University of Virginia Library

3. III.

“Well, Ruthy, I wonder if Zeb has found a better place?”
said Mr. Sands one evening about a fortnight after the young man
had gone to seek his fortune.

“I do n't know,” she answered, laying the embers together, for
it was cold enough for fire now; “I do n't know—I do wonder
where he is—but he will take care of himself, I 'll warrant that.”

“I hope he will,” said Mr. Sands; “but I do n't know. He
was always a good boy—I wish I had not been quite so hard
with him.”

The silence that followed was broken by a rap on the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Sands, and the cousin mentioned as living in
the city suburb entered. Zeb was at his house, and very sick.
The physicians had pronounced his disease small-pox of the most
virulent nature.

With the suspense, some softness had gathered about the hearts
of father and sister; but when this intelligence came, more than
the old hardness returned.

“If he had staid at home and minded his business,” said the

father, “he would have been well; as it is, he must get along
the best he can. It would be an awful thing to bring him into
the neighborhood.”

“Dear me, I can 't go to see him,” said Ruth, rolling up her
sleeve, to examine the scar of vaccination. “It was too bad in
Zeb to act so. I hope when he gets well he 'll behave himself.”

“He is very good, all at once,” said the father. “Is he broke
out in the face?”

So the cousin rode back again, little profited by his journey.

Two or three days went by without any further tidings of
Zeb, and then a neighbor chanced to hear in town that he was
very bad; still it was not definitely known that his case was
desperate.

“Very bad!” said Mr. Sands, when he heard this news—
“every body is very bad who has the small-pox: like enough
he 'll be marked for life.” But though he was uneasy, he
neither sent a messenger nor went himself to visit his unhappy
son. For three days nothing further was heard. Ruth said she
thought he must be better, else they would hear; and the father
said he guessed so too, or they would certainly get some news
from him.

The day was one of those deliciously genial ones which sometimes
gladden the autumn; and the father and daughter, well
and strong, could not realize that Zeb was dying. In the afternoon
Ruth went to pass an hour or two and drink tea with a
friend. There were many new things to be seen, and many
interesting matters to be talked about; so her thoughts were
quite drawn away from her brother; or, if now and then they
returned to him, it was less fearfully than they had done before.
It was nightfall when she set out for home, and though the distance
was not long, star after star came out, as, slowly walking,
she recounted all that she had seen and heard that afternoon;
how such an one had made her a new dress, and whether
it were probable that such another were to be married, as reported;
and so, musing, she reached the hill that overlooked
the homestead. All was dark: involuntarily she quickened her
step, and in a moment recognized her father walking backward
and forward in the road before her. His form seemed more

than usually bent, and his hands were crossed behind him according
to his habit in times of trouble—and his gray hair was
uncovered, and blown about in the wind. He was waiting for
her she knew, and why he was waiting she felt. “Oh, father,”
she said, seeing he did not speak, “have you heard from Zeb?”

“I wish I had gone to see him, Ruth,” he answered, covering
his face with his hands.

“Is he dead?” she asked in a low tone—for the awful fear
kept her heart still.

“I do n't know,” he answered trembling, “but I 'm afraid
we shall never see him alive. He has not spoken, since last
night at midnight—then he said he should not get well, and
that he should like to see me and you, Ruthy; yet he told
them not to send for us, saying we could do no good, and that
our lives must not be endangered for him.”

“Oh, poor Zeb!” sobbed out the girl, “let us go and see
him. Can 't we go to-night?”

“Dear child, he does not know anybody to-day,” answered
the father, “and has not spoken since sunrise. Poor Zeb! it
is all our fault.”

So, talking and weeping together, they entered the old house.
How lonesome it was! the wind had never been so mournful
before. Ruth remembered when she and Zeb had listened to
it in the autumns that were gone, but it was not dirge-like,
as now. The drifting of the yellow leaves in the moonlight
seemed to have a sorrowful significance; and, years after, Ruth
could not see them fall without recalling something of the feeling
that came upon her that night.

It is a long time since they sat together, father and daughter,
listening to the winds and to the reproaches of their own hearts,
as they remembered their harsh words and hard behavior. It
is a long time since Ruth took from the notched flower-pot
Zeb had made for her the greenest and freshest vines of the
myrtle, and set them over his grave. And once or twice in
every year the wood-chopper may be seen mending the mound,
and pulling the weeds from among the flowers. He has never
been known to “stand a treat” since the night he tempted his
friend to ruin.