secretary underwent a total change. From a dull,
heavy-eyed woman she became an intent, an eager emissary. Her hands
trembled with the intensity of her desire to meddle with the affairs of

"Of course I understand," she exclaimed, "and I can do it. You mean you
don't want any of those young men to get a chance to speak to Miss
Asher. Do you include Mr. Lancaster? Or shall I only keep off the

"I include all of them," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Don't let any of them
have a chance to speak to her until I can come down. And hurry! Here is
one coming now."

Hurrying down-stairs, the secretary glanced into the library. There she
saw Mrs. Fox in one armchair, and Olive in another, both reading. In the
hall were the two little girls, busily engaged in harnessing two small
chairs to a large armchair by means of a ball of pink yarn. Outside,
about a hundred yards away, she saw Mr. Hemphill irresolutely
approaching the house. Miss Raleigh's mind, frequently dormant, was very
brisk and lively when she had occasion to waken it. She made a dive
toward the children.

"Dear little ones," she cried, "don't you want to come out under the
trees and have the good Mr. Hemphill tell you a story? I know he wants
to tell you one, and it is about a witch and two pussy-cats and a
kangaroo. Come along. He is out there waiting for us." Down dropped the
ball of yarn, and with exultant cries each little girl seized an
outstretched hand of the secretary, and together they ran over the grass
to meet the good Mr. Hemphill.

Of course he was obliged to want to tell them a story; they expected it
of him, and they were his employer's children. To be sure he had on mind
something very practical and sensible he wished to say to Miss Olive,
which had come to him during his solitary walk, and which he did not
believe she would object to hearing, although he had said so much to her
quite recently. As soon as he should begin to speak she would know that
this was something she ought to know. It was about his mother, who had
an income of her own, and did not in the least depend upon her son. Miss
Olive would certainly agree with him that it was proper for him to tell
her this.

But the little girls seized his hands and led him away to a bench,
where, having seated him almost forcibly, each climbed upon a knee. The
good Mr. Hemphill sent a furtive glare after Miss Raleigh, who, with
that smile of gentle gratification which comes to one after having just
done a good deed to another, sauntered slowly away.

"Don't come back again," cried out the older of the little girls. "He
was put out in the last story, and we want this to be a long one. And
remember, Mr, Rupert, it is to be about a witch and two pussy-cats--"

"And a kangaroo," added the other.

At the front door the secretary met Miss Asher, just emerging. "Isn't
that a pretty picture" she said, pointing to the group under the trees.

Olive looked at them and smiled. "It is beautiful," she said; "a
regular family composition. I wish I had a kodak."

"Oh, that would never do!" exclaimed Miss Raleigh. "He is just as
sensitive as he can be, and, of course, it's natural. And the dear
little things are so glad to get him to themselves so that they can have
one of the long, long stories they like so much. May I ask what that is
you are working, Miss Asher?"

"It is going to be what they call a nucleus," said Olive, showing a
little piece of fancy work. "You first crochet this, and then its
ultimate character depends on what you may put around it. It may be a
shawl, or a table cover, or even an apron, if you like crocheted aprons.
I learned the stitch last winter. Would you like me to show it to you?"

"I should like it above all things," said the secretary. And together
they walked to a rustic bench quite away from the story-telling group.
"So far I have done nothing but nucleuses," said Olive, as they sat
down. "I put them away when they are finished, and then I suppose some
time I shall take up one and make it into something."

"Like those pastry shells," said Miss Raleigh, "which can be laid away
and which you can fill up with preserves or jam whenever you want a pie.
How many of these have you, Miss Asher?"

"When this is finished there will be four," said Olive.

At some distance, and near the garden, Dick Lancaster, strolling
eastward, encountered Claude Locker, strolling westward.

"Hello!" cried Locker. "I am glad to see you. Brought your baggage with
you this time, I see. That means you are going to stay, of course."

"A couple of days," replied Dick.

"Well, a man can do a lot in that time, and you may have something to
do, but I am not sure. No, sir," continued Locker, "I am not sure. I am
on the point of making a demonstration in force. But the enemy is always
presenting some new force. By enemy you understand me to mean that which
I adore above all else in the world, but which must be attacked, and
that right soon if her defenses are to be carried. Step this way a
little, and look over there. Do you see that Raleigh woman sitting on a
bench with her? Well, now, if I had not had such a beastly generous
disposition I might be sitting on that bench this minute. I was deceived
by a feint of the opposing forces this morning. I don't mean she
deceived me. I did it myself. Although I had the right by treaty to
march in upon her, I myself offered to establish a truce in order that
she might bury her dead. I did not know who had been killed, but it
looked as if there were losses of some kind. But it was a false alarm.
The dead must have turned up only missing, and she was as lively as a
cricket at luncheon, and went out in a boat with that tailor's
model--sixteen dollars and forty-eight cents for the entire suit
ready-made; or twenty-three dollars made to order."

Dick smiled a little, but his soul rebelled within him. He regretted
that he had given his promise to Mrs. Easterfield. What he wanted to do
that moment was to go over to Captain Asher's niece and ask her to take
a walk with him. What other man had a better right to speak to her than
he had? But he respected his word; it would be very hard to break a
promise made to Mrs. Easterfield; and he stood with his hands in his
pockets, and his brows knit.

"Now, I tell you what I am going to do," said Locker. "I am going to
wait a little while--a very little while--and then I shall bounce over
my earthworks, and rush her position. It is the only way to do it, and I
shall be up and at her with cold steel. And now I will tell you what you
must do. Just you hold yourself in reserve; and, if I am routed, you
charge. You'd better do it if you know what's good for you, for that
Austrian's over there pulverizing his teeth and swearing in French
because that Raleigh woman doesn't get up and go. Now, I won't keep you
any longer, but don't go far away. I can't talk any more, for I've got
to have every eye fixed upon the point of attack."

Dick looked at the animated face of his companion, and began to ask
himself if the moment had not arrived when even a promise made to Mrs.
Easterfield might be disregarded. Should he consent to allow his fate to
depend upon the fortunes of Mr. Locker? He scorned the notion. It would
be impossible for the girl who had talked so sweetly, so earnestly, so
straight from her heart, when he had met her on the shunpike, to marry
such a mountebank as this fellow, generous as he might be with that
which could never belong to him. As to the diplomat, he did not
condescend to bestow a thought upon such a black-pointed little


_Miss Raleigh enjoys a Rare Privilege._

Miss Raleigh was very attentive to the instructions given her by Miss
Asher, and while she exhibited the fashion of the new stitch Olive

"I wonder," she said to herself, "if Mrs. Easterfield has done this. It
looks very much like it, and if she did I am truly obliged to her. There
is nothing I want so much now as a rest, and I didn't want to stay in
the house either. Miss Raleigh," said she, suddenly changing the
subject, "were you ever in love?"

The secretary started. "What do you mean by that?" she asked.

"I don't mean anything," said Olive. "I simply wanted to know."

"It is a queer question," said Miss Raleigh, her face changing to
another shade of sallowness.

"I know that," said Olive quickly, "but the answers to queer questions
are always so much more interesting than those to any others. Don't you
think so?"

"Yes, they are," said Miss Raleigh thoughtfully, "but they are generally
awfully hard to get. I have tried it myself."

"Then you ought to have a fellow feeling for me," said Olive.

"Well," said the other, looking steadfastly at her companion, "if you
will promise to keep it all to yourself forever, I don't mind telling
you that I was once in love. Would you like me to tell you who I was in
love with?"

"Yes," said Olive, "if you are willing to tell me."

"Oh, I am perfectly willing," said the secretary. "It was Mr. Hemphill."

Olive turned suddenly and looked at her in amazement.

"Yes, it was Mr. Hemphill over there," said the other, speaking very
tranquilly, as if the subject were of no importance. "You see, I have
been living with the Easterfields for a long time, and in the winter we
see a good deal of Mr. Hemphill. He has to come to the house on
business, and often takes meals. He is Mr. Easterfield's private and
confidential secretary. And, somehow or other, seeing him so often, and
sometimes being his partner at cards when two were needed to make up a
game, I forgot that I was older than he, and I actually fell in love
with him. You see he has a good heart, Miss Asher; anybody could tell
that from his way with children; and I have noticed that bachelors are
often nicer with children than fathers are."

"And he?" asked Olive.

Miss Raleigh laughed a little laugh. "Oh, I did all the loving," she
answered. "He never reciprocated the least little bit, and I often
wondered why I adored him as much as I did. He was handsome, and he was
good, and he had excellent taste; he was thoroughly trustworthy in his
relations to the family, and I believe he would be equally so in all
relations of life; but all that did not account for my unconquerable
ardor, which was caused by a certain something which you know, Miss
Asher, we can't explain."

Olive tried hard not to allow any emotion to show itself in her face,
but she did not altogether succeed. "And you still--" said she.

"No, I don't," interrupted Miss Raleigh. "I love him no longer. There
came a time when all my fire froze. I discovered that there was--"

"I say, Miss Asher--" it was the voice of Claude Locker.

Olive looked around at him. "Well?" said she.

"Perhaps you have not noticed," said he, "that the tennis ground is now
in the shade, and if you don't mind walking that way--" He said a good
deal more which Miss Raleigh did not believe, understanding the young
man thoroughly, and which Olive did not hear. Her mind was very busy
with what she had just heard, which made a great impression on her. She
did not know whether she was affronted, or hurt, or merely startled.

Here was a man who loved her, a man she had loved, and one about whom
she had been questioning herself as to the possibility of her loving him
again. And here was a woman, a dyspeptic, unwholesome spinster, who had
just said she had loved him. If Miss Raleigh had loved this man, how
could she, Olive, love him? There was something repugnant about it which
she did not attempt to understand. It went beyond reason. She felt it
to be an actual relief to look up at Claude Locker, and to listen to
what he was saying.

"You mean," said she presently, "that you would like Miss Raleigh and me
to come with you and play tennis."

"I did not know Miss Raleigh played," he answered, "but I thought

"Oh, no," said Olive. "I would not think of such a thing. In fact, Miss
Raleigh and I are engaged. We are very busy about some important work."

Mr. Locker gazed at the crocheted nucleus with an air of the loftiest
disdain. "Of course, of course," said he, "but you really oblige me,
Miss Asher, to speak very plainly and frankly and to say that I really
do not care about playing tennis, but that I want to speak to you on a
most important subject, which, for reasons that I will explain, must be
spoken of immediately. So, if Miss Raleigh will be kind enough to
postpone the little matter you have on hand--"

Olive smiled and shook her head. "No, indeed, sir," she said; "I would
not hurt a lady's feelings in that way, and moreover, I would not allow
her to hurt her own feelings. It would hurt your feelings, Miss Raleigh,
wouldn't it, to be sent away like a child who is not wanted?"

"Yes," said the secretary, "I think it would."

Mr. Locker listened in amazement. He had not thought the mature maiden
had the nerve to say that.

"Then again," said Olive, "this isn't the time for you to talk business
with me, and you should not disturb me at this hour."

"Oh," said Locker, bringing down the forefinger of his right hand upon
the palm of his left, "that is a point, a very essential point. I
voluntarily surrendered the period of discourse which you assigned to me
for a reason which I now believe did not exist, and this is only an
assertion of the rights vested in me by you."

Miss Raleigh listened very attentively to these remarks, but could not
imagine what they meant.

Olive looked at him graciously. "Yes," she said, "you are very generous,
but your period for discourse, as you call it, will have to be

"But it can't be postponed," he answered. "If I could see you alone I
could soon explain that to you. There are certain reasons why I must
speak now."

"I can't help it," said Olive. "I am not going to leave Miss Raleigh,
and I am sure she does not want to leave me, so if you are obliged to
speak you must speak before her."

Mr. Locker gazed from one to the other of the two ladies who sat before
him; each of them wore a gentle but determined expression. He addressed
the secretary.

"Miss Raleigh," said he, "if you understood the reason for my strong
desire to speak in private with Miss Asher, perhaps you would respect it
and give me the opportunity I ask for. I am here to make a proposition
of marriage to this lady, and it is absolutely necessary that I make it
without loss of time. Do you desire me to make it in your presence?"

"I should like it very much," said Miss Raleigh.

Mr. Locker gave her a look of despair, and turned to Olive. "Would you
permit that?" he asked.

"If it is absolutely necessary," she said, "I suppose I shall have to
permit it."

Mr. Locker had the soul of a lion in his somewhat circumscribed body,
and he was not to be recklessly dared to action.

"Very well, then," said he, "I shall proceed as if we were alone, and I
hope, Miss Raleigh, you will at least see fit to consider yourself in a
strictly confidential position."

"Indeed I shall," she replied; "not one word shall ever--"

"I hope not," interrupted Claude, "and I will add that if I should ever
be accidentally present when a gentleman is about to propose to you,
Miss Raleigh, I shall heap coals of fire upon your head by
instantaneously withdrawing."

The secretary was about to thank him, but Olive interrupted. "Now,
Claude Locker," said she, "what can you possibly have to say to me that
you have not said before?"

"A good deal, Miss Asher, a good deal, although I don't wonder you
suppose that no man could say more to you of his undying affection than
I have already said. But, since I last spoke on the subject, I have been
greatly impressed by the fact that I have not said enough about myself;
that I have not made you understand me as I really am. I know very well
that most people, and I suppose that at some time you have been among
them, look upon me as a very frivolous young man, and not one to whom
the right sort of a girl should give herself in marriage. But that is a
mistake. I am as much to be depended upon as anybody you ever met. My
apparently whimsical aspect is merely the outside--my shell, marked off
in queer designs with variegated colors--but within that shell I am as
domestic, as sober, and as surely to be found where I am expected to be
as any turtle. This may seem a queer figure, but it strikes me as a very
good one. When I am wanted I am there. You can always depend upon me."

There was not a smile upon the face of either woman as he spoke. They
were listening earnestly, and with the deepest interest. Miss Raleigh's
eyes sparkled, and Olive seemed to be most seriously considering this
new aspect in which Mr. Locker was endeavoring to place himself.

"Perhaps you may think," Claude continued, "that you would not desire
turtle-like qualities in a husband, you who are so bright, so bounding,
so much like a hare, but I assure you, that is just the companion who
would suit you. All day you might skip among the flowers, and in the
fields, and wherever you were, you would always know where I was--making
a steady bee-line for home; and you would know that I would be there to
welcome you when you arrived."

"That is very pretty!" said Miss Raleigh. And then she quickly added:
"Excuse me for making a remark."

"Now, Miss Asher," continued Locker, "I have tried, very imperfectly, I
know, to make you see me as I really am, and I do hope you can put an
end to this suspense which is keeping me in a nervous tingle. I can not
sleep at night, and all day I am thinking what you will say when you do
decide. You need not be afraid to speak out before Miss Raleigh. She is
in with us now, and she can't get out. I would not press you for an
answer at this moment, but there are reasons which I can not say
anything about without meddling with other people's business. But my
business with you is the happiness of my life, and I feel that I can not
longer endure having it momentarily jeopardized."

At the conclusion of this speech a faint color actually stole into Miss
Raleigh's face, and she clasped her thin hands in the intensity of her

"Mr. Locker," said Olive, speaking very pleasantly, "if you had come to
me to-day and had asked me for a decision based upon what you had
already said to me, I think I might have settled the matter. But after
what you have just told me, I can not answer you now. You give me things
to think about, and I must wait."

"Heavens" exclaimed Mr. Locker, clasping his hands. "Am I not yet to
know whether I am to rise into paradise, or to sink into the infernal

Olive smiled. "Don't do either, Mr. Locker," she said. "This earth is a
very pleasant place. Stay where you are."

He folded his arms and gazed at her. "It is a pleasant place," said he,
"and I am mighty glad I got in my few remarks before you made your
decision. I leave my love with you on approbation, and you may be sure I
shall come to-morrow before luncheon to hear what you say about it."

"I shall expect you," said Olive. And as she spoke her eyes were full of
kind consideration.

"Now, that's genuine," said Miss Raleigh, when Locker had departed. "If
he had not felt every word he said he could not have said it before me."

"No doubt you are right," said Olive. "He is very brave. And now you see
this new line, which begins an entirely different kind of stitch!"

In the middle distance Mr. Du Brant still strolled backward and forward,
pulverizing his teeth and swearing in French. He seldom removed his eyes
from Miss Asher, but still she sat on that bench and crocheted, and
talked, and talked, and crocheted, with that everlasting Miss Raleigh!
He had seen Locker with her, and he had seen him go; and now he hoped
that the woman would soon depart. Then it would be his chance.

The young Austrian had become most eager to make Olive his wife. He
earnestly loved her; and, beyond that, he had come to see that a
marriage with her would be most advantageous to his prospects. This
beautiful and brilliant American girl, familiar with foreign life and
foreign countries, would give him a position in diplomatic society which
would be most desirable. She might not bring him much money; although he
believed that all American girls had some money; but she would bring him
favor, distinction, and, most likely, advancement. With such a wife he
would be a welcome envoy at any court. And, besides, he loved her. But,
alas, Miss Raleigh would not go away.

About half an hour after Claude Locker left Olive he encountered Dick

"Well," said he, "I charged. I was not routed, I can't say that I was
even repulsed. But I was obliged to withdraw my forces. I shall go into
camp, and renew the attack to-morrow. So, my friend, you will have to
wait. I wish I could say that there is no use of your waiting, but I am
a truthful person and can't do that."

Lancaster was not pleased. "It seems to me," he said, "that you trifle
with the most important affairs of life."

"Trifle!" exclaimed Locker. "Would you call it trifling if I fail, and
then to save her from a worse fate, were to back you up with all my
heart and soul?"

Dick could not help smiling. "By a worse fate," he said, "I suppose you

"The Austrian," interrupted Locker. "Mrs. Easterfield has told me
something about him. He may have a title some day, and he is about as
dangerous as they make them. Instead of accusing me of trifling, you
ought to go down on your knees and thank me for still standing between
him and her."

"That is a duty I would like to perform myself," said Dick.

"Perhaps you may have a chance," sighed Locker, "but I most earnestly
hope not. Look over there at that he-nurse. Those children have made him
take them walking, and he is just coming back to the house."


_The Conflicting Serenades._

Mrs. Easterfield worked steadily at her letter, feeling confident all
the time that her secretary was attending conscientiously to the task
which had been assigned to her, and which could not fail to be a most
congenial one. One of the greatest joys of Miss Raleigh's life was to
interfere in other people's business; and to do it under approval and
with the feeling that it was her duty was a rare joy.

The letter was to her husband, and Mrs. Easterfield was writing it
because she was greatly troubled, and even frightened. In the indulgence
of a good-humored and romantic curiosity to know whether or not a
grown-up young woman would return to a sentimental attachment of her
girlhood, she had brought her husband's secretary to the house with
consequences which were appalling. If this navy girl she had on hand had
been a mere flirt, Mrs. Easterfield, an experienced woman of society,
might not have been very much troubled, but Olive seemed to her to be
much more than a flirt; she would trifle until she made up her mind, but
when she should come to a decision Mrs. Easterfield believed she would
act fairly and squarely. She wanted to marry; and, in her heart, Mrs.
Easterfield commended her; without a mother; now more than ever without
a father; her only near relative about to marry a woman who was
certainly a most undesirable connection; Olive was surely right in
wishing to settle in life. And, if piqued and affronted by her father's
intended marriage, she wished immediately to declare her independence,
the girl could not be blamed. And, from what she had said of Mr.
Hemphill, Mrs. Easterfield could not in her own mind dissent. He was a
good young man; he had an excellent position; he fervently loved Olive;
she had loved him, and might do it again. What was there to which she
could object? Only this: it angered and frightened her to think of Olive
Asher throwing herself away upon Rupert Hemphill. So she wrote a very
strong letter to her husband, representing to him that the danger was
very great and imminent, and that he was needed at Broadstone just as
soon as he could get there. Business could be set aside; his wife's
happiness was at stake; for if this unfortunate match should be made, it
would be her doing, and it would cloud her whole life. Of herself she
did not know what to do, and if she had known, she could not have done
it. But if he came he would not only know everything, but could do
anything. This indicated her general opinion of Mr. Tom Easterfield.

"Now," said she to herself, as she fixed an immediate-delivery stamp
upon the letter, "that ought to bring him here before lunch to-morrow."

When Olive saw fit to go to her room Miss Raleigh felt relieved from
guard, and went to Mrs. Easterfield to report. She told that lady
everything that had happened, even including her own emotions at
various points of the interview. The amazed Mrs. Easterfield listened
with the greatest interest.

"I knew Claude Locker was capable of almost any wild proceeding," she
said, "but I did not think he would do that!"

"There is one thing I forgot," said the secretary, "and that is that I
promised Mr. Locker not to mention a word of what happened."

"I am very glad," replied Mrs. Easterfield, "that you remembered that
promise after you told me everything, and not before. You have done
admirably so far."

"And if I have any other opportunities of interpolating myself, so to
speak," said Miss Raleigh, "shall I embrace them?"

Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "I don't want you to be too obviously
zealous," she answered. "I think for the present we may relax our
efforts to relieve Miss Asher of annoyance." Mrs. Easterfield believed
this. She had faith in Olive; and if that young woman had promised to
give Claude Locker another hearing the next day she did not believe that
the girl would give anybody else a positive answer before that time.

Miss Raleigh went away not altogether satisfied. She did not believe in
relaxed vigilance; for one thing, it was not interesting.

Olive was surprised when she found that Mr. Lancaster was to stay to
dinner, and afterward when she was informed that he had been invited to
spend a few days, she reflected. It looked like some sort of a plan, and
what did Mrs. Easterfield mean by it? She knew the lady of the house
had a very good opinion of the young professor, and that might explain
the invitation at this particular moment, but still it did look like a
plan, and as Olive had no sympathy with plans of this sort she
determined not to trouble her head about it. And to show her
non-concern, she was very gracious to Mr. Lancaster, and received her
reward in an extremely interesting conversation.

Still Olive reflected, and was not in her usual lively spirits. Mr. Fox
said to Mrs. Fox that it was an abominable shame to allow a crowd of
incongruous young men to swarm in upon a country house party, and
interfere seriously with the pleasures of intelligent and
self-respecting people.

That night, after Mrs. Easterfield had gone to bed, and before she
slept, she heard something which instantly excited her attention; it was
the sound of a guitar, and it came from the lawn in front of the house.
Jumping up, and throwing a dressing-gown about her, she cautiously
approached the open window. But the night was dark, and she could see
nothing. Pushing an armchair to one side of the window, she seated
herself, and listened. Words now began to mingle with the music, and
these words were French. Now she understood everything perfectly. Mr. Du
Brant was a musician, and had helped himself to the guitar in the

From the position in which she sat Mrs. Easterfield could look upon a
second-story window in a projecting wing of the house, and upon this
window, which belonged to Olive's room, and which was barely perceptible
in the gloom, she now fixed her eyes. The song and the thrumming went
on, but no signs of life could be seen in the black square of that open

Mrs. Easterfield was not a bad French scholar, and she caught enough of
the meaning of the words to understand that they belonged to a very
pretty love song in which the flowers looked up to the sky to see if it
were blue, because they knew if it were the fair one smiled, and then
their tender buds might ope; and, if she smiled, his heart implored that
she might smile on him. There was a second verse, much resembling the
first, except that the flowers feared that clouds might sweep the sky;
and they lamented accordingly.

Now, Mrs. Easterfield imagined that she saw something white in the
depths of the darkness of Olive's room, but it did not come to the
front, and she was very uncertain about it. Suddenly, however, something
happened about which she could not be in the least uncertain. Above
Olive's room was a chamber appropriated to the use of bachelor visitors,
and from the window of this room now burst upon the night a wild,
unearthly chant. It was a song with words but without music, and the
voice in which it was shot out into the darkness was harsh, was shrill,
was insolently blatant. And thus the clamorous singer sang:

    "My angel maid--ahoy!
    If aught should you annoy,
        By act or sound,
        From sky or ground,
        I then pray thee
        To call on me
    My angel maid--ahoy,
    My ange--my ange--l maid
    Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!"

The music of the guitar now ceased, and no French words were heard. No
ditty of Latin origin, be it ever so melodious and fervid, could stand
against such a wild storm of Anglo-Saxon vociferation. Every ahoy rang
out as if sea captains were hailing each other in a gale!

"What lungs he has" thought Mrs. Easterfield, as she put her hand over
her mouth so that no one should hear her laugh. At the open window, at
which she still steadily gazed, she now felt sure she saw something
white which moved, but it did not come to the front.

A wave of half-smothered objurgation now rolled up from below; it was
not to be readily caught, but its tone indicated rage and
disappointment. But the guitar had ceased to sound, and the French love
song was heard no more. A little irrepressible laugh came from
somewhere, but who heard it beside herself Mrs. Easterfield could not
know. Then all was still, and the insects of the night, and the tree
frogs, had the stage to themselves.

Early in the morning Miss Raleigh presented herself before Mrs.
Easterfield to make a report. "There was a serenade last night," she
said, "not far from Miss Asher's window. In fact, there were two, but
one of them came from Mr. Locker's room, and was simply awful. Mr. Du
Brant was the gentleman who sang from the lawn, and I was very sorry
when he felt himself obliged to stop. I do not think very much of him,
but he certainly has a pleasant voice, and plays well on the guitar. I
think he must have been a good deal cut up by being interrupted in that
dreadful way, for he grumbled and growled, and did not go into the
house for some time. I am sure he would have been very glad to fight if
any one had come down."

"You mean," said Mrs. Easterfield, "if Mr. Locker had come."

"Well," said the secretary, "if Mr. Hemphill had appeared I have no
doubt he would have answered. Mr. Du Brant seemed to me ready to fight

"How do you know so much about him?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "And why
did you think of Mr. Hemphill?"

"Oh, he was looking out of his window," said Miss Raleigh. "He could not
see, but he could hear."

"I ask you again," said Mrs. Easterfield, "how do you know all this?"

"Oh, I had not gone to bed, and, at the first sound of the guitar, I
slipped on a waterproof with a hood, and went out. Of course, I wanted
to know everything that was happening."

"I had not the least idea you were such an energetic person," remarked
Mrs. Easterfield, "and I think you were entirely too rash. But how about
Mr. Lancaster? Do you know if he was listening?"

Miss Raleigh stood silent for a moment, then she exclaimed: "There now,
it is too bad! I entirely forgot him! I have not the slightest idea
whether he was asleep or awake, and it would have been just as easy--"

"Well, you need not regret it," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think you did
quite enough, and if anything of the kind occurs again I positively
forbid you to go out of the house."

"There is one thing we've got to look after," said Miss Raleigh,
without heeding the last remark, "this may result in bloodshed."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Easterfield; "nothing of that kind is to be feared
from the gentlemen who visit Broadstone."

"Still," said Miss Raleigh, "don't you think it would be well for me to
keep an eye on them?"

"Oh, you may keep both eyes on them if you want to," said Mrs.
Easterfield. Then she began to talk about something else, but, although
she dismissed the matter so lightly, she was very glad at heart that she
had sent for her husband. Things were getting themselves into unpleasant
complications, and she needed Tom.

There was a certain constraint at the breakfast table. Mr. Fox had heard
the serenades, although his consort had slept soundly through the
turmoil; and, while carefully avoiding any reference to the incidents of
the night, he was anxiously hoping that somebody would say something
about them. Mrs. Easterfield saw that Mr. Du Brant was in a bad humor,
and she hoped he was angry enough to announce his early departure. But
he contented himself with being angry, and said nothing about going

Mr. Hemphill was serious, and looked often in the direction of Olive. As
for Dick Lancaster, Miss Raleigh, whose eye was fixed upon him whenever
it could be spared from the exigencies of her meal, decided that if
there should be a fight he would be one of the fighters; his brow was
dark and his glance was sharp; in fact, she was of the opinion that he
glared. Claude Locker did not come to breakfast until nearly everybody
had finished. His dreams had been so pleasant that he had overslept

In the eyes of Mrs. Easterfield Olive's conduct was positively charming.
No one could have supposed that during the night she had heard anything
louder than the ripple of the river. She talked more to Mr. Du Brant
than to any one else, although she managed to draw most of the others
into the conversation; and, with the assistance of the hostess, who gave
her most good-humored help, the talk never flagged, although it did not
become of the slightest interest to any one who engaged in it. They were
all thinking about the conflict of serenades, and what might happen

Shortly after breakfast Miss Raleigh came to Mrs. Easterfield. "Mr. Du
Brant is with her," she said quickly, "and they are walking away. Shall
I interpolate?"

"No," said the other with a smile, "you can let them alone. Nothing will
happen this morning, unless, indeed, he should come to ask for a
carriage to take him to the station."

Mrs. Easterfield was busy in her garden when Dick Lancaster came to her.
"What a wonderfully determined expression you have!" said she. "You look
as if you were going to jump on a street-car without stopping it!"

"You are right," said he, "I am determined, and I came to tell you so. I
can't stand this sort of thing any longer. I feel like a child who is
told he must eat at the second table, and who can not get his meals
until every one else is finished."

"And I suppose," she said, "you feel there will be nothing left for

"That is it," he answered, "and I don't want to wait. My soul rebels! I
can't stand it!"

"Therefore," she said, "you wish to appear before the meal is ready, and
in that case you will get nothing." He looked at her inquiringly. "I
mean," said she, "that if you propose to Miss Asher now you will be
before your time, and she will decline your proposition without the
slightest hesitation."

"I do not quite understand that," said Dick. "Would she decline all

"I am afraid not."

"But why do you except me?" asked Dick. "Surely she is not engaged. I
know you would tell me at once if that were so."

"It is not so," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Then I shall take my chances. With all this serenading and love-making
going on around me and around the woman I love with all my heart. I can
not stand and wait until I am told my time has come. The intensity and
the ardor of my feelings for her give me the right to speak to her.
Unless I know that some one else has stepped in before me and taken the
place I crave, I have decided to speak to her just as soon as I can. But
I thought it was due to you to come first and tell you."

"Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs. Easterfield, speaking very quietly, "if you
decide to go to Miss Asher and ask her to marry you, I know you will do
it, for I believe you are a man who keeps his word to himself, but I
assure you that if you do it you will never marry her. So you really
need not bother yourself about going to her; you can simply decide to do
it, and that will be quite sufficient; and you can stay here and hold
these long-stemmed dahlias for me as I cut them."

A troubled wistfulness showed itself upon the young man's face. "You
speak so confidently," he said, "that I almost feel I ought to believe
you. Why do you tell me that I am the only one of her suitors who would
certainly be rejected if he offered himself?"

Mrs. Easterfield dropped the long-stemmed dahlias she had been holding;
and, turning her eyes full upon Lancaster, she said, "Because you are
the only one of them toward whom she has no predilections whatever. More
than that, you are the only one toward whom she has a positive
objection. You are the only one who is an intimate friend of her uncle,
and who would be likely, by means of that intimate friendship, to bring
her into connection with the woman she hates, as well as with a relative
she despises on account of his intended marriage with that woman."

"All that should not count at all," cried Dick. "In such a matter as
this I have nothing to do with Captain Asher! I stand for myself and
speak for myself. What is his intended wife to me? Or what should she be
to her?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Easterfield, "all that would not count at all if
Olive Asher loved you. But you see she doesn't. I have had it from her
own lips that her uncle's intended marriage is, and must always be, an
effectual barrier between you and her."

"What" cried Dick. "Have you spoken to her of me? And in that way?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I have. I did not intend to tell you, but
you have forced me to do it. You see, she is a young woman of
extraordinary good sense. She believes she ought to marry, and she is
going to try to make the very best marriage that she possibly can. She
has suitors who have very strong claims upon her consideration--I am not
going to tell you those claims, but I know them. Now, you have no
claim--special claim, I mean--but for all this, I believe, as I have
told you before, that you are the man she ought to marry, and I have
been doing everything I can to make her cease considering them, and to
consider you. And this is the way she came to give me her reasons for
not considering you at all. Now the state of the case is plain before

Dick bowed his head and fixed his eyes upon the dahlias on the ground.

"Don't tread on the poor things," she said, "and don't despair. All you
have to do is to let me put a curbed bit on you, and for you to consent
to wear it for a little while. See," said she, moving her hands in the
air, as if they were engaged upon the bridle of a horse, "I fasten this
chain rather closely, and buckle the ends of the reins in the lowest
curb. Now, you must have a steady hand and a resolute will until the
time comes when the curb is no longer needed."

"And do you believe that time will come?" he asked.

"It will come," she said, "when two things happen; when she has reason
to love you, and has no reason to object to you; and, in my opinion,
that happy combination may arrive if you act sensibly."

"But--" said Dick.

At this moment a quick step was heard on the garden-path and they both
turned. It was Olive.

"Mr. Lancaster," she cried, "I want you; that is, if Mrs. Easterfield
can spare you. We are making up a game of tennis. Mr. Du Brant and Mr.
Hemphill are there, but I can not find Mr. Locker."

Mrs. Easterfield could spare him, and Dick Lancaster, with the curbed
chain pressing him very hard, walked away with Olive Asher.


_The Captain and Maria._

When the captain drove into Glenford on the day when his mind had been
so much disturbed by Dick Lancaster's questions regarding a marriage
between him and Maria Port, he stopped at no place of business, he
turned not to the right nor to the left, but went directly to the house
of his old friend with whom he had spent the night before.

Mr. Simeon Port was sitting on his front porch, reading his newspaper.
He looked up, surprised to see the captain again so soon.

"Simeon," said the captain, "I want to see Maria. I have something to
say to her."

The old man laid down his newspaper. "Serious?" said he.

"Yes, serious," was the answer, "and I want to see her now."

Mr. Port reflected for a moment. "Captain," said he, "do you believe you
have thought about this as much as you ought to?"

"Yes, I have," replied the captain; "I've thought just as much as I
ought to. Is she in the house?"

Mr. Port did not answer. "Captain John," said he presently, "Maria isn't
young, that's plain enough, considerin' my age; but she never does seem
to me as if she'd growed up. When she was a girl she had ways of her
own, and she could make water bile quick, and now she can make it bile
just as quick as ever she did, and perhaps quicker. She's not much on
mindin' the helm, Captain John, and there're other things about her that
wouldn't be attractive to husbands when they come to find them out. And
if I was you I'd take my time."

"That's just what I intend to do," said the captain. "This is my time,
and I am going to take it."

Miss Port, who was busy in the back part of the house, heard voices, and
now came forward. She was wiping her hands upon her apron, and one of
them she extended to the captain.

"I am glad to see you--John," she said, speaking in a very gentle voice,
and hesitating a little at the last word.

The captain looked at her steadfastly, and then, without taking her
hand, he said: "I want to speak to you by yourself. I'll go into the

She politely stepped back to let him pass her, and then her father
turned quickly to her.

"Did you expect to see him back so soon?" he asked.

She smiled and looked down. "Oh, yes," said she, "I was sure he'd come
back very soon."

The old man heaved a sigh, and returned to his paper.

Maria followed the captain. "John," said she, speaking in a low voice,
"wouldn't you rather come into the dinin'-room? He's a little bit hard
of hearin', but if you don't want him to hear anything he'll take in
every word of it."

"Maria Port," said the captain, speaking in a strong, upper-deck voice,
"what I have to say I'll say here. I don't want the people in the street
to hear me, but if your father chooses to listen I would rather he did
it than not."

She looked at him inquiringly. "Well," she answered, "I suppose he will
have to hear it some time or other, and he might as well hear it now as
not. He's all I've got in the world, and you know as well as I do that I
run to tell him everything that happens to me as soon as it happens.
Will you sit down?"

"No," said the captain, "I can speak better standing. Maria Port, I have
found out that you have been trying to make people believe that I am
engaged to marry you."

The smile did not leave Maria's face. "Well, ain't you?" said she.

A look of blank amazement appeared on the face of the captain, but it
was quickly succeeded by the blackness of rage. He was about to swear,
but restrained himself.

"Engaged to you?" he shouted, forgetting entirely the people in the
street; "I'd rather be engaged to a fin-back shark!"

The smile now left her face. "Oh, thank you very much," she said. "And
this is what you meant by your years of devotion! I held out for a long
time, knowing the difference in our ages and the habits of sailors, and
now--just when I make up my mind to give in, to think of my father and
not of myself, and to sacrifice my feelin's so that he might always
have one of his old friends near him, now that he's got too feeble to go
out by himself, and at his age you know as well as I do he ought to have
somebody near him besides me, for who can tell what may happen, or how
sudden--you come and tell me you'd rather marry a fish. I suppose you've
got somebody else in your mind, but that don't make no difference to me.
I've got no fish to offer you, but I have myself that you've wanted so
long, and which now you've got."

The angry captain opened his mouth to speak; he was about to ejaculate
Woman! but his sense of propriety prevented this. He would not apply
such an epithet to any one in the house of a friend. Wretch rose to his
lips, but he would not use even that word; and he contented himself
with: "You! You know just as well as you know you are standing there
that I never had the least idea of marrying you. You know, too, that you
have tried to make people think I had, people here in town and people
out at my house, where you came over and over again pretending to want
to talk about your father's health, when it did not need any more
talking about than yours does. You know you have made trouble in my
family; that you so disgusted my niece that she would not stop at my
house, which had been the same thing as her home; you sickened my
friends; and made my very servants ashamed of me; and all this because
you want to marry a man who now despises you. I would have despised you
long ago if I had seen through your tricks, but I didn't."

There was a smile on Miss Port's face now, but it was not such a smile
as that with which she had greeted the captain; it was a diabolical
grin, brightened by malice. "You are perfectly right," she said;
"everybody knows we are engaged to be married, and what they think about
it doesn't matter to me the snap of my finger. The people in town all
know it and talk about it, and what's more, they've talked to me about
it. That niece of your'n knows it, and that's the reason she won't come
near you, and I'm sure I'm not sorry for that. As for that old thing
that helps you at the toll-gate, and as for the young man that's
spongin' on you, I've no doubt they've got a mighty poor opinion of you.
And I've no doubt they're right. But all that matters nothin' to me.
You're engaged to be married to me; you know it yourself; and everybody
knows it; and what you've got to do is to marry, or pay. You hear what I
say, and you know what I'm goin' to stick to."

It may be well for Captain Asher's reputation that he had no opportunity
to answer Miss Port's remarks. At that instant Mr. Simeon Port appeared
at the door which opened from the parlor on the piazza. He stepped
quickly, his actions showing nothing of that decrepitude which his
dutiful daughter had feared would prevent him from seeking the society
of his friends. He fixed his eyes on his daughter and spoke in a loud,
strong voice.

"Maria," said he, "go to bed! I've heard what you've been saying, and
I'm ashamed of you. I've been ashamed of you before, but now it's worse
than ever. Go to bed, I tell you! And this time, go!"

There was nothing in the world that Maria Port was afraid of except her
father, and of him personally she had not the slightest dread. But of
his dying without leaving her the whole of his fortune she had an
abiding terror, which often kept her awake at night, and which sent a
sickening thrill through her whenever a difficulty arose between her and
her parent. She was quite sure what he would do if she should offend him
sufficiently; he would leave her a small annuity, enough to support her;
and the rest of his money would go to several institutions which she had
heard him mention in this connection. If she could have married Captain
Asher she would have felt a good deal safer; it would have taken much
provocation to make her father leave his money out of the family if his
old friend had been one of that family.

Now, when she heard her father's voice, and saw his dark eyes glittering
at her, she knew she was in great danger, and the well-known chill ran
through her. She made no answer; she cared not who was present; she
thought of nothing but that those eyes must cease to glitter, and that
angry voice must not be heard again. She turned and walked to her room,
which was on the same floor, across the hall.

"And mind you go to bed!" shouted her father. "And do it regular. You're
not to make believe to go to bed, and then get up and walk about as soon
as my back is turned. I'm comin' in presently to see if you've obeyed

She answered not, but entered her room, and closed the door after her.

Mr. Port now turned to the captain. "I never could find out," he said,
"where Maria got that mind of her'n. It isn't from my side, for my
father and mother was as good people as ever lived, and it wasn't from
her mother, for you knew her, and there wasn't anything of the kind
about her."

"No," said Captain Asher, "not the least bit of it."

"It must have been from her grandmother Ellis," said the old man. "I
never knew her, for she died before I was acquainted with the family,
but I expect she died of deviltry. That's the only insight I can get
into the reasons for Maria's havin' the mind she's got. But I tell you,
Captain John, you've had a blessed escape! I didn't know she was in the
habit of goin' out to your house so often. She didn't tell me that."

"Simeon," said the captain, "I think I will go now. I have had enough of
Maria. I don't suppose I'll hear from her very soon again."

The old man smiled. "No," said he, "I don't think she'll want to trouble
you any more."

Miss Port, whose ear was at the keyhole of her door not twelve feet
away, grinned malignantly.

Soon after Captain Asher had gone Mr. Port walked to the door of his
daughter's room, gave a little knock, and then opened the door a little.

"You are in bed, are you?" said he. "Well, that's good for you. Turn
down that coverlid and let me see if you've got your nightclothes on."
She obeyed. "Very well," he continued; "now you stay there until I tell
you to get up."

Captain Asher went home, still in a very bad humor. He had ceased to be
angry with Maria Port, he was done with her; and he let her pass out of
his mind. But he was angry with other people, especially with Olive.
She had allowed herself to have a most contemptuous opinion of him; she
had treated him shamefully; and as he thought of her his indignation
increased instead of diminishing. And young Lancaster had believed it!
And old Jane! It was enough to make a stone slab angry, and the captain
was not a stone slab.


_Mr. Tom arrives at Broadstone._

After the conclusion of the game of tennis in which Olive and three of
her lovers participated, Claude Locker, returning from a long walk,
entered the grounds of Broadstone. He had absented himself from that
hospitable domain for purposes of reflection, and also to avoid the
company of Mr. Du Brant. Not that he was afraid of the diplomat, but
because of the important interview appointed for the latter part of the
morning. He very much wished that no unpleasantness of any kind should
occur before the time for that interview.

Having found that he had given himself more time than was necessary for
his reflections and his walk, he had rested in the shade of a tree and
had written two poems. One of these was the serenade which he would have
roared out on the night air on a very recent occasion if he had had time
to prepare it. It was, in his opinion, far superior to the impromptu
verses of which he had been obliged to make use, and it pleased him to
think that if things should go well with him after the interview to
which he was looking forward, he would read that serenade to its object,
and ask her to substitute it in her memory for the inharmonic lines
which he had used in order to smother the degenerate melody of a
foreign lay. The other poem was intended for use in case his interview
should not be successful. But on the way home Mr. Locker experienced an
entire change of mind. He came to believe that it would be unwise for
him to arrange to use either of those poems on that day. For all he
knew, Miss Asher might like foreign degenerate lays, and she might be
annoyed that he had interfered with one. He remembered that she had told
him that if he had insisted on an immediate answer to his proposition it
would have been very easy to give it to him. He realized what that
meant; and, for all he knew, she might be quite as ready this morning to
act with similar promptness. That Du Brant business might have settled
her mind, and it would therefore be very well for him to be careful
about what he did, and what he asked for.

About half an hour before luncheon, when he neared the house and
perceived Miss Asher on the lawn, it seemed to him very much as if she
were looking for him. This he did not like, and he hurried toward her.

"Miss Asher," said he, "I wish to propose an amendment."

"To what?" asked Olive. "But first tell me where you have been and what
you have been doing? You are covered with dust, and look as hot as if
you had been pulling the boat against the rapids. I have not seen you
the whole morning."

"I have been walking," said he, "and thinking. It is dreadful hot work
to think. That should be done only in winter weather."

"It would be a woeful thing to take a cold on the mind," said Olive.

"That is so!" he replied. "That is exactly what I am afraid of this
morning, and that is the reason I want to propose my amendment. I beg
most earnestly that you will not make this interview definitive. I am
afraid if you do I may get chills in my mind, soul, and heart from which
I shall never recover. I have an idea that the weather may not be as
favorable as it was yesterday for the unveiling of tender emotions."

"Why so?" asked Olive.

"There are several reasons," returned Mr. Locker. "For one thing, that
musical uproar last night. I have not heard anything about that, and I
don't know where I stand."

Olive laughed. "It was splendid," said she. "I liked you a great deal
better after that than I did before."

"Now tell me," he exclaimed hurriedly, "and please lose no time, for
here comes a surrey from the station with a gentleman in it--do you like
me enough better to give me a favorable answer, now, right here?"

"No," said Olive. "I do not feel warranted in being so precipitate as

"Then please say nothing on the subject," said Locker. "Please let us
drop the whole matter for to-day. And may I assume that I am at liberty
to take it up again to-morrow at this hour?"

"You may," said Olive. "What gentleman is that, do you suppose?"

"I know him," said Locker, "and, fortunately, he is married. He is Mr.

"Here's papa! Here's papa!" shouted the two little girls as they ran out
of the front door.

"And papa," said the oldest one, "we want you to tell us a story just as
soon as you have brushed your hair! Mr. Rupert has been telling us
stories, but yours are a great deal better."

"Yes," said the other little girl, "he makes all the children too good.
They can't be good, you know, and there's no use trying. We told him so,
but he doesn't mind."

There was story-telling after luncheon, but the papa did not tell them,
and the children were sent away. It was Mrs. Easterfield who told the
stories, and Mr. Tom was a most interested listener.

"Well," said he, when she had finished, "this seems to be a somewhat
tangled state of affairs."

"It certainly is," she replied, "and I tangled them."

"And you expect me to straighten them?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she replied, "and I expect you to begin by sending Mr.
Hemphill away. You know I could not do it, but I should think it would
be easy for you."

"Would you object if I lighted a cigar?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Did you ever hear me object to anything of
the kind?"

"No," said he, "but I never have smoked in this room, and I thought
perhaps Miss Raleigh might object when she came in to do your writing."

"My writing!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Now don't trifle! This is no
time to make fun of me. Olive may be accepting him this minute."

"It seems to me," said Mr. Easterfield, slowly puffing his cigar, "that
it would not be such a very bad thing if she did. So far as I have been
able to judge, he is my favorite of the claimants. Du Brant and I have
met frequently, and if I were a girl I would not want to marry him.
Locker is too little for Miss Asher, and, besides, he is too flighty.
Your young professor may be good enough, but from my limited
conversation with him at the table I could not form much of an opinion
as to him one way or another. I have an opinion of Hemphill, and a very
good one. He is a first-class young man, a rising one with prospects,
and, more than that, I think he is the best-looking of the lot."

"Tom," said Mrs. Easterfield, "do you suppose I sent for you to talk
such nonsense as that? Can you imagine that my sense of honor toward
Olive's parents would allow me even to consider a marriage between a
high-class girl, such as she is--high-class in every way--to a mere
commonplace private secretary? I don't care what his attributes and
merits are; he is commonplace to the backbone; and he is impossible. If
what ought to be a brilliant career ends suddenly in Rupert Hemphill I
shall have Olive on my conscience for the rest of my life."

"That settles it," said Mr. Tom Easterfield; "your conscience, my dear,
has not been trained to carry loads, and I shall not help to put one on
it. Hemphill is a good man, but we must rule him out."

"Yes," said she, "Olive is a great deal more than good. He must be
ruled out."

"But I can't send him away this afternoon," Tom continued. "That would
put them both on their mettle, and, ten to one, he would considerately
announce his engagement before he left."

"No," said she. "Olive is very sharp, and would resent that. But now
that you are here I feel safe from any immediate rashness on their

"You are right," said Mr. Tom. "My very coming will give them pause. And
now I want to see the girl."

"What for?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"I want to get acquainted with her. I don't know her yet, and I can't
talk to her if I don't know her."

"Are you going to talk to her about Hemphill?"

"Yes, for one thing," he answered.

"Well," said she, "you will have to be very circumspect. She is both
alert, and sensitive."

"Oh, I'll be circumspect enough," he replied. "You may trust me for

It was not long after this that Mrs. Easterfield, being engaged in some
hospitable duties, sent Olive to show Mr. Tom the garden, and it was
rather a slight to that abode of beauty that the tour of the rose-lined
paths occupied but a very few minutes, when Mr. Easterfield became
tired, and desired to sit down. Having seated themselves on Mrs.
Easterfield's favorite bench, Olive looked up at her companion, and

"Well, sir, what is it you brought me here to say to me?"

Mr. Tom laughed, and so did she.

"If it is anything about the gentlemen who are paying their addresses
to me, you may as well begin at once, for that will save time, and
really an introduction is not necessary."

Mr. Easterfield's admiration for this young lady, which had been
steadily growing, was not decreased by this remark. "This girl," said he
to himself, "deserves a nimble-witted husband. Hemphill would never do
for her. It seems to me," he said aloud, "that we are already well
enough acquainted for me to proceed with the remarks which you have
correctly assumed I came here to make."

"Yes," said she, "I have always thought that some people are born to
become acquainted, and when they meet they instantly perceive the fact,
and the thing is accomplished. They can then proceed."

"Very well," said he, "we will proceed."

"I suppose," said Olive, "that Mrs. Easterfield has explained
everything, and that you agree with her and with me that it is a
sensible thing for a girl in my position to marry, and, having no one to
attend wisely to such a matter for me, that I should endeavor to attend
to it myself as wisely as I can. Also, that a little bit of pique,
caused by the fact that I am to have an old schoolfellow for a
stepmother, is excusable."

"And it is this pique which puts you in such a hurry? I did not exactly
understand that."

"Yes, it does," said she. "I very much wish to announce my own
engagement, if not my marriage, before any arrangements shall be made
which may include me. Do you think me wrong in this?"

"No, I don't," said Mr. Easterfield. "If I were a girl in your place I
think I would do the same thing myself."

Olive's face expressed her gratitude. "And now," said she, "what do you
think of the young men? I feel so well acquainted with you through Mrs.
Easterfield that I shall give a great deal of weight to your opinion.
But first let me ask you one thing: After what you have heard of me do
you think I am a flirt?"

Mr. Tom knitted his brows a little, then he smiled, and then he looked
out over the flower-beds without saying anything.

"Don't be afraid to say so if you think so," said she. "You must be
perfectly plain and frank with me, or our acquaintanceship will wither

Under the influence of this threat he spoke. "Well," said he, "I should
not feel warranted in calling you a flirt, but it does seem to me that
you have been flirting."

"I think you are wrong, Mr. Easterfield," said Olive, speaking very
gravely. "I never saw any one of these young men before I came here
except Mr. Hemphill, and he was an entirely different person when I knew
him before, and I have given no one of them any special encouragement.
If Mr. Locker were not such an impetuous young man, I think the others
would have been more deliberate, but as it was easy to see the state of
his mind, and as we are all making but a temporary stay here, these
other young men saw that they must act quickly, or not at all. This,
while it was very amusing, was also a little annoying, and I should
greatly have preferred slower and more deliberate movements on the part
of these young men. But all my feelings changed when my father's letter
came to me. I was glad then that they had proposed already."

"That is certainly honest," said Mr. Tom.

"Of course it is honest," replied Olive. "I am here to speak honestly if
I speak at all. Now, don't you see that if under these peculiar
circumstances one eligible young man had proposed to me I ought to have
considered myself fortunate? Now here are three to choose from. Do you
not agree with me that it is my duty to try to choose the best one of
them, and not to discourage any until I feel very certain about my

"That is business-like," said Mr. Easterfield; "but do you love any one
of them?"

"No, I don't," answered Olive, "except that there is a feeling in that
direction in the case of Mr. Hemphill. I suppose Mrs. Easterfield has
told you that when I was a schoolgirl I was deeply in love with him; and
now, when I think of those old times, I believe it would not be
impossible for those old sentiments to return. So there really is a tie
between him and me; even though it be a slight one; which does not exist
at all between me and any one of the others."

For a moment neither of them spoke. "That is very bad, young woman,"
thought Mr. Tom. "A slight tie like that is apt to grow thick and strong
suddenly." But he could not discourse about Mr. Hemphill; he knew that
would be very dangerous. He would have to be considered, however, and
much more seriously than he had supposed.

"Well," said he, "I will tell you this: if I were a young man,
unmarried, and on a visit to Broadstone at this time, I should not like
to be treated as you are treating the young men who are here. It is all
very well for a young woman to look after herself and her own interests,
but I should be very sorry to have my fate depend upon the merits of
other people. I may not be correct, but I am afraid I should feel I was
being flirted with."

"Well, then," said Olive, giving a quick, forward motion on the bench,
"you think I ought to settle this matter immediately, and relieve myself
at once from the imputation of trifling with earnest affection?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Mrs. Easterfield. "Not at all! Don't do anything

Olive leaned back on the bench, and laughed heartily. "There is so much
excellent advice in this world," she said, "which is not intended to be
used. However, it is valuable all the same. And now, sir, what is it you
would like me to do? Something plain; intended for every-day use."

Mr. Tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "It does not appear to
me," he said, "that you have told me very much I did not know before,
for Mrs. Easterfield put the matter very plainly before me."

"And it does not seem to me," said Olive, "that you have given me any
definite counsel, and I know that is what you came here to do."

"You are mistaken there," he said. "I came here to find out what sort of
a girl you are; my counsels must depend on my discoveries. But there is
one thing I want to ask you; you are all the time talking about three
young men. Now, there are four of them here."

"Yes," she answered quickly. "But only three of them have proposed;
and, besides, if the other were to do so, he would have to be set aside
for what I may call family reasons. I don't want to go into particulars
because the subject is very painful to me."

For a moment Mr. Tom did not speak. Then, determined to go through with
what he had come to do, which was to make himself acquainted with this
girl, he said: "I do not wish to discuss anything that is painful to
you, but Mrs. Easterfield and I are very much disturbed for fear that in
some way your visit to Broadstone created some misunderstanding or
disagreeable feeling between you and your uncle. Now, would you mind
telling me whether this is so, or not?"

She looked at him steadily. "There is an unpleasant feeling between me
and my uncle, but this visit has nothing to do with it. And I am going
to tell you all about it. I hate to feel so much alone in the world that
I can't talk to anybody about what makes me unhappy. I might have spoken
to Mrs. Easterfield, but she didn't ask me. But you have asked me, and
that makes me feel that I am really better acquainted with you than with

This remark pleased Mr. Tom, but he did not think it would be necessary
to put it into his report to his wife. He had promised to be very
circumspect; and circumspection should act in every direction.

"It is very hard for a girl such as I am," she continued, "to be alone
in the world, and that is a very good reason for getting married as soon
as I can."

"And for being very careful whom you marry," interrupted Mr.

"Of course," said she, "and I am trying very hard to be that. A little
while ago I had a father with whom I expected to live and be happy, but
that dream is over now. And then I thought I had an uncle who was going
to be more of a father to me than my own father had ever been. But that
dream is over, too."

"And why?" asked Mr. Easterfield.

"He is going to marry a woman," said Olive, "that is perfectly horrible,
and with whom I could not live. And the worst of it all is that he never
told me a word about it."

As she said this Olive looked very solemn; and Mr. Tom, not knowing on
the instant what would be proper to say, looked solemn also.

"You may think it strange," said she, "that I talk in this way to you,
but you came here to find out what sort of girl I am, and I am perfectly
willing to help you do it. Besides, in a case like this, I would rather
talk to a man than to a woman."

Mr. Tom believed her, but he did not know at this stage of the
proceedings what it would be wise to say. He was also fully aware that
if he said the wrong thing it would be very bad, indeed.

"Now, you see," said she, "there is another reason why I should marry as
soon as possible. In my case most girls would take up some pursuit which
would make them independent, but I don't like business. I want to be at
the head of a household; and, what is more, I want to have something to
do--I mean a great deal to do--with the selection of a husband."

The conversation was taking a direction which frightened Mr. Tom. In the
next moment she might be asking advice about the choice of a husband.
It was plain enough that love had nothing to do with the matter, and Mr.
Tom did not wish to act the part of a practical-minded Cupid. "And now
let me ask a favor of you," said he. "Won't you give me time to think
over this matter a little?"

"That is exactly what I say to my suitors," said Olive, smiling.

Mr. Tom smiled also. "But won't you promise me not to do anything
definite until I see you again?" he asked earnestly.

"That is not very unlike what some of my suitors say to me," she
replied. "But I will promise you that when you see me again I shall
still be heart-free."

"There can be no doubt of that," Mr. Tom said to himself as they arose
to leave the garden. "And, my young woman, you may deny being a flirt,
but you permitted the addresses of two young men before you were upset
by your father's letter. But I think I like flirts. At any rate, I can
not help liking her, and I believe she has got a heart somewhere, and
will find it some day."

When Mr. Tom returned to the house he did not find his wife, for that
lady was occupied somewhere in entertaining her guests. Now, although it
might have been considered his duty to go and help her in her hospitable
work, he very much preferred to attend to the business which she had
sent for him to do. And walking to the stables, he was soon mounted on a
good horse, and riding away southward on the smooth gray turnpike.


_The Captain and Mr. Tom._

Captain Asher was standing at the door of the tollhouse when he saw Mr.
Easterfield approaching. He recognized him, although he had had but one
brief interview with him one day at the toll-gate some time before. Mr.
Easterfield was a man absorbed in business, and the first summer Mrs.
Easterfield was at Broadstone he was in Europe engaged in large and
important affairs, and had not been at the summer home at all. And so
far this summer, he had been there but once before, and then for only a
couple of days. Now, as the captain saw the gentleman coming toward the
toll-gate he had no reason for supposing that he would not go through
it. Nevertheless, his mind was disturbed. Any one coming from Broadstone
disturbed his mind. He had not quite decided whether or not to ask any
questions concerning the late members of his household, when the
horseman stopped at the gate, and handed him the toll.

"Good morning, captain," said Mr. Easterfield cheerily, for he had heard
much in praise of the toll-gate keeper from his wife.

"Good morning, Mr. Easterfield," said the captain gravely.

"I am glad I do not have to introduce myself," said Mr. Easterfield,
"for I am only going through your gate as far as that tree to tie my
horse. Then, if convenient to you, I should like to have a little talk
with you."

The captain's mind, which had been relieved when Mr. Easterfield paid
his toll, now sank again. But he could not say a talk would be
inconvenient. "If I had known that you were not going on," he said, "you
need not have paid."

"Like most people in this life," said Mr. Easterfield, "I pay for what I
have already done, and not for what I am going to do. And now have you
leisure, sir, for a short conversation?"

The captain looked very glum. He felt not the slightest desire now to
ask questions, and still less desire to be interrogated. However, he was
not afraid of anything any one might say to him; and if a certain
subject was broached, he had something to say himself.

"Yes," said he; "do you prefer indoors or out of doors?"

"Out of doors, if it suits," replied the visitor, "for I would like to
take a smoke."

"I am with you there," said the captain, as he led the way to the little

Here Mr. Easterfield lighted a cigar, and the captain a pipe.

"Now, sir," said the latter, when the tobacco in his bowl was in a
satisfactory glow, "what is it you want to talk about?" He spoke as if
he were behind entrenchments, and ready for an attack.

"We have two of your guests with us," answered Mr. Easterfield,
"Professor Lancaster, and your niece."

"Oh," said the captain, evidently relieved. "I thought perhaps you had
come to ask questions about some reports you may have heard in regard to

"Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Easterfield. "I would not think of
mentioning your private affairs, about which I have not the slightest
right or wish to speak. But as we have apparently appropriated two of
your young people, I think, and Mrs. Easterfield agrees with me, that it
is but right you should be informed as to their health, and what they
are doing."

The captain puffed vigorously. "When is Dick Lancaster coming back" he

"I can't say anything about that," replied Mr. Easterfield, "for I am
not master of ceremonies. We would like to keep him as long as we can,
but, of course, your claims must be considered."

"I should think so," remarked the captain.

"Professor Lancaster is a remarkably fine young man," said the other,
"and as he is a friend of yours, and as I should like him to be a friend
of mine, it would give me pleasure to talk to you more about him. But I
may as well confess that my real object in coming here is to talk about
your niece. Of course, as I said before, it might appear that I have no
right to meddle with your family affairs, but in this case I certainly
think I am justified; for, as Mrs. Easterfield invited the young lady to
leave you and to come to her, and as all that has happened to her has
happened at our house, and in consequence of that invitation, I think
that you, as her nearest accessible relative, should be told of what has

The captain made no answer, but gazed steadily into the face of the

"Therefore," continued Mr. Easterfield, "I will simply state that my
wife and I have very good reason to believe that your niece is about to
engage herself in marriage; and I will only add that we are very sorry,
indeed, that this should have occurred under our roof."

A sudden and curious change came over the face of the captain; a light
sparkled in his eye, and a faint flush, as if of pleasure, was visible
under his swarthy skin. He leaned toward his companion.

"Is it Dick Lancaster?" he asked quickly.

Mr. Easterfield answered gravely: "I wish it were, but I am very sorry
to say it is not."

The light went out of the captain's eye. He leaned back on his bench and
the little flush in his cheeks was succeeded by a somber coldness. "Very
good," said he; "I don't want to hear anything more about it, and, what
is more, it would not be right for you to tell me, even if I did want to
know. It is none of my business."

"Now, really, Captain Asher," began Mr. Easterfield.

"No, sir," the captain interrupted. "It is none of my business, and I
don't want to hear anything about it. And now, sir, I would like to tell
you something. It is something I thought you came here to ask about, and
I did not like it, but now I want to tell you of my own free will, in
confidence. That is to say, I don't want you to speak of it to anybody
in your house. I suppose you have heard something about my intending to
marry a woman in town?"

"Yes," said Mr. Easterfield, "I can not deny that I have, but I
considered it was entirely your own affair, and I had not--"

"Of course," interrupted the captain, "and I want to tell you--but I
don't want my niece to hear it as coming from me--that that whole thing
is a most abominable lie! That woman has been trying to make people
believe I am going to marry her, and she has made a good many believe
it, but I would rather cut my throat than marry her. But I have told her
what I think of her in a way she can not mistake. And that ends her! I
tell you this, Mr. Easterfield, because I believe you are a good man,
and you certainly seem to be a friendly man, and I would like you to
know it. I would have liked very much to tell everybody, especially my
own flesh and blood, but now I assure you, sir, I am too proud to have
her know it through me. Let her go on and marry anybody she pleases, and
let her think anything she pleases about me. She has been satisfied with
her own opinion of me without giving me a chance to explain to her, or
to tell her the truth, and now she can stay satisfied with it until
somebody else sets her straight."

"But this is very hard, captain," said Mr. Easterfield; "hard on you,
hard on her, and hard on all of us, I may say."

The captain made no answer to these words, and did not appear to hear
them. "I tell you, Mr. Easterfield," he said presently, "that I did not
know until now how much I cared for that girl. I don't mind saying this
to you because you come to me like a friend, and I believe in you. Yes,
sir, I did not know how much I cared for her, and it is pretty hard on
me to find out how little she cares for me."

"You are wrong there," said Mr. Easterfield. "My wife tells me that Miss
Asher has frequently talked to her about you and her life here, and it
is certain she has--"

"Oh, that does not make any difference," interrupted the captain. "I am
talking about things as they are now. It was all very well as long as
things seemed to be going right, but I believe in people who stand by
you when things seem to be going wrong, and who keep on standing by you
until they know how they are going, and that is exactly what she did not
do. Now, there was Dick Lancaster; he came to me and asked me squarely
about that affair. To be sure, I cut him off short, for it angered me to
think that he, or anybody else, should have such an idea of me, and,
besides, it was none of his business. But it should have been her
business; she ought to have made it her business; and, even if the thing
had stood differently, I would have told her exactly how it did stand;
and then she could have said to me what she thought about it, and what
she was going to do. But instead of that, she just made up her mind
about me, and away went everything. Yes, sir, everything. I can't tell
you the plans I had made for her and for myself, and, I may say, for
Dick Lancaster. If it suited her, I wanted her to marry him, and if it
suited her I wanted to go and live with them in his college town, or
any other place they might want to go. Again and again, after I knew
Dick, have I gone over this thing and planned it out this way, and that
way, but always with us three in the middle of everything. Do you see
that?" continued the captain after a slight pause, as he drew from his
pocket a dainty little pearl paper-cutter. "That belongs to her. She
used to sit out here, and cut the leaves of books as she read them. I
can see her little hand now as it went sliding along the edges of the
pages. When she went away she left it on the bench, and I took it. And
I've kept it in my pocket to take out when I sit here, and cut books
with it when I have 'em. I haven't many books that ain't cut, but I've
sat here and cut 'em till there wasn't any left. And then I cut a lot of
old volumes of Coast Survey Reports. It is a foolish thing for an old
man to do, but then--but then--well, you see, I did it."

There was a choke in the captain's voice as he leaned over to put the
paper-cutter in his pocket and to pick up his pipe, which he had laid on
the bench beside him. Mr. Easterfield was touched and surprised. He
would not have supposed the captain to be a man of such tender
sentiment. And he took him at once to his heart. "It is a shame," his
thoughts ran, "for this man to be separated from the niece he so loves.
She is a cold-hearted girl, or she does not understand him. It must not

Had he been a woman he would have said all this, but, being a man, he
found it difficult to break the silence which followed the captain's
last words. He did not know what to say, although he had no hesitation
in making up his mind what he was going to do about it all. He arose.

"Captain Asher," he said, "I have now told you what I thought you should
know, and I must take my departure. I would not presume for a moment to
offer you any advice in regard to your family affairs, but there is one
thing Mrs. Easterfield and I will interfere with, if we can, for we feel
that we have a right to do it, and that is any definite and immediate
engagement of your niece. If she should promise herself in marriage at
our house we shall feel that we are responsible for it, and that, in
fact, we brought it about. Whether the match shall seem desirable to you
or not, we do not wish to be answerable for it."

"Oh, I need not be counted in at all," said the captain, who had
recovered his composure. "It is her own affair. I suppose it was the
news of her father's intended marriage that put her in such a hurry."

"You are right," said Mr. Easterfield.

"Just like her" the captain exclaimed. "And I don't blame her. I'm with
her there"

When Mr. Tom reached Broadstone he dismounted at the stable, and walked
to the house. Nobody was to be seen on the grounds. It was a warm
afternoon when those whose hearts were undisturbed by the turmoils of
love were apt to be napping, and those who were in the tumultuous state
of mind referred to, preferred to separate themselves from each other
and the rest of the world until the cause of their inquietude should
consider the heat of the summer day as sufficiently mitigated for her to
appear again among her fellow beings.

Mr. Easterfield did not care to meet any of his guests, and hoped to
find his wife in her room, that he might report, and consult. But, as he
approached the house, he saw at an upper window a female head. It stayed
there just long enough for him to see that it was Olive's head; then it
disappeared. When he reached the hall door there stood Olive.

Mr. Tom was a little disappointed. He wanted to see his wife
immediately, and then to see Olive. But he could not say so.

"Well," said the girl, coming down the steps, "it looks as if we had
arranged to meet. But although we didn't, let's take a little walk. I
have something I want to say to you."

Mr. Easterfield turned, and walked away from the house. He was a
masterful man, and did not like to have his plans interfered with.
Therefore he made a dash, and had the first word. "Miss Asher," said he,
"I am glad to hear anything you have to say, but first you must really
listen to me."

Olive looked at him with surprise. She also was a masterful person, and
not accustomed to be treated in this way. But he gave her no chance.

"Miss Asher," said he, "I have come to you to speak for one of your
lovers, the truest, best lover you ever had, and I believe, ever will

Olive looked at him steadfastly, and her face grew hard. "Mr.
Easterfield," she said, "this will not do. I have told you I will not
have it. Mrs. Easterfield and you have been very good and kind, and I
have told you everything, but you do not seem to remember one thing I
have said. I will not have anybody forced upon me; no matter if he
happens to be an angel from heaven, or no matter how much better he may
be than anybody else on earth. I have my reasons for this determination.
They are good reasons, and, above all, they are my reasons. I don't want
you to think me rude, but if you persist in forcing that gentleman upon
my attention, I shall have to request that the whole subject be dropped
between us."

"Who in the name of common sense do you think I am talking about?"
exclaimed Mr. Tom. "Do you think I refer to Mr. Lancaster?"

"I do," she said. "You know you would not come to plead the cause of any
one of the others."

He looked down at her half doubtfully, wondering a little how she would
take what he was going to say. "You are mistaken," he said quietly. "I
have nothing whatever to say about Mr. Lancaster. The lover I speak of
is your uncle."

Then her face turned red. "Why do you use that expression? Did he send
you to say it?"

"Not at all. I came of my own free will. I went to see Captain Asher
immediately after I left you. Perhaps you are thinking that I have no
right to intrude in your family affairs, but I do not mind your thinking
that. I had a long talk with your uncle. I found that the uppermost
sentiment of his soul was his love for you. You had come into his life
like the break of day. Every little thing you had owned or touched was
dear to him because it had been yours, or you had used it. All his plans
in life had been remade in reference to you."

They had stopped and were standing facing each other. They could not
walk and talk as they were talking.

"Yet, but," she exclaimed, her face pale and her eyes fixed steadfastly
upon him, "but what of that--"

"There are no yets and buts," he exclaimed, half angry with her that she
hesitated. "I know what you were going to say, but that woman you have
heard of is nothing to him. He hates her worse than you hate her. She
has imposed upon you; how I know not; but she is an impostor."

At this instant she seized him by the arm. "Mr. Easterfield," she cried,
and as she spoke the tears were running down her cheeks, "please let me
have a carriage--something covered! I would go on my wheel, for that
would be quicker, but I don't want anybody to speak to me or see me!
Will you have it brought to the back door, Mr. Easterfield, please? I
will run to the house, and be waiting when it comes."

She did not wait for him to answer. He did not ask her where she was
going. He knew very well. She ran to the house, and he hurried to the

Having given his orders, Mr. Tom went in search of his wife. The moment
had arrived when it was absolutely necessary to let her know what was
going on.

He found her in her own room. "Where on earth have you been?" she
exclaimed. "I have been looking everywhere for you."

In as few words as possible he told her where he had been, and what he
had done.

"And where are you going now?" she asked.

"I am going to change my coat," said the good Mr. Tom. "After my ride
to the toll-gate and back this jacket is too dusty for me to drive with

"Drive with her" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "It will be very well for
you to get rid of some of that dust, but when the carriage comes I will
drive with Olive to see her uncle."

And thus it happened that Mr. Tom stayed at home with the house party
while the close carriage, containing his wife and that dear girl, Olive
Asher, rolled swiftly southward over the smooth turnpike road.


_A Stop at the Toll-gate._

The four lovers at Broadstone walked, and wandered, and waited, after
breakfast that morning, but only one of them knew definitely what he was
waiting for, and that was Mr. Locker. He was waiting for half-past
twelve o'clock, when he would join Miss Asher, if she gave him an
opportunity; and he was sure she would give him one, for she was always
to be trusted. He intended this interview to be decisive. It would not
do for him to wait any longer; yes or no must be her word. She had been
walking down by the river with the best clothes on the premises, and he
now feared the owner of those clothes more than anybody else. He was a
keen-sighted young man, for otherwise how could he have been a poet, and
he assured himself that Miss Asher was taking Hemphill seriously.

So Mr. Locker determined to charge the works of the enemy that day
before luncheon. When the conflict was over his flag might float high
and free or it might lie trampled in the dust, but the battle should be
fought, and no quarter would be asked or given.

As for Mr. Hemphill and Mr. Du Brant, they simply wandered, and waited,
and bored the rest of the company. They did not care to do anything, for
that might embarrass them in case Miss Asher appeared and wished to do
something else; they did not want to stay in the house because she might
show herself somewhere out of doors; they did not want to stay on the
grounds because at any moment she might seat herself in the library with
a book; above all things, they wanted to keep away from each other; and
their indeterminate peregrinations made sick the souls of Mr. and Mrs.

The diplomat did not know what he was going to do when he saw Miss Asher
alone; everything would depend upon surrounding circumstances, for he
was quick as well as wary, and could make up his mind on the instant.
But good Rupert Hemphill had not even as much decision of purpose as
this. He had already spent half an hour with the lady of his love, and
he had not been very happy. Delighted that she had permitted him to join
her, he had at once begun to speak of the one great object which
dominated his existence, but she had earnestly entreated him not to do

"It is such a pity," she had said, "for us never to talk of anything but
that. There are so many things I like to talk about, especially the
things of which I read. I am now reading Charles Lamb--that is, whenever
I get a chance--and I don't believe anybody in these days ever does read
the works of that dear old man. There is a complete set of his books in
the library, and they do not look as if they had ever been opened. Did
you ever read his little essays on Popular Fallacies? Some of them are
just as true as they can be, although they seem like making fun,
especially the one about the angry man being always in the wrong. I am
inclined to side with the angry man. I know I am generally right when I
am angry."

Mr. Hemphill had not read these little essays, nor had he admitted that
he had never read anything else by Mr. Lamb; but he had agreed that it
was very common to be both angry and right. Then Olive had talked to him
about other books, and his way had become very rough and exceedingly
thorny, and he had wished he knew how to bring up the subject of some
new figures in the German. But he had not succeeded in doing this. She
had been in a bookish mood, and the mood had lasted until she had left

Now he began to think that it would be better for him to give up
wandering and waiting and go into the library and prepare himself for
another talk with Olive, but he did not go; she might see him and
suspect his design. He would wait until later. He took some books to his

Dick Lancaster wandered and waited, but he was full of a purpose,
although it was not exactly definite; he wanted to find Mrs. Easterfield
and ask her to release him from his promise. He could not remain much
longer at Broadstone, and Olive's morning walk with Hemphill had made
him very nervous. She knew that these young men were in love with her,
and he had a right to let her know that he was also. It might be
imprudent for him to do this, but he could not see why it would not be
as imprudent at any other time as now. Moreover, there might come no
other time, and he had control of now.

Mrs. Easterfield had not joined her guests because of her anxiety about
Olive. Mr. Easterfield did not appear. For a time he was very
particularly engaged in the garden. Mr. Fox grew very much irritated.

"I tell you, my dear," said he, "every one who comes here makes this
place more stupid and dull. I can't see exactly any reason for it, but
these lovers are at the bottom of it. I hate lovers."

"You should be very glad, my dear," replied Mrs. Fox, "that I was not of
your opinion in my early life."

But things changed for the better after a time. It is true that Mrs.
Easterfield and Olive did not appear, but Mr. Easterfield showed
himself, and did it with great advantage. The simple statement that his
wife and Miss Asher had gone to make a call caused a feeling of relief
to spread over the whole party. Until the callers returned there was no
reason why they should not all enjoy themselves, and Mr. Easterfield was
there to show them how to do it.

As the Broadstone carriage rolled swiftly on there was not much
conversation between its occupants. To the somewhat sensitive mind of
Mrs. Easterfield it seemed that Olive was a little disappointed at the
change of companions, but this may have been a mere fancy. The girl was
so wrapped up in self-concentrated thought that it was not likely that
she would have talked much to any one. Suddenly, however, Olive broke

"Mr. Easterfield must be a thoroughly good man" she said.

"He is," assented the other.

"And you have always been entirely satisfied with him?"

"Entirely," was the reply, without a smile.

Now Olive turned her face toward her companion and laid her hand upon
her arm. "You ought to be a happy woman," she said.

"Now, what is this girl thinking of?" asked Mrs. Easterfield to herself.
"Is she imagining that any one of the young fellows who are now
besieging her can ever be to her what Tom is to me? Or is she making an
ideal of my husband to the disparagement of her own lovers? Whichever
way she thinks, she would better give up thinking."

But the somewhat sensitive Mrs. Easterfield need not have troubled
herself. The girl had already forgotten the good Mr. Tom, and her mind
was intent upon getting to her uncle.

"Will you please ask the man to stop," she said, "before he gets to the
gate, and let me out? Then perhaps you will kindly drive on to the
tollhouse and wait for me. I will not keep you waiting long."

The carriage stopped, and Olive slipped out, and, before Mrs.
Easterfield had any idea of what she was going to do, the girl climbed
the rail fence which separated the road from the captain's pasture
field. Between this field and the garden was a picket fence, not very
high; and, toward a point about midway between the little tollhouse and
the dwelling, Olive now ran swiftly. When she had nearly reached the
fence she gave a great bound; put one foot on the upper rail to which
the pickets were nailed; and then went over. What would have happened if
the sharp pales had caught her skirts might well be imagined. But
nothing happened.

"That was a fine spring" said Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "She has
seen him in the house, and wants to get there before he hears the

Olive walked quietly through the garden to the house. She knew that her
uncle was not at the gate, for from afar she had seen that the little
piazza on which he was wont to sit was empty. She went noiselessly into
the hall, and looked into the parlor. By a window in the back of the
room she saw her uncle writing at a little table. With a rush of air she
was at his side before he knew she was in the room. As he turned his
head her arms were around his neck, and the pen in his hand made a great
splotch of ink upon her white summer dress.

"Now, uncle," she exclaimed, looking into his astonished face, "here I
am and here I am going to stay! And if you want to know anything more
about it, you will have to wait, for I am not going to make any
explanations now. I am too happy to know that I have a dear uncle left
to me in this world, and to know that we two are going to live together
always to want to talk about whys and wherefores."

"But, Olive" exclaimed the captain.

"There are no buts," she interrupted. "Not a single but, my dear Uncle
John! I have come back to stay with you, and that is all there is about
it. Mrs. Easterfield is outside in her carriage, and I must go and send
her away. But don't you come out, Uncle John; I have some things to say
to her, and I will let you know when she is going."

As Olive sped out of the room Captain Asher turned around in his chair
and looked after her. Tears were running down his swarthy cheeks. He
did not know how or why it had all happened. He only knew that Olive was
coming back to live with him!

Meantime old Jane was entertaining Mrs. Easterfield at the toll-gate,
where no money was paid, but a great deal of information gained. The old
woman had seen Miss Olive run into the house, and she was elated and
excited, and consequently voluble. Mrs. Easterfield got the full account
of the one-sided courtship of the captain and Miss Port. Even the
concluding episode of Maria having been put to bed had somehow reached
the ears of old Jane. It is really wonderful how secret things do become
known, for not one of the three actors in that scene would have told it
on any account. But old Jane knew it, and told it with great glee, to
Mrs. Easterfield's intense enjoyment. Then she proceeded to praise Olive
for the spirit she had shown under these trying circumstances; and, in
this connection, naturally there came into the recital the spirit the
old woman herself had shown under these same trying circumstances, and
how she had got all ready to leave the minute the nuptial knot was tied
and before that Maria Port could reach the toll-gate, although it was
like tearing herself apart to leave the spot where she had lived so many
years. "But," she concluded, "it is all right now. The captain tells me
it's all a lie of her own makin'. She's good at that business, and if
lies was salable she'd be rich."

Just as the old woman reached this, what seemed to her unsophisticated
mind, impossible business proposition, Olive appeared. Mrs. Easterfield
was surprised to see her so soon, and, to tell the truth, a little
disappointed. She had been greatly interested and amused by the old
woman's rapid tale, which she would not interrupt, but had put aside in
her mind several questions to ask, and one of them was in relation to
her husband's late visit to the captain. She had had no detailed account
from him, and she wondered how much this old body knew about it. She
seemed to know pretty much everything. But Olive's appearance put an end
to this absorbing conversation.

"Has you come to stay, dearie?" eagerly asked old Jane, as Olive grasped
her hand.

"To be sure I have, Jane! I have come to stay forever!"

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed the old woman. "How the captain will
brighten up! But my! I must go and alter the supper!"

"Mrs. Easterfield," said Olive, when the old woman had departed, "you
will have to go back without me. I can not leave my uncle, and I am
going to stay here right along. You must not think I am ungrateful to
you, or unmindful of Mr. Easterfield's great kindness, but this is my
place for the present. Some day I know you will be good enough to let me
pay you another visit."

"And what am I to do with all those young men?" asked Mrs. Easterfield
mischievously. She would have added, "And one of them your future
husband?" But she remembered the coachman.

Olive laughed. "They will annoy you less when I am not there. If you
will be so good as to ask your maid to pack up my belongings, I will
send for my trunk." She glanced at the coachman. "Would you mind taking
a little walk with me along the road?"

"I shall be glad to do so," said Mrs. Easterfield, getting out of the

"Now, my dear Mrs. Easterfield," said Olive when they were some distance
from the toll-gate and the house, "I am going to ask you to add to all
your kindness one more favor for me."

"That has such an ominous sound," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that I am not
disposed to promise beforehand."

"It is about those three young men you mentioned."

"I mentioned no number, and there are four."

"In what I am going to ask of you one of them can be counted out. He is
not in the affair. Only three are in this business. Won't you be so good
as to decline them all for me? I know that you can do it better than I
can. You have so much tact. And you must have done the thing many a
time, and I have not done it once. I am very awkward; I don't know how;
and, to confess the truth, I have put myself into a pretty bad fix."

"Upon my word," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "that is a pretty thing for one
woman to ask of another!

"I know it is," said Olive, "and I would not ask it of anybody but the
truest friend--of no one but you. But you see how difficult it is for me
to attend to it. And it must be done. I have given up all idea of
marrying, I am going to stay here, and when my father comes with his
young lady he will find me settled and fixed, and he and she will have
nothing to do with making plans for me. Now, dear Mrs. Easterfield, I
know you will do this favor for me, and let me say that I wish you would
be particularly gentle and pleasant in speaking to Mr. Locker. I think
he is really a very kind and considerate young man. He certainly showed
himself that way. I know you can talk so nicely to him that perhaps he
will not mind very much. As for Mr. Du Brant, you can tell him plainly
that I have carefully considered his proposition--and that is the exact
truth--and that I find it will be wise for me not to accept it. He is a
man of affairs, and will understand that I have given him a
straightforward, practical answer, and he will be satisfied. You must
not be sharp with Mr. Hemphill, as I know you will be inclined to be.
Please remember that I was once in love with him, and respect my
feelings as well as his. Besides, he is good, and he is in earnest, and
he deserves fair treatment. I am sorry that I have worried you about
him, and I will tell you now that I have found out he would not do at
all. I found it out this morning when I was talking to him about books.
His mind is neither broad nor cultivated."

"I could have told you that," said Mrs. Easterfield, "and saved you all
the trouble of taking that walk by the river."

"And then there is one more thing," continued Olive; "it is about
Professor Lancaster. I am sure you will agree with me that it will not
do for him to come back here. I am just going to start housekeeping
again. I've got the supper on my mind this minute. You can't imagine how
everything has turned topsy-turvy since I left. I suppose he will be
wanting to go North, anyway. In fact, he told me so."

Mrs. Easterfield laughed. She did not believe that Mr. Lancaster would
want to go North, or West, or East, although South might suit him. But
she saw the point of Olive's request; it would be awkward to have him at
the tollhouse.

"Oh, I will take care of him," she said, "and he shall continue his
vacation trip just as soon as Mr. Easterfield and I choose to give him

"You see," said Olive in an explanatory way, "I have not anything in the
world to do with him, but I thought he might want to come back to see
uncle again. And, really," she added, speaking with a great deal of
earnestness, "I don't want to be bothered with any more young men! And
now I will call uncle. You know I had to say all these things to you

Mrs. Easterfield walked quickly back to her carriage, but she did not
wait to see Captain Asher. As a hostess it was necessary for her to
hurry back home; and as a quick-witted, sensible woman she saw that it
would be well to leave these two happy people to themselves. This was
not the time for them to talk to her. So, when the captain, unwilling to
wait any longer, appeared at the door of the house, these two dear
friends had kissed and parted, and the carriage was speeding away.

On her way home Mrs. Easterfield forgot her slight chagrin at what her
husband had not done, in her joy at what he had accomplished. He had
neglected to take her fully into his confidence, and had acted very much
as if he had been a naval commander, who had cut his telegraphic
connections in order not to be embarrassed by orders from the home
government. But, on the other hand, he had saved her from the terrible
shock of hearing Olive declare that she had just engaged herself to
Rupert Hemphill. If it had not been for the extraordinary promptness of
her good Tom--a style of action he had acquired in the railroad
business--it would have been just as likely as not that Olive would have
accepted that young man before she had had an opportunity of finding out
his want of breadth and cultivation.


_By Proxy._

About half-past twelve Claude Locker made his appearance in the spacious
hall. He looked out of the front door; he looked out of the back door;
he peered into the parlor; he glanced up the stairway; and then he
peeped into the library. He had not seen the lady of the house since her
return, and he was waiting for Olive. This morning his fate was to be
positively decided; he would take a position that would allow of no
postponement; he would tell her plainly that a statement that she was
not prepared to give him an answer that day would be considered by him
as a final rejection. She must haul down her flag or he would surrender
and present to her his sword.

Claude Locker saw nothing of Miss Asher, but it was not long before the
lady of the house came down-stairs.

"Oh, Mr. Locker," she exclaimed, "I am so glad to see you! Come into the
library, please."

He hesitated a minute. "I beg your pardon," said he, "but I have an

"I know that," said she, "and you may be surprised to hear that it is
with me and not with Miss Asher. Come in and I will tell you about it."

Claude Locker actually ran after his hostess into the library, both of
his eyes wide open.

"And now," said she, "please sit down, and hear what I have to say."

Locker seated himself on the edge of a chair; he did not feel happy; he
suspected something was wrong.

"Is she sick?" he asked. "Can't she come down?"

"She is very well," was the reply, "but she is not here. She is with her

"Then I am due at her uncle's house before one o'clock," said he.

"No," she answered, "you are due here."

He fixed upon her a questioning glance.

"Miss Asher," she continued, "has deputed me to give you her answer. She
can not come herself, but she does not forget her agreement with you."

The young man still gazed steadfastly. "If it is to be a favorable
decision," said he, "I hope you will be able to excuse any exuberance of
demeanor on my part."

Mrs. Easterfield smiled. "In that case," she said, "I do not suppose I
should have been sent as an envoy."

His brow darkened, and instinctively he struck one hand with the other.
"That is exactly what I expected!" he exclaimed. "The signs all pointed
that way. But until this moment, my dear madam, I hoped. Yes, I had
presumed to hope that I might kindle in her heart a little nickering
flame. I had tried to do this, and I had left but one small match head,
which I intended to strike this day. But now I see I had a piece of the
wrong end of the match. After this I must be content forever to stay in
the cold."

"I am glad you view the matter so philosophically," said Mrs.
Easterfield, "and Olive particularly desired me to say--"

"Don't call her Olive, if you please," he interrupted. "It is like
speaking to me through the partly open door of paradise, through which I
can not enter. Slam it shut, I beg of you, and talk over the top of the

"Miss Asher wants you to know," continued Mrs. Easterfield, "that while
she has decided to decline your addresses, she is deeply grateful to you
for the considerate way in which you have borne yourself toward her. I
know she has a high regard for you, and that she will not forget your

Mr. Locker put his hands in his pockets. "Do you know," said he, "as
this thing had to be done, I prefer to have you do it than to have her
do it. Well, it is done now! And so am I!"

"You never did truly expect to get her, did you, Mr. Locker?" asked Mrs.

"Never," he answered; "but I do not flinch at what may be
impossibilities. Nobody, myself included, can imagine that I shall rival
Keats, and yet I am always trying for it."

"Is it Keats you are aiming at?" she said.

"Yes," he replied; "it does not look like it, does it? But it is."

"And you don't feel disheartened when you fail?" said she.

Mr. Locker took his hands from his pockets, and folded his arms. "Yes,
I do," he said; "I feel as thoroughly disheartened as I do now. But I
have one comfort; Keats and Miss Asher dropped me; I did not drop them.
So there is nothing on my conscience. And now tell me, is she going to
take Lancaster? I hope so."

"She could not do that," answered Mrs. Easterfield, "for I know he has
not asked her."

"Then he'd better skip around lively and do it," said Mr. Locker, "not
only for his own sake, but for mine. If I should be cast aside for the
Hemphill clothes I should have no faith in humanity. I would give up
verse, and I would give up woman."

"Don't be afraid of anything like that," said Mrs. Easterfield,
laughing. "It may be somewhat of a breach of confidence, but I am going
to tell you nevertheless; because I think you deserve it; that I am also
deputed to decline the addresses of Mr. Hemphill, and Mr. Du Brant."

"Hurrah!" cried Locker. "Mrs. Easterfield, I envy you; and if you don't
feel like performing the rest of your mission, you can depute it to me.
I don't know anything at this moment that would give me so much joy."

"I would not be so disloyal or so cruel as that," said she. "But I shall
not be in a hurry. I shall let them eat their lunch in peace and hope."

"Not much peace," said he. "Her empty chair will put that to flight. I
know how it feels to look at her empty chair."

"Then you really love her?" said Mrs. Easterfield, much moved.

"With every fiber," said he.

Mrs. Easterfield found herself much embarrassed at the luncheon table.
She had made her husband understand the state of affairs, but had not
had time to enter into particulars with him, and she did not find it
easy satisfactorily to explain to the company the absence of Miss Asher
without calling forth embarrassing questions as to her return, and she
wished carefully to avoid telling them that her guest was not coming
back for the present. If she made this known then she feared there might
be a scene at the table.

Mr. Hemphill turned pale when, that afternoon, his hostess, in an
exceedingly clear and plain manner, made known to him his fate. For a
few moments he did not speak. Then he said very quietly: "If she had
not, of her own accord, told me that she had once loved me, I should
never have dared to say anything like that to her."

"I do not think you need any excuse, Mr. Hemphill," said Mrs.
Easterfield. "In fact, if you loved her, I do not see how you could help
speaking after what she herself said to you."

"That is true," he replied. "And I love her with all my heart!"

"She ought never to have told you of that girlish fancy," said his
hostess. "It was putting you in a very embarrassing position, and I am
bound to say to you, Mr. Hemphill, that I also am very much to blame.
Knowing all this, as I did, I should not have allowed you to meet her."

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Mr. Hemphill. "Don't say that! Not for
the world would I give up the memory of hearing her say she once loved
me! I don't care how many years ago it was. I am glad you let me come
here. I am glad she told me. I shall never forget the happiness I have
had in this house. And now, Mrs. Easterfield, let me ask you one

At this moment Mrs. Easterfield, who was facing the door, saw her
husband enter the hall, and by his manner she knew he was looking for

"Excuse me," she said to Hemphill, "I will be back in an instant."

And she ran out. "Tom," she cried, "you must go away. I can not see you
now. I am very busy declining the addresses of a suitor, and can not be

Mr. Tom looked at her in surprise, although it was not often Mrs.
Easterfield could surprise him. He saw that she was very much in

"Well," said he, "if you are sure you are going to decline him I won't
interrupt you. And when you have sealed his fate you will find me in my
room. I want particularly to see you."

Mrs. Easterfield went back to the library and Hemphill continued: "You
need not answer if you do not think it is right," said he, "but do you
believe at any time she thought seriously of me?"

Mrs. Easterfield smiled as she answered: "Now, you see the advantage of
an agent in such matters as this. You could not have asked her that
question, or if you did she would not answer you. And now I am going to
tell you that she did have some serious thought of you. Whatever
encouragement she gave you, she treated you fairly. She is a very
practical young woman--"

"Excuse me," said Hemphill hurriedly, "but if you please, I would rather
you did not tell me anything more. Sometimes it is not well to try to
know too much. I can't talk now, Mrs. Easterfield, for I am dreadfully
cut up, but at the same time I am wonderfully proud. I don't know that
you can understand this."

"Yes, I can," she said; "I understand it perfectly."

"You are very kind," he said. As he was about to leave the room he
stopped and turned to Mrs. Easterfield. "Is she going to marry Professor
Lancaster?" he asked.

"Really, Mr. Hemphill," she replied, "I can not say anything about that.
I do not know any more than you do."

"Well, I hope she may," he said. "It would be a burning shame if she
were to accept that Austrian; and as for the other little man, he is too
ugly. You must excuse me for speaking of your friends in this way, Mrs.
Easterfield, but really I should feel dreadfully if I thought I had been
set aside for such a queer customer as he is."

Mrs. Easterfield did not laugh then; but when Hemphill had gone, and she
had joined her husband, they had a good time together.

"And so they all recommend Lancaster," said he.

"So far," she answered; "but I have yet to hear what Mr. Du Brant has to

"I think you have had enough of this discarding business," said Mr.
Tom. "You would better leave Du Brant to me."

"Oh, no," said she; "I promised Olive. And, besides, I think I like it."

"I believe you do," said Mr. Tom. "And now I want to say something
important. It is not right that Broadstone should be given up entirely
to the affairs of Miss Asher and her lovers. I think, for instance, that
our friend Fox looks very much dissatisfied."

"That is because Olive is not here," she replied.

"Not only that," he answered. "He loses her, and does not get anything
else in her place. Now, we must make this house lively, as it ought to
be. Let Du Brant off for to-day and let us make up a party to go out on
the river. We will take two boats, and have some of the men to do the
rowing. Postpone dinner so we can have a long afternoon."

Mr. Du Brant did not go on the river excursion. He had some letters to
write, and begged to be excused. He had not asked when Miss Asher was
expected back, or anything about her return. He did not understand the
state of affairs, and was afraid he might receive some misleading
information. But if she should come that afternoon or the next day he
determined to be on the spot. After that he might not be able to remain
at Broadstone, and it would be a glorious opportunity for him if she
should come back that afternoon.

It was twilight when the boating party returned. Under the genial
influence of Mr. Tom and his wife they had all enjoyed themselves as
much as it was possible for them to do so without Olive.

When Claude Locker, a little behind the others, reached the top of the
hill he perceived, not far away, Mr. Du Brant strolling. These two had
not spoken since the night of the interrupted serenade. Each of them had
desired to avoid words or actions which might disturb the peace of this
hospitable home, and consequently had very successfully succeeded in
avoiding each other. But now Mr. Locker walked straight up to the
secretary of legation, holding out his hand.

"Now, Mr. Du Brant," said he, "since we are both in the same boat, let
us shake hands and let bygones be bygones."

But the young Austrian did not take the proffered hand. For a moment he
looked as though he were about to turn away without taking any notice of
Locker, but he had not the strength of mind to do this. He turned and
remarked with a scowl:

"What do you mean by same boat? I have nothing to do with you on the
water or on the land!"

Mr. Locker shrugged his shoulders. "So you have not been told," said he.

"Told!" exclaimed Du Brant, now very much interested. "Told what?"

"That you will have to find out," said the other. "It is not my business
to tell you. But I don't mind saying that as I have been told I thought
perhaps you might have been."

"Told what?" exclaimed Mr. Du Brant again, stepping up closer to the

"Don't shout so," said Locker; "they will think we are quarreling.
Didn't I say I am not the person to tell you anything, and if you did
not understand me I will say it again."

For some seconds the Austrian looked steadily at his companion. Then he
said, "Have you been refused by Miss Asher?"

"Well," said Locker with a sigh, "as that is my business, I suppose I
can talk about it if I want to. Yes, I have."

Again Du Brant was silent for a time. "Did she tell you herself?" he

"No, she did not," was the answer. "She kindly sent me word by Mrs.
Easterfield. I suppose your turn has not come yet. I was at the head of
the list." And, fearing that if he stayed longer he might say too much,
Mr. Locker walked slowly away, whistling disjointedly as he went.

That evening Mrs. Easterfield discovered that she had been deprived of
the anticipated pleasure of conveying to Mr. Du Brant the message which
Olive had sent him. That gentleman, unusually polite and soft-spoken,
found her by herself, and thus accosted her: "You must excuse me, madam,
for speaking upon a certain subject without permission from you, but I
have reason to believe that you are the bearer of a message to me from
Miss Asher."

"How in the world did you find that out?" she asked.

"It was the--Locker," he answered. "I do not think it was his intention
to inform me fully; he is not a master of words and expressions; he is a
little blundering; but, from what he said, I supposed you were kind
enough to be the bearer of such a message."

"Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield; "not being able to be here herself, Miss
Asher requested me to say to you that she must decline--"

"Excuse me, madam," he interrupted, "but it is I who decline. I bear
toward you, madam, the greatest homage and respect, but what I had the
honor to say to Miss Asher I said to her alone, and it is only from her
that it is possible for me to receive an answer. Therefore, madam, it is
absolutely necessary that I decline to be a party to the interview you
so graciously propose. It breaks my heart, my dear madam, even to seem
unwilling to listen to anything you might deign to say to me, but in
this case I must be firm, I must decline. Can you pardon me, dear madam,
for speaking as I have been obliged to speak?"

"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Easterfield. "And really, since you know so
much, it is not necessary for me to tell you anything more."

"Ah," said the diplomat, with a little bow and an incredulous
expression, as if the lady could have no idea what he might yet know, "I
am so much obliged to you! I am so thankful!"


_Here we go! Lovers Three!_

The three discarded lovers of Broadstone--all discarded, although one of
them would not admit it--would have departed the next day had not that
day been Sunday, when there were no convenient trains. Mr. Du Brant was
due in Washington; Mr. Hemphill was needed very much at his desk,
especially since Mr. Easterfield had decided to spend a few days with
his wife; and Claude Locker wanted to go. When he had finished the thing
he happened to be doing it was his habit immediately to begin something
else. All was at an end between him and Miss Asher. He acknowledged
this, and he did not wish to stay at Broadstone. But, as it could not be
helped, they all stayed over Sunday.

Mr. Easterfield planned an early afternoon expedition to a mission
church in the mountains; it would be a novel experience, and a
delightful trip, and everybody must go.

In the course of the morning Mr. Du Brant strolled in the eastern parts
of the grounds, and Mr. Locker strolled over that portion of the lawn
which lay to the west. Mr. Du Brant did not meet with any one with whom
he cared to talk, but Mr. Locker was fortunate enough to meet Miss

"I am glad to see you," said he; "you are the person above all other
persons I wish to talk to."

"It delights me to hear that," said the lady, her face showing that she
spoke the truth.

"Let us go over there and sit down," said he. "Now, then," he continued,
"you were present, Miss Raleigh, at a very peculiar moment in my life, a
momentous moment, I may say. You enjoyed a privilege--if you consider it
such--not vouchsafed to many mortals."

"I did consider it a privilege, you may be sure," exclaimed Miss
Raleigh, "and I value it. You do not know how highly I value it!"

"You heard me offer myself, body and soul, to the lady I loved. You were
taken into our confidence, you saw me laid upon the table--"

"Oh, dreadful!" cried the lady. "Don't put it that way."

"Well, then," said he, "you saw me postponed for future consideration.
You promised you would regard everything you heard as confidential; by
so doing you enabled me to speak when otherwise I might not have dared
to do so. I am deeply grateful to you; and, as you already know so much
about my hopes and my aspirations, I think it right you should know all
there is to know."

The conscience of Miss Raleigh stirred itself very vigorously within
her, and her voice was much subdued as she said:

"I am sure you are very good."

"Well, then," said Locker, "the proposal you heard me make has been
declined. I am discarded; and not directly in a face-to-face interview,
but through another by a message. It would have been inconvenient for
Miss Asher personally to communicate the intelligence, so as Mrs.
Easterfield was coming this way she kindly consented to convey the

"I declare," exclaimed Miss Raleigh, "I had not heard of that! Mrs.
Easterfield made me her confidant in the early stages of this affair, or
I should say, these affairs. But she has not told me that."

"She will doubtless give herself that pleasure later," said Locker.

"No," said she, "she will not think any more about it. I am of no
further use. And may I ask if you know anything about the two other

"Both turned down," said Locker.

"I might have supposed that," answered the lady; "for if Miss Asher
would not take you she certainly would not be content with either of

"With all my heart I thank you," said Locker warmly. "Such words are
welcome to a wounded heart."

For a moment Miss Raleigh was silent, then she remarked, "It is very
hard to be discarded."

"You are right there!" exclaimed Locker. "But how do you happen to know
anything about it?"

"I have been discarded myself," she answered.

The larger eye of Mr. Locker grew still larger, the other endeavored to
emulate its companion's size; and his mouth became a rounded opening.
"Discarded?" he cried.

"Yes," said she.

The countenance of the young man was now bright with interest and
curiosity. "I don't suppose it would be right to ask you," said he,
"even although I have taken you so completely into my confidence--but,
never mind. Don't think of it. Of course, I would not propose such a

"Of course not," said she, "you are too manly for that." And then she
was silent again. Naturally she hesitated to reveal the secrets of her
heart, and to a gentleman with whom her acquaintance was of such recent
date; but she earnestly wanted to repose confidence in another, as well
as to receive it, and it was so seldom, so very seldom, that such an
opportunity came to her.

"I do not know," she said, "that I ought to, but still--"

"Oh, don't, if you don't want to," said Locker.

"But I think I do want to," she replied. "You are so kind, so good, and
you have confided in me. Yes, I was once discarded, not exactly by word
of mouth, or even by message, but still discarded."

"A stranger to me, of course," said Locker, his whole form twisting
itself into an interrogation-point.

"No," said she, "and as I have begun I will go on. It was Mr. Hemphill."

"What!" he exclaimed. "That--"

"Yes, it was he," said she, speaking slowly, and in a low voice. "He was
Mr. Easterfield's secretary and I was Mrs. Easterfield's secretary, and,
of course, we were thrown much together. He has very good qualities; I
do not hesitate now to say that; and they impressed themselves upon me.
In every possible way I endeavored to make things pleasant for him. I do
not believe that when he was at work he ever wanted a glass of cold
water that he did not find it within reach. I early discovered that he
was very fond of cold water."

"A most commendable dissipation," interrupted Locker.

"He had no dissipations," said Miss Raleigh. "His character was
unimpeachable. In very many ways I was attracted to him, in very many
ways I endeavored to make life pleasant for him; and I am afraid that
sometimes I neglected Mrs. Easterfield's interests so that I might do
little things for him, such as dusting, keeping his ink-pots full,
providing fresh blotting-paper, and many other trifling services which
devotion readily suggested."

Locker heaved a sigh of commiseration which she mistook for one of

"I will not go into particulars," she continued, "but at last he
discovered that--well, I will be plain with you--he discovered that I
loved him. Then, sir--it is humiliating to me to say it, but I will not
flinch--he discarded me. He did not use words, but his manner was
sufficient. Never again did I go near his desk, never did I tender him
the slightest service. It was a terrible blow! It was humiliating"

"I should think so," said Locker, "from him"

"But I will say no more," she remarked with a sigh. "I have told you
what you have heard that you may understand how thoroughly I sympathize
with you, for all is over with me in that direction, as I suppose all
is over with you in your direction. And now I must go, for this long
conference may be remarked. But before I go, I will say that if ever

"Oh, no, no, no!" interrupted Locker, "it would not do at all! I really
have begun to believe that I was cut out for a bachelor."

"What!" said Miss Raleigh, with great severity. "Do you suppose, sir,
that I--"

"Not at all, not at all" cried Locker. "Not for one moment do I suppose
that you--"

"If for one moment," said she, "I had imagined you would suppose--"

"But I assure you, Miss Raleigh, I never did suppose that you would
imagine I would think--but if you do suppose I thought you imagined I
could possibly conceive--"

"But I really did think," said Miss Raleigh, speaking more gently. "But
if I was wrong--"

"Nay, think no more about it," Locker interrupted, "and let us be
friends again."

He offered her his hand, which she shook warmly, and then departed.

It had been arranged that Lancaster was not to leave Broadstone on the
next day. He had expected to do so, but Mr. Easterfield had planned for
a day's fishing for himself, Mr. Fox, and the professor, and he would
not let the latter off. The ladies had accepted an invitation to
luncheon that day; the next day some new visitors were expected; and in
order not to interfere with Mr. Easterfield's plans, evidently intended
to restore to Broadstone some of the social harmony which had recently
been so disturbed, Dick consented to stay, although he really wanted to
go. He could not forget that his vacation was passing.

"Very well, then," Mrs. Easterfield remarked to him that Sunday evening,
"if you must go on Tuesday, I suppose you must, although I think it
would be better for you if I were to keep my eye on you for a little
while longer."

"Perhaps so," said Lancaster, "but the time has come when curb-bits,
cages, and good advice are not for me. I must burst loose from
everything and go my way, right or wrong, whatever it may be."

"I see that," said she; "but if it had not been for the curbed bit and
all that, you would be leaving this place a discarded lover, like the
rest of them. They depart with their love-affairs finished forever,
ended; you go as free to woo, to win, or to lose as you ever were. And
you owe this entirely to me, so whatever else you do, don't sneer at my
curbs and my cages; to them you owe your liberty."

The professor fully appreciated everything she had done for him, and
told her so earnestly and warmly. But she interrupted his grateful

"It would have been very hard on me," she said, "if Olive had asked me
to carry to you the news of your rejection. That is what I did for the
others, I suppose you know."

"Oh, yes," said Lancaster; "Locker told me."

"I might have supposed that," said she. "And now I feel bound to tell
you also, although it is not a message, that Olive does not expect to
see you at her uncle's house. She infers that you are going to continue
your vacation journey."

"I have made my plans for my journey," said he, "and I do not think,
Mrs. Easterfield, that you will care to have me talk them over with

"No, indeed," she replied; "I do not want to hear a word about them, but
I am going to give you one piece of advice, whether you like it or not.
Don't be in a hurry to ask her to marry you. At this moment she does not
want to marry anybody. Her position has entirely changed. She wanted to
marry so that her plans might be settled before her father and his new
wife arrive; and now she considers that they are settled. So be careful.
It is true that the objections she formerly had to you are removed, but
before you ask her to marry you, you should seriously ask yourself what
reason there is she should do so. She does not know you very well; she
is not interested in you; and I am very sure she is not in love with
you. Now you know, for I have told you so, that I would be delighted to
see you two married. I believe you would suit each other admirably, but
although you may agree with me in this opinion, I am quite sure she does
not; at least, not yet. Now, this is all I am going to say, except that
you have my very best wishes that you may get her."

"I shall never forget that," said he, "but I see I am not to be free
from the memory, at least, of the curb and the cage."

After breakfast on Monday the three discarded lovers departed in a
dog-cart, Mr. Du Brant in front with the driver, and Claude Locker and
Hemphill behind. For some minutes the party was silent. If
circumstances had permitted they would have gone separately.

As long as he could see the mansion of Broadstone, Claude Locker spoke
no word. When the time had come to go he had not wanted to go. When
taking leave of Dick Lancaster he had congratulated that favored young
man upon the fact that he had not been rejected, and had assured him
that if he had remained at Broadstone he would have done his best to
back him up as he had said he would.

Hemphill was not inclined to talk. Of course, Locker did not care to
converse with the young diplomat, and consequently he found himself
bored, and to relieve his feelings he burst into song. His words were
impromptu, and although the verse was not very good, it was very
impressive. It began as follows:

    "Here we go,
        Lovers three,
    All steeped deep
        In miseree."

At this Mr. Hemphill turned and looked at him, while a deep grunt came
from the front seat, but the singer kept on without much attention to
meter, and none at all to tune.

    "This is so,
        Here we go,
        Hopes all blasted,
    Flags half-masted.
        While it lasted,
    We poor--"

"Look here," cried Du Brant, turning round suddenly, "I beg you desist
that. You are insulting. And what you say is not true, as regards me at
least. You can sing for yourself."

"Not true!" cried Locker. "Oh, ho, oh ho! Perhaps you have forgotten
yourself, kind sir."

This little speech seemed to make Du Brant very angry, and he fairly
shouted at Locker: "No, I haven't forgotten myself, and I have not
forgotten you! You have insulted me before, and I should like to make
you pay for it! I should like to have satisfaction from you, sir"

"That sounds well," cried Locker. "Do you mean to fight?"

"I want the satisfaction due to a gentleman," answered the young

"Good," cried Locker, "that would suit me exactly. It would brighten me
up. Let's do it now. I am not going to stop at Washington, and this is
the only time I can give you. Driver, can we get to the station in time
if we stop a little while?"

The person addressed was a young negro who had become intensely
interested in the conversation.

"Oh, yes, sah," he answered. "We'll git dar twenty minutes before de
train does, and if you takes half an hour I can whip up. That train's
mostly late, anyway."

"All right," cried Locker. "And now, sir, how shall we fight? What have
you got to fight with?"

"This is folly," growled Du Brant. "I have nothing to fight with. I do
not fight with fists, like you Americans."

"Haven't you a penknife" coolly asked Locker. "If not, I daresay Mr.
Hemphill will lend you one."

Du Brant now fairly trembled with anger. "When I fight," said he, "I
fight like a gentleman; with a sword or a pistol."

"I am sorry," said Locker, "but if I remembered to bring my sword and
pistol I must have put them in the bottom of my trunk, and that has gone
on to the station. Have you two pistols or swords with you? Or do you
think you could get sufficient satisfaction out of a couple of piles of
stones that we could hurl at each other?"

Du Brant made no English answer to this, but uttered some savage remarks
in French.

"Do you understand what all that means?" inquired Locker of Hemphill,
who had been quietly listening to what had been going on.

"Yes," said the other, "he is cursing you up hill, and down dale."

"Oh," said Locker, "it sounds to me as if he were calculating his last
week's expenses. But when he gets to French cursing, I drop him. I can't
fight him that way."

The colored boy now showed that he was very much disappointed. He had
expected the pleasure of a fight, and he was afraid he was going to lose

"I tell you, sah," he said to Locker, "why don't you try kick-shins? Do
you know what kick-shins is? You don't know what kick-shins is? Well,
kick-shins is this: one fellow stands in front of the other fellow, and
one takes hold of the collar of the other fellow, and the other fellow
takes hold of his collar, and then they kicks each other's shins, and
the one what squeals fust, he's licked, and the other one gits the gal.
You've got pretty thin shoes, sah," addressing Du Brant, "and your feet
ain't half as big as his'n, but your toes is more p'inted."

"No kick-shins for me," said Locker. "I've got to be economical about my

Du Brant's rage now became ungovernable. "Do you apologize," he cried,
"or I take you by the throat, and I strangle you."

Hemphill, who had been smiling mildly at the kick-shin proposition, now
turned himself about. "You will not do that," he said, "and if you don't
sit quiet and keep your mouth shut, I'll toss you out of this cart, and
make you walk the rest of the way to the station."

As Hemphill looked quite big and strong enough to execute this threat,
and as he was too quiet a man to be ignored, Du Brant turned his face to
the horse, and said no more.

"I did not know you were such a trump" cried Locker. "Give me your hand.
I should hate to be strangled by a foreigner!"

When they took the train Du Brant went by himself into the smoking-car,
and Locker and Hemphill had a seat together.

"Do you know," said Locker, "I am beginning to like you, although I must
admit that before this morning I can remember no feeling of the sort."

"That is not surprising," said Hemphill. "A man is not generally fond of
his rival."

"We will let it go at that," said Locker, "we'll let it go at that! I
should not wonder, if we had all stayed at Broadstone; and if the
central object of interest had also remained; and, if I had failed, as
I have failed, to make the proper impression; and if the professor, whom
I promised to back up in case I should find myself out of the combat,
should also have failed; I should not wonder if I had backed up you."


_Two Pieces of News._

It was nearly two weeks after Mrs. Easterfield drove away from the
captain's toll-gate before she went back there again. There were many
reasons for thus depriving herself of Olive's society. Mr. Tom had
stayed with her for an unusually long time; a house full of visitors,
mostly relatives, had succeeded the departed lovers, and Foxes; and,
besides, Olive was so very busy and so very happy--as she learned from
many little notes--cleaning the house from garret to cellar, and loving
her uncle better every day, that it really would have been a misdemeanor
to interfere with her ardent pursuits.

But now Olive had written that she wanted to tell her a lot of things
which could not go into a letter, and so the Broadstone carriage stopped
again at the toll-gate.

Two great things had Olive to tell, and she was really glad that her
uncle was not at home so that she might get at once to the telling.

In the first place, old Mr. Port was dead, and Captain Asher was in
great trouble about this. Of course, he could not keep away from the
deathbed of his old friend, nor could he neglect to do all honor to his
memory, but it was a terrible thing for him to have to go into the
house where Maria Port lived. After what had happened it was almost too
much for his courage, although he was a brave man. But he had conquered
his feelings, and he was there now. The funeral would be to-morrow.

When Mrs. Easterfield heard all that Olive had to tell her about Maria
Port, her heart went out to that brave man who kept the toll-gate.

The next thing that Olive had to tell was that she had heard from her
father, who wrote that he would soon arrive in this country; that he
would then go West, where he would marry Olive's former schoolmate; and
that, on their wedding tour, he would make a little visit at the
tollhouse so that Olive might see her new mother.

"Now, isn't this enough," cried Olive, "to make any girl spread her
wings and fly to the ends of the earth? But I have no wings; they have
all gone away in a dog-cart. But I don't feel about that as I used to
feel," she continued, a little hardness coming into her face. "I am
settled now just the same as if I were married, and father and Edith
Malcolmsen may come just as soon as they please. They shall make no
plans for me; I am going to stay here with Uncle John. This house is
mine now, and I am seriously thinking of having it painted. I shall stay
here just as if I were one of those trees, and my father and my new

Here tears came into Olive's eyes and Mrs. Easterfield stopped her.

"Olive," said she, "I will give you a piece of advice. When your father
and his young wife come here, treat her exactly as if she were your old
friend. If you do so I think you will get along very well. This is
partly selfish advice, for I greatly desire the opportunity to treat
your father hospitably. He was my friend when I was a girl, you
remember, and I looked up to him with very great admiration."

And so these two friends sat and talked, and talked, and talked until it
was positively shameful, considering that the Broadstone horses were
accustomed to be fed and watered at noon, and that the coachman was very

When, at last, Mrs. Easterfield drove home, and it must have been three
in the afternoon, she left Olive very much comforted, even in regard to
the unfortunate obligations which had fallen upon her uncle. For now
that her old father had gone, all intercourse with the Port woman would

But in her own mind Mrs. Easterfield was not so very much comforted. It
was all well enough to talk about Olive and her uncle and the happiness
and safety of the home he had given her, but that sort of thing could
not last very long. He was an elderly man and she was a girl. In the
natural course of events, she would probably be left alone while she was
very young. She would then be alone, for her father's wife could never
be a mother to her when he was at sea, and their home would never be a
home for her when he was on shore. What Olive wanted, in Mrs.
Easterfield's opinion, was a husband. An uncle, such as Captain Asher,
was very charming, but he was not enough.

During this pleasant afternoon, when Captain Asher was in town
attending to some arrangements for the burial of Mr. Port, Miss Maria
was sitting discreetly alone in her darkened chamber. She had a great
many things to think about, and if she had allowed her conscience full
freedom of action, there would have been much more upon her mind. She
might have been troubled by the recollection that since her father's
very determined treatment of her when she had endeavored to fix herself
upon the affections of Captain Asher, she had so conducted herself
toward her venerable parent that she had actually nagged the life out of
him; and that had she been the dutiful daughter she ought to have been
he might have been living yet. But thoughts of this nature were not
common to Maria Port. She had made herself sure that the will was all
right, and he was very old. There was a time for all things, and Maria
was now about to begin life for herself. To her plans for this new life
she now gave almost her sole attention.

She had one great object in view which overshadowed everything else, and
this was to marry Captain Asher. This she could have done before, she
firmly believed, had it not been for her old father and that horrid
girl, the captain's niece. As for the elderly man who kept the toll-gate
she did not mind him. If not interfered with, she was sure she could
make him marry her, and then the great ambition of her life would be

Unpretentious as was her establishment in town, she did not care to
spend the money necessary to keep it up, and although she was often an
unkind woman, she was not cruel enough to think of inflicting herself
as a boarder upon any housewife in the town. No, the toll-gate was the
home for her; and if Captain Asher chose to inflict himself upon her for
a few years longer, she would try to endure it.

One obstacle to her plans was now gone, and she must devote herself to
the work of getting rid of the other one. While Olive Asher remained at
the tollhouse there was no chance for her in that quarter.

The funeral was over, and when the bereaved Miss Port took leave of
Captain Asher she exhibited a quiet gratitude which was very becoming
and suitable. During the short time when he had visited the house every
day she had showed him no resentment on account of what had passed
between them, and had treated him very much as if he had been one of her
father's old friends with whom she was not very well acquainted and to
whom she was indebted for various services connected with the sad

When he took final leave of her he shook her hand, and as he did so he
gave her a peculiar grasp which, in his own mind, indicated that he and
she had now nothing more to do with each other, and that the
acquaintance was adjourned without day. She bade him a simple farewell,
and as he left the house she grinned at his broad back. This grin
expressed, to herself at least, that the old and rather faulty
acquaintance was at an end, and that the new connection which she
intended to establish between herself and him would be upon an entirely
different basis.

He did not ask her if there was anything more that he could do for her,
for he did not desire to mix himself up with her affairs, which he knew
she was eminently able to manage for herself, and it was with a deep
breath of relief that he got into his buggy and drove home to his


_By the Sea._

When Lieutenant Asher and his bride arrived at his brother's toll-gate
they were surprised as well as delighted by the cordiality of their
greeting. Each of them had expected a little stiffness during the first
interview, but there was nothing of the kind, although young Mrs. Asher
was bound to admit, when she took time to think upon the subject, that
Olive treated her exactly as if she had been a dear old schoolmate, and
not at all as her father's wife. This made things very pleasant and easy
at that time, she thought, although it might have to be corrected a
little after a while.

Things were all very pleasant, and there never had been so much talk at
the tollhouse since the first stone of its foundation had been laid. The
day after the arrival of the newly married couple Mrs. Easterfield
called upon them, and invited the whole family to dinner.

"I have never realized how much she must have thought of my parents!"
said Olive to herself, as she gazed upon her father and Mrs.
Easterfield. "They are so very glad to see each other!"

She did not know that Lieutenant Asher had been to the present Mrs.
Easterfield almost as much of a divinity as Mr. Hemphill had been to
her girlish fancy; the difference being that the young cadet was well
aware of the adoration of this child, not yet in long dresses, and
greatly enjoyed and encouraged it. When, a few years later, the child
heard of his marriage, she had outgrown the love with the lengthening of
the skirts. But she had a tender recollection of it which she cherished.

The dinner the next day was a great success, and after it the lieutenant
and Mrs. Easterfield earnestly discussed Olive when they had the
opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_. She was so much to each of them, and he
was grateful that his daughter had fallen under the influence of this
old friend, now a charming woman.

"She is so beautiful," said the lady, "that she ought to be married as
soon as possible to the most suitable bachelor in the United States."

"Not so fast! Not so fast" said the lieutenant. "Edith and I are going
to housekeeping very soon, and then we shall want Olive."

Mrs. Easterfield smiled, but made no reply.

When the lieutenant and his wife, with Olive, came a few days afterward
to make their proper dinner call, he found an occasion to speak to their

"Do you know," said he, "that this is a strange girl of mine?" She
positively refuses to come and live with us. We had counted upon having
her, and had made all our arrangements for it. She is as good and nice
as she can be, but we can not move her."

"You ought not to try," said Mrs. Easterfield; "it would be a shame for
her to go away and leave her uncle. You have one young lady, and you
should not ask for both. Olive must marry, and the captain must go and
live with her."

"Have you arranged all that?" said he. "I remember you were a great
schemer when quite a little girl."

"I am as great as ever," said she. "And I have selected the gentleman."

"Oh, ho!" cried the lieutenant. "And is that all settled? Olive should
have told me that."

"She could not do it," said Mrs. Easterfield; "for it is not all
settled. There are some obstacles in the way; and the greatest of them
is that she does not love him."

The lieutenant laughed. "Then that is settled. I know Olive."

Mrs. Easterfield flushed, and then laughed. "I doubt that knowledge. It
is certain you do not know me! The young man loves her with all his
heart; there is no objection to him; and I am most earnestly in favor of
the match."

"Ah" said the lieutenant, with a bow; "if that is the case, I must get a
pencil and paper and calculate what I can give her for her trousseau. I
hope the wedding will not come off very soon, for I am decidedly short
at present, on account of recent matrimonial expenses. Would you mind
telling me his name? Is he naval?"

"Oh, no," said she; "he is pedagogy."

"What!" he cried, his eyes wide open.

Then she laughed and told him all about Dick Lancaster.

"Of course," concluded Mrs. Easterfield, "I can not ask you not to
speak to _anybody_ about what I have told you, but I do hope you will
prevent its getting to Olive's ears. I am afraid it would make a breach
between us if she knew that I was trying to make a match for her. And,
you see, that is exactly what I am doing."

"And you are right," said the lieutenant; "and what is more, I am with
you! You don't know," he added in a softer tone, "how grateful I am to
you for your care of Olive now that my dear wife is gone!"

For the moment he totally forgot that his dear wife had merely gone to
the edge of the bluff with the captain and Olive to look at the river.

That evening, as they sat together, Lieutenant Asher told his brother
all that Mrs. Easterfield had confided to him about Dick Lancaster. The
captain was delighted.

"That is what I have wanted," he said, "almost from the beginning, and I
want it more than ever now. I am getting to be an old fellow, and I want
to see her settled before I sail."

"You know, John," said the lieutenant, "that I find Olive is a little
more of a girl of her own mind than she used to be. I don't believe she
would rest quietly under the housekeeping of a girl so nearly her own

The captain gave some vigorous puffs. "I should think not!" he said to
himself. "Olive would have that young woman swabbing the decks before
they had been out three days! You are right," said he aloud, "but we
must all look out that Olive does not hear anything about this."

It was not until they were continuing their bridal trip that Lieutenant
Asher considered the subject of mentioning Dick Lancaster to his wife.
Then, after considering it, he concluded not to do it. In the first
place, he knew that he was getting to be a little bit elderly, and he
did not care about discussing the perfections of the young man who had
been selected as a suitable partner for his wife's school friend. This
was all very foolish, of course, but people often are very foolish.

Thus it was that Olive Asher never heard of the tripartite alliance
between her father, her uncle, and her good friend at Broadstone.

When Captain Asher learned, a few days after his brother had left, that
the Broadstone family had gone to the seashore, he sat reflectively and
asked himself if he were doing the right thing by Olive. The season was
well advanced; it was getting very hot at the toll-gate, and at many
other gates in that region; and this navy girl ought to have a breath of
fresh air. It is wonderful that he had not thought of it before!

At breakfast the next morning Olive stopped pouring coffee when he told
her his plans to go to the sea.

"With you, Uncle John!" she cried. "That would be better than anything
in the world! You sail a boat?" she asked inquiringly.

"Sail a boat!" roared the captain. "I have a great mind to kick over
this table! My dear, I can sail a boat, keel uppermost, if the water's
deep enough! Sail a boat!" he repeated. "I sailed a catboat from Boston
to Egg Harbor before your mother was born. By the way, you seem very
anxious about boat sailing. Are you afraid of the water?"

She laughed gaily. "I deserve that," she said, "and I accept it. But
perhaps I have done something that you never did. I have sailed a

"Very good," said the captain; "if there's a felucca where we're going
you can sail me in one."

They went to a Virginia seaside resort, these two, and left old Jane in
charge of the toll-gate.

Early in the day after they arrived they went out to engage a boat. When
they found one which suited the captain's critical eye, he said to the
owner thereof: "I will take her for the morning, but I don't want
anybody to sail me. I will do that myself."

"I don't know about that," said the man; "when my boat goes out--"

He stopped speaking suddenly and looked the captain over and over, up
and down. "All right, sir," said he. "And you don't want nobody to
manage the sheet?"

"No," interpolated Olive, "I'll manage the sheet."

So they went out on the bounding sea. And as the wind whistled the hat
off her head so that she had to fling it into the bottom of the boat,
Olive wished that her uncle kept a toll-gate on the sea. Then she could
go out with him and stop the little boats and the great steamers, and
make them drop seven cents or thirteen cents into her hands as she stood
braced in the stern; and she was just beginning to wonder how she could
toss up the change to them if they dropped her a quarter, when the
captain began to sing Tom Bowline. He was just as gay-hearted as she

It was about noon when they returned, for the captain was a very
particular man and he had hired the boat only for the morning. Olive had
scarcely taken ten steps up the beach before she found herself shaking
hands with a young man.

"How on earth!" she exclaimed.

"It was not on earth at all," he said; "I came by water. I wanted to
find out if what I had heard of the horrors of a coastwise voyage were
true; and I found that it was absolutely correct."

"But here!" she exclaimed. "Why here? You could not have known!"

"Of course not," he answered; "if I had known I am sure I would have
felt that I ought not to come. But I didn't know, and so you see I am as
innocent as a butterfly. More innocent, in fact, for that little
wagwings knows where he ought not to go, and he goes there all the

Captain Asher was still at the boat, making some practical suggestions
to her owner; who, being not yet forty, had many things to learn about
the sails and rigging of a catboat.

"Mr. Locker," said Olive, looking at him very intently, "did you come
here to renew any of your previous performances?"

"As a serenader?" said he. "Oh, no! But perhaps you mean as a

"That is it," said Olive.

Mr. Locker took off his hat, and rubbed his head. "No," said he, "I
didn't; but I wish I could say I did. But that's impossible. I presume
I am right in assuming this impossibility?"

"Entirely," said Olive.

"And, furthermore, I truly didn't know you were here. I think you may
rest satisfied that that flame is out, although--By the way, I believe I
could make some verses on that subject containing these lines:

    "'I do not want the flame,
    I better like the coal--'

meaning, of course, that I hope our friendship may continue."

She smiled. "There are no objections to that," she said.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," he said, clutching his chin with his hand;
"but some other lines come into my head. Of course, he didn't want the
coal to go out.

    "'He blew too hard,
    The flame revived.'"

"That will do! That will do!" cried Olive. "I don't want any more of
that poem."

"And the result of it all," said he, "is only a burnt match."

"Nothing but a bit of charcoal," added Olive.

At this moment up came the captain. Olive had told him all about Mr.
Locker, and he was not glad to see him. Olive noticed this, and she
spoke quickly. "Here's Mr. Locker, uncle; he has dropped down quite
accidentally at this place."

"Oh" said the captain incredulously.

"You know he used to like me too much. But he knows me better now."

"Charming frankness of friendship!" said Locker.

"And as I like him very much, I am glad he is here," continued Olive.

The young man bowed in gratitude, but Olive's words embarrassed him
somewhat, and he did not know exactly what would be suitable for him to
say. So he took refuge in a change of subject. "Captain," said he, "can
you fish?"

A look of scornful amazement showed itself upon the old mariner's face.
"I have tried it," said he.

"And so have I," cried Locker, "but I never had any luck in fishing
and--some other things. I am vilely unlucky. I expect that's because I
don't know how to fish."

"It is very likely," said Olive, "that your bad luck comes from not
knowing where to fish."

The young man took off his hat and held it for a little while, although
the sun was very hot.

During the course of that afternoon and evening Captain Asher grew to
like Claude Locker. The young man told such gravely comical stories,
especially about his experiences in boats and on the water, that the
captain was very glad he had happened to drop down upon that especial
watering-place. He wanted Olive to have some society besides his own,
and a discarded lover was better than any other young man they might
meet. He knew that Olive was a girl who would not go back on her word.


_As good as a Man._

The next day our three friends went fishing in a catboat belonging to
the young seaman of forty, and they took their dinner with them,
although Mr. Locker declared that he did not believe that he would want

They had a good time on the water, for the captain had made careful
inquiries about the best fishing grounds, and the mishaps of Locker were
so numerous and so provocative of queer remarks from himself, that the
captain and Olive sometimes forgot to pull up their fish, so preengaged
were they in laughing. The sky was bright, the water smooth, and even
Mr. Locker caught fish, although it might have been thought that he did
everything possible to prevent himself doing so.

When their boat ran up the beach late in the afternoon the captain and
Olive were still laughing, and Mr. Locker was as sober as a soda-water
fountain from which spouts such intermittent sparkle. Dear as was the
toll-gate, this was a fine change from that quiet home.

The next morning, upon the sand, Claude Locker approached Olive. "Would
you like to decline my addresses for the second time?" he abruptly

"Of course not" she exclaimed.

"Well, then," said he, extending his hand, "good-by!"

"What are you talking about?" said Olive. "What does this mean?"

"It means," said he, "that I have fallen in love with you again. I think
I am rather worse than I was before. If I stay here I shall surely
propose. Nothing can stop me--not even the presence of your uncle if it
is impossible for me to see you alone--and, if you don't want any of
that, it is necessary that I go, and go quickly."

"Of course I don't want it," she said. "But why need you be so foolish?
We were getting along so nicely as friends. I expected to have lots of
fun here with you and uncle."

"Fun!" groaned Locker. "It might have been fun for you and the captain,
but what of the poor torn heart? I know I must go, and now. If I stay
here five minutes longer I shall be at your feet, and it will be far
better if I take to my own. Good-by!" And, with a warm grasp of her
hand, he departed.

Olive looked after him as he walked to the hotel. If he had known how
much she regretted to see him go he would have come back, and all his
troubles would have begun again.

"Hello!" cried the captain when Locker had entered the house, "I was
looking for you. We can run out, and have some fishing this morning. The
tide will suit. You did so well yesterday that I think to-day. I can
even teach you to take out a hook."

"Take out a hook?" said Locker. "I have a hook within me which no man
in this world, and but one woman, can take out. And as this she must not
even be asked to do, I go. Farewell!"

"What's the matter with the young man" asked the captain of Olive a
little later.

"Oh, he has fallen in love with me again," said Olive, with a sigh,
"and, of course, that spoils everything. I wish people could be more

The captain looked down upon her admiringly. "I don't see any hope for
people," he said. And this was the first personal compliment he had ever
paid his niece.

When Claude Locker had gone, Olive missed him more than she thought she
could miss anybody. Much of the life seemed to have gone out of the
place, and the captain's high spirits waned as if he was suffering from
the depression which follows a stimulant.

"If that young fellow had been better-looking," said the captain, "if he
had more solid sense, and a good business, with both his eyes alike, I
might have been more willing to let him go."

"If he had been all that," asked Olive with a smile, "why shouldn't you
have been willing to let him stay?"

The captain did not answer. No matter what young Locker might have been,
he could never have been Dick Lancaster.

"Uncle," said Olive that afternoon, "where shall we go next?"

"I don't know," said he, "but let's go to-morrow. I don't believe I like
so many strangers except when they pay toll."

They traveled about a good deal; and in a general way enjoyed
themselves; but they were both old travelers, and mere novelty was not
enough for them. Each loved the company of the other, but each would
have liked to have Locker along. It grieved Olive to think that she
wanted him, or anybody, but she would not even try to deceive herself.
The weather grew cooler, and she said to her uncle: "Let us go back to
the toll-gate; it must be perfectly beautiful there now, with the
mountains putting on their gold and red."

So they started for home, planning for a stop in Washington on their

Brightness and people were coming back to Washington. The air was
cooler, and city life was stirring. Olive and her uncle stayed several
days longer than they had intended; as most people do who visit
Washington. On one of these days as they were returning to their hotel
from the Smithsonian grounds, where they had been looking at autumn
leaves from all quarters of this wide land; many of them unknown to
them; they looked with interest from the shaded grounds on one side of
the street to the great public building on the other side, which they
were then passing, and at the broad steps ascending from the sidewalk to
the basement floor.

As they moved on thus slowly they noticed a man standing upon the upper
steps of one of these stairs. His back was toward them; and, as their
eyes fell upon him he stepped upon the upper sidewalk. He was walking
with a cane which seemed to be rather short for him. He stood still for
a moment, and appeared to be waiting for some one. Then, suddenly his
whole frame thrilled with nervous action; he slightly lowered his head,
and, in an instant, he brought his cane to his shoulder, as if it had
been a gun. The captain had seen that sort of thing before. It was an
air-gun. Without a word he made a dash at the man. He was elderly, but
in a case like this he was swift. As he ran he glanced out in the
direction in which the gun was aimed. Along the broad, sunlighted avenue
a barouche was passing. On the back seat sat two gentlemen,
well-dressed, erect. Even in a flash one would notice an air of dignity
in their demeanor.

There was not time to strike down the weapon, but before the man had
heard steps behind him the captain gave him a tremendous blow between
the shoulders which staggered him, and spoiled his aim. Then the captain
seized the air-gun. There was a whiz, and a click on the pavement. Then
the man turned.

His black eyes flashed out of a swarthy face nearly covered with beard;
his soft hat had fallen off when the captain struck him, and his black
hair stood up like bristles on a shoe-brush. He was not a large man; he
wore a loose woolen jacket; his sleeves were short, and his hands were

All this Olive saw, for she had been quick to follow her uncle; but the
captain, who firmly held the air-gun, saw nothing but the glaring face
of a devil.

The man jerked furiously at the gun, but the captain's grasp was too
strong. Then the fellow released his hold upon the gun, and, with a
savage fury, threw himself upon the older man. The two stood near the
top of the steps, and the shock of the attack was so great that both
fell, slipping down several of the stone steps.

Olive tried to scream, but in her fright her voice utterly left her. She
could not make a sound. As they lay upon the steps, the captain beneath,
the man seized his victim by the neck with both hands, pressing his
great thumbs deeply into his throat. Apparently he did not notice Olive.
All the efforts of his devilish soul were bent upon stifling the voice
and the life out of the witness of his attempted crime. Olive sprang
down, and stood over the struggling men. Her uncle's eyes stared at her,
and seemed bursting from his head. His face was growing dark. Again
Olive tried to scream; and, in a frenzy, she seized the man to pull him
from the captain. As she did so her hand fell upon something protruding
under his woolen jacket. With a quick flash of instinct her sense of
feeling recognized this thing. She jerked up the jacket, and there was
the stock of a pistol protruding from his hip pocket. In an instant
Olive drew it.

A horrid sound issued from the mouth of Captain Asher; he was choking to
death. In the same second that she heard it Olive thrust the muzzle of
the pistol against the side of the man's head and pulled the trigger.

The man's head fell forward and his hairy hands released their grip, but
they still remained at the captain's throat. The latter gave a great
gasp, and for an instant he turned his eyes full upon the face of his
niece. Then his lids closed.

Now there were footsteps, and, looking up, Olive saw a negro cabman in
faded livery and an old silk hat, who stood staring. Before she could
speak to him there came another man, a policeman, who, equally amazed,
stared at the group below him. Only these two had heard the pistol
shots. There were no other people passing on the avenue, and as it was
past office hours there was no one in the great public building.

Until they reached the top of the steps the policeman and cabman could
see nothing. Now they stood astounded as they stared down upon an
elderly man lying on his back on the steps; another man, apparently
lifeless, lying on top of him with his hands upon his throat; and a girl
standing a little below them with a smoking pistol in her hand.

Before they had time to speak or move Olive called out, "Take that man
off my uncle."

In a moment the policeman, followed by the negro, ran down the steps and
pulled the black-headed man off the captain, and the limp body slipped
down several steps.

The policeman now turned toward Olive. "Take this," she said, handing
him the pistol. "I shot him. He was trying to kill my uncle."

The two men raised the captain to a sitting position. He was now
breathing, though in gasps, with his eyes opened.

The policeman took the pistol, looked at it, then at Olive, then at the
captain, and then down at the body on the steps. He was trying to get an
idea of what had happened without asking. If the negro had not been
present he might have asked questions, but this was an unusual
situation, and he felt his responsibility, and his importance. Olive now
stepped toward him, and in obedience to her quick gesture he bent his
head, and she whispered something to him. Instantly he was quivering
with excitement. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned to the
negro. "Run," said he, "and get your cab! Don't say a word to a soul and
I will give you five dollars."

The moment the negro had departed Olive said: "Pick up that air-gun.
There, on the upper step." Then she went to her uncle and sat down by

"Are you hurt?" she said. "Can you speak?"

The captain put his arm around her shoulder, fixing a loving look upon
her, and murmured, "You are as good as a man!"

The policeman picked up the air-gun, and gazed upon it as if it had been
a telegram in cipher from a detective. Then he tried to conceal it under
his coat, but it was too long.

"Let me have it," said Olive; "I will put it behind me."

She had barely concealed it when the cab drove up.

"Now," said the policeman, "you two must go with me. Can you walk, sir?"

"Oh, yes," said the captain in a voice clear, but weak.

Olive rose, holding the air-gun behind her, and the policeman and the
cabman helped the captain to the carriage. Olive followed, and the
policeman, actuated by some strong instinct, did not look around to see
if she were doing so. He had no more idea that she would run away than
that the stone steps would move. When he saw that she had taken the
air-gun into the carriage with her, he closed the door.

"Did your fall hurt you, uncle?" said Olive, looking anxiously into his

"My throat hurts dreadfully," he said, "and I'm stiff. But I'll be
stiffer to-morrow."

The policeman picked up the hat of the black-haired man, and going down
the steps, he placed it on his head. "Now help me up with this
gentleman," he said to the cabman; "we must put him on the box-seat
between us. Take him under the arms, and we'll carry him naturally. He
must be awfully drunk!"

So they lifted him up the steps, and, after much trouble, got him on the
box-seat. Fortunately they were both big men. Then they drove away to
police headquarters. The officer was the happiest policeman in
Washington. This was the greatest piece of work he had known of during
his service; and he was doing it all himself. With the exception of the
driver, nobody else was mixed up in it in the least degree. What he was
doing was not exactly right; it was not according to custom and
regulation. He should have called for assistance, for an ambulance; but
he had not, and his guardian angel had kept all foot-passengers from the
steps of the public building. He did not know what it all meant, but he
was doing it himself, and if that black driver should slip from his seat
(of which he occupied a very small portion) and he should break his
neck, the policeman would clutch the reins, and be happier than any man
in Washington.

There were very many people who looked at the drunken man who was being
carried off by the policeman, but the cabman drove swiftly, and gave
such people very little opportunity for close observation.


_The Stock-Market is Safe._

There was a great stir at the police station, but Olive and her uncle
saw little of it. They were quickly taken to private rooms, where the
captain was attended by a police surgeon. He had been bruised and badly
treated, but his injuries were not serious.

Olive was put in charge of a matron, who wondered greatly what brought
her there. Very soon they were examined separately, and the tale of each
of them was almost identical with that of the other; only Olive was able
to tell more about the two gentlemen in the barouche, for she had been
at her uncle's side, and there was nothing to obstruct her vision.

When the examination was ended the police captain enjoined each of them
to say no word to any living soul about what they had testified to him.
This was a most important matter, and it was necessary that it be hedged
around with the greatest secrecy.

When Olive retired to her plain but comfortable cot she was tired and
weak from the reaction of her restrained emotions, but she did not
immediately go to sleep for thinking that she had killed a man. And yet
for this killing there was not in this girl's mind one atom of regret.
She was so grateful that she had been there, and had been enabled to do
it. She had seen her uncle almost at his last gasp, and she had saved
him from making that last gasp. Moreover, she had saved the life of the
man who had saved the most important life in the land. She knew the face
of the gentleman in the barouche who sat on the side nearest her; she
knew what her uncle had done, and she was proud of him; she knew what
she had done for him; and she regarded the black-haired man with the
hairy hands no more than she would have regarded a wild beast who had
suddenly sprung upon them. She thought of him, of course, with horror,
but her feelings of thankfulness for her uncle's safety were far too
strong. At last her grateful heart closed her eyes, and let her rest.

There were no letters found on the body of the black-haired man which
gave any clue to his name; but there were papers which showed that he
was from southern France; that he was an anarchist; that he was in this
country upon a mission; and that he had been for two weeks in
Washington, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil that mission. Which
opportunity had at last shown itself in front of him just as Captain
John Asher rushed up behind him.

This information was so important that extraordinary methods were
pursued. Communications were immediately made with the State Department,
and with the higher police authorities; and it was quickly determined
that, whatever else might be done, the strictest secrecy must be
enforced. The coroner's jury was carefully selected and earnestly
admonished; and, early the next morning, when the captain and Olive were
required to testify before it, they were made to understand how
absolutely necessary it was they should say nothing except to answer the
questions which were asked them. The coroner was eminently discreet in
regard to his questions; and the verdict was that Olive was acting in
her own defense as well as that of her uncle when she shot his

Among the officials whose positions enabled them to know all these
astonishing occurrences it was unanimously agreed that, so far as
possible, everybody should be kept in ignorance of the crime which had
been attempted, and of the deliverance which had taken place.

Very early the next afternoon the air was filled with the cries of
newsboys, and each paper that these boys sold contained a full and
detailed account of a remarkable attempt by an unknown foreigner upon
the life of Captain John Asher, a visitor in Washington, and the heroic
conduct of his niece, Miss Olive Asher, who shot the murderous assailant
with his own pistol. There were columns and columns of this story, but
strange to say, in not one of the papers was there any allusion to the
two gentlemen in the barouche, or to the air-gun.

How this most important feature of the occurrence came to be omitted in
all the accounts of it can only be explained by those who thoroughly
understand the exigencies of the stock-market, and the probable effect
of certain classes of news upon approaching political situations, and
who have made themselves familiar with the methods by which the
pervasive power of the press is sometimes curtailed.

In the later afternoon editions there were portraits of Olive, and her
uncle. Olive was broad-shouldered, with black hair and a determined
frown, while the captain was a little man with a long beard. There were
no portraits of the anarchist. He passed away from the knowledge of man,
and no one knew even his name: his crime had blotted him out; his
ambition was blotted out; even the evil of his example was blotted out.
There was nothing left of him.

When they were released from detention the captain and Olive quickly
left the station--which they did without observation--and entered a
carriage which was waiting for them a short distance away. The fact that
another carriage with close-drawn curtains had stopped at the station
about ten minutes before, and that a thickly veiled lady (the matron)
and an elderly man with his collar turned up and his hat drawn down (one
of the police officers in plain clothes) had entered the carriage and
had been driven rapidly away had drawn off the reporters and the
curiosity mongers on the sidewalk and had contributed very much to the
undisturbed exit of Captain and Miss Asher.

These two proceeded leisurely to the railroad-station, where they took a
train which would carry them to the little town of Glenford. Their
affairs at the hotel could be arranged by telegram. There were calls at
that hotel during the rest of the day from people who knew Olive or her
uncle; calls from people who wanted to know them; calls from people who
would be contented even to look at them; calls from autograph hunters
who would be content simply to send up their cards; quiet calls from
people connected with the Government; and calls from eager persons who
could not have told anybody what they wanted. To none of these could the
head clerk give any satisfaction. He had not seen his guests since the
day before, and he knew naught about them.

When Miss Maria Port heard that that horrid girl, Olive Asher, had shot
an anarchist, she stiffened herself to her greatest length, and let her
head fall on the back of her chair. She was scarcely able to call to the
small girl who endured her service to bring her some water. "Now all is
over," she groaned, "for I can never marry a man whose niece's hands are
dripping with blood. She will live with him, of course, for he is just
the old fool to allow that, and anyway there is no other place for her
to go except the almshouse--that is, if they'll take her in." And at the
terrified girl, who tremblingly asked if she wanted any more water, she
threw her scissors.

The captain and his niece arrived early in the day at Glenford station.
The captain engaged a little one-horse vehicle which had frequently
brought people to the toll-gate, and informed the driver that there was
no baggage. The man, gazing at Olive, but scarcely daring to raise his
eyes to her face, proceeded with solemn tread toward his vehicle as if
he had been leading the line in a funeral.

As they drove through the town they were obliged to pass the house of
Miss Maria Port. The door was shut, and the shutters were closed. She
had had a terrible night, and had slept but little, but hearing the
sound of wheels upon the street, she had bounced out of bed and had
peered through the blinds. When she saw who it was she cursed them both.

"That was the only thing," she snapped, "that could have kept me from
gettin' him! So far as I know, that was the only thing!"

When old Jane received the travelers at the toll-gate she warmly
welcomed the captain, but she trembled before Olive. If the girl noticed
the demeanor of the old woman, she pretended not to do so, and, speaking
to her pleasantly, she passed within.

"Will they hang her?" she said to the captain later.

"What do you mean?" he shouted. "Have you gone crazy?"

"The people in the town said they would," replied old Jane, beginning to
cry a little.

The captain looked at her steadily. "Did any particular person in the
town say that?"

"Yes, sir," she answered; "Miss Maria Port was the first to say it, so
I've been told."

"She is the one who ought to be hanged!" said the captain, speaking very
warmly. "As for Miss Olive, she ought to have a monument set up for her.
I'd do it myself if I had the money."

Old Jane answered not, but in her heart she said: "But she killed a man!
It is truly dreadful!"

By nightfall of that day the two hotels of Glenford were crowded, the
visitors being generally connected with newspapers. On the next day
there was a great deal of travel on the turnpike, and old Jane was kept
very busy, the captain having resigned the entire business of
toll-taking to her. Everybody stopped, asked questions, and requested to
see the captain; and many drove through and came back again, hoping to
have better luck next time. But their luck was always bad; old Jane
would say nothing; and the captain and Olive were not to be seen. The
gate to the little front garden was locked, and there was no passing
through the tollhouse. To keep people from getting over the fence a
bulldog, which the captain kept at the barn, was turned loose in the

There were men with cameras who got into the field opposite the
toll-gate, and who took views from up and down the road, but their work
could not be prevented, and Olive and her uncle kept strictly indoors.

It was on the afternoon of the second day of siege that the captain,
from an upper window, discovered a camera on three legs standing outside
of his grounds at a short distance from the house. A man was taking
sight at something at the back of the house. Softly the captain slipped
down into the back yard, and looking up he saw Olive sitting at a
window, reading.

With five steps the captain went into the house and then reappeared at
the back door with a musket in his hand. The man had stepped to his pack
at a little distance to get a plate. The captain raised his musket to
his shoulder; Olive sprang to her feet at the sound of the report; old
Jane in the tollhouse screamed; and the camera flew into splinters.

After this there were no further attempts to take pictures of the
inmates of the house at the toll-gate.

After two days of siege the newspaper reporters and the photographers
left Glenford. They could not afford to waste any more time. But they
carried away with them a great many stories about the captain and his
erratic niece, mostly gleaned from a very respectable elderly lady of
the town by the name of Port.


_Dick Lancaster does not Write._

On the third morning after their arrival at the toll-gate the captain
and Olive ventured upon a little walk over the farm. It was very hard
upon both of them to be shut up in the house so long. They saw no
reporters, nor were there any men with cameras, but the scenery was not
pleasant, nor was the air particularly exhilarating. They were not
happy; they felt alone, as if they were in a strange place. Some of the
captain's friends in the town came to the toll-gate, but there were not
many, and Olive saw none of them. The whole situation reminded the girl
of the death of her mother.

As soon as it was known that the Ashers were at home there came letters
from many quarters. One of these was from Mrs. Easterfield. She would be
at Broadstone as soon as she could get her children started from the
seashore. She longed to take Olive to her heart, but whether this was in
commiseration or commendation was not quite plain to Olive. The letter
concluded with this sentence: "There is something behind all this, and
when I come you must tell me."

Then there was one from her father in which he bemoaned what had
happened. "That such a thing should have come to my daughter!" he
wrote. "To my daughter!" There was a great deal more of it, but he said
nothing about coming with his young wife to the toll-gate, and Olive's
countenance was almost stern when she handed this letter to her uncle.

Claude Locker wrote:

     "How I long, how I rage to write to you, or to go to you! But if I
     should write, it would be sure to give you pain, and if I should go
     to you I should also go crazy. Therefore, I will merely state that
     I love you madly; more now than ever before; and that I shall
     continue to do so for the rest of my life, no matter what happens
     to you, or to me, or to anybody.

    "Ever turned toward you,


    "How I wish I had been there with a sledgehammer!"

And then there were the newspapers. Many of these the captain had
ordered by the Glenford bookseller, and a number were sent by friends,
and some even by strangers. And so they learned what was thought of them
over a wide range of country, and this publicity Olive found very hard
to bear. It was even worse than the deed she was forced to do, and which
gave rise to all this disagreeable publicity. That deed was done in the
twinkling of an eye, and was the only thing that could be done; but all
this was prolonged torture. Of course, the newspapers were not
responsible for this. The transaction was a public one in as public a
place as could possibly be selected, and it was clearly their duty to
give the public full information in regard to it. They knew what had
happened, and how could they possibly know what had not happened? Nor
could they guess that this was of more importance than the happening.
And so they all viewed the action from the point of view that a young
woman had blown out a man's brains on the steps of the Treasury. It was
a most unusual, exciting, and tragic incident, and in a measure,
incomprehensible; and coming at a time when there was a dearth of news,
it was naturally much exploited. Many of the papers recognized the fact
that Miss Asher had done this deed to save her uncle's life, and
applauded it, and praised her quick-wittedness and courage; but all this
was spoiled for Olive by the tone of commiseration for her in which it
was all stated. She did not see why she should be pitied. Rather should
she be congratulated that she was, fortunately, on the spot. Other
journals did not so readily give in to the opinion that it was an act of
self-defense. It might be so; but they expressed strong disapproval of
the legal action in this strange affair. A young woman, accompanied by a
relative, had killed an unknown man. The action of the authorities in
this case had been rapid and unsatisfactory. The person who had fired
the fatal shot and her companion had been cleared of guilt upon their
own testimony, and the cause of the man who died had no one to defend
it. If two persons can kill a man, and then state to the coroner's jury
that it was all right, and thereupon repair to their homes without
further interference by the law, then had the cause of justice in the
capital of the nation reached a very strange pass.

Such were the views of the reputable journals. But there were some
which fell into the captain's hands that were well calculated to arouse
his ire. Such a sensational occurrence did not often come in their way,
and they made the most of it. They scented the idea that the girl had
killed an unknown man to save her uncle's life; blamed the authorities
severely for not finding out who he was; suggested there must be a
secret reason for this; and hinted darkly at a scandal connected with
the affair, which, if investigated, would be found to include some
well-known names.

"This is outrageous!" cried the captain. "It is too abominable to be
borne! Olive, why should we not tell the exact facts of this thing? We
did agree--very willingly at the time--to keep the secret. But I am not
willing now, and you are being sacrificed to the stock-market. That is
the whole truth of it! If these editors knew the truth they would be
chanting your praises. If that scoundrel had killed me, he would have
killed you, and then he could have run away to go on with his President
shooting. I am going to Washington this very day to tell the whole
story. You shall not suffer that stocks may not fall and the political
situation made alarming at election time. That is what it all means, and
I won't stand it!"

"You will only make things worse, uncle," said Olive. "Then the whole
matter will be stirred up afresh. We will be summoned to investigations,
and all sorts of disagreeable things. Every item of our lives will be in
the papers, and some will be invented. It is very bad now, but in a
little while the public will forget that a countryman and a country girl
had a fracas in Washington. But the other thing will never be
forgotten. It is very much better to leave it as it is."

The captain, notwithstanding the presence of a lady, cursed the
officials, the newspapers, the Government, and the whole country. "I am
going to do it!" he cried vehemently. "I don't care what happens!"

But Olive put her arms around him and coaxed him for her sake to let the
matter rest. And, finally, the captain, grumblingly, assented.

If Olive had been a girl brought up in a gentle-minded household,
knowing nothing of the varied life she had lived when a navy girl;
sometimes at this school and sometimes at that; sometimes in her native
land, and sometimes in the midst of frontier life; sometimes with
parents, and sometimes without them; and, had she been less aware from
her own experiences and those of others, that this is a world in which
you must stand up very stiffly if you do not want to be pushed down; she
might have sunk, at least for a time, under all this publicity and
blame. Even the praise had its sting.

But she did not sink. The liveliness and the fun went out of her, and
her face grew hard and her manner quiet. But she was not quiet within.
She rebelled against the unfairness with which she was treated. No
matter what the newspapers knew or did not know, they should have known,
and should have remembered, that she had saved her uncle's life. If they
had known more they would have been just and kind enough no doubt, but
they ought to have been just and kind without knowing more.

Captain Asher would now read no more papers. But Olive read them all.

Letters still came; one of them from Mr. Easterfield. But every time a
mail arrived there was a disappointment in the toll-gate household. The
captain could scarcely refrain from speaking of his disappointment, for
it was a true grief to him that Dick Lancaster had not written a word.
Of course, Olive did not say anything upon the subject, for she had no
right to expect such a letter, and she was not sure that she wanted one,
but it was very strange that a person who surely was, or had been,
somewhat interested in her uncle and herself should have been the only
one among her recent associates who showed no interest whatever in what
had befallen her. Even Mr. and Mrs. Fox had written. She wished they had
not written, but, after all, stupidity is sometimes better than total

"Olive," said the captain one pleasant afternoon, "suppose we take a
drive to Broadstone? The family is not there, but it may interest you to
see the place where I hope your friends will soon be living again. I can
not bear to see you going about so dolefully. I want to brighten you up
in some way."

"I'd like it," said Olive promptly. "Let us go to Broadstone."

At that moment they heard talking in the tollhouse; then there were some
quick steps in the garden; and, almost immediately, Dick Lancaster was
in the house and in the room where the captain and his niece were
sitting. He stepped quickly toward them as they rose, and gave Olive
his left hand because the captain had seized his right and would not let
it go.

"I have been very slow getting here," he said, looking from one to the
other. "But I would not write, and I have been unconscionably delayed. I
am so proud of you," he said, looking Olive full in the face, but still
holding the captain by the hand.

Olive's hand had been withdrawn, but it was very cheering to her to know
that some one was proud of her.

The captain poured out his delight at seeing the young professor--the
first near friend he had seen since his adventure, and, in his opinion,
the best. Olive said but little, but her countenance brightened
wonderfully. She had always liked Mr. Lancaster, and now he showed his
good sense and good feeling; for, while it was evidently on his mind, he
made no allusion to anything they had done, or that had happened to
them. He talked chiefly of himself.

But the captain was not to be repressed, and his tone warmed up a little
as he asked if Dick had been reading the newspapers.

At this Olive left the room to make some arrangements for Mr.
Lancaster's accommodation.

Seizing this opportunity, Dick Lancaster stopped the captain, who he saw
was preparing to go lengthily into the recent affair. "Yes, yes," he
said, speaking quickly, "and my blood has run hot as I read those
beastly papers. But let me say something to you while I can. I am deeply
interested in something else just now. I came here, captain, to propose
marriage to your niece. Have I your consent?"

"Consent!" cried the captain. "Why, it is the clearest wish of my heart
that you should marry Olive!" And seizing the young man by both arms, he
shook him from head to foot. "Consent!" he exclaimed. "I should think
so, I should think so! Will she take you, Dick? Is that--"

"I don't know," said Lancaster, "I don't know. I am here to find out.
But I hear her coming."

The happy captain thought it full time to go away somewhere. He felt
that he could not control his glowing countenance, and that he might say
or do something which might be wrong. So he departed with great
alacrity, and left the two young people to themselves.


_Miss Port puts in an Appearance._

The captain clapped on his hat, and walked up the road toward Glenford.
He was very much excited and he wanted to sing, but his singing days
were over, and he quieted himself somewhat by walking rapidly. There was
a buggy coming from town, but it stopped before it reached him and some
one in it got out, while the vehicle proceeded slowly onward. The some
one waited until the captain came up to her. It was Miss Maria Port.

"How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand. "I was on my way to see

The captain put both his hands in his pockets, and his face grew
somewhat dark. "Why do you want to see me?" he asked.

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then answered, speaking
very quietly. "I found that Mr. Lancaster had arrived in town, and had
gone to your house, and that he was in such a hurry that he walked. So I
immediately hired a buggy to come out here. I am very glad I met you."

"But what in the name of common sense," exclaimed the captain, "did you
come to see me for? What difference does it make to you whether Mr.
Lancaster is here or not? What have you got to do with me and my
affairs, anyway?"

She smiled a smile which was very quiet and flat. "Now, don't get
angry," she said. "We can talk over things in a friendly way just as
well as not, and it will be a great deal better to do it. And I'd rather
talk here in the public road than anywhere else; it's more private."

"I don't want a word to say to you," said the captain, preparing to move
on. "I have nothing at all to do with you."

"Ah," said Miss Port, with another smile, "but I think you have. You've
got to marry me, you know."

Then the captain stopped suddenly. He opened his mouth, but he could
find no immediate words.

"Yes, indeed," said Miss Port, now speaking quietly; "and when I saw Mr.
Lancaster had come to town, I knew that I must see you at once. Of
course, he has come to take away your niece, and that's the best thing
to be done, for she wouldn't want to keep on livin' here where so many
people have known her. At first I thought that would be a very good
thing, for you would be separated from her, and that's what you need and
deserve. Young men are young men, and they are often a good deal kinder
than they would be if they stopped to think. But a person of mature age
is different. He would know what is due to himself and his standing in
society. At least, that is what I did think. But it suddenly flashed on
me that they might want to get away as quick as they could--which would
be proper, dear knows--and it would be just like you to go with them.
And so I came right out."

The captain had listened to all this because he very much wanted to know
what she had to say, but now he exclaimed: "Do you suppose I shall pay
any attention to all the gossip about my affairs?"

"Now, don't go on like that," said Miss Port; "it doesn't do any good,
and if you'll only keep quiet, and think pleasantly about it, there will
be no trouble at all. You know you've got to marry me; that's settled.
Everybody knows about it, and has known about it for years. I didn't
press the matter while father was alive because I knew it would worry
him. But now I'm going to do it. Not in any anger or bad feelin', but
gently, and as firmly as if I was that tree. I don't want to go to any
law, but if I have to do it, I'll do it. I've got my proofs and my
witnesses, and I'm all right. The people of your own house are
witnesses. And there are ever so many more."

"Woman!" cried the captain, "don't you say another word! And don't you
ever dare to speak to me again! I'm not going away, and my niece is not
going away; and I assure you that I hate and despise you so much that
all the law in the world couldn't make me marry you. Although you know
as well as I do that all you've been saying has no sense or truth in

Miss Port did not get angry. With wonderful self-repression she
controlled her feelings. She knew that if she lost that control there
would be an end to everything. She grew pale, but she spoke more gently
than before. "You know"--she was about to say "John," but she thought
she would better not--"that what I say about determination and all
that, I simply say because you do not come to meet me half-way, as I
would have you do. All I want is to get you to acknowledge my rights, to
defend me from ridicule. You know that I am now alone in the world, and
have no one to look to but you--to whom I always expected to look when
father died--and if you should carry out your cruel words, and should
turn from me as if I was a stranger and a nobody, after all these years
of visitin' and attention from you, which everybody knows about, and has
talked about, I could never expect anybody else--you bein' gone--to step

At this the face of the captain cleared, and as he gazed upon the
unpleasant face and figure of this weather-worn spinster, the idea that
any one with matrimonial intentions should "step forward," as she put
it, struck him as being so extremely ludicrous that he burst out

Then leaped into fire every nervelet of Miss Maria Port. "Laugh at me,
do you?" cried she. "I'll give you something to laugh at! And if you 're
going to stand up for that thing you have in your house, that

She said no more. The captain stepped up to her with a smothered curse
so that she moved back, frightened. But he did nothing. He was too
enraged to speak. She was a woman, and he could not strike her to the
ground. Before her sallow venom he was helpless. He was a man and she
was a woman, and he could do nothing at all. He was too angry to stay
there another second, and, without a word, he left her, walking with
great strides toward the town.

Miss Maria Port stood looking after him, panting a little, for her
excitement had been great. Then, with a yellow light in her eyes, she
hurried toward her vehicle, which had stopped.

As Captain Asher strode into town he asked himself over and over again
what should he do? How should he punish this wildcat--this ruthless
creature, who spat venom at the one he loved best in the world, and who
threatened him with her wicked claws? In his mind he looked from side to
side for help; some one must fight his battle for him; he could not
fight a woman. He had not reached town when he thought of Mrs. Faulkner,
the wife of the Methodist minister. He knew her; she and her husband had
been among the friends who had come out to see him; and she was a woman.
He would go directly to her, and ask her advice.

The captain was not shown into the parlor of the parsonage, but into the
minister's study, that gentleman being away. He heard a great sound of
talking as he passed the parlor door, and it was not long before Mrs.
Faulkner came in. He hesitated as she greeted him.

"You have company," he said, "but can I see you for a very few minutes?
It is important."

"Of course you can," said she, closing the study door. "Our Dorcas
Society meets here to-day, but we have not yet come to order. I shall be
glad to hear what you have to say."

So they sat down, and he told her what he had to say, and as she
listened she grew very angry. When she heard the epithet which had been
applied to Olive she sprang to her feet. "The wretch!" she cried.

"Now, you see, Mrs. Faulkner," said the captain, "I can do nothing at
all myself, and there is no way to make use of the law; that would be
horrible for Olive, and it could not be done; and so I have come to ask
help of you. I don't see that any other man could do more than I could

Mrs. Faulkner sat silent for a few minutes. "I am so glad you came to
me," she said presently. "I have always known Miss Port as a
scandal-monger and a mischief-maker, but I never thought of her as a
wicked woman. This persecution of you is shameful, but when I think of
your niece it is past belief! You are right, Captain Asher; it must be a
woman who must take up your cause. In fact," said she after a moment's
thought, "it must be women. Yes, sir." And as she spoke her face flushed
with enthusiasm. "I am going to take up your cause, and my friends in
there, the ladies of the Dorcas Society, will stand by me, I know. I
don't know what we shall do, but we are going to stand by you and your

Here was a friend worth having. The captain was very much affected, and
was moved with unusual gratitude. He had been used to fighting his own
battles in this world, and here was some one coming forward to fight for

There came upon him a feeling that it would be a shame to let this true
lady take up a combat which she did not wholly understand. He made up
his mind in an instant that he would not care what danger might be
threatened to other people, or to trade, or to society, he would be
true to this lady, to Olive, and to himself. He would tell her the whole
story. She should know what Olive had done, and how little his poor girl
deserved the shameful treatment she had received.

Mrs. Faulkner listened with pale amazement; she trembled from head to
foot as she sat.

"And you must tell no one but your husband," said the captain. "This is
a state secret, and he must promise to keep it before you tell."

She promised everything. She would be so proud to tell her husband.

When the captain had gone, Mrs. Faulkner, in a very unusual state of
mind, went into the parlor, took the chair, and putting aside all other
business, told to the eagerly receptive members the story of Miss Port
and Captain Asher. How she had persecuted him, and maligned him, and of
the shameful way in which she had spoken of his niece. But not one word
did she tell of the story of the two gentlemen in the barouche, and of
the air-gun. She was wild to tell everything, but she was a good woman.

"Now, ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "in my opinion, the thing for us to
do is to go to see Maria Port; tell her what we think of her; and have
all this wickedness stopped."

Without debate it was unanimously agreed that the president's plan
should be carried out. And within ten minutes the whole Dorcas Society
of eleven members started out in double file to visit the house of Maria


_The Dorcas on Guard._

Miss Port had not been home very long and was up in her bedroom, which
looked out on the street, when she heard the sound of many feet, and,
hurrying to the window, and glancing through the partly open shutters,
she saw that a company of women were entering the gate into her front
yard. She did not recognize them, because she was not familiar with the
tops of their hats; and besides, she was afraid she might be seen if she
stopped at the window; so she hurried to the stairway and listened.
There were two great knocks at the door--entirely too loud--and when the
servant-maid appeared she heard a voice which she recognized as that of
Mrs. Faulkner inquiring for her. Instantly she withdrew into her chamber
and waited, her countenance all alertness.

When the maid came up to inform her that Mrs. Faulkner and a lot of
ladies were down-stairs, and wanted to see her, Miss Port knit her
brows, and shut her lips tightly. She could not connect this visit of so
many Glenford ladies with anything definite; and yet her conscience told
her that their business in some way concerned Captain Asher. He had had
time to see them, and now they had come to see her; probably to induce
her to relinquish her claims upon him. As this thought came into her
mind she grew angry at their impudence, and, seating herself in a
rocking-chair, she told the servant to inform the ladies that she had
just reached home, and that it was not convenient for her to receive
them at present.

Mrs. Faulkner sent hack a message that, in that case, they would wait;
and all the ladies seated themselves in the Port parlor.

"The impudence!" said Miss Port to herself; "but if they like waitin,'
they can wait, I guess they'll get enough of it!"

So Maria Port sat in her room and the ladies sat in the parlor below;
and they sat, and they sat, and they sat, and at last it began to grow

"I guess they'll be wantin' their suppers," said Maria, "but they'll go
and get them without seein' me. It's no more convenient for me to go
down now than when they first came."

There had been, and there was, a great deal of conversation down in the
parlor, but it was carried on in such a low tone that, to her great
regret, Miss Port could not catch a word of it.

"Now," said Mrs. Pilsbury, "I must go home, for my husband will want his
supper and the children must be attended to."

"And so must I," said Mrs. Barney and Mrs. Sloan. They would really like
very much to stay and see what would happen next, but they had families.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "of course, we can't all stay here and
wait for that woman; but I propose that three of us shall stay and that
the rest shall go home. I'll be one to stay. And then, in an hour three
of you come back, and let us go and get our suppers. In this way we can
keep a committee here all the time. All night, if necessary. When I come
back I will bring a candlestick and some candles, for, of course, we
don't want to light her lamps. If she should come down while I am away,
I'd like some one to run over and tell me. It's such a little way."

At this the ladies arose, and there was a great rustling and chattering,
and the face of Miss Maria, in the room above, gleamed with triumph.

"I knew I'd sit 'em out," said she; "they haven't got the pluck I've
got." But when the servant came up and told her that "three of them
ladies was a-sittin' in the parlor yet and said they was a-goin' to wait
for her," she lost her temper. She sent down word that she didn't intend
to see any of them, and she wanted them to go home.

To this Mrs. Faulkner replied that they wished to see her, and that they
would stay. And the committee continued to sit.

Now Miss Port began to be seriously concerned. What in the world could
these women want? They were very much in earnest; that was certain.
Could it be possible that she had said more than she intended to Captain
Asher, and that she had given him to understand that she would use any
of these women as witnesses if she went to law? However, whatever they
meant, she intended to sit them out. So she told her maid to make her
some tea and to bring it up with some bread and butter and preserves,
and a light. She also ordered her to be careful that the people in the
parlor should see her as she went up-stairs. "I guess they'll know I'm
in earnest when they see the tea," she said. "I've set out a mess of
'em, and it won't take long to finish up them three!"

She partook of her refreshments, and she reclined in her rocking-chair,
and waited for the hungry ones below to depart. "I'll give 'em half an
hour," said she to herself.

Before that time had elapsed she heard another stir below, and she
exclaimed: "I knew it" and there were steps in the hallway, and some
people went out. She sprang to her feet; she was about to run
down-stairs and lock and bolt every door; but a sound arrested her. It
was the talking of women in the parlor. She stopped, with her mouth wide
open, and her eyes staring, and then the servant came up and told her
that "them three had gone, and that another three had come back, and
they had told her to say that they were goin' to stay in squads all
night till she came down to see them."

Miss Port sat down, her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands.
"It must be something serious," she thought. "The ladies of this town
are not in the habit of staying out late unless it is to nurse bad
cases, or to sit up with corpses." And then the idea struck her that
probably there might be something the matter that she had not thought
of. She had caused lots of mischief in her day, and it might easily be
that she had forgotten some of it. But the more she thought about the
matter, the more firmly she resolved not to go down and speak to the
women. She would like to send for a constable and have them cleared out
of the house, but she knew that none of the three constables in town
would dare to use force with such ladies as Mrs. Faulkner and the
members of the Dorcas Society.

So she sat and waited, and listened, and grew very nervous, but was more
obstinate now than ever, for she was beginning to be very fearful of
what those women might have to say to her. She could "talk down one
woman, but not a pack of 'em." Thus time passed on, with occasional
reports from the servant until the latter fell asleep, and came
up-stairs no more. There were sounds of footsteps in the street, and
Miss Port put out her light, and went to the front shutters. Three women
were coming in. They entered the house, and in a few minutes afterward
three women went out. Miss Port stood up in the middle of the floor, and
was almost inclined to tear her hair.

"They're goin' to stay all night!" she exclaimed. "I really believe they
're goin' to stay all night!" For a moment she thought of rushing
down-stairs and confronting the impertinent visitors, but she stopped;
she was afraid. She did not know what they might say to her, and she
went to the banisters and listened. They were talking; always in a low
voice. It seemed to her that these people could talk forever. Then she
began to think of her front door, which was open; but, of course, nobody
could come while those creatures were in the parlor. But if she missed
anything she'd have them brought up in court if it took every cent she
had in the world and constables from some other town. She slipped to the
back stairs, and softly called the servant, but there was no answer. She
was afraid to go down, for the back door of the parlor commanded all
the other rooms on that floor. Now she felt more terribly lonely and
more nervous. If she had had a pistol she would have fired it through
the floor. Then those women would run away, and she would fasten up the
house. But there they sat, chatter, chatter, chatter, till it nearly
drove her mad. She wished now she had gone down at first.

After a time, and not a very long time, there were some steps in the
street and in the yard, and more women came into the house, but, worse
than that, the others stayed. Family duties were over now, and those
impudent creatures could be content to stay the rest of the evening.

For a moment the worried woman felt as if she would like to go to bed
and cover up her head and so escape these persistent persecutors. But
she shook her head. That would never do. She knew that when she awoke in
the morning some of those women would still be in the parlor, and, to
save her soul, she could not now imagine what it was that kept them
there like hounds upon her track.

It was now eleven o'clock. When had the Port house been open so late as
that? The people in the town must be talking about it, and there would
be more talking the next day. Perhaps it might be in the town paper. The
morning would be worse than the night. She could not bear it any longer.
There was now nothing to be heard in front but that maddening chatter in
the parlor, and up the back stairs came the snores of the servant. She
got a traveling-bag from a closet and proceeded to pack it; then she put
on her bonnet and shawl and put into her bag all the money she had with
her, trembling all the time as if she had been a thief: robbing her own
house. She could not go down the back stairs, because, as has been said,
she could have been seen from the parlor; but a carpenter had been
mending the railing of a little piazza at the back of the house, and she
remembered he had left his ladder. Down this ladder, with her bag in her
hand, Miss Port silently moved. She looked into the kitchen; she could
not see the servant, but she could hear her snoring on a bench. Clapping
her hand over the girl's mouth, she whispered into her ear, and without
a word the frightened creature sat up and followed Miss Port into the

"Now, then," said Miss Port, whispering as if she were sticking needles
into the frightened girl, "I'm goin' away, and don't you ask no
questions, for you won't get no answers. You just go to bed, and let
them people stay in the parlor all night. They'll be able to take care
of the house, I guess, and if they don't I'll make 'em suffer. In the
morning you can see Mrs. Faulkner--for she's the ringleader--and tell
her that you're goin' home to your mother, and that Miss Port expects
her to pull down all the blinds in this house, and shut and bolt the
doors. She is to see that the eatables is put away proper or else give
to the poor--which will be you, I guess--and then she is to lock all the
doors and take the front-door key to Squire Allen, and tell him I'll
write to him. And what's more, you can say to the nasty thing that if I
find anything wrong in my house, or anything missin', I 'll hold her and
her husband responsible for it, and that I'm mighty glad I don't belong
to their church."

Then she slipped out of the back gate of the yard, and made her way
swiftly to the railroad-station. There was a train for the north which
passed Glenford at half-past twelve, and which could be flagged. There
was one man at the station, and he was very much surprised to see Miss

"Is anything the matter?" he said.

"Yes," she snapped, "there's some people sick, and I guess there'll be
more of 'em a good deal sicker in the morning. I've got to go."

"A case of pizenin'?" asked the man very earnestly.

"Yes," said she, wrapping her shawl around her; "the worse kind of
pizenin'!" Then she talked no more.

The servant-girl slept late, and there were a good many ladies in the
parlor when she came down. She did not give them a chance to ask her
anything, but told her message promptly. It was a message pretty fairly
remembered, although it had grown somewhat sharper in the night. When it
was finished the girl added: "And I'm to have all the eatables in the
house to take home to my mother, and Squire Allen is to pay me four
dollars and seventy-five cents, which has been owin' to me for wages for
ever so long."


_Cold Tinder._

Olive and Dick Lancaster sat together in the captain's parlor. She was
very quiet--she had been very quiet of late--but he was nervous.

"It is very kind, Mr. Lancaster," said Olive, breaking the silence, "for
you to come to see us instead of writing. It is so much pleasanter for

"Oh, it was not kind," he said, interrupting her. "In fact, it was
selfishness. And now I want to tell you quickly, Miss Asher, while I
have the chance, the reason of my coming here to-day. It was not to
offer you my congratulations or my sympathy, although you must know that
I feel for you and your uncle as much in every way as any living being
can feel. I came to offer my love. I have loved you almost ever since I
knew you as much as any man can love a woman, and whenever I have been
with you I could hardly hold myself back from telling you. But I was
strong, and I did not speak, for I knew you did not love me."

Olive was listening, looking steadily at him.

"No," she said, "I did not love you."

He paid no attention to this remark, as if it related to something which
he knew all about, but went on, "I resolved to speak to you some time,
but not until I had some little bit of a reason for supposing you would
listen to me; but when I read the account of what you did in Washington,
I knew you to be so far above even the girl I had supposed you to be;
then my love came down upon me and carried me away. And all that has
since appeared in the papers has made me so long to stand by your side
that I could not resist this longing, and I felt that no matter what
happened, I must come and tell you all."

"And now?" asked Olive.

"There is nothing more," said Dick. "I have told you all there is. I
love you so truly that it seems to me as if I had been born, as if I had
lived, as if I had grown and had worked, simply that I might be able to
come to you and say, I love you. And now that I have told you this, I
hope that I have not pained you."

"You have not pained me," said Olive, "but it is right that I should say
to you that I do not love you." She said this very quietly and gently,
but there was sadness in her tones.

Dick Lancaster sprang up, and stood before her. "Then let me love you"
he cried. "Do not deny me that! Do not take the life out of me! the soul
out of me! Do not turn me away into utter blackness! Do not say I shall
not love you!"

Olive's clear, thoughtful eyes were looking into his. "I believe you
love me," she answered slowly. "I believe every word you say. But what I
say is also true. I will admit that I have asked myself if I could love
you. There was a time when I was in great trouble, when I believed that
it might be possible for me to marry some one without loving him, but I
never thought that about _you_. You were different. I could not have
married you without loving you. I believe you knew that, and so you did
not ask me."

His voice was husky when he spoke again.

"But you do not answer me," he said. "You have seen into my very soul.
May I love you?"

She still looked into his glowing eyes, but she did not speak. It was
with herself she was communing, not with him.

But there was something in the eyes which looked into his which made his
heart leap, and he leaned forward.

"Olive," he whispered, "can you not love me?"

Her lips appeared as if they were about to move, but they did not, and
in the next moment they could not. He had her in his arms.

Poor foolish, lovely Olive! She thought she was so strong. She imagined
that she knew herself so well. She had seen so much; she had been so
far; she had known so many things and people that she had come to look
upon herself as the decider of her own destiny. She had come to believe
so much in herself and in her cold heart that she was not afraid to
listen to the words of a burning heart! _Her_ heart could keep so cool!

And now, in a flash, the fire had spread! The coolest hearts are often
made of tinder.

Poor foolish, lovely, happy Olive! She scarcely understood what had
happened to her. She only knew that she had been born and had lived, and
had grown, that he might come to her and say he loved her. What had she
been thinking of all this time?

"You are so quick," she said, as she put back some of her disheveled

"Dearest," he whispered, "it seems to me as if I had been so slow, so
slow, so very slow!"

It was a long time before Captain Asher returned, and when he entered
the parlor he found these two still there. They had been sitting by the
window, and when they came forward to meet him Dick's arm was around the
waist of Olive. The captain looked at them for a moment, and then he
gave a shout, and encircled them both in his great arms.

When they were cool enough to sit down and Olive and Dick had ceased
trying to persuade the captain that he was not the happiest of the
three, Olive said to him: "I have told Dick everything--about the
air-gun and all. Of course, he must know it."

"And I have been looking at you," said Dick, putting his hand upon the
captain's shoulder, "as the only hero I have ever met. Not only for what
you have done, but for what you have refrained from doing."

"Nonsense!" said the captain. "Olive now--"

"Oh! Olive is Olive!" said Dick. And he did not mind in the least that
the captain was present.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on the next afternoon that the Broadstone carriage stopped at the
toll-gate. Mrs. Easterfield sprang out of it, asking for nobody, for she
had spied Olive in the arbor.

"It seems to me," she said, as she burst into tears and took the girl
into her arms, "it does seem to me as if I were your own mother!"

"The only one I have," said Olive, "and very dear!"

It was some time after this that Mrs. Easterfield was calm enough to
stop the flow of exciting conversation and to say to Olive, taking both
her hands tenderly within her own: "My dear, we have been talking a
great deal of sentiment, and now I want seriously to speak to you on a
matter of business."

"Business!" asked Olive in surprise.

"Yes, it is really business from your point of view; and I have come
round to that point of view myself. Olive, I want you to marry!"

"Oh," said Olive, "that is it, is it? That is what you call business?"

"Yes, dear; I am now looking at your future, and at marriage in the very
sensible way you regarded those matters when you were staying with me."

"But," said Olive, who could scarcely help laughing, "there was a good
reason then for my being so sensible, and that reason no longer exists.
I can now afford single-blessedness."

"No, Olive, dear, you can not. Circumstances are all against that
consummation. You are not made for that sort of thing. And your uncle is
an old man, and even with him you need a young protector. I want you to
marry Richard Lancaster. You know my heart has been set on it for some
time, and now I urge it. You could never bring forth a single objection
to him."

"Except that I did not love him."

"Neither did you love the young men you were considering as eligible.
Now, do try to be a sensible girl."

"Mrs. Easterfield, are you laughing at me?" asked Olive.

"Far from it, my dear. I am desperately in earnest. You see, recent

"Dick Lancaster and I are engaged to be married," said Olive demurely,
not waiting for the end of that sentence. "And," she added, laughing at
Mrs. Easterfield's astonished countenance, "I have not yet considered
whether or not it is sensible."

After Mrs. Easterfield had given a half dozen kisses to partly express
her pleasure, she said: "And where is he now? I must see him!"

"He went back to his college late last night; it was impossible for him
to stay here any longer at present."

As Mrs. Easterfield was going away--she had waited and waited for the
captain who had not come--Olive detained her.

"You are so dear," she said, "that I must tell you a great thing." And
then she told the story of the two men in the barouche.

Mrs. Easterfield turned pale, and sat down again. She had actually lost
her self-possession. She made Olive tell her the story over and over
again. "It is too much," she said, "for one day. I am glad the captain
is not here, I would not know what to say to him. I may tell Tom?" she
said. "I must tell him; he will be silent as a rock."

Olive smiled. "Yes, you may tell Tom," she said.

"I have told Dick, but on no account must Harry ever know anything
about it."

Mrs. Easterfield looked at her in amazement. That the girl could joke at
such a moment!

When the captain came home Olive told him how she had entrusted the
great secret to Mrs. Easterfield and her husband.

"Well," said he, "I intended to tell you, but haven't had a chance yet,
that I spoke of the matter to Mrs. Faulkner. So I have told two persons
and you have told three, and I suppose that is about the proportion in
which men and women keep secrets."


_In which Some Great Changes are Recorded._

A few days after his return to his college Prof. Richard Lancaster found
among his letters one signed "Your backer, Claude Locker."

The letter began:

     "You owe her to me. You should never forget that. If I had done
     better no one can say what might have been the result. This
     proposition can not be gainsaid, for as no one ever saw me do
     better, how should anybody know? I knew I was leaving her to you.
     She might not have known it, but I did. I did not suppose it would
     come so soon, but I was sure it would ultimately come to pass. It
     has come to pass, and I feel triumphant. In the great race in which
     I had the honor to run, you made a most admirable second. The best
     second is he who comes in first. In order for a second to take
     first place it is necessary that the leader in the race, be that
     leader horse, man, or boat, should experience a change in
     conditions. I experienced such a change, voluntary or involuntary
     it is unnecessary to say. You came in first, and I congratulate you
     as no living being can congratulate you who has not felt for a
     moment or two that it was barely possible that he might, in some
     period of existence, occupy the position which you now hold.

    "Do not be surprised if you hear of my early marriage. Some woman no
    better-looking than I am may seek me out. If this should happen, and
    you know of it, please think of me with gratitude, and remember that
    I was once

    "Your backer,


Olive also received a letter from Mr. Locker, which ran thus:

     "Mrs. Easterfield told me. She wrote me a letter about it, and I
     think her purpose was to make me thoroughly understand that I was
     not in this matter at all. She did not say anything of the kind,
     but I think she thought it would be a dreadful thing, if by any act
     of mine, I should cause you to reconsider your arrangement with
     Professor Lancaster. I have written to the said professor, and have
     told him that it is not improbable that I shall soon marry. I don't
     know yet to what lady I shall be united, but I believe in the truth
     of the adage, 'that all things come to those who can not wait.'
     They are in such a hurry that they take what they can get.

    "If you do not think that this is a good letter, please send it back
    and I will write another. What I am trying to say is, that I would
    sacrifice my future wife, no matter who she may be, to see you
    happy. And now believe me always

    "Your most devoted acquaintance,


    "P.S.--Wouldn't it be a glorious thing if you were to be married in
    church with all the rejected suitors as groomsmen and Lancaster as
    an old Roman conqueror with the captive princess tied behind!"

Now that all the turmoil of her life was over, and Olive at peace with
herself, her thoughts dwelt with some persistency upon two of her
rejected suitors. Until now she had had but little comprehension of the
love a man may feel for a woman--perhaps because she herself never
loved--but now she looked back upon that period of her life at
Broadstone with a good deal of compunction. At that time it had seemed
to her that it really made very little difference to her three lovers
which one she accepted, or if she rejected them all. But now she asked
herself if it could be possible that Du Brant and Hemphill had for her
anything of the feeling she now had for Dick Lancaster. (Locker did not
trouble her mind at all.) If so, she had treated them with a cruel and
shameful carelessness. She had really intended to marry one of them, but
not from any good and kind feeling; she was actuated solely by pique and
self-interest; and she had, perhaps, sacrificed honest love to her
selfishness; and, what was worse, had treated it with what certainly
appeared like contempt, although she certainly had not intended that.

She felt truly sorry, and cast about in her mind for some means of
reparation. She could think of but one way: to find for each of them a
very nice girl--a great deal nicer than herself--and to marry them all
with her blessing. But, unfortunately for this scheme, Olive had no
girl friends. She had acquaintances "picked up here and there," as she
said, but she knew very little about any of them, and not one of them
had ever struck her as being at all angelic or superior in any way.
Neither of the young men who were lying so heavily on her mind had
written to any one, either at the toll-gate or at Broadstone, since the
very public affair in which she had played a conspicuous part; and her
consolation was that as each one had read that account he had said to
himself: "I am thankful that girl did not accept me! What a fortunate
escape!" But still she wished that she had behaved differently at

She said nothing to any one of these musings, but she ventured one day
to ask Mr. Easterfield how Mr. Hemphill was faring. His reply was only
half satisfactory. He reported the young man as doing very well, and
being well; he was growing fat, and that did not improve his looks; and
he was getting more and more taciturn and self-absorbed. "Why was he
taciturn?" Olive asked herself. "Was he brooding and melancholy?" She
did not know anything about the fat, and what might be its primal cause;
but her mind was not set at ease about him.

Things went on quietly and pleasantly at the toll-gate, and at
Broadstone. Dick came down as often as he could and spent a day or two
(usually including a Sunday) with Olive and her uncle. It was now
October, and colleges were in full tide. It was also the hunting season,
and that meant that Mr. Tom would be at Broadstone for a couple of
weeks, and Mrs. Easterfield said she must have Olive at that time. And,
in order to make the house lively, she invited Lieutenant Asher and his
wife at the same time, as Olive and her young stepmother were now very
good friends. Then the captain invited his old friend Captain Lancaster,
Dick's father, to visit him at the toll-gate.

These were bright days for these old shipmates; and, strange to say, as
they sat and puffed, they did not talk so much of things that had been,
as they puffed and made plans of things which were to be. And these
plans always concerned the niece of one, and the son of the other.
Captain Asher was not at all satisfied with Dick's position in the
college. He could not see how eminence awaited any young man who taught
theories; he would like Dick's future to depend on facts.

"Two and two make four," said he; "there is no need of any theory about
that, and that's the sort of thing that suits me."

Captain Lancaster smiled. He was a dry old salt, and listened more than
he talked.

"Just now," he remarked, "I guess Dick will stick to his theories, and
for a while he won't be apt to give his mind to mathematics very much,
except to that kind of figuring which makes him understand that one and
one makes one."

There was a thing the two old mates were agreed upon. No matter-what
Dick's position might be in the college, his salary should be as large
as that of any other professor. They could do it, and they would do it.
They liked the idea, and they shook hands over it.

Olive was greatly pleased with Captain Lancaster. "There is the scent of
the sea about him," she wrote to Dick, "as there is about Uncle John and
father, but it is different. It is constant and fixed, like the smell
of salt mackerel. He would never keep a toll-gate; nor would he marry a
young wife. Not that I object to either of these things, for if the one
had not happened I would never have known you; and if the other had not
happened, I might not have become engaged to you."

The two captains dined at Broadstone while Olive was there, and Captain
Lancaster highly approved of Mrs. Easterfield. All seafaring men did--as
well as most other men.

"It is a shame she had to marry a landsman," said Captain Lancaster,
when he and Captain John had gone home. "It seems to me she would have
suited you."

"You might mention that the next time you go to her house," said Captain
Asher. "I don't believe it has ever been properly considered."

It was at this time that Olive's mind was set at rest about one of her
discarded lovers. Mr. Du Brant wrote her a letter.

     "MY DEAR MISS ASHER--It is very long since I have had any
     communication with you, but this silence on my part has been the
     result of circumstances, and not owing, I assure you upon my honor,
     to any diminution of the great regard (to use a moderate term)
     which I feel for you. I had not the pleasure of seeing you when I
     left Broadstone, but our mutual friend, Mrs. Easterfield, told me
     you had sent to me a message. I firmly (but I trust politely)
     declined to receive it. And so, my dear Miss Asher, as the offer I
     made you then has never received any acknowledgment, I write now
     to renew it. I lay my heart at your feet, and entreat you to do me
     the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.

    "And let me here frankly state that when first I read of your great
    deed--you are aware, of course, to what I refer--I felt I must
    banish all thought of you from my heart. Let me explain my position,
    I had just received news of the death of my uncle, Count Rosetra,
    and that I had inherited his title and estates. It is a noble name,
    and the estates are great. Could I confer these upon one who was
    being so publicly discussed--the actor in so terrible a drama? I
    owed more to society, and to my noble race, and to my country than I
    had done before becoming a noble. But ah, my torn heart! O Miss
    Asher, that heart was true to you through all, and has asserted
    itself in a vehement way. I recognized your deed as noble; I thought
    of your beauty and your intellect; of your attractive vivacity; of
    your manner and bearing, all so fine; and I realized how you would
    grace my title and my home; how you would help me to carry out the
    great ambitions I have.

    "Will you, lady, deign to accept my homage and my love? A favorable
    answer will bring me to make my personal solicitations.

    "Your most loving and faithful servant,


    "(Now Count Rosetra.)"

"What a bombastic mixture!" thought Olive, as she read this effusion. "I
wonder if there is any real love in it! If there is, it is so smothered
it is easily extinguished."

And she extinguished it; and thoughts of Count Rosetra troubled her no

She did not show Dick this letter, but she thought it due to Mrs.
Easterfield to read it to her. "He has got it into his head that an
American woman, such as you, will make his house attractive to people he
wants there," commented that lady. "You have not considered me at all,
you ungrateful girl! Only think how I could have exploited 'my friend,
the countess'! And what a fine place for me to visit!"

It had been arranged by the two houses that Dick and Olive should be
married in the early summer when the college closed; and Mrs.
Easterfield had arranged in her own mind that the wedding should be in
her city house. It would not be too late in the season for a stylish
wedding--a thing Mrs. Easterfield had often wished she could arrange,
and it was hopeless to think of waiting until her little ones could help
her to this desire of her heart. She held this great secret in reserve,
however, for a delightful surprise at the proper time.

But she and Olive both had a wedding surprise before Olive's visit was
finished. It was, in fact, the day before Olive's return to the
toll-gate that Mr. Easterfield walked in upon them as they were sitting
at work in Mrs. Easterfield's room. He had been unexpectedly summoned to
the city three days before, and had gone with no explanation to his
wife. She did not think much about it, as he was accustomed to going and
coming in a somewhat erratic manner.

"It seems to me," she said, looking at him critically after the first
greetings, "that you have an important air."

"I am the bearer of important news," he said, puffing out his cheeks.

In answer to the battery of excited inquiries which opened upon him he
finally said: "I was solemnly invited to town to attend a solemn
function, and I solemnly went, and am now solemnly returned."

"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Easterfield. "I don't believe it's anything."

"A wedding is something. A very great something. It is a solemn thing;
and made more solemn by the loss of my secretary."

"What!" almost screamed his wife. "Mr. Hemphill?"

"The very man. And, O Miss Olive, if you could but have seen him in his
wedding-clothes your heart would have broken to think that you had lost
the opportunity of standing by them at the altar."

"But who was the bride?" asked Mrs. Easterfield impatiently.

"Miss Eliza Grogworthy."

"Now, Tom, I know you are joking! Why can't you be serious?"

"I am as serious as were that couple. I have known her for some time,
and she was very visible."

"Why, she is old enough to be his mother!"

"Not quite, my dear. In such a case as this, one must be particular
about ages. She is a few years older than he is probably, but she is not
bad looking, and a good woman with a nice big house and lots of money.
He has walked out of my office into a fine position, and I unselfishly
congratulated him with all my heart."

"Poor Mr. Hemphill!" sighed Olive. She was thinking of the very young
man she had sighed for when a very young girl.

"He needs no pity," said Mr. Easterfield seriously. "I should not be
surprised if he feels glad that he was not--well, we won't say what," he
added, looking mischievously at Olive. "This is really a great deal
better thing for him. He is not a favorite of my wife, but he is a
thoroughly good fellow in his way, and I have always liked him. There
were certain things necessary to him in this life, and he has got them.
That can not be said about everybody by a long shot! No, he is to be

Olive was silent. She was trying to make up her mind that he was really
to be congratulated, and to get rid of a lingering doubt.

"Well, that is the end of him in our affairs!" exclaimed Mrs.
Easterfield. "Why didn't you tell us what you were going to town for?"

"Because he asked me not to mention it to any one. And, besides, that is
not all I went to town for."

"Oh," said his wife, "any more weddings?"

"No," said Mr. Easterfield, helping himself to an easy chair. "You know
I have lately been so much with nautical people I have acquired a taste
for the sea."

"I did not know it," said his wife; "but what of it?"

"Well, as Lieutenant Asher and his wife are here yet, and have no
earthly reason for being anywhere in particular; and as Captain Asher
seems to be tired of the toll-gate; and as Captain Lancaster doesn't
care where he is; and as Miss Olive doesn't know what to do with herself
until it is time for her to get married; and as you are always ready to
go gadding; and as the children need bracing up; and as you can not get
along without Miss Raleigh; and as Mrs. Blynn is a good housekeeper; and
as I have an offer for renting our town house; I propose that we all go
to sea together."

The two ladies had listened breathlessly to these words, and now Olive
sprang up in great excitement, and Mrs. Easterfield clapped her hands in

"How clever you are, Tom!" she exclaimed. "What a splendid idea! How can
we go?"

"I have leased a yacht, and we are going to the Mediterranean."


"_It has just Begun!_"

This wonderful scheme which Mr. Easterfield had planned and carried out
met with general favor. Perhaps if they had all been consulted before he
made the plan there would have been many alterations, and discussions,
and doubts. But the thing was done, and there was nothing to say but
"Yes" or "No." The time had come for the house party at Broadstone to
break up, and the lieutenant and Mrs. Asher had arranged to spend the
next few months in the city, but they gladly accepted Mr. Easterfield's
generous invitation and would return to the toll-gate alter a few weeks
preparatory to sailing, that the party might get together, for Captain
Lancaster was to remain at the tollhouse. Mr. Easterfield also invited
Claude Locker "to make things lively in rough weather," and that young
man accepted with much alacrity.

Mrs. Easterfield was in such a state of delight that she nearly lost her
self-possession. Sometimes, her husband told her, she scarcely spoke
rationally. If she had been asked to wish anything that love or money
could bring her, it would have been this very thing; but she would not
have believed it possible. She was busy everywhere planning for
everybody, and making out various lists. But, as she said, there is a
little black spot in almost every joy. And her little black spot was
Dick Lancaster.

"Poor Professor Lancaster!" she said to her husband. "We to have such a
great pleasure, and he shut up in close rooms! And Olive far away!"

"Are you sure about Olive?" asked Mr. Easterfield. "She has never said
positively that she is going. I most earnestly hope that she will not
back out because Lancaster can not go. If she stays her uncle will

"And for that very reason she will go," said Mrs. Easterfield. "And I
think Professor Lancaster will urge her to go. He is unselfish enough, I
am sure, to wish her to have this great pleasure. And, talking of Olive,
one thing is certain, Tom, we must be back early in the spring. There
will be a great deal to do before the wedding. And, O Tom, I will tell
you--but you must not tell any one, for I am keeping it for a
surprise--I am going to give them a fine wedding. They will be married
in church, of course, but the reception will be at our house. You will
like that, I know."

"Will there be good eating?"

"Plenty of it."

"Then I shall like it."

All this was very well, but, nevertheless, this talk made the
enthusiastic lady a little uneasy. It was true Olive had never said in
words conclusively whether she would go or not. But she was extremely
anxious that her father should go, and she implicitly followed Mrs.
Easterfield's directions in making preparations for him, and was just as
earnest in making her own; and her friend was certainly justified in
thinking all this was a tacit consent.

As for the two captains, they were so delighted at this heavenly
prospect that they gave up talking about Dick and Olive, and read
guide-books to each other, and studied maps, and sea-charts until their
brains were nearly addled. They were a source of great amusement to the
young people when Dick came for his frequent short visits.

It was evident to all interested that Professor Lancaster approved of
the expedition, for he entered heartily into all the talk about the
various places to be visited, and all that was to be done on the vessel;
and he did not bore them with any lamentations in regard to the coming
separation between him and Olive. And, of course, every one respected
his feelings, and said nothing to him about it.

The weeks went by; all the preparations were made; and at last the time
came when the company were to assemble at the toll-gate and Broadstone
before the final plunge into the unknown. Olive wished to have them all
to dinner on the first day of this short visit.

"Our house is a little one," she said to Mrs. Easterfield, "but we can
make it big enough. You know nautical people understand how to do that.
What a jolly company we shall have! You know Dick will be there."

"Yes, poor Dick!" sighed Mrs. Easterfield, when Olive had left.

The Easterfields, with Lieutenant Asher and his wife, arrived very
promptly at the toll-gate on that important day, and their drive
through the bright, crisp air put them in a merry mood. They had hoped
to bring Mr. Locker, but he had not arrived. They found two captains at
the toll-gate in even merrier mood. Dick Lancaster was there, having
arrived that morning, and they were none of them surprised that he
looked serious. The ladies were not immediately asked to go up-stairs to
remove their wraps, for Olive was not there to receive them. She soon,
however, made her appearance in a lovely white dress that had been made
for the trip under Mrs. Easterfield's supervision. Dick Lancaster
immediately got up from his chair and joined her; and the Reverend Mr.
Faulkner appeared from some mysterious place, and the astonished guests
were treated to a very pretty marriage ceremony.

It was soon over, and the two jolly captains laughed heartily at the
bewilderment of the Broadstone party. And then there was a wild time of
hand-shaking and congratulations and embracing. By his wife's orders,
Mr. Tom kissed Olive, which seemed perfectly proper to everybody except
Mrs. Lieutenant Asher. She was also a young bride, with no similar

Later, when all were composed, Olive explained. "What has happened just
now is all on account of Mr. Easterfield's invitation. I wrote
immediately to Dick, and we settled it between us that he would ask for
a vacation--they always give vacations when professors are married, and
he knew of some one to take his place--and then we would be married, and
ask Mr. and Mrs. Easterfield to invite us to take our wedding trip with
them. Dick had to stay at the college until the last minute almost, and
so we didn't say anything about the wedding--and we were both afraid
of--well, we don't like a fuss--and so we planned this. And when Dick
came he brought the license and Mr. Faulkner. And now I don't see how
Mr. Easterfield can help inviting us."

Mr. Easterfield was standing by his wife, and as Olive finished her
explanation he took his wife's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze of
sympathy; and that heroic woman never flinched; nor did she ever say one
word about that pretty wedding she had planned for the spring.

They had all nearly finished the fried chicken with white sauce, when
Claude Locker arrived. He had missed the regular train and had come on a
freight; had got a horse when he reached Broadstone.

"I am more tired than if I had walked," he grumbled. "I am always in bad
luck! I am an unlucky dog! But you are so good you will excuse me, Miss

"That is not my name," said Olive gravely.

And with both eyes of the same size, Mr. Locker looked around, wondering
why everybody was laughing.

"Let me introduce Mrs. Lancaster," said Dick with a bow.

"Do you mean," cried Locker, starting up, "that this thing is really

"No," said Olive. "It has just begun."


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