menu_book Chapter 3

Section 3 of 1891 Collection. A Native of Wembee by Sarah Oran Jewett for the 1891 Collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.

Written by Matt Perard. 1891 Collection by Varius. Section 3. A Native of Wembee by Sarah Oran Jewett. Part 1.

On the teacher's desk in the little roadside schoolhouse there was a bunch of Mayflowers beside a dented and bent brass bell, a small Worcesters dictionary without any cover, and a worn Morocco-covered Bible. These were placed in an orderly row and behind them was a small wooden box which held some broken pieces of blackboard crayon.

The teacher, whom no timid new scholar could look at boldly, wore her a custom air of authority and importance. She might have been nineteen years old, not more, but for the time being she scorned the frivolities of youth. The hot May sun was shining in at the smoky, small-paned windows, sometimes an outside

shutter swung to with a creak and eclipsed the glare. The narrow door stood wide open to the left as you faced the desk, and an old spotted dog lay asleep on the step and looked wise and old enough to have gone to school with several generations of children. It was half past three o'clock in the afternoon and the primer class, settled into the apathy

of after recessed fatigue, presented a straggling front as they stood listlessly on the floor. As for the big boys and girls, they also were longing to be at liberty, but the pretty teacher, Miss Marilla Hender, seemed quite as energetic as when school was begun in the morning. The spring breeze blew in at the open door and even fluttered the primer leaves, but the back of the room felt hot close, as if it were midsummer.

The children in the class read their lessons in those high-keyed, groaning voices which older teachers learned to associate with faint powers of perception. Only one or two of them had an awakened human look in their eyes, such as Matthew Arnold delighted himself in finding so often in the school children of France. Most of these poor little students were as inadequate at that very moment to the pursuit

of letters as if they had been woolly spring lambs on a sunny hillside. The teacher corrected and admonished with great patience, glancing now and then toward points of danger and insurrection. Whence came a suspicious buzz of whispering from behind a desk lid or a pair of widespread large geographies.

Now and then a tolling child would rise and come down the aisle with his forefinger firm upon a puzzling word as if it were an unclassified insect. It was a lovely, beckoning day out of doors. The children felt like captives. There was something that provoked rebellion in the droning voices, the buzzing of an early

wild bee against the sunlit pane and even in the stuffy familiar odor of the place, the odor of apples and crumbs of doughnuts and gingerbread in the dinner pails on the high entry nails and of all the little gowns and trousers that had brushed through junipers and young pines on their way to school. The bee left his prisoning pain at last and came over to the Mayflowers which were in

full bloom although the season was very late and deep in the woods there were still some gray-backed snowdrifts speckled with bits of bark and moss from the trees above. Come, come, Ezra, urged the young teacher, wrapping her desk sharply. Stop watching that common bee. You know well enough what those letters spell.

You won't learn to read at this rate until you are a grown man. Mind your book now. You ought to remember who went to the school when he was a little boy. You've heard folks tell about the Honorable Joseph K. Laneway. He used to be in Primmer just as you are now and it wasn't long before he was out of it

either and was called the smartest boy in school. He's got to be a general and a senator and one of the richest men out west. You don't seem to have the least might of ambition today, any of you. The exhortation, entirely personal in the beginning, had swiftly passed to a general rebuke.

Ezra looked relieved and the other children brightened up as they recognized a tale familiar to their ears. Anything was better than trying to study in that dull last hour of afternoon school. Yes, continued Miss Henter, pleased that she had at last roused something like proper attention. You all ought to be proud that you are schoolmates of District Number Four and can remember that

the celebrated General Laneway had the same early advantages as you and think what he has made of himself by perseverance and ambition. The pupils were familiar enough with the illustrious history of their noble predecessor. They were sure to be told in lawless moments that if Mr. Laneway were to come in and see them he would be mortified to death and the members of the school committee always referred

to him and said that he had been a poor boy and was now a self-made man. As if every man were not self-made as to his character and reputation. At this point young Johnny Spencer showed his next neighbor in the back of his Colburn's arithmetic an imaginary portrait of their district hero which caused them both to chuckle derisively. The Honorable Mr. Laneway figured on the flyleaf as an extremely cross-eyed person with strangely

crooked legs and arms and a terrific expression. He was outlined with red and blue pencils as to coat and trousers and held a reddened scalp in one hand and a blue tomahawk in the other being closely associated in the artist's mind with the early settlements of the far west. There was a noise of wheels in the road nearby and though Miss Hender had much more to say

everybody ceased to listen to her and turned toward the windows leaning far forward over the desks to see who might be passing. They caught a glimpse of a shiny carriage. The old dog bounded out barking but nothing passed the open door. The carriage had stopped.

Someone was coming to the school. Somebody was going to be called out. It could not be the committee whose pompous and uninspiring spring visit had taken place only the week before. Presently a well-dressed elderly man with an expectant masterful look stood on the doorstep,

glanced in with a smile and knocked. Miss Marilla Hender blushed, smoothed her pretty hair anxiously with both hands and stepped down from her little platform to answer the summons. There was hardly a shut mouth in the primer class. Would it be convenient for you to receive a visitor to the school?

The stranger asked politely with a fine bow of deference to Miss Hender. He looked much pleased and a little excited and the teacher said, Certainly, step right in, won't you, sir? In quite another tone from that in which she had just addressed the school. The boys and girls were sitting straight and silent in their places in something like a

fit of apprehension and unpreparedness at such a great emergency. The guest represented a type of person previously unknown in district number four. Everything about him spoke of wealth and authority. The old dog returned to the doorstep and after a careful look at the invader approached him with a funny dog-ish grin and a desperate wag of the tail to beg for recognition.

The teacher gave her chair on the platform to the guest and stood beside him with very red cheeks, smoothing her hair again once or twice and keeping the hardwood roller fast in hand like a badge of office. Another class may now retire, she said firmly, although the lesson was not more than half through, and the class promptly escaped to their seats, waddling and stumbling until

they all came up behind their desk face foremost and added themselves to the number of staring young countenances. After this there was a silence which grew more and more embarrassing. You would be pleased to hear our first class in geography, sir, asked the fair Marilla, recovering her presence of mind, and the guest kindly assented.

The young teacher was by no means willing to give up a certainty for an uncertainty. Yesterday's lesson had been well learned. She turned back to the questions about the state of Cansota and at the first sentence. The mysterious visitor's dignity melted into an unconscious smile. He listened intently for a minute and then seemed to re-occupy himself with his own thoughts

and purposes, looking eagerly about the old schoolhouse and sometimes gazing steadily at the children. The lesson went on finally and when it was finished, Miss Hender asked the girl at the class to name the states and territories, which she instantly did, mispronouncing nearly all the names of the latter.

Then others stated boundaries and capitals and the resources of the New England states, passing on finally to the names of the presidents. Miss Hender glowed with pride. She had worked hard over the geography class in the winter term and it did not fail her on this great occasion.

When she turned bravely to see if the gentleman would like to ask any questions, she found that he was apparently lost in a deep reverie. So she repeated her own question more distinctly. They have done very well, very well indeed, he answered kindly. And then to everyone's surprise, he rose, went up the aisle, pushed Johnny Spencer gently

along his bench and sat down beside him. The space was cramped and the stranger looked huge and uncomfortable, so that everybody laughed except one of the big girls who turned pale with fright and thought he must be crazy. When this girl gave a faint squeak, Miss Hender recovered herself and rapped twice with the ruler to restore order, then became entirely tranquil.

There had been talk of replacing the hacked and worn old school desks with patent desks and chairs. This was probably an agent connected with that business. At once she was resolute and self-reliant and said, no whispering, in a firm tone that showed she did not mean to be trifled with.

The geography class was dismissed, but the elderly gentleman in his handsome overcoat still sat there wedged in at Johnny Spencer's side. I presume, sir, that you are canvassing for new desks, said Miss Hender with dignity. You will have to see the supervisor and the selectman. There did not seem to be any need of his lingering, but she had an ardent desire to be pleasing

to a person of such evident distinction. She always tells strangers, I thought, sir, you might be gratified to know that this is a schoolhouse where the Honorable Joseph K. Laneway first attended school. All do not know that he was born in this town and went west very young. It is only about a mile from here where his folks used to live.

At this moment the visitor's eyes fell. He did not look at pretty Marilla any more, but opened Johnny Spencer's arithmetic and, seeing the imaginary portrait of the great General Laneway, laughed a little. A very deep-down, comfortable laugh it was. While Johnny himself turned cold with alarm, he could not have told why.

It was very still in the schoolroom. The bee was buzzing and bumping at the pain again. The moment was one of intense expectation. The stranger looked at the children, right and left. The fact is this, young people, said he, in a tone that was half pride and half apology.

I am Joseph K. Laneway myself. He tried to extricate himself from the narrow quarters of the desk, but for an embarrassing moment found that he was stuck fast. Johnny Spencer instinctively gave him an assisting push, and once free the great soldier, statesman, and millionaire took a few steps forward to the open floor.

Then, after hesitating a moment, he mounted the little platform and stood in the teacher's place. Marilla Hinder was as pale as ashes. I have thought many times, the great guest began, that some day I should come back to visit this place, which is so closely interwoven with the memories of my childhood.

In my counting room, on the fields of war, in the halls of congress, and most of all in my western home, my thoughts have flown back to the hills and brooks of Wimbee and to this little old schoolhouse. I could shut my eyes and call back the buzz of voices and fear my teachers frown and feel my boyish ambitions waking and stirring in my breast.

On that bench where I just sat, I saw some notches that I cut with my first jackknife 58 years ago this very spring. I remember the faces of the boys and girls who went to school with me, and I see their grandchildren before me. I know that one is a good-so and another a win by the old family look.

One generation goes and another comes. There are many things that I might say to you. I meant, even in those early, restricted days, to make my name known, and I dare say that you too have ambition. Be careful what you wish for in this world, for if you wish hard enough, you are sure

to get it. I once heard a very wise man say this, and the longer I live, the more firmly I believe it to be, true. But wishing hard means working hard for what you want, and the world's prizes wait for the men and women who are ready to take pains to win them.

Be careful and set your minds on the best things. I meant to be a rich man when I was a boy here, and I stand before you, a rich man, knowing the care and anxiety and responsibility of wealth. I meant to go to Congress, and I am one of the senators from CanSoda. I say this as humbly as I say it proudly.

I used to read of the valor and patriotism of the old Greeks and Romans with my youthful blood leaping along my veins, and it came to pass that my own country was in danger and that I could help to fight her battles. Perhaps some one of these little lads has before him a more eventful life than I have lived, and is looking forward to activity and honor and the pride of fame.

I wish him all the joy that I have had, all the toll that I have had, and all the bitter disappointments even. For adversity leads a man to depend upon that which is above him, and the path of glory is a lonely path beset by temptations and a bitter sense of the weakness and imperfection of man.

I see my life spread out like a great picture as I stand here in my boyhood's place. I regret my failures. I thank God for what in His kind providence has been honest and right. I am glad to come back, but I feel, as I look in your young faces, that I am an old man while your lives are just beginning.

When you remember in years to come that I came here to see the old schoolhouse, remember that I said, wish for the best things and work hard to win them, try to be good men and women, for the honor of the school and the town and the noble young country that gave you birth. Be kind at home and generous abroad.

Remember that I, an old man who had seen much of life, begged you to be brave and good. The honorable Mr. Laneway had rarely felt himself so moved in any of his public speeches, but he was obliged to notice that for once he could not hold his audience. The primer class especially had begun to flag an attention, but one or two faces among the elder scholars fairly shone with vital sympathy and a lovely prescience of their

future. Their eyes met his, as if they struck a flash of light. There was a sturdy boy who half rose in his place unconsciously, the color coming and going in his cheeks. The reading in Mr. Laneway's words lit the altar flame in his reverent heart.

Marilla Hender was pleased and a little dazed. She could not have repeated what her illustrious visitor had said, but she longed to tell everybody the news that he was in town and had come to school to make an address. She had never seen a great man before and really needed time to reflect upon him and to consider what she ought to say.

She was just quivering with the attempt to make a proper reply and thank Mr. Laneway for the honor of his visit to the school. When he asked her which of the boys could be trusted to drive back his hired horse to the Four Corners. Eight boys, large and small, nearly every boy in the school, rose at once and snapped

insistent fingers. But Johnny Spencer alone was desirous not to attract attention to himself. The Colburn's intellectual arithmetic with a portrait had been well secreted between his tight jacket and his shirt. Miss Hender selected a trustworthy, freckled person in long trousers who was halfway to

the door in an instant and was heard almost immediately to shout loudly at the quiet horse. Then the hero of District Number Four made his acknowledgments to the teacher. I fear that I have interrupted you too long, he said with pleasing deference. Morella replied that it was of no consequence. She hoped he would call again.

She may have spoken primly, but her pretty eyes said everything that her lips forgot. My grandmother will want to see you, sir, she ventured to say. I guess you will remember her. Miss Hender, she that was Abby Herron. She has often told me how you used to get your lessons out of the same book.

Abby Herron's granddaughter? Mr. Laneway looked at her again with fresh interest. Yes, I wish to see her more than anyone else. Tell her that I am coming to see her before I go away and give her my love. Thank you, my dear.

As Morella offered his missing hat. Goodbye, boys and girls. He stopped and looked at them once more from the boys' entry and turned again to look back from the very doorstep. Part Two The Honorable Mr. Laneway found the outdoor air very fresh and sweet after the closeness of the schoolhouse.

He felt just that same odor in his boyhood, and as he escaped he had a delightful sense of playing truant or of having an unexpected holiday. It was easier to think of himself as a boy and to slip back into his boyish thoughts than to bear the familiar burden of his manhood. He climbed the tumbledown stone wall across the road and went along a narrow path to the spring that bubbled up clear and cold under a great red oak. How many times he had longed for a drink of that water, and now here it was, and the thirst of that warm spring day was hard to quench. Again and again he stopped to fill birch bark dipper which the children had made, just as his own comrades made theirs years before.

The oak tree was dying at the top. The pine woods beyond had been cut and had grown again since his boyhood and looked much as he remembered them. Beyond the spring and away from the woods, the path led across overgrown pastures to another road, perhaps three-quarters of a mile away, and near this road was the small farm which had been his former home. As he walked slowly along, he was met again and again by some reminder of his youthful days. He had always liked to refer to his early life in New England and his political addresses, and had spoken more than once of going to find the cows at nightfall in the autumn evenings, and being glad to warm his bare feet in the places where the sleepy beasts had lain, before he followed their slow steps homeward through Bush and Brier.

The Honorable Mr. Laneway had a touch of true sentiment which added much to his really stirring and effective campaign speeches. He had often been called the king of the platform in his adopted state. He had long ago grown used to saying, Go to one man and come to another, like the ruler of old. But all his natural power of leadership and habit of authority disappeared at once as he trod the pasture slopes, calling back the remembrance of his childhood. Here was the place where two lads, older than himself, had killed a terrible woodchuck at bay in the angle of a great rock.

And just beyond was the sunny spot where he had picked a bunch of pink and white anemones under a prickly, barbery thicket to give to Abbie Haran in morning school. She had put them into her dust and let them wilt there, but she was pleased when she took them. Abbie Haran, the little teacher's grandmother, was a year older than he and had wakened the earliest thought of love in his youthful breast. It was almost time to catch the first sight of his birthplace. From the Knoll, just ahead, he had often seen the light of his mother's lamp as he came home from school on winter afternoons.

But when he reached the Knoll, the old house was gone, and so was the great walnut tree that grew beside it. And a pang of disappointment shot through this devout pilgrim's heart. He never had doubted that the old farm was somebody's home still, and had counted upon the pleasure of spending a night there and sleeping again in that room under the roof, where the rain sounded loud and the walnut branches brushed to and fro when the wind blew, as if they were the claws of tigers. He hurried across the worn-out fields, long ago turned into sheep pastures, where the last year's tall grass and goldenrod stood gray and winter-killed,

tracing the old walls and fences and astonished to see how small the fields had been. The prosperous owner of western farming lands could not help remembering those widespread luxuriant acres and the broad outlooks of his western home. It was difficult at first to find exactly where the house had stood. Even the foundations had disappeared. At last, in the long, faded grass, he discovered the doorstep, and nearby was a little mound where the great walnut tree stump had been.

The cellar was a mere dent in the sloping ground. It had been filled in by the growing grass and slow processes of summer and winter weather. But just at the pilgrim's right were some thorny twigs of an old rose bush. A sudden brightening of memory brought to mind the love that his mother, dead since his fifteenth year, had kept for this sweet prayer. How often she had wished that she had brought it to her new home.

So much had changed in the world. So many had gone into the world of light, and here the faithful blooming thing was yet alive. There was one slender branch where green buds were starting and getting ready to flower in the new year. The afternoon wore late, and still the grey-haired man lingered. He might have laughed at someone else, who gave himself up to sad thoughts and found fault with himself, with no defendant to plead his cause at the bar of conscience.

It was an altogether lonely hour. He had dreamed all his life in a sentimental, self-satisfied fashion of this return to Windby. It had always appeared to be a grand affair, but so far he was himself the only interested spectator at his poor occasion. There was even a dismal consciousness that he had been undignified, perhaps even a little consequential and silly in the old schoolhouse. The picture of himself on the warpath in Johnny Spencer's arithmetic was the only tribute that this long-for-day had held.

But he laughed aloud delightedly at the remembrance, and really liked that sullen little boy who sat at his own old desk. There was another older lad who sat at the back of the room, who reminded Mr. Langway of himself and his eager youth. There was a spark of light in that fellow's eyes. Once or twice in the earlier afternoon, as he drove along. He had asked people in the road if there were a Langway family in that neighborhood, but everybody had said no in indifferent fashion.

Somehow he had been expecting that everyone would know him and greet him and give him credit for what he had tried to do. But old Winby had her own affairs to look after, and did very well without any of his help. Mr. Langway acknowledged to himself at this point that he was weak and unmanly. There must be some old friends who would remember him and give him as hearty a welcome as the greeting he had brought for them. So he rose and went his way westward toward the sunset.

The air was growing damp and cold, and it was time to make sure of shelter. This was hardly like the visit he had meant to pay his birthplace. He wished with all his heart that he had never come back. But he walked briskly away, intent upon wider thoughts as the fresh evening breeze quickened his steps. He did not consider where he was going, but was, for a time, the busy man of affairs stimulated by the unconscious influence of his surroundings.

The slender gray birches and pitch pines of that neglected pasture had never before seen a hat and coat exactly in the fashion. They may have been abashed by the presence of a United States Senator and Western millionaire, though a piece of New England ground that had often felt the tread of his bare feet was not likely to quake because a pair of smart shoes stepped hastily along the schoolhouse path. PART THREE There was an imperative knock at the side door of the Hinder farmhouse just after dark. The young schoolmistress had come home late because she had stopped all the way along to give people the news of her afternoon's experience.

Morello was not coy and speechless any longer, but sat by the kitchen stove telling her eager grandmother everything she could remember or could imagine. Who's that knocking at the door? interrupted Mrs. Hinder. No, I'll go myself. I'm nearest. The man outside was cold and footwear. He was not used to spending a whole day unrecognized and, after being first amused and even enjoying a sense of freedom at escaping his just dues of consideration and respect, he had begun to feel as if he were old and forgotten and was hardly sure of a friend in the world. Old Mrs. Hinder came to the door with her eyes shining with delight in great haste to dismiss whoever had knocked so that she might hear the rest of Morello's story.

She opened the door wide to whoever might have come on some country errand and looked the tired and faint-hearted Mr. Laneway full in the face. Dear heart, come in! she exclaimed, reaching out and taking him by the shoulder as he stood humbly on a lower step. Come right in, Joe. Why, I should know you anywhere. Why, Joe Laneway, you same boy. In they went to the warm, bright country kitchen. The delight and kindness of an old friend's welcome and her instant sympathy seemed the loveliest thing in the world. They sat down in two old, straight-backed kitchen chairs. They still held each other by the hand and looked in each other's face.

The plain old worm was aglow with heat and cheerfulness. The tea kettle was singing. A drowsy cat sat on the wood box with her paws tucked in. And the house dog came forward in a friendly way, wagging his tail and laid his head on their clasped hands. And to think I haven't seen you since your folks moved out west the next spring after you were thirteen in the winter, said the good woman. But I suppose there ain't been anybody that has followed your career closer than I have, according to their opportunities. You've done a great work for your country, Joe. I'm proud of you. Clean through.

Sometimes folks have said, There, there, Miss Hender. What be you going to say now? But I've always told them to wait. I knew you saw your reasons. He was always an honest boy. The tears started and shone in her kind eyes. Her face showed that she had waged a bitter war with poverty and sorrow. But the look of affection that had wore her and the warm touch of her hard hand, misshapen and worn with toil, touched her old friend and his inmost heart.

For a moment, neither could speak. They do say that women folks have got no natural head for politics, but I always could seem to sense what was going on in Washington, if there was any sense to it, said Grandmother Hender at last. Nobody could puzzle you at school, I remember, answered Mr. Laneway, and they both laughed heartily. But surely this granddaughter does not make your household. You have sons? Two, beside her father. He died, but they're both away, up toward Canada, buying cattle. We are getting along considerable well these last few years, since they got a mitre capital together. But the old farm wasn't really able to maintain us, with the heavy expenses that fell on us, unexpected, year by year.

I've seen a great sight of troubled Joe, my boy John, Marilla's father, and his nice wife. I lost them both early, when Marilla was but a child. John was the flower of my family. He would have made a name for himself. He would have taken to John. I was sorry to hear of your loss, said Mr. Laneway. He was a brave man. I know what he did at Fredericksburg. You remember that I lost my wife and my only son? There was a silence between the friends, who had no need for words now. They understood each other's heart only too well. Marilla, who sat near them, rose and went out of the room. Yes, yes, daughter, said Mrs. Hender, calling her back. We ought to be thinking about supper. I was going to light a little fire in the parlour, explained Marilla, with a slight tone of rebuke in her clear, girlish voice.

Oh, no, you ain't. Not now, at least, protested the elder woman, decidedly. Now, Joseph, what should you like to have for supper? I wish to my heart I had some fried turnovers like those you used to come after when you was a boy. I can make them just about the same as mother did. I'll be bound you've thought of some old-fashioned dish that you'd relish for your supper. Right, drop cakes, then, if they wouldn't give you too much trouble, answered the Honorable Joseph, with prompt seriousness, and don't forget some cheese. He looked up at his old playfellow as she stood beside him, eager with affection at hospitality.

You've no idea what a comfort Marilla's been, she stopped to whisper. Always took right hold and helped me when she was a baby. She's as good as made up already to me, for my heaven, no daughter. I want you to get acquainted with Marilla. The granddaughter was still awed and anxious about the entertainment of so distinguished a guest when her grandmother appeared at last in the pantry. I ain't going to let you do no such a thing, darling, said Abby Hinder, when Marilla spoke of making something that she called fairy gems, or tea, after a new and essentially feminine recipe. You just let me get supper tonight. The General has enough kick-shaws to eat. He wants a good, hearty, old-fashioned supper, the same country cooking he remembers when he was a boy.

He went so far himself as to speak of rye, drop-cakes, and there ain't one in a hundred nowadays knows how to make the kind he needs. You go and lay the table just as we always have it, except you can get out them old big spraped cups, oh my mothers, don't put on none of the parlour clothes things. Marilla went off, crestfallen and demurring. She had a noble desire to show Mr. Laneway that they knew how to have things as well as anybody, and was sure that he would consider it more polite to be asked into the best room, and to sit there alone until tea was ready. But the illustrious Mr. Laneway was allowed to stay in the kitchen, in apparent happiness, and to watch the proceedings from beginning to end. The two old friends talked industriously, but he saw his rye drop-cakes go into the oven and come out, and his teammate and his piece of salt fish, broiled and buttered, a broad piece of honeycomb, set on to match some delightful thick slices of brown-crusted loaf-bread, and all the simple feast prepared.

There was a sufficient piece of Abbie Hinder's best cheese. It must be confessed that there were also some baked beans, and as one thing after another appeared, the Honourable Joseph K. Laneway grew hungrier and hungrier, until he fairly looked pale with anticipation and delay, and was bidden at that very moment to draw up his chair and make himself a supper, if he could. What cups of tea, what uncounted rye drop-cakes went to the making of that successful supper? How gay the two old friends became, and of what old stories they reminded each other, and how late the dark spring evening grew, before the feast was over and the straight-back chairs were set against the kitchen wall. Marilla listened for a long time with more or less interest, but at last she took one of her school books with slight ostentation, and went over to study by the land. Mrs. Hinder had brought her knitting work, a blue-woolen stocking, out of the drawer, and sat down serene and unruffled, prepared to keep awake as late as possible. She was a woman who had kept her youthful looks through the difficulties of farm life as few women can, and this added to her guests' sense of homeliness and pleasure. There was something that he felt to be sisterly and comfortable in her strong figure. He even noticed the little plaid woolen shawl that she wore about her shoulders.

Dear uncomplaining heart of Abby Hinder, The appealing friendliness of the good woman made no demands except to be allowed to help and to serve everybody who came in her way. Now began, in good earnest, the talk of old times and what had become of this and that old schoolmate, how one family had come to want and another to wealth. The change and losses and windfalls of good fortune in that rural neighbourhood were made tragedy and comedy by turns in Abby Hinder's dramatic speech. She grew younger and more entertaining hour by hour and beguiled the grave senator into confidential talk of national affairs.

He had much to say, to which she had listened with rare sympathy and intelligence. She astonished him by her comprehension of difficult questions of the day and by her simple good sense. Morella grew hopelessly sleepy and departed, but neither of them turned to notice her as she lingered a moment at the door to say good night. When the immediate subjects of conversation were fully discussed, however, there was an unexpected interval of silence and, after making sure that her knitting stitches counted exactly right, Abby Hinder cast a questioning glance at the senator to see if he had it in mind to go to bed. She was reluctant to end her evening so soon, but determined to act the part of considerate hostess.

The guest was as wide awake as ever. Eleven o'clock was the best part of his evening. Cider, he suggested, with an expectant smile, and Abby Hinder was on her feet in a moment. When she had brought a picture from the pantry, he took a candle from the high shelf and lit the way. To think of your remembering our old cellar candlestick all these years, laughed the pleased woman as she followed him down the steep stairway and then laughed still more at his delight and the familiar look of the place. Unchanged as the pyramids, he said, I suppose those pound sweetings that used to be in that farthest bend were eaten up months ago?

It was plain to see that the household stores were waning low, as befitted the time of year, but there was still enough in the old cellar. Care and thrift and gratitude made the poor farmhouse a rich place. This woman of real ability had spent her strength from youth to age and had lavished as much industry and power organization in her narrow sphere as would have made her famous in a wider one. Joseph Laneway could not help sighing as he thought of it. How many things this good friend had missed, and yet how much she had been able to win that makes everywhere the very best of life.

Poor and early widowed, there must have been a constant battle with poverty on that stony Heron farm, whose owners had been pitied even in his early boyhood, when the best of farming life was not too easy. But Abby Hinder had always been one of the leaders of the town. Now, before we sit down again, I want you to step into my best room. Perhaps you won't have time in the morning and I've got something to show you, she said persuasively. It was a plain, old-fashioned best room, with a look of pleasantness in spite of the spring chill and the stiffness of the best chairs.

That lingered before the picture of Mrs. Hinder's soldier son, a poor work of a poorer artist in crayons, but the spirit of the young face shone up appealingly. Then they crossed the room and stood before some bookshelves and Abby Hinder's face brightened into a beaming smile of triumph. You didn't expect we should have all those books now, did you, Joe Laneway? she asked. He shook his head soberly and leaned forward to read the titles. There were no very new ones, as if times had been hard of late.

Almost every volume was either history or biography or travel. Their owner had reached out of her own narrow boundaries into other lives and to far countries. He recognized with gratitude two or three congressional books that he had sent her when he first went to Washington. And there was a life of himself written from a partisan point of view and issued in one of his most exciting campaigns. The sight of it touched him to the heart and then she opened it and showed him the three or four letters that he had written her.

One in boyish handwriting describing his adventures on his first western journey. There are a hundred and six volumes now, announced the proud owner of such a library. I lend them all I can or most of them would look better. I have had to wait a good while for some and some weren't what I expected them to be. But most of them's as good books as there is in the world.

I've never been so situated that it seemed best for me to indulge in the daily paper and I don't know but it's just as well. But stories were never any great of a temptation. I know pretty well what's going on about me and I can make that do. Real life's interesting enough for me. Mr. Laneway was still looking over the books.

His heart smote him for not being thoughtful. He knew well enough that the overflow of his own library would have been delightful to the self-denying, eager-minded soul. I've been a very busy man all my life, Abby, he said impulsively, as if she waited for some apology for his forgetfulness. But I'll say to it now that you have what you want to read. I don't mean to lose hold of your advice on state matters.

They both laughed and he added, I have always thought of you if I haven't shown it. There's more time to read than there used to be. I've had what was best for me, answered the woman gently, with a grateful look on her face as she turned to glance at her old friend. Marilla takes hold wonderfully and helps me with the work. In the long winter evenings you can't think what a treat a new book is.

I wouldn't change places with the Queen. They had come back to the kitchen and she stood before the cupboard, reaching high for two old gaily-striped crockery mugs. There were some doughnuts and cheese at hand. Their early supper seemed quite forgotten. The kitchen was warm and they had taught themselves thirsty and hungry, but with what an unexpected tang the cider freshened their throats.

Mrs. Hender had picked the apples herself that went to the press. They were all chosen from the old russet tree and the gnarly red-cheeked, un-grafted fruit that grew along the lane. The flavour made one think of frosty autumn mornings on high hillsides of north winds and sunny skies. It livens one to the heart, as Mrs. Hender remarked proudly, when the Senator tried to praise it as much as it deserved and finally gave a cheerful laugh, such as he had not laughed for many a day. Why, it seems like drinking the month of October, he told her.

And at this the hostess reached over, protesting that the strength mug was too narrow to hold what it ought and filled it up again. Oh, Jo Laneway, to think that I see you at last after all these years, she said, how rich I shall feel with this evening to live over. I've always wanted to see somebody that I'd read about and now I've got that to remember. But I've always known I should see you again and I believe it was the Lord's will. Early the next morning they said good-bye. The early breakfast had to be hurried and Marilla was to drive Mr. Laneway to the station, three miles away.

It was Saturday morning and she was free from school. Mr. Laneway strolled down the lane before breakfast was ready and came back with a little bunch of pink anemones in his hand. Marilla thought that he meant to give them to her, but he laid them beside her grandmother's plate. You mustn't put those in your desk, he said with a smile, and Abby Hentard blushed like a girl. I've got those others now dried and put away somewhere in one of my books, she said quietly, and Marilla wondered what they meant.

The two old friends shook hands warmly at parting. I wish you could have stayed another day so I could have had the minister come and see you, urged Mrs. Hentard regretfully. You couldn't have done any more for me. I have had the best visit in the world, he answered, a little shaken, and holding her hand a moment longer, while Marilla sat, young and impatient, in the high wagon. You're a dear, good woman, Abby. Sometimes when things have gone wrong, I've been sorry that I ever had to leave Wembe.

The woman's clear eyes looked straight into his, then fell. You wouldn't have done everything you have for the country, she said. Give me a kiss. We're getting to be old folks now, said the general, and they kissed each other gravely. A moment later, Abby Hentard stood alone in her dooryard, watching and waving her hand again and again,

while the wagon rattled away down the lane and turned into the high road. Two hours after, Marilla returned from the station and rushed into the kitchen. Grandma, she exclaimed. You never did see such a crowd in Wembe as there was at the depot. Everybody in town had got word about General Laneway, and they were pushing up to shake hands and cheering same as at election, and the cars waited much as ten minutes, and all the folks was looking out of the windows and came out on the platforms when they heard who it was.

Folks say that he'd been to see the selectman yesterday, before he came to school, and he's going to build an elegant town hall and have the names put up in it of all the Wembe men that went to the war. Marilla sank into a chair flushed with excitement. Everybody was asking me about his being here last night and what he said to the school. I wished that you'd gone down to the depot instead of me.

I had the best part of anybody, said Mrs. Hentard, smiling and going on with her Saturday morning work. I'm real glad they showed him proper respect. She added a moment afterward, but her voice faltered. Why, you ain't been crying, Grandma, asked the girl. I guess you're tired. You had a real good time now, didn't you? Yes, dear heart, said Abby Hentard. Taint pleasant to be growing old, that's all.

I couldn't help noticing his age as he rode away. I've always been looking forward to seeing him again, and now it's all over. End of section 3, A Native of Wembe by Sarah Orne Jewett