Story 7 of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1896-1901 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Maria Therese. Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1896-1901 By Lucy Maud Montgomery In spite of myself, my trunk was packed and I had arranged with my senior partner. I was a junior member of a law firm for a month's vacation. Aunt Lucy had written that her husband had gone on a sea trip and she wished me to superintend the business of his farm and mills in his absence if I could arrange to do so. She added that Cassie thought it was a pity to trouble me and wanted to do the overseeing herself, but that she, Aunt Lucy, preferred to have a man at the head of affairs. I had never seen my step-cousin, Augusta Ashley, but I knew from Aunt Lucy's remarks concerning her pretty much what sort of person she was. Just the precise kind I disliked immeasurably. I had no idea what her age was, but that was she was over thirty, tall, determined, aggressive, with a faculty for managing, a sharp, probing nose, and a wide formation between her eyebrows. I knew the type and I was assured that the period of sojourn with my respected aunt would be one of strife between Miss Ashley and myself. I wrote to Aunt Lucy to expect me, made all necessary arrangements, and went to Benelli Goodbye.  I had never openly avowed myself her suitor, but we were cousins, and had grown up together, so that I knew her well enough to be sure of my ground. I liked her so well that it was easy to persuade myself that I was in love with her. She more nearly fulfilled the requirements of my ideal wife than anyone I knew. She was pleasant to look upon, without being distractingly pretty, small and fair and womanly. She dressed nicely, sang and played agreeably, danced well, and had a cheerful affectionate disposition. She was not alarmingly clever, had no hobbies, and looked up to me as heir to all the wisdom of the ages. What man does not like to be thought clever and brilliant? I had no formidable rival, and our families were anxious for the match. I considered myself a lucky fellow. I felt that I would be very lonely without Nelly when I was away, and she admitted frankly that she would miss me awfully. She looked so sweet that I was on the point of asking her then and there to marry me. Well, fate interfered in the guise of a small brother, so I said goodbye and left, mentally comparing her to my idea of Miss Augusta Ashley, much to the latter's disadvantage. When I stepped from the train at a sleepy country station next day, I was promptly waylaid by a black-eyed urchin who informed me that Mrs. Ashley had sent him with an express wagon for my luggage, and that Miss Gussie was waiting with the carriage at the store, pointing down to a small building before whose door a girl was trying to soothe her frightened horse. As I went down the slope towards her, I noticed she was tall, quite too tall for my taste. I disliked women who can look into my eye on a level, but I had to admit that her form was remarkably symmetrical and graceful. She put out her hand. It was ungloved and large, but white and firm, with a cold, pleasant touch, and said, with a composure akin to indifference, Mr. Carr's Lake, I presume? Mother could not come to meet you, so she sent me. Will you be kind enough to hold my horse for a few minutes? I want to get something in the store. Whereupon she calmly transferred the reins to me and disappeared. At the time she certainly did not impress me as pretty, yet neither could I call her plain. Taken separately, her features were good. Her nose was large and straight, the mouth also a trifle large, but firm and red. The brow wide and white, shadowed by a strained dash of brown coral or two. She had a certain cool, statuesque paleness, accentuated by straight, fine black brows, and her eyes were of lewish gray. But the pupils, as I afterwards found out, had a trick of dilating into wells of blackness, which, added to a long fringe of very dark lashes, made her eyes quite the most striking feature of her face. Her expression was open and frank, and her voice clear and musical, without being sweet. She looked about twenty-two. At the time I did not fancy her appearance and made a mental note to the effect that I would never like Miss Ashley. I had no use for cold business like women. Women should have no concern with business. Nelly would never have troubled her dear curly head over it. Miss Ashley came out with her arms full of packages, stowed them away in the carriage, got in, told me which road to take, and did not speak again till we were out of the village and driving along a pretty country lane, arched over with crimson maples and golden brown beaches. The purplish haze of a sunny autumn day mellowed over the fields, and the bunch of goldenrod at my companion's belt was akin to the plumed ranks along the fences. I hazarded the remark that it was a fine day. Miss Ashley gravely admitted that it was. Then a deep smile seemed to rise somewhere in her eyes and creep over her face, discovering a dimple here and there as it proceeded. Don't let's talk about the weather. The subject is rather stale, she said.  I tried to show her how foolish it was, but I didn't succeed. Mother thinks there must be a man at the head of affairs, or they'll never go right. I could have taken full charge easily enough. I haven't been father's boy all my life for nothing. There was no need to take you away from your business. I protested. I said I was going to take a vacation anyway, and business was not pressing just then. I also hinted that, while I had no doubt of her capacity, she might have found the duties of superintendent rather arduous. Not at all, she said, with a serenity that made me groan inwardly. I like it. Father always said I was born a business manager. You'll find Ashley's mills very quiet, I'm afraid. It's a sort of charmed sleepy hollow. See, there's home. As we turned a maple-blazoned corner and looked from the crust of one hill across to that of another, home was a big white, green-shuttered house buried amid a riot of autumn color, with a big grove of dark green spruces at the back. Below them was a glimpse of a dark blue mill pond, and beyond it long sleeps of golden-brown meadowland, slipping up till they dimmed in horizon mists of pearl and purple. How pretty, I exclaimed admiringly. Isn't it, said Gussie proudly? I love it. Her pupils dilated it into dark poles, and I rather unwillingly admit it than Miss Ashley was a fine-looking girl. As we drove up, Aunt Lucy was standing on the steps of the veranda over whose white roof tread a luxuriant creeper, its leaves tinged by October frosts into lovely wine-reds and tawny yellows. Gussie sprang out, barely touching my offered hand with her fingertips.  I must take out your horse for you first, I said politely. Not at all, said Miss Ashley, taking the reins from my hands in a way not to be disputed. I always unharnessed Charlie myself. No one understands him half so well. Besides, I'm used to it. Didn't I tell you I'd always been Father's boy? I well-believe it, I thought and discussed as she led the horse over to the well, and I went up to Aunt Lucy. Through the sitting-room windows I kept a watchful eye on Miss Ashley as she watered indefinitely unharnessed Charlie and led him into his stable with sundry paths on his nose. Then I saw no more of her till she came in to tell us he was ready and led the way out to the dining-room. It was evident Miss Gussie held the reins of household government, and no doubt worthily. Those firm, capable white-hands of hers looked as though they might be equal to a good many emergencies. She talked little, leaving the conversation to Aunt Lucy and myself, though she occasionally dropped in an apt word. Toward the end of the meal, however, she caught hold of an unfortunate opinion I had unconsciously advanced and tore it into tatters. The result was a spirited argument in which Miss Gussie held her own with such ability that I was utterly routed and found another grievance against her. It was very humiliating to be worsted by a girl, a country girl at that, who had passed most of her life on a farm. No doubt she was strong-minded and wanted to vote. I was quite prepared to believe anything of her. After tea Miss Ashley proposed a walk around the premises in order to initiate me into my duties. Apart from his farm, Mr. Ashley owned large grist and saw-mills and did a flourishing business, with the details of which Miss Gussie seemed so confersant that I lost all doubt of her ability to run the whole thing as she acclaimed.  We walked about together, however, till the shadows of the firs by the mills stretched nearly across the pond, and the white moon began to put on a silvery burnish. Then we wound up by a bitter dispute, during which Gussie's eyes were very black, and each cheek had a round red stain on it. She had a little air of triumph at having defeated me. I have to go now and see about putting away the milk, and I dare say you're not sorry to be rid of me, she said with the demure on this I had not credited her with. But if you come to the veranda in half an hour, I'll bring you out a glass of new milk and some pound cake I made today by recipe that's been in the family for one hundred years, and I hope it will choke you for all the snubs you've been giving me. She walked away after this amiable wish, and I stood by the pond till the salmon tints faded from its waters, and stars began to mirror themselves brokenly in its ripples. The mellow air was full of sweet, mingled, even tide sounds as I walked back to the house. Aunt Lucy was knitting on the veranda. Gusty brought out cake and milk and chatted to us while we ate in an inconsequent, girlish way, or fed bits of cake to a green-eyed goblin in the likeness of a black cat. She appeared in such an amiable light that I was half inclined to reconsider my opinion of her. When I went to my room, the vase full of crimson leaves on my table suggested Gusty, and I repented of my unfriendliness for a moment, and only for a moment. Gusty and her mother passed through the hall below, and Aunt Lucy's soft voice loaded up through my half-open door. Well, how do you like your cousin, my dear? We're at that decided young lady promptly answered, I think he is the most conceited youth I've met for some time. Pleasant, wasn't it? I thought of Nelly's meek admiration of all my words and ways, and got her photo out to soothe my vanity. For the first time it struck me that her features were somewhat insipid. The thought seemed like disloyalty, so I banished it and went to bed. I expected to dream of a disagreeable Gusty, but I did not, and I slept so soundly that it was ten o'clock the next morning before I woke. I sprang out of bed in dismay, dressed hastily, and ran down, not a little provoked at myself. Through the window I saw Gusty in the garden, digging up some geraniums. She was enveloped in a clay-stained brown apron, a pink-flapping straw hat half hid her face, and she wore a pair of muddy, old-kid gloves. Her whole appearance was disreputable, and the face she turned to me, as I said, good morning, had a diagonal streak of clay across it. I added slovenliness to my already long list of her demerits. Good afternoon, rather. Don't you know what time it is? The men were here three hours ago for their orders. I thought it a pity to disturb your peaceful dreams, so I gave them myself and sent them off. I was angrier than ever, a nice beginning I had made, and was that girl laughing at me? I expect to be called in time, certainly, I said stiffly. I am not accustomed to oversleep myself. I promise it will not occur again. My dignity was quite lost on Gusty. She peeled off her gloves cheerfully and said, I suppose you'd like some breakfast. Just wait till I wash my hands and I'll get you some. Then, if you're pining to be useful, you can help me take up these geraniums. There is no help for it. After I had breakfasted, I went with many misgivings. We got on fairly well, however. Gusty was particularly lively and kept me too busy for argument. I quite enjoyed the time, and we did not quarrel until nearly the last, when we fell bitterly over some horticultural problem and went into dinner in the sulky silence. Gusty disappeared after dinner, and I saw no more of her. I was glad of this, but after a time I began to find it a little dull. Even a dispute would have been livelier. I visited the mills, looked over the farm, and then curiously asked Aunt Lucy where Miss Ashley was. Aunt Lucy replied that she had gone to visit a friend. It would not be back till the next day. This was satisfactory, of course. Highly so. What a relief it was to be rid of that girl with her self-assertiveness and independence. I said to myself that I hoped her friend would keep her for a week. I forgot to be disappointed that she had not when, next afternoon, I saw Gusty coming in at the gate with a tolerably large satchel and an armful of golden rod. I sawned her down to relieve her, and we had a sharp argument underway before we were halfway up the lane. As usual, Gusty refused to give in that she was wrong.  She said she had to make some cookies for tea, and if I had nothing better to do I might go and talk to her while she mixed them. It was not a gracious invitation, but I went rather than be left to my own company. By the end of the week I was as much at home at Ashley Mills as if I had lived there all my life. Gusty and I were thrown together a good deal, for lack of other companions, and I saw no reason to change my opinion of her. She could be lively and entertaining when she chose, and at time she might be called beautiful. Still, I did not approve of her. At least I thought so, most of the time. Once in a while came a state of feeling which I did not quite understand. One evening I went to prayer meeting with Aunt Lucy and Gusty. I had not seen the minister of Ashley Mills before, though Gusty and her mother seemed to know him intimately. I had an idea that he was old and sovery-haired and benevolent looking, so I was rather surprised to find him young as myself. A tall, pale, intellectual looking man with a high, white brow and dark earnest eyes, decidedly attractive. I was still more surprised when, after the service, he joined Gusty of the door and went down the steps with her. I felt distinctly ill-treated as I fell back with Aunt Lucy. There was no reason why I should. None. It ought to have been a relief. Reverend Carol Martin had every right to see Miss Ashley home if he wanted. That was a girl who knew all there was to be known about business, farming and milling, to say nothing of housekeeping and gardening, could discuss theology also. It was none of my business. I don't know what kept me awake so late that night. As a consequence, I overslept myself. I had managed to redeem my reputation on this point, but here it was lost again. I felt cross and foolish and at the well. It was an old-fashioned one with a chain and a wing last. Aunt Lucy was peering anxiously down its mouth from which a ladder was sticking. Just as I got there, Gusty emerged from its depth with a triumphant face. Her skirt was muddy and draggled. Her hair had tumbled down and she held a dripping black cat. Coco must have fallen into the well last night, as I helped her to the ground. I missed him at milking time, I heard the most ear-splitting yowls coming up from it. I couldn't think where he could possibly be, but the water was quite calm until I saw he had crept into a little crevice and the stones on the side. So I got a ladder and went down after him. You should have called me, I said sourly. You might have killed yourself going down there. And Coco might have tumbled in and drowned while you were getting up, retorted, Gusty. Besides, what was the need? I said more sharply than I had any business. I don't dream of disputing your ability to do anything you may take it into your head to do. Most young ladies are not in the habit of going down wells, however. Perhaps not, she rejoined with freezing calmness, but, as you may have discovered, I am not most young ladies. I am myself, Augusta Ashley, and accountable to nobody but myself if I choose to go down the well every day for pure love.  Gusty Ashley was the only girl I ever saw who could be dignified under such circumstances. I was in a very bad humor with myself as I went off to see about having the well cleaned out. I had offended Gusty and I knew she would not be easily appeased. Nor was she. For a week she kept me politely, studiously, at a distance, in spite of my most raven carol was a frequent caller ostensibly to make arrangements about a Sunday School they were organizing in a poor part of the community. Gusty and he held long conversations on this enthralling subject. Then Gusty went on another visit to her friend. And when she came back, studded raven carol. One calm hazy afternoon I was coming slowly up from the mill. Happening to glance to the kitchen roof I gasped. It was on fire in one place. Evidently the dry shingles had dry shingles had caught fire from a spark. There was not a soul about save Gussie and Lucy and myself. I dashed wildly into the kitchen, where Gussie was peeling apples. "'The house is on fire,' I exclaimed. Gussie dropped her knife and turned pale. "'Don't wake mother,' was all she said, as she snatched a bucket of water from the table. The ladder was still lying by the well. In a second I had raised it to the roof, and while Gussie went up it like a squirrel and dashed the water on the flames, I had two more buckets ready for her. Fortunately, the fire had made little headway, though a few minutes more would have given it a dangerous start. The flames hissed and died out as Gussie threw on the water, and in a few seconds only a small black hole in the shingles remained. Gussie slid down the ladder. She trembled in every limb. She put out her wet hand to me with a faint triumphant smile. She shook hands across the ladder with a cordiality never before expressed. For the next week, in spite of Reverend Carol, I was happy when I thought of Gussie and miserable when I thought of Nelly. I held myself in some way bound to her, and was she not my ideal? Undoubtedly. One day I got a letter from my sister. It was long and newsy, and the eighth page was most interesting. "'If you don't come home and look after Nelly,' wrote Kate, you'll soon not have her to look after. You remember that old lover of hers, Rod Allen?' "'Well, he's home from the West now, immensely rich,' they say, and his attentions to Nelly are the town talk. I think she likes him, too. If you bury yourself any longer at Ashley Mills, I won't be responsible for the consequences. This lifted an immense weight for my mind. But the ninth page hurled it back again. "'You never say anything of Miss Ashley in your letters. What is she like? Young or old, ugly or pretty, clever or dull? I met a lady recently who knows her and thinks she is charming. She also said Miss Ashley was to be married soon to Reverend something or other. Is it true? I was it? Quite likely.' Kate's letter made a very miserable man of me. Gussie found me a dull companion that day. After several vain attempts to rouse me to interest, she gave it up. "'There's no use talking to you,' she said impatiently. I believe you're homesick. That letter you got this morning looks suspicious. Anyhow, I hope you'll get over it before I get back.' "'Are you going away again?' I asked. "'Yes. I am going to stay a few days with Flossie. Flossie was that inseparable chum of hers. You seem to spend a good deal of your time with her,' I remarked discontentedly. Gussie opened her eyes at my tone. "'Why, of course,' she said. Flossie and I have always been chums, and she needs me more than ever just now, for she is awfully busy. She has to be married next month.' "'Oh, I see. And you?' "'I'm to be bridesmaid, of course, and we peeps to do.' Flossie wanted to wait until Christmas, but Mr. Martin is in a— "'Mr. Martin,' I interrupted, is Mr. Martin going to marry your friend?' "'Why, yes, didn't you know? They just suit each other. There he comes now. He's going to drive me over, and I'm not ready. Talk to him for pity's sake while I go and dress.' I never enjoyed a conversation more. Reverend Carol Martin was a remarkably interesting man. Nellie married Rod Allen at Christmas, and I was best man. Nellie made a charming little bride, and Rod fairly worshiped her. My unwitting did not come off until spring. As Gussie says, she could not get ready before that. End of IN SPITE OF MYSELF. Recording by Maria Therese Recording by Joe Carabas The fifth heat of the free-for-all was just over. Lulu had won, and the crowd on the grandstand and the hangers on around the track were cheering themselves hoarse. Clear through the noisy clamor, shrill'd a woman's cry. I've dropped my scorecard!  I have an extra one, madam. Will you accept it?  Both started convulsively. The man turned very pale, but the woman's ripe, tinted face coloured darkly. You! she faltered. His lips parted in the coldly grave smile she remembered and hated. You are not glad to see me, he said calmly. But that, I suppose, was not to be expected. I did not come here to annoy you. This meeting is as unexpected to me as to you. I had no suspicion that for the last half hour I had been standing next to my she interrupted him by an imperious gesture. Still clutching the scorecard she half turned from him. Again he smiled, this time with a tinge of scorn, and shifted his eyes to the track. None of the people around them had noticed the little by-play. All eyes were on the track, which was being cleared for the first heat of another race. The free-for-all horses were being let away blanketed. The crowd cheered, Lou, Lou! as she went past, a shapeless oddity. The backers of mascot, the rival favourite, looked gloomy. The woman noticed nothing of all this. She was small, very pretty, still young, and gowned in a quite unmistakable way. She studied the man's profile furtively. He looked older than when she had seen him last. There were some silver threads gleaming in his close-clipped dark hair and short pointed beard. Otherwise there was little change in the quiet features and somewhat stern grey eyes. She wondered if he had cared at all. They had not met for five years.  It all came back very vividly. She had been 18 when they were married, a gay, high-spirited girl and the season's beauty. He was much older and a quiet, serious student. Her friends had wondered why she married him. Sometimes she wondered herself, but she had loved him, or thought so. The marriage had been an unhappy one. She was fond of society and gaiety. He wanted quiet and seclusion. She was impulsive and impatient. He deliberate and grave. The strong wills clashed. After two years of an unbearable sort of life, they had separated quietly and without scandal of any sort. She had wanted a divorce, but he would not agree to that. So she had taken her own independent fortune and gone back to her own way of life. In the following five years she had succeeded in burying all remembrance well out of sight. No one knew if she was satisfied or not.  She wished that she had not come to the races. It was such an irritating encounter. She opened her eyes wearily. The dusty track, the flying horses, the gay dresses of the women on the grandstand, the cloudless blue sky, the brilliant September sunshine, the purple distances, all commingled in a glare that made her head ache. Before at all she saw the tall figure by her side. His face turned from her, watching the track intently. She wondered with a vague curiosity what induced him to come to the races. Such things were not greatly in his line. Evidently their chance meeting had not disturbed him. It was a sign that he did not care.  When the heat was over he turned to her. May I ask how you have been since we met last? You are looking extremely well. Has Vanity Fair called in any degree? She was angry at herself and him, where had her careless society manner and well-bred composure gone. She felt weak and hysterical. What if she should burst into tears before the whole crowd, before those coldly critical grey eyes? She almost hated him. No, why should it? I have found it very pleasant, and I have been well, very well, and you. He jotted down the score carefully before he replied. I, O bookworm and recluse, always leads a placid life. I never cared for excitement, you know. I came down here to attend a sale of some rare editions, and a well-meaning friend dragged me out to see the races. I find it rather interesting, I must confess. Much more so than I should have fancied. Sorry I can't stay until the end. I must go as soon as the free-for-all is over, if not before. I have backed mascot. I have backed mascot. You? Lulu, she answered quickly. It almost seemed defiantly. How horribly unreal it was, this carrying on of small talk, as if they were the nearest chance-met acquaintances. She belongs to a friend of mine, so I'm naturally interested. She and mascot are ties now. Both have won two heats. One more for either will decide it. This is a good day for the races. Excuse me. He leaned over and brushed a scrap of paper from her gray cloak. She shivered slightly. You are cold. This stand is drafty. I'm not at all cold. Thank you. What race is this? Oh, the three-minute one. She bent forward with assumed interest to watch the scoring. She was breathing heavily. There were tears in her eyes. She bit her lips savagely and glared at the track until they were gone. Presently he spoke again in the low, even tone demanded by circumstances. This is a curious meeting, is it not? Quite a flavor of romance. By the way, do you read as many novels as ever? She fancied there was mockery in his tone. She remembered how very frivolous he used to consider her novel-reading. Besides, she resented the personal tinge. What right had he? Almost as many, she answered carelessly. I was very intolerant, wasn't I? He said after a pause. You thought so. You were right. You have been happier since you left me? Yes, she said defiantly, looking straight into his eyes. And you do not regret it? He bent down a little. His sleeve brushed against her shoulder. Something in his face arrested the answer she meant to make. I—I did not say that, she murmured faintly. There was a burst of cheering. The free-for-all horses were being brought out for the sixth heat. She turned away to watch them. The scoring began, and seemed likely to have no end. She was tired of it all. It didn't matter a pin to her whether Lulu or mascot won. What did matter? Had Vanity Fair after all been a satisfying exchange for love? He had loved her once, and they had been happy at first. She had never before said, even in her own heart, I am sorry. I am sorry. But suddenly she felt his hand on her shoulder and looked up. Their eyes met. He stooped and said almost in a whisper, Will you come back to me? I don't know, she whispered breathlessly, as one half fascinated. We were both to blame, but I the most. I was too hard on you. I ought to have made more allowance. We are wiser now, both of us. Come back to me, my wife. His tone was cold, and his face expressionless. It was on her lips to cry out, no, passionately. But the slender, scholarly hand on her shoulder was trembling with the intensity of his repressed emotion. He did care them. A wild caprice flashed into her brain. She sprang up. See, she cried, they're off now. This heat will probably decide the race. If Lulu wins, I will not go back to you. If mascot does, I will. That is my decision. He turned paler, but bowed in ascent. He knew by bitter experience how unchangeable her whims were, how obstinantly she clung to even the most absurd. She leaned forward breathlessly. The crowd hung silent on the track. Lulu and mascot were neck and neck, getting in splendid work. Halfway round the course, Lulu forged half a neck ahead, and her baggers went mad. But one woman dropped her head in her hands, and dared look no more. One man with white face and set lips watched the track unswervingly. Again mascot crawled up inch by inch. They were on the home stretch. They were equal. The cheering broke out. Then silence. Then another terrific burst. Shouts, yells, and clappings. Mascot had won the free-for-all! In the front row a woman stood up, swayed and shaken as a leaf in the wind. She straightened her scarlet hat and readjusted her veil unsteadily. There was a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes. No one noticed her.  They left the grandstand. Together. End of Kismet. Recording by Joe Carabas, Vallejo, California. LibriVox.org. Recording by Andrea Keane. Lucy Mod Montgomery, Short Stories. 1896-1901. By Lucy Mod Montgomery. Lillian's Business Venture. Lillian Mitchell turned into the dry goods store on Randall Street, just as Esther Miller and Ella Taylor came out. They responded coldly to her greeting and exchanged significant glances as they walked away. Lillian's pale face crimson. She was a tall, slender girl of about 17 and dressed in morning. These girls had been her close friends once, but that was before the Mitchell's had lost their money. Since then Lillian had been cut by many of her old chums and she felt it keenly. The clerks in the store were busy and Lillian sat down to wait her turn. Near to her two ladies were also waiting and chatting. Helen wants me to let her have a birthday party, Mrs. Saunders was saying wearily. She has been promised it so long and I hate to disappoint the child, but our girl left last week and I cannot possibly make all the cakes and things myself. I haven't the time or strength, so Helen must do without her party. Talking of girls, said Mrs. Reeves impatiently. I am almost discouraged. It is so hard to get a good all-round one. The last one I had was so saucy I had to discharge her and the one I have now cannot make decent bread. I never had good luck with bread myself either. That is Mrs. Porter's great grievance too. It is no light task to bake bread for all those borders. Have you made your jelly yet? No, Maria cannot make it, she says, and I detest messing with jelly, but I really must see to it soon. At this point a saleswoman came up to Lillian, who made her small purchases and went out. There goes Lillian Mitchell, said Mrs. Reeves in an undertone. She looks very pale. They say they are dreadfully poor since Henry Mitchell died. His affairs were in a bad condition, I'm told. I am sorry for Mrs. Mitchell, responded Mrs. Saunders.  Lillian will have to do something, I suppose, and there is so little chance for a girl here. Lillian walking down the street was wearily turning over in her mind the problems of her young existence. Her father had died the preceding spring. He had been a supposedly prosperous merchant. The Mitchells had always lived well, and Lillian was a petted and only child. Then came the shock of Henry Mitchell's sudden death and a financial ruin. His affairs were found to be hopelessly involved. When all the debts were paid there was left only the nearest pittance, barely enough for house rent, for Lillian and her mother to live upon. They had moved into a tiny cottage in an unfashionable locality, and during the summer Lillian had tried hard to think of something to do. Mrs. Mitchell was a delicate woman, and the burden of their situation fell on Lillian's young shoulders. There seemed to be no place for her. She could not teach and had no particular talent in any line. There was no opening for her in Willington, which was a rather sleepy little place, and Lillian was almost in despair. There really doesn't seem to be any real place in the world for me, mother, she said rather dolefully at the separate table. It is dreadful to have been born without one, and yet I must do something and do it soon. And Lillian, after she had washed up the tea-dishes, went upstairs and had a good cry. But the darkest hour, so the proverb goes, is just before the dawn, and after Lillian had had her cry out and was sitting at her window in the dusk, watching a thin new moon shining over the trees down the street, her inspiration came to her. A minute later she whirled into the tiny sitting-room where her mother was sewing. Mother, our fortune is made, I have an idea. Don't lose it then, said Mrs. Mitchell with a smile. What is it, my dear? Lillian sobered herself, sat down by her mother's side, and proceeded to recount the conversation she had heard in the store that afternoon. Now, mother, this is where my brilliant idea comes in. You have often told me I am a born cook, and I always have good luck. Now, tomorrow morning I shall go to Mrs. Saunders and offer to furnish all the good things for Helen's birthday party, and then I'll ask Mrs. Reeves and Mrs. Porter if I may make their bread for them. That will do for a beginning. I like cooking, you know, and I believe that in time I can work up a good business. It seems to be a good idea, said Mrs. Mitchell thoughtfully, and I am willing that you should try. But have you thought it all out carefully? There will be many difficulties. I know. I don't expect smooth sailing right along, and perhaps I'll fail altogether, but somehow I don't believe I will. A great many of your old friends will think, oh yes, I know that too, but I'm not going to mind it, mother. I don't think there is any disgrace in working for my living. I'm going to do my best to not care what people say. Early next morning Lillian started out. She had carefully thought over the details of her small venture, considered ways and means, and decided on the most advisable course. She would not attempt too much, and she felt sure of success. To secure competent servants was one of the problems of Willington people. At Drayton, a large neighboring town, were several factories, and into these all the working girls from Willington had crowded, leaving very few who were willing to go out to service. Many of those who did were poor cooks, and Lillian truly suspected that many a harassed housekeeper in the village would be glad to avail herself of the new enterprise. Lillian was, as she had said of herself, a born cook. This was her capital, and she meant to make the most of it. Mrs. Saunders listened to her business-like details with surprise and delight. It is the very thing, she said. Helen is so eager for that party, but I could not undertake it myself. Her birthday is Friday. Can you have everything ready by then? Yes, I think so, said Lillian briskly, producing a notebook. Please give me the list of what you want, and I will do my best. From Mrs. Saunders she went to Mrs. Reeves and found a customer as soon as she had told the reason of her call. I'll furnish all the breads and rolls you need, she said, and they will be good, too. Now, what about your jelly? I can make good jelly, and I'll be very glad to make yours. When she left, Lillian had an order for two dozen glasses of apple jelly, as well as a standing one for bread and rolls. Mrs. Porter was next visited, and grasped eagerly at the opportunity. I know your bread will be good, she said, and you may count on me as a regular customer. Lillian thought she had enough on hand for her first attempt, and went home satisfied. On her way she called to the grocery store with an order that surprised Mr. Hooper. When she told him of her plan he opened his eyes. I must tell my wife about that. She isn't strong, and she doesn't like cooking. After dinner Lillian went to work, enveloped in a big apron, and whipped eggs, stoned raisins, stirred, concocted, and baked until dark. When bedtime came she was so tired that she could hardly crawl upstairs, but she felt happy too, for the day had been a successful one. And so also were the days and weeks and months that followed. It was hard and constant work, but it brought its reward. Lillian had not promised more than she could perform, and her customers were satisfied. In a short time she found herself with a regular and growing business on her hands, for new customers were gradually added and always came to stay. People who gave parties found it very convenient to follow Mrs. Sonder's example in order their supplies from Lillian. She had a very busy winter, and of course it was not all plain sailing. She had many difficulties to contend with. Sometimes days came on which everything seemed to go wrong, when the stove smoked or the oven wouldn't heat properly, when cakes fell flat and bread was sour and pies behaved as only totally depraved pies can, when she burned her fingers and felt like giving up and despair. Then again she found herself cut by several of her old acquaintances, but she was too sensible to worry much over this. The friends really worth having were still hers. Her mother's face had lost its look of care, and her business was prospering. She was hopeful and wide awake, kept her wits about her, and looked out for hints, and learned to laugh over her failures. During the winter she and her mother had managed to do most of the work themselves, hiring little Mary Robinson next door on especially busy days, and now and then calling in the assistants of Jimmy Bowen and his hands led to carry orders to customers. But when spring came, Lillian prepared to open up her summer campaign on a much larger scale. Mary Robinson was hired for the season, and John Perkins was engaged to act as carrier with his express wagon. A summer kitchen was boarded in in the backyard, and a new range-bot. Lillian began operations with a striking advertisement in the Willington News, and an attractive circular sent around to all her patrons. Picnics and summer weddings were frequent. In bread and rolls her trade was brisk and constant. She also took orders for pickles, preserves, and jellies, and this became such a flourishing branch that a second assistant had to be hired. It was a cardinal rule with Lillian never to send out any article that was not up to her standard. She bore the loss of her failures, and sometimes stayed up half the night to fill an order on time. Prompt and perfect was her motto. The long, hot summer days were very trying, and sometimes she got very tired of it all, but when on the anniversary of her first venture she made up her accounts she was well pleased. To be sure she had not made a fortune, but she had paid all their expenses, had a hundred dollars clear, and had laid the solid foundations of a profitable business. Mother, she said jubilantly as she wiped a dab of flour from her nose and proceeded to concoct the icing for Blanche Remington's wedding cake. Don't you think my business venture has been a decided success? Mrs. Mitchell surveyed her busy daughter with a motherly smile. Yes, I think it has, she said. End of Lillian's Business Venture. Recording by Andrea Keane Recording by Courtney Sandu I had been reading a ghost story to Mrs. Sefton, and I laid it down at the end with a little shrug of contempt. What utter nonsense, I said. Mrs. Sefton nodded abstractedly above her fancy work. That is, it is a very commonplace story indeed. I don't believe the spirits of the departed trouble themselves to revisit the glimpses of the moon for the purposes of frightening honest mortals, or even for the sake of hanging around the favorite haunts of their existence in the flesh. If they ever appear, it must be for a better reason than that. You surely don't think that they ever do appear, I said incredulously. We have no proof that they do not, my dear. Surely, Mary, I exclaimed, you don't mean to say that you believe people ever do or can see spirits, ghosts, as the word goes. I didn't say I believed it. I never saw anything of the sort. I neither believe nor disbelieve.  At least people who you know wouldn't lie say so. Of course, they may be mistaken. And I don't think that everybody can see spirits either, provided they are to be seen. It requires people of a certain organization, with a spiritual eye as it were. We haven't got all that. In fact, I think very few of us have. I daresay you think I'm talking nonsense. Well, yes, I think you are. You really surprise me, Mary. I've always thought you the least likely person in the world to take up with such ideas. Something must have come under your observation to develop such theories in your practical head. Tell me what it was. To what purpose? You would remain as skeptical as ever. Possibly not. Try me. I may be convinced. No, returned Mrs. Sefton calmly. Nobody is ever convinced by hearsay. When a person has once seen a spirit, or thinks he has, he thenceforth believes it. And when somebody else is intimately associated with that person, and knows all the circumstances, well, he admits the possibility at least. That is my position. But by the time it gets to the third person, the outsider, it loses power. Besides, in this particular instance the story isn't very exciting. But then, it is true. You have excited my curiosity. You must tell me the story. Well, first tell me what you think of this. Suppose two people, both sensitively organized individuals, loved each other with a love stronger than life. If they were apart, do you think it might be possible for their souls to communicate with each other in some inexplicable way? And if anything happened to one, don't you think that one could and would let the spirit of the other know? You're getting into too deep waters for me, Mary, I said, shaking my head. I'm not an authority on telepathy, or whatever you call it. But I have no belief in such theories. In fact, I think they're all nonsense. I'm sure you must think so too in your rational moments. I daresay it is all nonsense. Said Mrs. Sefton slowly. But if you had lived a whole year in the same house with Miriam Gordon, you would have been tainted too. Not that she had theories. At least she never aired them if she had. But there was simply something about the girl herself that gave a person strange impressions. When I first met her, I had the most uncanny feeling that she was all spirit. So, what you will, no flesh anyhow. That feeling wore off after a while, but she never seemed like other people to me. She was Mr. Sefton's niece. Her father had died when she was a child. When Miriam was twenty, her mother had married a second time, and went to Europe with her husband. Miriam came to live with us while they were away. Upon their return she was herself to be married. I had never seen Miriam before, and her arrival was unexpected, and I was absent from home when she came. I returned in the evening, and when I saw her first, she was standing under the chandelier in the drawing room. Talk about spirits! For five seconds I thought I had seen one. Miriam was a beauty. I had known that before, though I think I hardly expected to see such wonderful loveliness. She was tall and extremely graceful. Dark, at least her hair was dark, but her skin was wonderfully fair and clear.  Her face was oval, with very large and dark eyes. I soon realized that Miriam was in some mysterious fashion, different from other people. I think everyone who met her felt the same way, yet it was a feeling hard to define. For my own part I simply felt as if she belonged to another world, and that part of the time, she, her soul you know, was back there again. You must not suppose that Miriam was a disagreeable person to have in the house. On the contrary, it was the very reverse. Everybody liked her. She was one of the sweetest, most winsome girls I ever knew, and I soon grew to love her dearly. As for what Dick called her little queernesses, well, we got used to them in time. Miriam was engaged, as I have told you, to a young Harvard man named Sydney Claxton. I knew she loved him very deeply. When she showed me his photograph, I liked his appearance and said so. Then I made some teasing remark about her love letters, just for a joke, you know. Miriam looked at me with an odd little smile and said quickly, Sydney and I never write to each other. Why, Miriam, I exclaimed in astonishment, do you mean to tell me you never hear from him at all? No, I did not say that. I hear from him every day, every hour. We do not need to write letters. There are better means of communication between two souls that are in perfect accord with each other. Miriam, you uncanny creature, what do you mean? I asked. But Miriam only gave another queer smile and made no answer at all. Whatever her beliefs or theories were, she would never discuss them. She had a habit of dropping into abstracted reveries at any time or place. No matter where she was, this whatever it was would come over her. She would sit there, perhaps in the center of a gay crowd, and gaze right out into space, not hearing or seeing a single thing that went on around her. I remember one day in particular we were sewing in my room. I looked up and saw that Miriam's work had dropped on her knee, and she was leaning forward, her lips apart, her eyes gazing upward with an unearthly expression. Don't look like that, Miriam, I said with a little shiver. You seem to be looking at something a thousand miles away. Miriam came out of her trance or reverie and said with a little laugh, how do you know but that I was? She bent her head for a minute or two. Then she lifted it again and looked at me with a sudden contraction of her level brows that betokened vexation. I wish you hadn't spoken to me just then, she said. You interrupted the message I was receiving. I shall not get it at all now. Miriam, I implored, I so wish, my dear girl, that you wouldn't talk so. It makes people think there is something queer about you. Who in the world would send you a message, as you call it? Sydney, said Miriam simply, nonsense. You think it's nonsense because you don't understand it. Was her calm response? I recall another event, was when some caller dropped in, and we had drifted into a discussion about ghosts and the like, and I have no doubt we all talked some delicious nonsense. Miriam said nothing at the time, but when we were alone, I asked her what she thought of it. I thought you were all merely talking against time. She retorted evasively. But Miriam, do you really think it is possible for ghosts I detest the word? Well, spirits then, to return after death, or to appear to anyone apart from the flesh. I'll tell you what I know, if anything were to happen to Sydney. If he were to die, or be killed, he would come to me himself and tell me. One day, Miriam came down to lunch, looking pale and worried. After Dick went out, I asked her if anything were wrong. Something has happened to Sydney, she replied. Some painful accident. I don't know what. How do you know, I cried. Then, as she looked at me strangely, I added hastily, you haven't been receiving any more unearthly messages have you. Surely, Miriam, you are not so foolish to really believe in that. I know, she answered quickly. Belief or disbelief has nothing to do with it. Yes, I have had a message. I know that some accident has happened to Sydney. Painful and inconvenient, but not particularly dangerous. I do not know what it is. Sydney will write me that. He writes when it's absolutely necessary. Aerial communication isn't perfected yet, then? I said mischievously. But observing how really worried she seemed, I added, don't fret, Miriam, you may be mistaken. Well, two days afterward, she got a note from her lover, the first I had ever known her to receive, in which he said he had been thrown from his horse and had broken his left arm. It had happened the very morning Miriam received her message. Miriam had been with us about eight months, when one day she came into my room hurriedly. She was very pale. Sydney is ill, dangerously ill. What shall I do? I knew she must have had another of those abominable messages or thoughts she had, and really remembering the incident of the broken arm, I couldn't feel as skeptical as I pretended to. I tried to cheer her, but did not succeed. Two hours later, she had a telegram from her lover's college chum, saying that Mr. Claxton was dangerously ill with typhoid fever. I was quite alarmed about Miriam and the days that followed. She grieved and fretted continually. One of her troubles was that she received no more messages. She said it was because Sydney was too ill to send them. Anyhow, she had to contend herself with the means of communication used by ordinary mortals.  The crisis was over, and the doctor in attendance thought Sydney would recover. Miriam seemed like a new creature then, and rapidly recovered her spirits. For a week, reports continued favourable. One night, we went to the opera to hear a celebrated pre-Madonna. When we returned home, Miriam and I were sitting in her room, chatting over the events of the evening. Suddenly, she sat straight up with a sort of convulsive shutter, and at the same time, you may laugh if you like, the most horrible feeling came over me. I didn't see anything, but I just felt that there was something, or someone, in the room besides ourselves. Miriam was gazing straight before her. She rose to her feet and held out her hands. Sydney, she said, then she fell to the floor in a dead faint. I screamed for Dick, rang the bell, and rushed to her. In a few minutes, the whole household was aroused, and Dick was off post-haste for the doctor, for we cannot revive Miriam from her death-like swoon. She seemed as one dead. We worked over her for hours. She would come out of her faint for a moment, give us an unknowing stare, and go shudderingly off again. The doctor talked of some fearful shock, but I kept my own counsel. At dawn, Miriam came back to life at last. When she and I were left alone, she turned to me. Sydney is dead. She said quietly. I saw him, just before I fainted. I looked up, and he was standing between me and you. He had come to say farewell. What could I say? Almost while we were talking, a telegram came. He was dead. He had died at the very hour at which Miriam had seen him. Mrs. Sefton paused, and the lunch-bell rang. What do you think of it? She queried as we rose. Honestly, I don't know what to think of it. I answered frankly. End of Miriam's Lover. Recorded by Courtney Sandew Story number 11 of Lucy Mod Montgomery Short Stories 1896-1901 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sally Boyce Lucy Mod Montgomery Short Stories 1896-1901 By Lucy Mod Montgomery Miss Callista's Peppermint Bottle Miss Callista was perplexed. Her nephew, Caleb Cramp, who had been her right-hand man for years and whom she had got well broken into her ways, had gone to the Klondike, leaving her to fill his place with the next best man. But the next best man was slow to appear, and meanwhile Miss Callista was looking about her warily. She could afford to wait a while, for the crop was all in and the fall plowing done, so that the need of a successor to Caleb was not as pressing as it might otherwise have been. There was no lack of applicants, such as they were. Miss Callista was known to be a kind and generous mistress, although she had her ways, and insisted calmly and immovably upon wholehearted compliance with them. She had a small, well-cultivated farm and a comfortable house, and her hired men lived in Clover. Caleb Cramp had been perfection after his kind, and Miss Callista did not expect to find his equal. Nevertheless, she set up a certain standard of requirements, and although three weeks, during which Miss Callista had been obliged to put up with the immature services of a neighbor's boy, had elapsed since Caleb's departure, no one had as yet stepped into his vacant and coveted shoes. Certainly Miss Callista was somewhat hard to please, but she was not thinking of herself as she sat by her front window in the chilly November twilight. Instead, she was musing on the degeneration of hired men and reflecting that it was high time the wheat was thrashed, the house banked, and sundry other duties attended to. Chess Maybin had been up that afternoon to negotiate for the vacant place, and had offered to give satisfaction for smaller wages than Miss Callista had ever paid. But he had met with a brusque refusal, scarcely as civil as Miss Callista had bestowed on drunken Jake Stinson from the Morrisvale Road. Not that Miss Callista had any particular prejudice against Chess Maybin or knew anything positively to his discredit. She was simply unconsciously following the example of a world that exerts itself to keep a man down when he is down and prevent all chance of his rising. Nothing succeeds like success, and the converse of this is likewise true, but nothing fails like failure. There was not a person in Cooperstown who would not have heartily endorsed Miss Callista's refusal. Chess Maybin was only 18, although he looked several years older, and although no flagrant misdoing had ever been proved against him, suspicion of such was not wanting. He came of a bad stock, people said, zagely, adding that what was bred in the bone was bound to come out in the flesh. His father, old Sam Maybin, had been a shiftless and tricky rascal, as everybody knew, and had ended up his days in the poor house. Chess's mother had died when he was a baby, and he had come up somehow, in a hand-to-mouth fashion, with all the cloud of heredity hanging over him. He was always looked at as scant, and when any mischief came to lighten the village, it was generally fastened on him as a convenient and handy scapegoat. He was considered sulky and lazy, and the local prophets united in predicting a bad end for him sooner or later, and, moreover, diligently endeavored by their general treatment of him to put him in a fair way to fulfill their predictions. Miss Callista, when she had shut Chester Maybin out into the chill gloom of the November dusk, dismissed him from her thoughts. There were other things of more moment to her just than old Sam Maybin's hopeful son. There was nobody in the house, but herself, and all this was neither alarming nor unusual. It was unusual, and Miss Callista considered it alarming, that the sum of five hundred dollars should at that very moment be in the upper right-hand drawer of the sideboard, which some had been up to the previous day, safe in the coffers of the millage-field bank. But certain unfavorable rumors were in course of circulation about that same institution, and Miss Callista, who was nothing if not prudent, had gone to the bank that very morning and withdrawn her deposit. She intended to go over to Kerrytown the very next day and deposit it in the savings bank there. Not another day would she keep it in the house, and, indeed, it worried her to think she must keep it even for the night, as she had told Mrs. Galloway that afternoon during a neighbourly backyard chat. Not but what it's safe enough, she said, for not a soul but she knows I've got it, but I'm not used to have so much by me, and there are always chimps going round. It worries me somehow. I wouldn't give it a thought if Caleb was here. I suppose being all alone makes me nervous. Miss Callista was still rather nervous when she went to bed that night, but she was a woman of sound sense and was determined not to give way to foolish fears. She locked the doors and windows carefully, as was her habit, and saw that the fastenings were good and secure. The one in the dining room window, looking out on the backyard, wasn't. In fact, it was broken altogether, but, as Miss Callista told herself, it had been broken just so for the last six years, and nobody had ever tried to get in at it yet, and it wasn't likely anyone would begin tonight. Miss Callista went to bed and, despite her worry, slept soon and soundly. It was well on past midnight when she suddenly wakened and sat bolt upright in bed. She was not accustomed to wakin' in the night, and she had the impression of having been awakened by some noise. She listened breastlessly. Her room was directly over the dining room, and an empty stovepipe hole opened up through the ceiling of the ladder at the head of her bed. There was no mistake about it. Something or someone was moving about stealthily in the room below. It wasn't the cat.  It must certainly be a beggar or tramp of some description. Miss Callista might be given over to nervousness in regard to imaginary thieves, but in the presence of real danger, she was cool and self-reliant. As noiselessly and swiftly as any burglar himself, Miss Callista slipped out of bed and into her clothes. Then she tiptoed out into the hall. The late moonlight streaming in through the hall windows was quite enough illumination for her purpose, and she got downstairs and was fairly in the open doorway of the dining room before a sound betrayed her presence. Standing at the sideboard, hastily ransacking the neat contents of an open drawer, stood a man's figure dimly visible in the moonlight gloom. As Miss Callista's grim form appeared in the doorway, the midnight marauder turned with a start and then, with an inarticulate cry, sprang, not at the courageous lady, but at the open window behind him. Miss Callista, realizing with a flash of comprehension that he was escaping her, had a woman-like impulse to get a blow in anyhow. She grasped and hurled at her unceremonious collar the first thing that came to hand, a bottle of peppermint essence that was standing on the sideboard. The missile hit the escaping thief squarely on the shoulder as he sprang out of the window and the fragments of glass came clattering down on the cell. The next moment Miss Callista found herself alone, standing by the sideboard in a half-dazed fashion, for the whole thing had passed with such lightning-like rapidity that it almost seemed as if it were the dissolving end of a bad dream. But the open drawer in the window, where the bits of glass were glistening in the moonlight, or no dream, Miss Callista recovered herself speedily, closed the window, lit the lamp, gaveted up the broken glass, and set up the chairs which the would-be thief had upset in his exit. An examination of the sideboard showed the precious five hundred safe and sound in an undisturbed drawer. Miss Callista kept grim watch and ward there until morning, and thought the matter over exhaustively. In the end she resolved to keep her own counsel. She had no clue whatever to the thief's whereabouts or identity, and no good would come of making a fuss, which might only end in throwing suspicion on someone who might be quite innocent. When the morning came, Miss Callista lost no time in setting up for Kerrytown, where the money was soon safely deposited in the bank. She heaved a sigh of relief when she left the building. I feel as if I could enjoy life once more, she said to herself. Goodness me, if I had had to keep that money by me for a week itself, I'd have been a raving lunatic by the end of it. Miss Callista had shopping to do and friends to visit in town, so that the dull autumn day was well nigh spent when she finally got back to Cooperstown and paused at the corner store to get a bundle of matches. The store was full of men smoking and chatting around the fire, and Miss Callista, whose pet abomination was tobacco smoke, was not at all minded to wait any longer than she could help. But a byroom fell was attending to a previous customer, and Miss Callista sat grimly down by the counter to wait her turn. The door opened, letting in a swirl of raw November evening wind and chess maybin. He nodded solemnly to Mr. Fell and passed down the store to mutter a message to a man in the farther end. Miss Callista lifted her head as he passed and sniffed the air as a charger who sensed battle. The smell of tobacco was strong, and so was that of the open boxes of dried herring on the counter, but plainly, above all the commingled odors of a country grocery, Miss Callista caught a whiff of peppermint, so strong as to leave no doubt of its origin. There had been no hint of it before chess maybin's entrance. The latter did not wait long. He was out and striding along the shadowy road when Miss Callista left the store and drove smartly after him. It never took Miss Callista long to make up her mind about anything, and she had weighed and passed judgment on chess maybin's case while Mr. Fell was doing up her matches. The lad glanced up furtively as she checked her fat grey pony beside him. Good evening, Chester, she said with brisk kindness. I can give you a lift if you're going my way. Jump in quick. Dappel is a little restless. A wave of crimson, duskily perceptible under his sunburned skin surged over chess maybin's face. It almost seems as if he were going to blurt out a blunt refusal, but Miss Callista's face was so guileless and her tone so friendly that he thought better of it and sprang in beside her, and Dappel broke into an impatient trot down the long hill lined with its bare, wind-rithing maples. After a few minutes' silence, Miss Callista turned to her moody companion. Chester, she said as tranquilly as if about to ask him the most ordinary question in the world, why did you climb into my house last night and try to steal my money? Chester maybin started convulsively, as if he meant to spring from the buggy at once, but Miss Callista's hand was on his arm in a grasp, nonetheless firm because of its gentleness, and there was a warning gleam in her grey eyes. It won't mean matters trying to get clear of me, Chester.  A truthful one, mind you, to my question. I am your friend, and I'm not going to harm you if you tell me the truth. Her clear and incisive gaze met and held irresistibly the boy's wavering one. The soul and obstinacy of his face relaxed. Well, he muttered finally. I was just desperate, that's why. I've never done anything real bad in my life before, but people have always been down on me. I'm blamed for everything, and nobody wants anything to do with me. I'm willing to work, but I can't get a thing to do. I'm in rags, and I haven't a scent, and winter's coming on. I heard you telling Mrs. Galloway yesterday about the money. I was behind the fur hedge, and you didn't see me. I went away and planned it all out. I'd get in some way, and I meant to use the money to get away out west, far as here as I could, and begin life there, where nobody knew me, and where I'd have some sort of a chance. I've never had any here. You can put me in jail now if you like. They'll feed and clothe me there anyhow, and I'll be on a level with the rest. The boy had blurted it all out, solemnly and half-chokingly. A world of rebellion and protest against the fate that had always dragged him down was couched in his voice. Ms. Callista drew dapple to a standstill before her gate. I'm not going to send you to jail, Chester. I believe you've told me the truth. Yesterday you wanted me to give you Caleb's place, and I refused. Well, I offer it to you now. If you'll come, I'll hire you, and give you as good wages as I gave him. Chess Maven looked incredulous. Ms. Callista, you can't mean it. I do mean it, every word. You say you never have it had a chance. Well, I'm going to give you one. A chance to get on the right road and make a man of yourself. Nobody shall ever know about last night's doings from me, and I'll make it my business to forget them if you deserve it. What do you say? Chess lifted his head and looked at her squarely in the face. I'll come, he said huskily. It ain't no use to try and thank you, Ms. Callista, but I'll live my thanks. And he did. The good people of Cooperstown held up their hands in horror when they heard that Ms. Callista had hired Chess Maven, and prophesied that the deluded woman would live to repent her rash step. But not all prophecies come true. Ms. Callista smiled serenely and kept on her own misguided way, and Chess Maven proved so efficient and steady that the arrangement was continued, and in due time people outlived their old suspicions and came to regard him as a thoroughly smart and trustworthy young man. Ms. Callista has made a man of Chess Maven, said the oracles. He ought to be very grateful to her, and he was. But only he and Ms. Callista and the peppermint bottle ever knew the precise extent of his gratitude, and they never told. End of Ms. Callista's peppermint bottle, recording by Sally Boyce, Nashville, Tennessee. I think it is simply a disgrace to have a person like that in our class, said Edna Hayden in an injured tone. And she doesn't seem a bit ashamed of it either, said Agnes Walters. Rather proud of it, I should say, returned her roommate spitefully. It seems to me that if I were so poor that I had to room myself and dress as doubly as she does that I really couldn't look anybody in the face. What must the boys think of her? And if it wasn't for her being in it, our class would be the smartest and dressiest in the college, even those top lofty senior girls admit that. It's a shame, said Agnes conclusively, but she'd needn't expect to associate with ours that I for one won't have anything to do with her. Nor I. I think it is time she should be taught her place. If we could only manage to inflict some decided snub on her, she might take the hint and give up trying to poke herself in where she doesn't belong. The idea of her consenting to be elected on the freshman executive. But she seems impervious to snubs. Edna, let's play a joke on her. It will serve her right. Let us send an invitation in somebody's name to the senior prom. The very thing. And sign Sidney Hill's name to it. He's the handsomest and richest fellow at Paisant, and belongs to one of the best families in town, and he's awfully fastidious besides. No doubt she will feel immensely flattered, and of course she'll accept. Just think how silly she'll feel when she finds out he never sent it. Let's write it now and send it at once. There's no time to lose for the prom is on Thursday night. The freshman coads at Paisant College did not like Grace Sealy. That is to say, the majority of them. They were a decidedly snobbish class that year. No one could deny that Grace was clever, but she was poor, dressed very plainly, doubly, the girl said, and roomed herself. That phrase meaning that she rented a little unfurnished room and cooked her own meals over an oil stove. The senior prom, as it was called, was the annual reception which the senior class gave in the middle of every autumn term. It was the smartest and gayest of all the college functions, and a Paisant co-ed who received an invitation to it counted herself fortunate. The senior girls were included as a matter of course, but a junior saw for fresh she could not go unless one of the senior boys invited her. Grace Sealy was studying Greek in her tiny room that afternoon when the invitation was brought to her. It was scrupulously orthodox in appearance and form, and Grace never doubted that it was genuine, although she felt much surprised that Sidney Hill, the leader of his class and foremost figure in all college sports and societies, should have asked her to go with him to the senior prom. But she was girlishly pleased at the prospect. She was as fond of a good time as any other girl, and she had secretly wished very much that she could go to the brilliant and much talked about senior prom. Grace was quite unaware of her own unpopularity among her class co-eds, although she thought it was very hard to get acquainted with them, without any false pride herself, and of a frank independent nature. It never occurred to her that the other Paisant Freshies could look down on her because she was poor, or resent her presence among them because she dressed plainly. She straightway wrote a note of acceptance to Sidney Hill, and that young man naturally felt much mystified when he opened and read it in the college library next morning. Grace Sealy, he pondered. That's the jolly girl with the brown eyes that I met at the Philomathic the other night. She thanks me for my invitation to the senior prom and accepts with pleasure. Why, I certainly never invited her or anyone else to go with me to the senior prom. There must be some mistake. Grace passed him at this moment on her way to the Latin classroom. She bowed and smiled in a friendly fashion, and Sidney Hill felt decidedly uncomfortable. What was he to do? He did not like to think of putting Miss Sealy in a false position because somebody had sent her an invitation in his name. I suppose it is some cat who has a spite at me that has done it, he reflected. But if so, I'll spoil his game. I'll take Miss Sealy to the prom as if I had never intended doing anything else. She shan't be humiliated just because there is someone at Paison who would stoop to that sort of thing.  Grace thought it was extremely nice of him, and dressed in a flutter of pleasant anticipation. Her gown was a very simple one of sheer white organdy, and was the only evening dress she had. She knew there would be many smarter dresses at the reception, but the knowledge did not disturb her sensible head in the least. She fingered the dainty white frills lovingly, as she remembered the sunny summer days at home in the little sewing room, where cherry boughs poked their blossoms in at the window, when her mother and sisters had helped her to make it, with laughing prophecies and speculations as to its first appearance. Into seam and puff and frill many girlish hopes and dreams had been sewn, and they all came back to Grace as she put it on, and helped to surround her with an atmosphere of happiness. When she was ready she picked up her bouquet and looked herself over in the mirror from the top of her curly head to the tips of her white shoes, with a little nod of satisfaction. Grace was not exactly pretty, but she had such a bright happy face and such merry brown eyes, and such a friendly smile that she was very pleasant to look upon, and a great many people thought so that night. Grace had never in all her life before had so good a time as she had at that senior prom. The seniors were quick to discover her unaffected originality and charm, and everywhere she went she was the center of a merry group. In short, Grace, as much to her own surprises as anyone's, found herself a social success. Presently Sidney brought his brother up to be introduced, and the latter said, Miss Sealy, will you excuse my asking if you have a brother or any relative named Max Sealy? Grace nodded. Oh yes, my brother Max. He is a doctor out west. I was sure of it, said Marie Hill triumphantly. You resemble him so strongly. Please don't consider me as a stranger a minute longer, for Max and I are like brothers. Indeed, I owe my life to him. Last summer I was out there on a surveying expedition, and I took typhoid in a little out-of-the-way place where a good nursing was not to be had for love or money. Your brother attended me, and he managed to pull me through. He never left me day or night till I was out of danger, and he worked like a Trojan for me. Dear old Max, said Grace, her brown eyes shining with pride and pleasure, that is so like him. He is such a dear brother, and I haven't seen him for four years, to see somebody who knows him so well is next best thing to seeing himself. He is an awfully fine fellow, said Mr. Hill heartily, and I'm delighted to have met the little sister he used to talk so much about.  They have heard me talk so much about Max that they think almost as much of him as I do, and they will be glad to meet his sister. Mrs. Hill, a handsome dignified lady who was one of the chaperones of the prom, received Grace warmly. Well, Beatrice Hill, an extremely pretty, smartly gowned girl, made her feel at home immediately. You came with Sid, didn't you? She whispered. Sid is so sly. He never tells us who he is going to take anywhere. But when I saw you come in with him, I knew I was going to like you. You looked so jolly. And you're really the sister of that splendid Dr. Sealy who saved Murray's life last summer? And to think you had been at Paison nearly a whole term, and we never knew it. Well, how have you enjoyed our prom, Miss Sealy? asked Sid as they walked home together under the arching elms of the college campus. Oh, it was splendid, said Grace enthusiastically. Everybody was so nice. And then to meet someone who could tell me so much about Max, I must write them home all about it before I sleep just to calm my head a bit. Mother and the girls will be so interested. And I must send Lou and Mab a carnation, a piece for their scrapbooks. Give me one back, please, said Sid. And Grace with a little blush did so. That night, while Grace was slipping the stems of her carnations and putting them into water, three little bits of conversation were being carried on, which it is necessary to report in order to round up this story neatly and properly, as all stories should be rounded up. In the first place, Beatrice Hill was saying to Sidney, Oh, Sid, that Miss Sealy you had at the prom is a lovely girl. I don't know when I've met anyone I liked so much. She was so jolly and friendly, and she didn't put on learned heirs at all, as so many of those pays-on girls do. I asked her all about herself, and she told me all about her mother and sisters and home and the lovely times they had together, and how hard they worked to send her to college, too, and how she taught school and vacations and roomed herself to help along. Isn't it so brave and plucky of her? I know we are going to be great friends. I hope so, said Sidney briefly, because I have an idea that she and I are going to be very good friends, too. And Sidney went upstairs and put away a single white carnation very carefully. In the second place, Mrs. Hill was saying to her eldest son, I'd liked that Miss Sealy very much. She seemed a very sweet girl. And finally Agnes Walters and Edna Hayden were discussing the matter in great mystification in their room. I can't understand it at all, said Agnes slowly. Sid Hill took her to the prom, and he must have sent her those carnations, too. She could never have afforded them herself. And did you see the fuss his people made over her? I heard Beatrice telling her that she was coming to call on her tomorrow, and Mrs. Hill said she must look upon Beachlawn as her second home while she was at pays-on. If the hills are going to take her up, we'll have to be nice to her. I suppose, said Edna conclusively, the truth of the matter is that Sid Hill meant to ask her anyway. I daresay he asked her long ago, and she would know our invitation was a fraud. So the joke is on ourselves, after all. But, as you and I know, that, with the exception of the last sentence, was not the truth of the matter at all. End of The Gest that Failed Short Stories 1896-1901 by Lucy Maud Montgomery The Pennington's Girl Winslow had been fishing, or pretending to, all the morning, and he was desperately thirsty. He boarded with the Beckwiths on Riverside Eastshore, but he was nearer Riverside West, and he knew the Pennington's well. He had often been there for bait and milk, and had listened times out of mind to Mrs. Pennington's dismal tales of her tribulations with hired girls. She never could get along with them, and they left, on an average, after a fortnight's trial. She was on the lookout for one now he knew, and would likely be cross. But he thought she would give him a drink. He wrote a skiff into the shore and tied it to a fur that hung out from the bank. A winding little footpath led up to the Pennington Farmhouse, which crested the hill about three hundred yards from the shore. Winslow made for the kitchen door, and came face to face with a girl carrying a pail of water. Mrs. Pennington's latest thing in hired girls, of course. Winslow's first bewildered thought was, What a goddess!  She handed him a shining dipper half full, and stood pale in hand while he drank it. She was rather tall, and wore a somewhat limp, faded print gown, and a big sun-hat, beneath which a glossy knot of chestnut showed itself. Her skin was very fair, somewhat freckled, and her mouth was delicious. As for her eyes they were grey. But beyond that simply defied description. Will you have some more? She asked in a soft, trawling voice. No, thank you. That was delicious. Is Mrs. Pennington home? No, she's gone away for the day. Well, I suppose I can sit down here and rest a while. You know, serious objections, have you? Oh, no. She carried her pail into the kitchen, and came out again presently with a knife and a pan of apples. Sitting down on a bench under the poplars, she proceeded to peel them with a disregard of his presence that peaked Winslow, who was not used to being ignored in this fashion. Besides, as a general rule, he had been quite good friends with Mrs. Pennington's hired girls. She had had three strapping damsels during his sojourn and riverside, and he used to sit on this very doorstep and chafe them. They had all been sassy and talkative. This girl was evidently a new species. Do you think you'll get along with Mrs. Pennington? He asked finally. As a rule, she fights with her help, although she's a most estimable woman. The girl smiled quite broadly. I guess, perhaps, she's rather hard to suit, was the answer. But I like her pretty well so far. I think we'll get along with each other. If we don't, I can leave, like the others did. What's your name? Nelly Ray. Well, Nelly, I hope you'll be able to keep your place. Let me give you a bit of friendly advice. Don't let the cats get into the pantry. That is what Mrs. Pennington is quarreled with nearly every one of her girls about. It is quite a bother to keep them out, ain't it? said Nelly calmly. There's dozens of cats about the place. What on earth makes them keep so many? Mr. Pennington has a mania for cats. He and Mrs. Pennington have a standing disagreement about it. The last girl left here because she couldn't stand the cats. They affected her nerves, she said. I hope you don't mind them. Oh no, I kind of like cats. I've been trying to count them. Has anyone ever done that? Not that I know of. I tried, but I had to give up in despair. Never could tell when I was counting the same cat over again. Look at that black goblin sunning himself on the woodpile. I say, Nelly, you're not going, are you? I must. It's time to get dinner. Mr. Pennington will be in from the field soon. The next minute he heard her stepping briskly about the kitchen, shooing out intruding cats and humming a darky air to herself. He went reluctantly back to the shore and rode across the river in a brown study. I don't know whether Winslow was afflicted with chronic thirst or not, or whether the east side water wasn't so good as that of the west side, but I do know that he fairly haunted the Pennington farmhouse after that. Mrs. Pennington was home the next time he went, and he asked her about her new girl. To his surprise the good lady was unusually reticent. She couldn't really say much about Nelly. No, she didn't belong anywhere near Riverside. In fact, she, Mrs. Pennington, didn't think she had any settled home at present. Her father was travelling over the country somewhere. Nelly was a good little girl, and very obliging. Beyond this, Winslow could get no more information. So he went around and talked to Nelly, who was sitting on the bench under the poplars, and seemed absorbed in watching the sunset. She dropped her Gs badly and made some grammatical errors that caused Winslow's flesh to creep on his bones. But any man could have forgiven mistakes from such dimpled lips and in such a sweet voice. He asked her to go for a row up the river in the twilight, and she assented. She handled an oar very well, he found out, and the exercise became her. Winslow tried to get her to talk about herself, but failed signally, and had to content himself with Mrs. Pennington's meager information. He told her about himself, frankly enough, how he had had fever in the spring and had been ordered to spend the summer in the country, and do nothing useful until his health was fully restored, and how lonesome it was in Riverside in general, and at the Beckham Farm in particular. He made out quite a dismal case for himself, and if Nelly wasn't sorry for him, she should have been. At the end of a fortnight, Riverside folks began to talk about Winslow and the Pennington's hired girl. He was reported to be dead gone on her.  Wise folks shook their heads over it, and wondered that Mrs. Pennington allowed it. Winslow was a gentleman, and that Nelly Ray, whom nobody knew anything about, not even where she came from, was only a common hired girl, and he had no business to be hanging about her. She was pretty to be sure, but she was absurdly stuck up and wouldn't associate with other Riverside help at all. Well, pride must have a fall. There must be something queer about her when she was so awfully shy as to her past life. Winslow and Nelly did not trouble themselves in the least over all this gossip. In fact, they never even heard it. Winslow was hopelessly in love. When he found this out, he was aghast. He thought of his father, the ambitious railroad magnate, of his mother, the brilliant society leader, of his sisters, the beautiful and proud. He was honestly frightened. It would never do. He must not go to see Nelly again. He kept this prudent resolution for twenty-four hours, and then rode over to the West Shore. He found Nelly sitting on the bank in her old faded print dress, and he straight way forgot everything he ought to have remembered. Nelly herself never seemed to be conscious of the social gulf between them. At least she never alluded to it in any way, and accepted Winslow's attentions as if she had a perfect right to them. She had broken the record by staying with Mrs. Pennington four weeks, and even the cats were in subjection. Winslow was well enough to have gone back to the city. In fact, his father was writing for him. But he couldn't leave Beckwiths, apparently.  One day he took Nelly for a row up the river. They went farther than usual around the bend. Winslow didn't want to go too far, for he knew that a party of his city friends, chaperoned by Mrs. Kenton Wells, were having a picnic somewhere up along the river shore that day. But Nelly insisted on going on and on, and, of course, she had her way. When they reached a little pine-fringed headland that came upon the picnickers within a stone's throw, everybody recognized Winslow. Why, there is Burton! he heard Mrs. Kenton Wells exclaim, and he knew she was putting up her glasses. Will Evans, who was in a special chum of his, ran down to the water's edge. Bless me when, where did you come from? Come right in! We haven't had tea yet. Bring your friend, too, he added, becoming conscious that Winslow's friend was a mighty pretty girl. Winslow's face was crimson. He avoided Nelly's eye. Are them friends of yours, she asked in a low tone? Yes, he muttered. Well, let us go ashore if they want us to, she said calmly. I don't mind. For three seconds Winslow hesitated. Then he pulled ashore and helped Nelly to a light on a jutting rock. There was a curious, set expression about his fine mouth as he marched Nelly up to Mrs. Kenton Wells and introduced her. Mrs. Kenton Wells' greeting was slightly cool, but very polite.  Respectable enough, no doubt, and must be treated civilly, but of course wouldn't expect to be made an equal of, exactly. The other women took their cue from her, but the men were more cordial. Mrs. Ray might be shabby, but she was distinctly fetching, and Winslow looked savage. Nelly was not a whit abashed, seemingly, by the fashionable circle in which she found herself, and she talked away to Will Evans and the others in her soft drawl as if she had known them all her life.  Gah, lee! he ejaculated in a very audible tone. If there ain't Mrs. Pennington's hired girl. Mrs. Kentonwell stiffened with horror. Winslow darted a furious glance at the tell-tale that would have annihilated anything except a small boy. Will Evans grinned and went on talking to Nelly, who had failed to hear, or at least to heed, the exclamation. The mischief was done. The social thermometer went down to zero in Nelly's neighbourhood. The women ignored her altogether. Winslow said his teeth together, and registered a mental vow to ring Rufus Hent's sun-burned neck at the first opportunity. He escorted Nelly to the table, and waited on her with ostentatious deference, while Mrs. Kentonwell's glanced at him stonely, and made up her mind to tell his mother when she went home. Nelly's social ostracism did not affect her appetite. But after lunch was over, she walked down to the skiff. Winslow followed her. Do you want to go home? he asked. Yes, it's time I went, for the cats may be raiding the pantry. But you must not come. Your friends here want you. Nonsense! said Winslow sculkily. If you're going, I am too. But Nelly was too quick for him. She sprang into the skiff, unwound the rope, and pushed off before he guessed her intention. I can row myself home, and I'm mean too, she announced, taking up the oars defiantly. Nelly! he implored. She looked at him wickedly. He'd better go back to your friends. That old woman with the eyeglasses is watching you. Winslow said something strong under his breath as he went back to the others. Will Evans and his chums began to chafe him about Nelly, but he looked so dangerous that they concluded to stop. There was no denying that Winslow was in a fearful temper, just then, with Mrs. Kenton Wells, Evans, himself, Nelly, in fact, with all the world. His friends drove him home in the evening on their way to the station, and dropped him at the Beckwith Farm. At dusk he went moodily down to the shore. Far up the bend was dim and shadowy, and stars were shining above the wooded shores. Over the river the Pennington Farm House lights twinkled out alluringly. Winslow watched them until he could stand it no longer. Nelly had made off with his skiff, but Perry Beckwith's dory was ready to hand. In five minutes Winslow was grounding her on the west shore. Nelly was sitting on a rock at the landing-place. He went over and sat down silently beside her. A full moon was rising above the dark hills up the bend, and in the faint light the girl was wonderfully lovely. I thought you weren't coming over at all tonight, she said, smiling up at him. And I was sorry, because I wanted to say goodbye to you. Goodbye, Nelly. You're not going away. Yes, the cats were in the pantry when I got home. Nelly! Well, to be serious, I'm not going for that, but I really am going. I had a letter from Dad this evening. Did you have a good time after I left this afternoon? Did Mrs. Kent and Wills thaw out? Hank, Mrs. Kent and Wells, now where are you going? To Dad, of course. We used to live down south together, but two months ago we broke up housekeeping and come north. We thought we could do better up here, you know. Dad started out to look for a place to settle down, and I came here while he was prospecting. He's got a house now, he says, and wants me to go right off. I'm going tomorrow. Nelly, you mustn't go.  I love you. I love you. You must stay with me forever. You don't know what you're saying, Mr. Winslow, said Nelly coldly. Why, you can't marry me, a common servant girl. I can, and I will, if you'll have me, answered Winslow recklessly. I can't ever let you go. I've loved you ever since I first saw you. Nelly, won't you be my wife? Don't you love me? Well, yes I do, confessed Nelly suddenly. And then it was fully five minutes before Winslow gave her a chance to say anything else. What will your people say, she contrived to ask at last? Won't they be in a dreadful state? Oh, it will never do for you to marry me. Won't it? said Winslow in a tone of satisfaction. I rather think it will. Of course, my family will rampage a bit at first. I dare say father will turn me out. Don't worry over that, Nelly. I'm not afraid of work.  You have to see what dad says, remarked Nelly, after another eloquent interlude. He won't object willy, or write to him, or go and see him. Where is he? He's in town at the Arlington. Arlington? Winslow was amazed. The Arlington was the most exclusive and expensive hotel in town. What is he doing there? Transacting a real estate or a railroad deal with your father I believe, or something of that sort. Nelly! Well, what do you mean? Just what I say. Winslow got up and looked at her. Nelly, who are you? Helen Ray Scott at your service, sir. Not Helen Ray Scott, the daughter of the railroad king? The same. Are you sorry that you're engaged to her? If you are, she'll stay Nelly Ray. Winslow dropped back on the seat with a long breath. Nelly, I don't understand. Why did you deceive me? I feel stunned. Oh, do forgive me, she said merrily. I shouldn't have, I suppose. But you know you took me for the hired girl the very first time you saw me. And you patronized me and called me Nelly.  I never thought I would come to this. When father and I came north, I took a fancy to come up here and stay with Mrs. Pennington, who was an old nurse of mine, until father decided where to take up our abode. I got here the night before we met. My trunk was delayed, so I put on an old cotton dress her niece had left here. And you came and saw me. I made Mrs. Pennington keep the secret. She thought it great fun. And I really was a great hand to do little chores, and keep the cats in subjection too. I made mistakes and grammar and dropped my G's on purpose. It was such fun to see you wince when I did it. It was cruel to tease you so, I suppose. But it was so sweet just to be loved for myself. Not because I was an heiress and a bell. I couldn't bear to tell you the truth. Did you think I couldn't read your thoughts this afternoon when I insisted on going ashore? You were a little ashamed of me. You know you were. I didn't blame you for that, but if you hadn't gone ashore and taken me as you did, I would never have spoken to you again. Mrs. Kent Wellesalt snubbed me the next time we meet.  Have you forgiven me yet, Burton? I shall never call you anything, but Nellie, said Winslow irreverently. End of The Pennington's Girl.