University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE BISHOP'S SON TAKES UP HIS BURDEN.

OCTOBER brought sad weather; there were days
and days, dull and cloudy, with flurries of wind
and cold rain. That Peter Whiteflock was now
about done with the sunshine of this world, was
pretty apparent to all. Even Dr. Allprice had
given up the blue pills; “it is not worth while to worry him
with them just for the present,” he said. “A sedative now
and then, when he is restless, and careful nursing, and nature
may rally yet; but, dear madam, we must not be too sanguine.”

Everything in the house was suspended; the servants did
what they would, huddling together, telling stories of frightful
death-beds, for the most part, under breath.

The neighbors came in without ringing, and behaved quite
as though they were in their own homes; and those who had
heretofore been strange with Mrs. Whiteflock took a friendly,
and even a familiar tone. Common topics and common
interests were left out of sight, and a hush made up of fear
and awe and solemn expectation pervaded all hearts.

Only Peter was calm and serene. “Happy,” he said,
“never so happy,” to all who approached him; and so he lay
waiting his final release. Sometimes, indeed, his face would
grow radiant, and his arms reach upward as if he were
already in communion with the invisible world.

On the 5th of October rain set in — slow, steady, cold.
The rooms adjoining Peter's chamber were filled all day
with friends and neighbors, anxious to show their good will
and proffer their good offices; and now and then some eager
face looked in at the door, but there was no pressure about
the bed. Mrs. Whiteflock, her children, the Doctor, Samuel,
and a female friend or two, were about all.

It was almost twilight in the room though the curtains
were all drawn up and the shutters wide, and the rain came
against the panes with one dull, monotonous plash. The
gloom seemed intolerable, and now and again some anxious
voice would be heard wishing, in whispers, for sunshine.

“It will be bright to-morrow,” says Peter, at last, and at
that all understood that the end was at hand. Mrs. Whiteflock,
who had, till now, kept her emotion under control, was
led weeping away, and seeing this the children began to cry
aloud. The grief of little Peter, who had stood all day
trembling by the pillow, knew no bounds, and all coaxing
and caresses were in vain. It was with difficulty the sick
man could speak now; but he looked upon the boy with such
yearning tenderness that all felt how the cry of lamentation
pierced his heart. He motioned to be raised on his pillows,
and to have the child brought near; then he got one hand
upon his neck and drew him down and told him in whispers
that he was going to a country where there was no more pain
nor sorrow, and that he must not be sad, for that this was the
best day of his life, but seeing that the child, so far from
being pacified, only cried the more bitterly, he told him with
a smile, there was yet one thing he could do for him, “I
want to know how old Posey is,” he says; “little Peter can
run and see, and fetch back word; father will be better by
that time — so much better!” Then he kissed the boy, and
at that he wiped his eyes and ran away, and Peter, exhausted,
fell back among his pillows. At that moment the sun, low
in the west, broke through the clouds and filled all the chamber
with a flood of gracious, golden glory. It was noticed
that the light lingered longest on the death-bed, and when it
was gone, it was seen that the spirit which had watched and
waited so long for the light, was gone with it.

When little Peter came back, he fetched word that old
Posey was dead, and the event was commented on at the
time as something remarkable; for it was found that she
must have died at the same hour, almost at the same moment,
indeed, with her master. And another strange thing was,
that no light was seen except in Peter's room, and that the
watchers outside insisted that the sun had not shone for a
single moment. The expression that came upon the face
of the dead was something wonderful, insomuch that people
came from far and near to see it. Even little Peter did not

cry when he stood by the coffin; the imprint of a blessed
immortality so transfigured the dust, that it was impossible
for the dust to be thought of. Of course the child knew not
what lifted him above his fear; he only knew that he was
not afraid any more, nor troubled any more. In all the
country round there had never been so large a funeral; the
living man had never, in all the days of his life, such honor,
as now, in the day of his burial.

His grave was made in the churchyard beneath the window
where Mrs. Whiteflock was used to sit. Myrtles and
roses were planted about the mound, and at the head a plain
slab of white marble was placed with this inscription after
the simple record of the name and age, “Better is the day
of one's death than the day of one's birth.”

Mrs. Whiteflock never took off her mourning, but used to
visit the grave regularly two or three times a week with her
little children about her, while she had little children, but
she never relinquished the practice, and with her own hand
kept down the weeds and tended the flowers. One day
when Peter had been buried five years she planted a fresh
rose tree, — it was on the anniversary of his death, — and
when the pit was digged for the placing of the roots, she laid
a handful of gold in the bottom of it, and if one had been
privileged to count the pieces they would have been found
to make just one hundred and thirty-five dollars and sixty-two
and a half cents!

That morning in rummaging through an attic closet Mrs.
Whiteflock had come upon an old diary, kept by her the
first year of her marriage, and as she glanced along the
record in fading ink, she suddenly burst into tears, and when
the fit was over she tied on her mourning bonnet and drew
down the veil, and with a rose tree in one hand and a carefully
counted sum of money in the other, betook herself
straight to the graveyard, where she planted the flower as
we have seen.

What she read in the old diary was this: “June sixth,
1830. Gave this morning to Luther Larky, a purse containing
one hundred and thirty-five dollars and sixty-two and a
half cents, the same being designed for the purchase of John
Holt's gray mare.”

And here let us turn back again to the day of Peter's
death.

It was near midnight, the rain still falling and the night
as dark as it could be, that Mrs. Whiteflock on entering the
room where the corpse lay, found standing at the head
something that was like a woman with an angel's beauty,
which floated away and vanished as she approached. And
as the thing, woman or angel, floated and faded thus, she
asseverated that it drew up the hands of the dead after it!

She came from the chamber as much dead as alive herself,
and presently, falling into hysterics, declared it as her belief
that she had been summoned to follow her husband. Nothing
would do but she must see her clergyman, confess her
sins, be prayed for and prepared for the awful hour. “There
is no time to lose, make haste, my good Samuel!” she entreated,
with tears in her eyes; “this vision has been sent to
warn me!”

So, protecting himself from the storm as well as he might
with wrappers and overcoat, he set out, and made such haste
as he could with an umbrella flapping about his ears, the
rain blinding his eyes, and the dubious flicker of a tin lantern
at his feet. He got to the parsonage by-and-by, and as he
stepped upon the piazza, with the intent to ring, he perceived
the faintest glimmer of a light at the window of the study.

“Perhaps Mr. Lightwait is engaged with books, or with
the preparation of a sermon,” thought Samuel; “I will not
ring and arouse the house, but tap on the sash of his own
apartment instead, and so make known my errand without
noise or disturbance.”

As he approached the window, he saw that only one-half
of the shutter was open, and that this had probably been
blown open by the wind, as it was loosely beating about;
that the curtain was drawn low, and that the light within
was so faint as to be hardly perceptible. He hesitated, —
the bishop's son was not at his studies, that was evident, —
and while he hesitated, he heard, as he was almost sure, the
murmur of voices within. Upon this, he tapped lightly, so
lightly as to disturb no one who was not already awake; and
again listened, standing back, however, a little from the
window.

To his surprise, the murmur previously heard changed to
whispers, he could not be mistaken this time, and the whispers
were accompanied by a stir and flutter as of female
garments.

It was Miss Lightwait's maid, and the housekeeper, he
now suspected, taking their tea and their gossip, with such
peculiar appropriations, including time and place, as old and
favored servants sometimes feel themselves privileged to
make.

“I have frightened them with my over caution,” he mused,
“and will make a more positive appeal.” And immediately
he knocked against the sash with his knuckles, and called
out, “Halloo the house!” But this, so far from diminishing
the terror of the persons within, seemed only to increase it.
No answer was returned, the fluttering increased, and the
whispering appeared more anxious and eager than before.
The shadow of a man and woman was now thrown upon the
curtain, for the two shadows were so close as to seem at first
like only one shadow. As he observed it more curiously,
he perceived that the man was supporting the woman, and,
as he judged by the trailing of the garments, leading her
from the room. He shuddered, and a nameless fear oppressed
him, insomuch that his voice trembled when he
repeated the halloo. A door was opened and softly closed
again, and then a bolder step was heard crossing the room,
and one distinct shadow, that of a man, was thrown upon
the curtain. Presently the light flashed out, and a voice that
Samuel recognized as that of the bishop's son, inquired who
was there.

“It's me, Mr. Lightwait,” says Samuel, “and I'm come for
you in a case of life and death; open the window for mercy's
sake!”

Then the bishop's son drew up the curtain and threw up
the sash, and Samuel, leaving his wet things outside, stepped
in, and at once explained why and wherefore he was come.

“Truly, in the midst of life we are in death,” says Mr.
Lightwait, solemnly; and then he tells Samuel he will attend
him as soon as possible, and he moves about the room adjusting
this and that, in a strange, perturbed sort of way. In
the midst of these unseasonable operations he suddenly exclaims,
“What a terrible night; how did you happen to
come in such a driving storm?” and then he says, blushing
red as fire. “O, I forgot, you told me your errand; and a
sad one it is, too! So poor Brother Peter is dying?”

“No, Peter was never so truly alive,” says Samuel. “It
is Sister Whiteflock who is dying — or who thinks she is —
and pray my good friend, make haste.”

“You are quite right,” says Mr. Lightwait, smiling graciously;
and then he says, apologetically, that he believes he
is scarcely awake. “You must know, Samuel,” he explains,
“that you roused me out of the deepest sleep possible.
Wearied out with study I threw myself on the sofa there,
and had fallen into the completest oblivion when your halloo
startled me; and in truth I believe I have scarcely gotten
my senses together yet. Were you ever wakened so?”

And then he tells Samuel again, seeing his look of impatience,
perhaps, that he will not detain him now — not a
minute longer.

“I must put myself in more suitable trim, you understand,”
and he indicated his dressing-gown and slippers, and
then he comes back to the sofa, moves something from one
arm of it, looks furtively about, and then at last he does get
out of the room.

Samuel groaned aloud when he was left alone — still
standing, mute as a statue — then, being always ready to
distrust himself rather than another, he began to doubt and
to explain away the evidence of his senses. “Maybe he was
talking in his sleep,” he soliloquized, “and maybe I saw but
one shadow, after all. O, wicked heart of mine to be so ready
to admit evil thoughts.” And sinking down upon the sofa
he stretched out one arm in a pleading, helpless sort of way,
and caught at the pillow. As he did so, something loosened
itself from the fringes and fell to the ground. With the
shyness that always came over him when he was among fine
things, he feared he had done some mischief, and dropping
his hand began to feel along the carpet.

“God 'a' mercy!” was the cry that came to his lip, as if it
were half smothered in his heart; he was on his feet and
holding what he had taken up full to the light. It was a
little French slipper, trimmed with a rosette of scarlet
velvet!

“God 'a' mercy!” says he again; and this time the exclamation
was hardly distinguishable from a moan, so low,
so despairing; he had turned the lining of white kid toward
the light, and there in his own handwriting was the name he
feared to see — “Margaret.”

This was not that which had been caught in the fringe of
the pillow, and so at first arrested his attention; he had had
a glimpse of that as it fell, and it was not a lady's slipper.

“No matter,” he said, coming back to the sofa and
seating himself again, “I will not search into this bad business.”
But while this thought was taking shape in his mind,
he set his foot upon something that snapped beneath the
weight; it was a little comb of coral, another of his gifts to
Margaret.

His first impulse was to take Mr. Lightwait by the collar
when he should appear, accuse him of false dealing with
little Margaret, and so turn him out of his own house, neck
and heels, but the second thought was wiser and calmer. He
tucked the slipper under his waistcoat, and when his pastor
came at last, all muffled and cloaked, he went forth with
him, never speaking one word.

“Hold!” says the bishop's son touching him on the arm,
“you have forgotten your lantern and all your wrappers!”

“No matter,” says Samuel, shaking off the hand as though
it had been a viper, “the outward storm is nothing!”

A sudden gust of wind at this moment carried away his
hat. He did not heed it, but, with the rain beating on his
head and the winds flying in his face, strode straight along,
and for some reason the bishop's son preferred not to address
him again.

“I have fetched the man you wished to see, Sister Whiteflock,”
says Samuel, bending down to her pillow; and then
he went out of the chamber, and left them alone.

The remainder of the night he passed in the room where
the corpse lay, and long before morning it was given him to
understand as plainly as though it had been whispered in his
ear, that the course of action he had so hurriedly outlined
was the right one and the only one to pursue. But the time
for action was not quite come; he kept all these things,
therefore, and pondered them in his heart.

Margaret came with her mother to Peter's funeral, and
Samuel noted that she wept from first to last with a bitterness
which a grief not personal to herself could hardly have
been expected to inspire. He could not help thinking,
indeed, that she was but giving expression to some pent up
trouble — a trouble which had already pinched her cheek,
stolen the redness from her mouth, and all the light and
sparkle from her eyes, so that she seemed to have had a
dozen sorrowful years added to her life since he last saw her.

He would gladly have spoken some word of comfort to

her, but he perceived that she avoided him, and he thought
on the whole it was perhaps wisest to respect her preference.

Mr. Charles Gayfeather made himself very busy at the
funeral, having installed himself in a sort of semi-official
position between the chief mourners and the undertaker;
directing, arranging and supervising all minor matters, and
adding not a little to the parade and ceremonial of the occasion.
When they turned away from the grave he took it
upon himself to put Mrs. Whiteflock, who had previously
been attended by Samuel, into the carriage with the bishop's
son, and to place himself beside his nephew. “I have something
to tell you, dear boy,” he whispered, “and I may not
have another opportunity.”

“Verily,” said he, when they were seated, “man that is
born of woman is of few days and full of trouble,” and having
thus delivered himself of an appropriate reflection, he
fell talking about his personal plans and prospects with a
subdued and sober grace that sat by no means ill upon him.

“I think I have it in my power to do you a favor, Sam,”
he said, “and that without putting myself to any inconvenience.
I am to be sent on business connected with our
house to the very neighborhood where lie our Uncle John
Catwild's estates. I can settle up the whole affair, you see, if
you will but empower me legally to do so, and have it done
with, and the sooner such affairs are settled the better,
always.” Then he said he had fancied that Samuel might
not wish to leave his friends just then in their affliction, and
that he should probably go and return before Samuel would
be ready to set out. “And then, to speak plain, Sam, my
dear boy, I understand more about business than you do!
And there will be a vast deal of unpleasant detail to be
gotten over, even though the will is so explicit.”

What further he said need not be recapitulated. Suffice
to say that before they reached Mrs. Whiteflock's gate he
had gotten Samuel's consent to his proposal, and had fixed
the day for the clinching of the legal nail.

“By the by, Sam,” he said, as he was taking leave, “shall
you be wanting that thousand before I get back?”

“No,” Samuel would “not need the money; don't give
yourself any trouble about it, Uncle Charley,” he said, “but
keep it till next month, or next year, if it suits your convenience.”

“You are too good! too generous! my dear boy; but
you shall have it back this minute, if you think there is any
probability of your needing it before I return. I would
rather pinch myself than you.”

But Samuel protested that he would not have the money
back just then; he need not have protested; there was no
likelihood of his getting it just then.

Two or three days subsequent to the funeral, Mrs. Fairfax
Allprice came to see Mrs. Whiteflock, ostensibly to condole
with her, but what she talked of chiefly was the strange
malady of her daughter Margaret.

“I don't know what to make of the child,” she says;
“sometimes I fear she is losing her mind; she is drooping
and moping from morning till night, and I may say from
night till morning, for I can hear her walking her chamber
floor, and moaning and fretting to herself hour after hour,
sometimes till broad daylight.

“She says she is not sick, and all the Doctor can do he
cannot persuade her to take one grain of medicine, but she
doesn't eat enough to keep a linnet alive, and it seems to me
she must die or else lose her wits, if some change for the
better does not come to her soon. What can have come
over her spirit? You would hardly know her; she is just
like the ghost of herself.

“Do come, dear Sister Whiteflock, and see what you can
make of it all!” And then she tells Mrs. Whiteflock almost
under her breath that the engagement with the bishop's son
seems to be broken off, as far as she can judge, but that she
really knows nothing. “Margaret will not tell me one word,”
she says, “but when I entreat her never so kindly, she only
cries and frets the more. O, dear sister, I know how to pity
you now! Come soon, for I am at my wit's ends.”

The following day Mrs. Whiteflock went to see what she
could make of it all, and came back with a face as sad as
death. “O, Samuel, Samuel,” she cries, “what shall we do
for our poor little Margaret? She is near losing her wits,
sure enough. It would make you weep to see her — her
eyes on the ground; her hands in her lap, and her mouth as
white as marble, only when now and then a little moan comes
over it, as though it were the blood bubbling from her very
heart”?

At last she gets a letter out of her bosom, “There, Samuel,”

she says, “is a letter which the bishop's son has sent to
Margaret, and she is breaking her heart about it.” And
then, drawing very near to Samuel, leaning quite upon his
shoulder, in fact, she tells him, almost in a whisper, that she
is afraid the letter is not all she is breaking her heart about,
neither!

“O, Samuel, Samuel! what shall we do?”

She put the letter in his hand and left him alone. When
she came back, which she did directly, she found the letter
lying on the ground and Samuel staring into the blank air.

“I need not ask you what you think?” she says.

“No you need not ask.”

Then he covered his face with his hands, and they sat a
long time in silence.

“What shall we do?” says Mrs. Whiteflock, at last; “go
to the bishop's son with the letter and with everything?”

“No, not to him; I don't know how to deal with such a
man; I will go to Father Goodman; he is wise.”

“When? to-morrow?”

“And why not to-day, at once? I have no preparations
to make.”

Then it was agreed between them that he should start off
immediately, riding old Sorrel, the best traveller in Mrs.
Whiteflock's stables, and encumbered with no luggage,
except it were a pair of saddlebags to contain a change of
linen and some other necessaries. And in all the confidence
that was of necessity between them, Samuel did not breathe
a word of what he had seen at the parsonage, nor did he
intimate the fact of his having resolved then and there to go
and see Father Goodman. But this was what he had resolved
to do when he put the slipper under his waistcoat, and the
seal upon his lips.

The house was made quite cheery again with the bustle
of preparation, for Mrs. Whiteflock found twenty things to
do where she had thought there was but one. Old Sorrel,
too, must have shoes set for rough roads and log bridges; a
pack saddle must be made upon which to strap overcoat,
umbrella and other equipage; the old girth must be mended,
and a new extra strong one provided. Other hindrances fell
out; when all was about ready, a strange man appeared at
the door and inquired for Mr. Samuel Dale; and when
Samuel appeared, he handed him a letter, sealed with wax

and elegantly superscribed. It was from Mr. Gayfeather,
and Samuel's brow clouded as he read; it was, of course, a
request for money.

The note that was presented when the letter had been read,
called for more money than Samuel had at command; he
was obliged to borrow part of it, and this left him penniless.
He could not of course set out on his journey utterly destitute,
so that in one way and another his departure was
delayed beyond his expectations by three or four days. And
even then he started in some haste, and without being quite
ready. It was the evening before the time fixed for his setting
out, and he sat watching Mrs. Whiteflock, who was
knitting the second of a pair of woollen mittens for him. “It
will be frosty of mornings,” she says, “before you get back.”
When one of the children came running in with word that
Mr. Stake wished to see Samuel one minute.

“I'm afeard everything isn't right, Mr. Dale,” he began;
“there's things a-being said about Margaret, that ortn't to
be said unless it's knowed certain that she's fell from virtue,
and I must say there is some grounds for the gossip.” But
we need not stop to repeat all Mr. Stake said, the gist of it
was this: “I sot out airly, day afore yesterday morning,
think it was, to look about a little in order to scare up some
creatures; it wasn't daylight yet when I got off, and it just
begin be graylight like, when I got along to the `Dug Hill,'
a mighty lonesome place, you know, any time, but specially
in that oncertain light. Well, I sees a little thing creepin'
along to the side o' the road, as though it didn't want to be
seen, and that was what made me look at it so sharp, I think,
and yet I a'most thought at first it was a bit of shadder, or
mist, but direc'ly I see it wasn't; in fact, I see it was a

woman, and the more she shied off the more I drove slow and
watched her, for I begin to think maybe it was a thief. She
had a veil close over her face and a bundle o' things tied up
in a handkercher in her hand; and she kind a drooped along,
drooped along, and then thinks says I, she's a sick woman,
maybe, and I drawed rein, and says I, speakin' respectful,
`Good day, ma'am!' And then says I, `If you've fur to go,
I'll give you a lift in my cart, if you've a mind.' But she just
shook her head and shied off, never speakin' at all. And
then says I, `Are you sick, my good woman?' right out so,
says I. And with that she leaned agin an old lime kiln that
was by the roadside, and burst right out a-cryin'. I knowed
the voice then, and if you believe me, Mr. Dale, it was Margaret!
I got right out of the cart when I see who it was, and
says I, `My poor child, have you been sot adrift, this way?'
for I thought maybe the Doctor and her didn't get along,
and he'd turned her out. But she said, `No, she wasn't turned
out;' but all I could say and do, I couldn't find out where
she was a-goin', nor what for. And says I, `I'll give you a
little lift anyhow, for I thought maybe the rattlin' of the cart-wheels
and the smell of the tar, for the hubs had fresh tar
onto 'em, would get up her sperits, and I just took her in my
arms and lifted her in, the same as though she had been a
two years child. But the tar didn't fetch her up, nor the
rattle o' the wheels, nor nothin' I could say; she just throwed
herself down in the straw, and never looked up nor spoke
from first to last, and I kep' on and on, for I sort a thought she
was a-goin' to town, and when I reached the corporation line
I stopt, and says I, `Which way now, my good little girl?'
`Good!' says she; `that word isn't for me.' And with that
she got out, and the last I see of her she was a-creepin' along,
creepin' along by the side o' the canal, her head fairly on her
bosom and the bundle in her hand.”

“And this you think was two days ago?” says Samuel.

“Yes, I'm sure it was day afore yesterday, Mr. Dale; I
meant to have told you afore, you or Miss Whiteflock, but it
appears like a body always has affairs o' their own to keep
'em busy; I hope there is nothin' wrong, anyhow, it would
be so dreadful for the bishop's son!”

“I hope there is nothing wrong,” says Samuel; and he
went straight to the stables and saddled old Sorrel, muttering,
as he tightened the girth, “Dreadful for the bishop's son,
to be sure! God 'a' mercy!”

The sun had been set half an hour; the silver ring of the
new moon hung low in the east, and the stars were beginning
to twinkle here and there along the sky, as he mounted
and rode away through the solemn, dusky light. Amongst
the rest, (and be sure the Bible and hymn-book were not
wanting,) he had in his saddle-bags the little French slipper
and the letter which Mr. Lightwait had written to Margaret,
about which Mrs. Whiteflock had said she was breaking her
heart. All night Samuel rode, and with brief haltings for
the sake of his horse rather than of himself, all day again,
and late on into the night. And on the afternoon of the
second day old Sorrel began to flag a little, stout as he was,
for the roads were rough, and he had urged him beyond
what he would have done in ordinary circumstances. He
had been travelling for two hours through low, swampy
ground, covered with almost uninterrupted forest, beech,
white oak, low scrubby dog-wood, and the tall, straight gum,
with just here and there some settler's log cabin in a little
patch of clearing by the roadside, when all at once, upon a
slight elevation, and with its narrow margin of clearing all
shut in by thick woods, he came upon a log meeting-house.
The doors were open and the people were gathered for worship,
or service of some sort. There was no fence or inclosure
of any kind about the house, but where the trees
had been cut away, thistles, briers and a variety of low
bushes overran the ground, and among these, showing dark
and frightful, there was a great heap of fresh earth, indicating
a newly-dug grave.

Round about stood rude carts and wagons, with board
seats across, and a chair or two for the old people, and here
and there, tied to the low shrubs, or to the drooping branches
of trees were the work-horses, gay wild colts, and sober old
mares, that had been put under the saddle for the occasion.
Some of the riders had come bareback, apparently, as a
number of the horses had only a bit of blanket or coverlet
strapped on their backs, and that a good many of the old
mares had brought women, was evidenced by their side-saddles.

There were funeral services going forward, past doubt.
Samuel dismounted, secured old Sorrel so that he might
graze a little off the thistly grass, brushed the dust from his
hat and waistcoat, and went into the house.

A solemn scene presented itself; the house, built of hewn
logs, was unfinished; bare rafters overhead, and open
“chinks” in the wall, and the pulpit nothing more than a
platform of rough planks loosely laid down, and elevated a
little above the rude benches that served for pews. Only
the benches round about the pulpit were occupied, so there
were vacant seats enough and to spare. On one of these
Samuel seated himself, drawing a good many eyes upon him
as he did so; a stranger in the place naturally exciting
wonder and curiosity, especially among the young people,
many of whom were women. But if they wondered, he
wondered in turn; where did all these men and women
come from, and how did they live in the little huts, and off
the black, swampy land? There were old gray-headed men
and women, who had emigrated to this wild country for the
sake of leaving more land to their boys and girls, perhaps,
and it was touching to see their tremulous hands grasping
the thorny sticks that helped them to walk, as they leaned
so earnestly forward, lest they might lose one word of the
preacher's utterance. The faces of some of the women
were almost as white as the borders of their caps, and the
sharp shoulders showing through their thin cotton shawls,
and the blue lips and finger nails told unmistakably of the
ague that had shaken the color, and almost the very bones
out of them.

The dresses of all, men and women, old and young, were
of the homeliest homespun and such poor attempts at finery
as some of the gayer girls had made, served only to add the
fantastic to the rude.

Such a congregation in such a place would have been
solemn enough at any time, but the solemnity was deepened
to awfulness now by the coffin that rested on a roughly constructed
trestle, directly against the pulpit; the coffin being
of stained wood and nailed together almost as roughly as
the trestle. It was that of an adult person, and being all
unrelieved as it was by covering of any kind, even of flowers,
increased the dreadfulness that is dreadful enough at best.

A shelf, formed of an oak slab, and supported on long
legs, held the Bible, the hymn-book and a tin cup of water,
for the accommodation of the preacher, who stood immediately
behind the shelf. This man was quite in harmony
with his surroundings. He was tall, but without the slightest

stoop; with deep sunk iron-gray eyes, and thick, bushy hair
to match, weather-beaten to bronze, and standing on his legs
as an oak stands in the ground, firm, fearless, full of vigor.

His wide white neck-cloth, without spot or wrinkle or any
such thing, and his “shad-belly” coat were all that betokened
his clerical profession, and but for these you would not have
been surprised to see him sweating at the anvil, splitting
rails, or holding the plough. But when he spoke you had
neither eyes nor ears for any one else, he so enchained, fascinated
and thrilled you with his wonderful power. Now
he swept you along with his low-toned pleadings as the wind
sweeps the willows, and now he launched some terrible
denunciation like a thunderbolt, and you shrank back involuntarily
as though your heart were being crushed and crashed
all to pieces. His very soul stood in his eyes, or threatening
or yearning, and when his brawny arm reached toward you,
you felt that it was to clutch you from the fires of the pit.
In short he was one of those inspired men whose whole lives
have been a cry in the wilderness — one of those who come
for a witness to bear witness of the light. When the closing
hymn had been sung —

the preacher leading and all the congregation joining, and
the mourners gathered (and all were mourners) to look for
the last time upon the face of their dead, Samuel went
forward among the rest.

“You have been wise, my son, to turn aside and tarry
with us for an hour,” said the preacher, taking his hand, “and
I hope you have felt that it is good to be here.”

We will not linger over the solemn ceremonies; let it
suffice to say that when the dust had been consigned to dust,
and the fresh mound of earth heaped up among the briers,
the good people, as they were about to turn their faces
homeward, gathered about Samuel, to make kind inquiries,
and to press upon him their simple hospitality. When he
mentioned whither he was going and whence he had come
and that his main object was to see Father Goodman, there
was a general exclamation of glad surprise, “Why, this is
Father Goodman that you have seen already!”

Samuel's heart sank down — would he ever dare show the

letter of the bishop's son, or the little French slipper to this
austere man? But the austerity vanished as they rode together,
for they were yet ten miles from the Big Bend, though,
as Samuel was glad to find, part of this distance was toward
home again, he having been misdirected and sent quite by
chance in the way of the log meeting-house in the wilderness.

“Not by chance,” says Father Goodman, “chance is nothing;
by Providence, you mean.”

The rivulets and creeks were swollen by the recent rains,
and all out of their banks went tearing, black and turbid,
carrying drift of rails, and mill-dams, and bridges, and sometimes
whole saplings washed out by the roots, and with all
their green branches bruised and broken together. But
Father Goodman was never disconcerted, and never halted
for a single instant, but when he could see the path no longer
he would drop the rope bridle-rein on the neck of his faithful
beast, and let her ford, if she might ford, and if not,
swim to the opposite bank. The roads were miry in some
places, in others bridged with logs, and then again there
were miles of dull, stagnant water to be plashed through.
But never a word of complaint from Father Goodman; he
was as calm and content as though it had been all a summer
meadow through which he was riding. Sometimes he would
sing hymns, making all the wilderness ring again, and sometimes
he would read chapter upon chapter from the Bible, as
though the text were lying open before him, and again his
sun-brown hand would caress the rusty mane of his tired
mare, as softly and kindly as though the rusty mane had
been golden hair.

When they came upon a wood-cutter's hut, or a settler's
cabin, he was sure to ride up to the door in order to give
the inmates God speed, and the mothers would lift up the
youngest boy that he might shake hands, and bring the
baby from the cradle that he might look upon it; and if
there were a flower by the door-side it was broken off and
stuck in his button-hole. Toward sunset they came upon
wider clearings and better settlements, and where the land
begun to be broken, and the streams less raging and wild,
and at last, as the sun was sinking from sight, they beheld
the parting rays glittering upon a church spire away in the
distance, and directly they saw the straggling streets and

shining window panes of a village. That was the village of
Big Bend. At the door of a small, rude house in the out-skirts
of the town they stopped and got down from their
tired beasts. A sweet-faced woman met and welcomed
them, and directly prepared the supper and served them
with her own hands. She was the daughter of Father
Goodman, and her lovely face was but the index of a lovely
character — a widow, and a woman of good repute in all
the churches.

She kept his house, and had always a bright hearth for
him, and a cheerful smile, when he came back from riding
the long, hard circuit. They had a bit of garden ground
and this small house in which they lived, rent free; they
owned a cow and some poultry, and Father Goodman received
a salary of two hundred dollars, and upon this they
supported themselves, and had something left for charity.

The circuit he rode carried him forty miles from home,
and if there chanced to be sick, or poor, or burial in his way,
he gave his service and his heart with it. Besides circuit
duties he preached at the Big Bend three times of a Sunday,
superintended the Sunday school, visited the sick and the
sad, and for his recreation mended his shoes, or digged in
the garden at home. He did not spare his hands, nor his
head, nor his heart, but spent himself and his substance for
the benefit of others, continually. In short, they led the
lives of two saints, he and his tender-eyed daughter, he
imparting Christian faith and hope and courage, she with
her sweet words and ways — her gentle nursing of the sick,
and the helpfulness of her quiet sympathies.

The evening was passed in cheerful, happy conversation,
and it was in the course of the talk, as they sat before the
blazing logs, that Samuel learned what the reader has
already been told about their means and manner of life.

When the unframed skeleton of a clock counted nine
from the dim corner where it stood, the young woman stuck
her knitting-needles through the ball of gray wool yarn off
which she was knitting, and fetching the great Bible laid it
open upon the good man's knees, and it was not until after
the accustomed devotions were ended that Samuel intimated
the errand upon which he had come. Then the young
woman took her candle and went away to bed, and Father
Goodman and his guest remained till the embers burned low

and the rusty weights of the old clock dragged down and
down, almost to the ground, engaged in the saddest confidences.

“O, my Margaret! my little pet Margaret! my baby,
that I have held on my knee a hundred times!” cried
Father Goodman, as he held the letter of the bishop's son
shaking in his hands.

What he read was to this effect — that Margaret was not
to be so importunate, nor to come to him so often as hitherto,
she would only excite suspicion and remark, — for what had
already been he was deeply repentant, but love, even supposing
love to have existed, — in its truest and best sense
he would not say it ever had, — meant a great many other
things than marriage, he could tell her, though she seemed
never to have suspected it. He was mortal and, with other
men, liable to temptation, but Margaret must be aware that
she herself had failed to exercise that severe discretion wise
judgment always dictated. She had taken his love for
granted, he saw, and was sorry to see; she had been misled
in part, he doubted not, by the diamond ring, he having
omitted to tell her — and he confessed himself to blame for
the omission — that the ring was Samuel's gift, and he but
the conveyer of it. And here he more than hinted that it
was not even yet too late to win back her old sweetheart,
who was in fact much worthier of her gentle, confiding
heart than himself. He had certainly never intended marriage,
and he begged that her foolish and childish importunity
should be deferred at least for the present; she must
keep her mind cheerful with visits and patch-work, and not
spoil her pretty eyes with tears — it was quite unworthy
of her generous nature to behave as she was doing, but if
she was determined to make everything but marriage impossible,
he supposed he must submit with such grace as he
might. But not yet. “Do for heaven's sake, Margaret,
bring to your aid a little patience and common sense!
Meantime, rely upon my friendship, and if you desire me to
see Samuel for you, I will do so with the greatest pleasure,
and doubt not but that I could forecast a happier future for
you and him than you by any possibility could hope to
enjoy with me!”

“But how am I to go?” says Father Goodman; “how
am I to leave all my expectant people here? unless indeed,
you, Samuel, should take my place while I am away?”

“I might take it,” answered Samuel, “but to fill it —
that I could never hope to do — and then I am so unworthy.”

Father Goodman smiled at this, and repeated the parable
of the young man who hid his talent, and how his lord
answered and said, “Thou wicked and slothful servant.”
And in the end it was agreed that Samuel should remain,
preaching and exhorting with such power as the spirit
should bestow, while Father Goodman was away.

There was not much time for sleep, for at daybreak the
house was astir again, and after thanksgiving, and the reading
of that chapter from Job beginning, “Even to-day is
my complaint bitter; my stroke is heavier than my groaning,”
they broke fast frugally and simply, the patient,
plodding mare was led to the door, the saddle girted on,
the pack-saddle adjusted, the overcoat rolled up with the
umbrella inside and the red lining out, all firmly secured,
and Father Goodman, with green baize spatterdashes tied
about his legs, mounted and rode away, and in the old
weather-beaten saddle-bags that were slung across the
saddle was the little French slipper and that cruel letter
of the bishop's son.

Sometimes he would stop where there was a clear running
brook, or a bit of fresh grass, and with the old saddle-bags
for a pillow, stretch himself on the ground and rest for
an hour, and then having drank from his double hand, perhaps,
remount and pursue his journey as cheerfully and as
much refreshed as though he had slept in a king's bed.

It was upon the afternoon of the third day of his journey
that he began to get glimpses of the hill-tops that hem in
the beautiful Ohio; his mare, sturdy yet, but not so young
as she once was, was tired, and with the rope rein loose on
her neck was picking her way along the grassy roadside,
and nibbling a mouthful now and then as some fresh bunch
of herbage attracted her, when Father Goodman perceived
a light spring wagon, drawn by two smart young horses,
coming briskly down the hill before him. He was a lover
of horses, and this beautiful pair of grays attracted him;
he had seen them before, he thought, and sure enough, as
they came up the hill he found that he knew them very well,
and their owner, who sat behind them, driving with so
steady a hand. It was Elder Baker of his own church, and
on second thought he remembered that his friend and neighbor

had been from home a fortnight, visiting a daughter
who resided in the city of Cincinnati. He was just returning
now; but what little object was this, seated beside him
on the board that crossed the front of the wagon, looking
so worn, so dejected, and almost drooping upon the old
man's shoulder.

“Why, Father Goodman!” “Brother Baker!” were
the exclamations of surprise and pleasure with which they
greeted one another. Father Goodman had ridden his old
mare close to the wagon-side in order to shake hands with
his neighbor, and all at once he felt the little white fingers
of the drooping creature he had before noticed, clutching
nervously at his arm — and now she had thrown back her
veil and was kissing his hand and weeping over it. Farther
Goodman was weeping too, and trembling nearly as much
as she. It was Margaret.

O, my darling! my pet! my baby!” he cries, and then
leaning one elbow on the shoulder of his mare, reaches
down to her and kisses her cheek.

Margaret wept all the more bitterly at this. “O, my
good father,” she says, all her heart sobbing in her words,
“you would not kiss me if you knew!”

“I do know, my poor child!” he says, patting her head
softly with his great brawny hand; “I do know it all, and
that is why I am here; just to see you my baby; just to
help you, if I can. Thank God I have found you, for I
feared, from the news that came to me, that you had strayed
where I might never find you in this world.”

Then Margaret told him about falling sick in the streets
of the city months past, and about being left by her mother
for an hour or two in a basement grocery store on the
corner of Baker's Alley and Western Row; how the kind
woman who was Elder Baker's daughter tended her, and
how she told her, among other things, that her own father
lived in the town with Father Goodman, and that he was
coming to visit her early in October.

“When it got very dark about me,” said Margaret,
“something seemed to tell me to go to you, so I found out
this good woman in the town, and waited till Elder Baker
was ready to go home, which did not happen till to-day;
and here I am, such as I am!”

And hiding her eyes on the old man's shoulder, she sat

helplessly fluttering like a leaf that is the sport of some
furious wind.

Elder Baker now proposed to drive back to the city, and
leave Margaret for that night with his daughter where he
had found her, but Father Goodman said, “No; my mare
will carry double; I will take the child right in my arms;
I know all the country hereabout, and by riding one of the
cross-roads, we shall reach home almost as soon as we
should reach the city.”

So they took farewell, and with a cheerful God speed,
rode their separate ways. Father Goodman and Margaret
talked of Peter and his happy death, of Mrs. Whiteflock
and her runaway children, of everybody except the bishop's
son, as they rode slowly toward the sunset, Margaret
nestling close to the great, good heart that was come to
befriend her.

It was dusk when they came into the town, and not many
people were astir in the streets. Still, whoever saw Father
Goodman, recognized him, and Margaret, about whom,
since she had been missing, there had been the wildest
excitement, was recognized too, and the news ran like wildfire
over the village. Without halting, without turning to
the right or left, they rode through the main street, past
the butcher's little house, past Miss Goke's broad window,
where one tallow candle was throwing its feeble light upon
bonnets and ribbons, on, straight on, till they came to the
gate of the parsonage. It was wide open, and the stable-yard
was full of bustle — carriages and saddle-horses, and
extra servants; the bishop's son was entertaining visitors,
and as he sat at the head of his supper-table, the wine-glass
literally fell out of his hand, crashing to pieces, and so
drawing all eyes upon him. He had seen, riding past his
windows, and up to his very door, Father Goodman with
Margaret on his saddle-bow!

As soon as he could command himself he made excuses
to his guests. “Here is a reverend father,” he said,
“whom you all will be glad to honor. Pray allow me with
my own hand to fetch him to you and present him!” And
when he had welcomed Father Goodman, he said: “Margaret,
doubtless, is too weary to join us, and shall be served
in her own room.” And drawing her aside, he conducted
her into the house by another way.

She did not lift her eyes to him; in truth, he almost
carried her, a white little bundle, limp in his arm as a rag,
but he felt, as he held her thus, for the eyes of Father
Goodman were upon him, that he was bearing the burden
of all his life.

Before another sunset they were married, Father Goodman
officiating, and Dr. and Mrs. Allprice, Mrs. Whiteflock
and Miss Goke attending as witnesses.

“It will be my turn next!” whispered Miss Goke to
Mrs. Dr. Allprice, as she was about taking leave; “but
how dreadful plain your bonnet is! not a speck of lace, nor
a flower! It's all the Doctor's work, I know!”

“By no means, my dear!” says the denuded lady
quickly; “I never can dress gayly enough to please
Prosper, but somehow my tastes have changed since I was
married!”

She winced visibly, as she said this, and her eyes fastened
the while upon Miss Goke's furbelows, as the eyes of one
who is starving, fasten upon bread.

When Father Goodman rode homeward, he carried in his
saddle-bags the second of the pair of woollen mittens which
Samuel had left unfinished when he went away, and in his
heart he carried a hundred kind messages, among them,
one for Samuel to keep and ride old Sorrel, as long as he
lived, for it was predicted, and rightly, that he would soon
be licensed to preach, and remain in the wild new country
where he was, for good and all.