he had made no sign. He called a few days later, and a bargain was made. Eunice was to begin the school on the first Monday in May, receiving four and sixpence (seventy-five cents) per week for her services, and continuing as long as the district money held out. Six weeks before the opening of our story, she was duly installed as school ma'am in district number nine. She boarded round, stopping the first week at the home of the committee-man. He, by virtue of his office, had once visited the school, on the opening week, quite unequally sharing the honors of the day with the minister, whose duty it was to visit the different school districts at that time, and see that the machinery was in running order. The day of the minister's advent was an occasion of delight mingled with awe, to the children of two generations ago in New England. He was reverenced by them as a superior being. The sight of his chaise in the distance, at recess time, was the signal for them to leave their play, form into line, and "make their manners," as he rode solemnly past. The visit to the school always closed with "remarks" and prayer; and many gray-haired children of to-day retain a vivid picture of a venerable form standing behind the teacher's desk, while the sunlight from the bare windows glorified the worn and whittled benches of the old schoolroom. After this time, unless there was serious trouble in the school, the minister was seen no more until the final examination day. It was nearly four o'clock on a warm afternoon in June. The restless feet of the children kept time to the motion of the flies on the window panes, while through the open door floated the fragrance of Farmer Elder's clover-field. A whitefaced bumble bee, which had dropped in to exchange a friendly buzz with the drones in the red hive, had been caught and imprisoned in a hollyhock by a boy on the seat nearest the door, who at intervals stimulated its smothered rage to a deeper bass, by a snap of his fingers. The schoolhouse was set within a few feet of the dusty highway, having near it "neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all." A patch of tall Canadian thistles grew on the south side, which at blossom time lured the bees and butterflies, and caused the bare feet of the children to suffer tortures in pursuit of the restless rovers. The west window opened into a pasture which had been forbidden ground to the youngsters ever since one of them had spent half the night in a tree within the enclosure, by reason of the persistent attentions of a belligerent young animal beneath. The schoolma'am was engaged in endeavoring to impress upon the mind of George Brown, in the A B C class, the difference between O and I, and failed to notice an unusual stir in the room, as at length, closing the spelling-book, she said: "Now, say your verse." The child straightened up, and began to take an interest in things, as he repeated in a shrill voice : "Little David with his sling, At Go-li-er he did fling, Hit Go-li-er on the head, Great Go-li-er fell down - dead! Ann Maria Churchill giggled as the boy hastily resumed the perpendicular after illustrating the manner of the giant's downfall, his movements being hastened by the appearance of a young man with a wooden measure in his hand, who vaulted lightly over the wall near the schoolhouse, while half a score of young animals, eager for the salt which it had contained, followed close behind. an "Committee-man's coming!" nounced the giggling girl to her companion in a loud whisper, as the young farmer deposited his salt-dish on a flat stone, and knocked at the open door. "Good afternoon, Miss Ring. Our folks wanted me to stop and tell you that they expect you next week,” he explained, standing somewhat uneasily under the gaze of a dozen pairs of eyes. "Will you walk in? We are just going to spell round," she ventured. Nothing loath, he accepted the invita tion. The youth were made to pass in order before him, till the spelling was accomplished, and the shadow on the west window-sill marked four o'clock. Then school was dismissed. A shout rent the air. The urchins who had kept old Adam in subjection by a tremendous effort for the past half hour burst forth with the imprisoned bumble bee, which, being at last released by his tormentor, sailed away on an afternoon sunbeam to join his kindred in the thistle patch. When the shouts had died away in the distance, Jotham and Eunice set out towards the teacher's boarding-place. At Widow More's gate they parted, Jotham going half a mile further to his own home, a tiny brown farmhouse lodged like a bird's nest in a dimple between the hills, overshadowed by a tall butternut tree which dropped its fruit upon the roof in autumn, while a maple grove on the north kept the wind from the dwelling in winter. From the spare-room windows one could look away over the blue hills which formed the last link in a grand mountain chain, whose peaks further north, formed Graylock and his brethren. The low roof had sheltered many generations of the family of which Jotham was the last to bear the name. An old book has come down to the present time, bound in leather, bearing date "1729," entitled "A Token for Mourners," by John Flavel, in which is inscribed: This "Aaron Clark His Book God give was Jotham's great-grandfather. His father died when the lad was sixteen, leaving him to carry on the farm, with the aid and counsel of his mother, a woman of great thrift and management. His half-sister, Silence, with her wonderful brown hair and sympathetic eyes, had faded like a snowdrop, and quickly followed her father. Made painfully bashful by reason of his secluded life, the boy had served his time as a pupil in the red schoolhouse, where for many winters, until he was called up higher, old Master Taylor had held the rod of authority over the boys and girls, bringing it down alike upon the heads of the evil and the good. His son Simeon was as Jonathan to this lonely David, and their souls were knit together as brethren. They sat on the same hard, backless bench; they wrote in fair, round hand in their homemade writing-books: "Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." They did sums by algebra without knowing it, naming the process the Rule of Supposition; and, better spellers than ancestor Aaron, spelled Perry's Dictionary through from cover to cover at the evening spelling schools without missing a word. Jotham was the elder by two years, and the adviser and confidant of his companion. Jotham had a tenor voice, clear and resonant as that of the bell-bird, whose evening song echoed through the maple grove hard by his home, while Simeon sang a good bass. Many happy winter evenings were spent by the two youths in the kitchen of the brown farmhouse, with fiddle and home-made bass viol, on which they were wont to play skilfully. Sometimes even patient "Aunt Darkis," as the neighbors called her, was fain to tie her wide-bordered cap more closely over her ears, when Cousin Jemima joined in the harmony, uplifting her voice like a pelican in the wilderness, while she quavered through old "Majesty" and "Sherburne." Jemima was an old-maid relative, who was wont to sojourn from time to time with Aunt Dorcas, assisting with the spinning and other household duties, her tall, erect figure showing in marked contrast to her aunt, who was bent and bowed. After school days were over, Simeon became a clerk in 'Squire Ellsworth's store, at the Centre, three miles away, where he sold cotton cloth and molasses and divers and sundry other commodities, and boarded in the 'squire's family. This was generally thought to be a great advancement over plodding farm life. There had been nothing of importance in the conversation between Jotham and his companion during the short walk to Widow More's, but the light that was never on sea or land shone in the young man's honest gray eyes as he lifted them to the June sky, and the story older than the granite hills which encompassed his home was writing itself upon his heart. The schoolhouse was left to vacation quiet for two weeks in July, that the older scholars might spread hay and "rake after." Then the swarm again settled, and the buzz of study and mischief went on as before, while the brighteyed teacher reigned as queen bee and kept the hive in order. The "boarding round," then a distinctive feature of district school-keeping, often brought Eunice to the home of the Prudential Committee-man, for it was expected that this officer should provide a home for the teacher whenever, in her weekly revolutions through the district, she came to be entertained by a family whose poverty was in direct proportion to the number of children of teachable age which it contained, meaning from three years old and upward. So when Jim Robinson's turn came, with his family of five olive plants, his few unproductive acres, and a shiftless wife to mismanage the home, kind Aunt Dorcas said, "I guess the teacher'd better come and board out the Robinson's time here." Her son warmly approved the suggestion. He was a devout believer in Providence. He had been tumbled up and down in his mind, seeking some way by which he could see the fair damsel oftener, and surely this was a direct interference in his behalf. Jim's home was the abode of unthrift and discomfort, while his mother and Cousin Jemima were immaculate housekeepers, and the farm produced good store of creature comforts. Nowhere else was such an orchard, with fruit as golden as that guarded of old by the Hesperides, while the garden yielded all manner of herbs and vegetables after their kind. Peace and plenty reigned in the farmhouse. How its master blessed the Providence which had filled the poor man's quiver with the poor man's blessing! Each tow-headed urchin represented an added week of the girl's presence under his own roof. The whole atmosphere of that summer of summers was full of unwritten poetry to the young farmer. There were walks in the twilight in the old-fashioned garden where the hollyhocks nodded their wise heads to each other over the gate, and the striped grass under the lilac bush held up its shining blades, tempting the two into bewildering proximity as they searched in vain for a matched pair. When the dew fell too heavily, the garden was abandoned for the great flat stone doorstep. The robin in the tree overhead would stir softly in her nest, hearing through her midsummer night's dream two young voices blending in sweet accord as they sang Addison's noble ode: Soon as the evening shades prevail, And spread the truth from pole to pole." When Cousin Jemima's step was heard in the kitchen, as she wound the clock and set the bread for the morrow's baking, Eunice would flutter like a belated bird to her nest under the eaves, while Jotham would take his happy heart for a walk in the orchard, from whence he could see the twinkling of her candle through the trees for a few minutes. Then all would be dark, save in his heart, where the light of love shone like a bright star. He could only whisper the secret to the night breezes and the motherly robin. All too soon the bright summer passed. Examination day was over, with its array of delighted parents and august schoolcommittee. The young teacher looked worried. It was a trying ordeal for her, no doubt. At last the guests had departed, the children had received their simple gifts, and said their tearful goodbys. Already the schoolroom was taking on a mournful look amid the fading glories of maple branches and fall marigolds, with which the older girls had covered the cracks in its plastered sides. Jotham unhitched Whitefoot from a post by the door. He was to take the teacher home, another duty of the Prudential Committee-man, and the last that would devolve upon him. Surely never were duties made sweeter in the pathway therecf! He helped her to mount into the high wagon, and climbed in after her, feeling a little awkward in his unaccustomed position. They rode for a time in silence through the lovely mountain pathway, where every roadside stone and spike of goldenrod were transfigured in the slanting light. The lover was thinking of the moonlight strolls in the garden, and the evening songs. Then he broke the silence : "It's going to be lonesome at our house," he stammered; "I wish-won't you come back for good? I think I could make you happy. I should try." Does any one smile at this quiet love making? Then he was not born in the atmosphere of repression which was round about New England two generations ago. It was not an easy matter for even a lover to say, "I love you," and this lover was a man of few words. The ones which he had just spoken signified a life's devotion promised. Surely, the girl had not been blind all summer to what was plainly visible to every one else. Yet she answered not a word. Was it maidenly shrinking, or woman's perversity, which sealed her lips? How could she speak of what she had inadvertently heard only that morning, the thought of which had been with her all the long, tiresome day? A neighbor, the most ignorant and longest tongued woman in the district, had made an early call on her hostess, and tarried on the doorstep near the spare-room window, for a few last words. "They dew say," she affirmed, "that the committee-man's shinin' up to the teacher," "Sh-h-h," cautioned the other. But she went on.— "Wal, to be sure, she might go farther and fare worse. Have you hearn tell that like as not Square Ellsworth 'll have to sign over? Ahdam says that Jim says that John says that they've been livin tu high. Mis' Ellsworth puts raisins in all her mince pies, and makes the under crust jest as rich as the top! She says she don't want no hypocrite pies. And the gals is so extravagant, wearin' meetin shoes every day! Guess Eunice won't hold her head so high if she has to leave there. Mebby Jotham 'll take her out o' pity. And he could have his pick o' gals." At this point she was finally silenced by the energetic pantomime of her hostess, and departed. If the girl had but had time to think it over! But now she could only remember, "Mebby he'll take her out of pity." It was a long three miles. The young man spoke once again : I am "I did not mean to offend you. plain spoken, and, I never said such words to a girl before." And Eunice, unreaving her thick green veil, that it might drop over the cavernous depths of her bonnet, responded, in a voice with a sob in it: "Oh, why did you say them to me?" He left her at the squire's gate, and took his way homeward in the darkening twilight, with his faith in Providence almost wrenched from its hold. In his long waking hours, he lived over every scene of that happy summer. All at once, a thought flashed through his mind, - why had it not occurred to him before?- of his Jonathan, his bosom friend; how was it possible that he and Eunice could have been thrown together daily in the squire's family, and not have come to feel something more than friendship in their close intercourse? Then he recalled many corroborating proofs. His friend was surely interested in the bright maiden whom he had loved in vain. Jotham was, as he himself had said, a plain man. He had never ventured far out into the world which lay beyond his hill-environed home, but he was formed of the same stuff which had made his ancestors endure hardness as good soldiers, and he had read in a very old Book, with which he was wonderfully familiar: "Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friend." His life? That might not have proved so very difficult; but his love, which had become to him morning star and rising sun! All night he wrestled; but when he came out of his room in the early morning light, he had prevailed. He took the milk-pail from the buttery shelf, and went out to begin his day's work as usual, and no other human being knew that he walked a mourner over a buried hope. Life in the brown farmhouse was as methodical as though old John Wyklif's motto, "Doe the nexte thynge," had been inscribed over the broad fireplace; and Jotham blessed the necessity of toil without rest. His mother's dim eyes failed to notice what was plain enough to cousin Jemima's younger vision, brightened perchance by a memory of her own youth, the sad look which his face had taken on. But even her dull ears detected a new tone in his voice in family prayer, and there were no more soul-inspiring tunes played upon the old bass-viol, with his tenor accompaniment. Neither did Reuben come as of old when the evenings grew long. He was hard at work in the store, whose brisk fall trade gave the lie to old Ma'am Toogood's story of prospective failure. So the two only met on Sabbath days, on the meeting-house steps, when Jotham might have observed a new expression on the face of his friend, had he been as quick to note the shadows as in the old days. And what of Eunice? A spirit of unrest, most perplexing to the family, had entered in and taken possession of the girl. She was as fitful in temper as an April day. At times as gay as a bobolink, she would stop in the midst of a burst of song or laugh-provoking story, and no owl could be more solemn. The children missed the charm of their old companion, and good Mrs. Ellsworth would have thought the girl was under conviction, but that she had been for four years a member of the church, in good and regular standing. Deacon Eastman's son Timothy, a good enough young man, walked briskly up to the squire's front door one Sunday evening, and gayly lifted the knocker. Miss Eunice appeared, and answered a question in a way which sent him walking even more quickly away.— It may be necessary to explain that Sunday night in rural New England was the time for valiant young men to lay siege to the hearts of fair maidens, if haply they might win them to wife, and the first approach was wont to be in the time honored form of a request for the damsel's company. One day she was found crying behind the smoke-house, whither she had been sent with fresh coals for the ham-curing, but she explained that the smoke had got into her eyes. It was a blessing to her that the bonnets of the period were such effectual barriers to the curiosity of the outside world, else would she never have dared to sit near her lover or old Dame Toogood in meeting. Not a glimpse could the youth obtain of the face surmerged in the depths of her Navarino, else might his buried hope have felt some resurrection pangs. Digging potatoes is prosaic, backbreaking work. All day Jotham had plodded patiently back and forth along the furrowed rows, followed by a young lad who filled a basket for his stronger arms to empty into the cart, which stood in the centre of the field, while the oxen waited in the edge of the grove hard by, till the time to draw the load home. A bittersweet waved its oriflamme above the underbrush, while the smell of the freshly turned earth, mingling with the odor of dead leaves, suggested that summer was ended and the harvest almost past. Jotham paused at length at the end of a long row, looked back over the brown field across which the sun was throwing its last golden shadows, and leaned his hoe against the stone wall. "Jimmie," said he, "you may get the oxen, and draw the load home." The lad straightened a kink out of his back, and ran nimbly away. Listlessly following him with his eyes, he beheld Simeon approaching. He waited until his visitor had walked the whole distance of the field, and at length stood beside him, saying. "Brother,"- and the old name trembled a little upon his lips, "I have something to tell you." The farmer looked at the young clerk, in his tidy suit, plain and poor, but very clean, and at the delicate hands which bore no marks of toil, then down at his own, brown and roughened by his work. He thought, "He has come to ask me to wish him joy." With a mighty effort |