Phineas used to wonder, sometimes, just when it was that he began to court Diantha Bowman, the rosy-cheeked, golden-haired idol of his boyhood. Diantha’s cheeks were not rosy now, and her hair was more silver than gold, but she was not yet his wife.

And he had tried so hard to win her! Year after year the rosiest apples from his orchard and the choicest honey from his apiary had found their way to Diantha’s table; and year after year the county fair and the village picnic had found him at Diantha’s door with his old mare and his buggy, ready to be her devoted slave for the day. Nor was Diantha unmindful of all these attentions. She ate the apples and the honey, and spent long contented hours in the buggy; but she still answered his pleadings with her gentle: “I hain’t no call to marry yet, Phineas,” and nothing he could do seemed to hasten her decision in the least. It was the mare and the buggy, however, that proved to be responsible for what was the beginning of the end.

They were on their way home from the county fair. The mare, head hanging, was plodding through the dust when around the curve of the road ahead shot the one automobile that the town boasted. The next moment the whizzing thing had passed, and left a superannuated old mare looming through a cloud of dust and dancing on two wabbly hind legs.

“Plague take them autymobiles!” snarled Phineas through set teeth, as he sawed at the reins. “I ax yer pardon, I’m sure, Dianthy,” he added shamefacedly, when the mare had dropped to a position more nearly normal; “but I hain’t no use fur them ’ere contraptions!”

Diantha frowned. She was frightened--and because she was frightened she was angry. She said the first thing that came into her head--and never had she spoken to Phineas so sharply.

“If you did have some use for ’em, Phineas Hopkins, you wouldn’t be crawlin’ along in a shiftless old rig like this; you’d have one yourself an’ be somebody! For my part, I like ’em, an’ I’m jest achin’ ter ride in ’em, too!”

Phineas almost dropped the reins in his amazement. “Achin’ ter ride in ’em,” she had said--and all that he could give her was this “shiftless old rig” that she so scorned. He remembered something else, too, and his face flamed suddenly red. It was Colonel Smith who owned and drove that automobile, and Colonel Smith, too, was a bachelor. What if--Instantly in Phineas’s soul rose a fierce jealousy.

“I like a hoss, myself,” he said then, with some dignity. “I want somethin’ that’s alive!”

Diantha laughed slyly. The danger was past, and she could afford to be merry.

“Well, it strikes me that you come pretty near havin’ somethin’ that wa’n’t alive jest ‘cause you had somethin’ that was!” she retorted. “Really, Phineas, I didn’t s’pose Dolly could move so fast!”

Phineas bridled.

“Dolly knew how ter move--once,” he rejoined grimly. “’Course nobody pretends ter say she’s young now, any more ’n we be,” he finished with some defiance. But he drooped visibly at Diantha’s next words.

“Why, I don’t feel old, Phineas, an’ I ain’t old, either. Look at Colonel Smith; he’s jest my age, an’ he’s got a autymobile. Mebbe I’ll have one some day.”

To Phineas it seemed that a cold hand clutched his heart.

“Dianthy, you wouldn’t really--ride in one!” he faltered.

Until that moment Diantha had not been sure that she would, but the quaver in Phineas’s voice decided her.

“Wouldn’t I? You jest wait an’ see!”

And Phineas did wait--and he did see. He saw Diantha, not a week later, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, sitting by the side of Colonel Smith in that hated automobile. Nor did he stop to consider that Diantha was only one of a dozen upon whom Colonel Smith, in the enthusiasm of his new possession, was pleased to bestow that attention. To Phineas it could mean but one thing; and he did not change his opinion when he heard Diantha’s account of the ride.

“It was perfectly lovely,” she breathed. “Oh, Phineas, it was jest like flyin’!”

“‘Flyin’!’” Phineas could say no more. He felt as if he were choking,--choking with the dust raised by Dolly’s plodding hoofs.

“An’ the trees an’ the houses swept by like ghosts,” continued Diantha. “Why, Phineas, I could ‘a’ rode on an’ on furever!”

Before the ecstatic rapture in Diantha’s face Phineas went down in defeat. Without one word he turned away--but in his heart he registered a solemn vow: he, too, would have an automobile; he, too, would make Diantha wish to ride on and on forever!

Arduous days came then to Phineas. Phineas was not a rich man. He had enough for his modest wants, but until now those wants had not included an automobile--until now he had not known that Diantha wished to fly. All through the autumn and winter Phineas pinched and economized until he had lopped off all of the luxuries and most of the pleasures of living. Even then it is doubtful if he would have accomplished his purpose had he not, in the spring, fallen heir to a modest legacy of a few thousand dollars. The news of his good fortune was not two hours old when he sought Diantha.

“I cal’late mebbe I’ll be gettin’ me one o’ them ’ere autymobiles this spring,” he said, as if casually filling a pause in the conversation.

“Phineas!”

At the awed joy in Diantha’s voice the man’s heart glowed within him. This one moment of triumph was worth all the long miserable winter with its butterless bread and tobaccoless pipes. But he carefully hid his joy when he spoke.

“Yes,” he said nonchalantly. “I’m goin’ ter Boston next week ter pick one out. I cal’late on gettin’ a purty good one.”

“Oh, Phineas! But how--how you goin’ ter run it?”

Phineas’s chin came up.

“Run it!” he scoffed. “Well, I hain’t had no trouble yet steerin’ a hoss, an’ I cal’late I won’t have any more steerin’ a mess o’ senseless metal what hain’t got no eyes ter be seein’ things an’ gittin’ scared! I don’t worry none ‘bout runnin’ it.”

“But, Phineas, it ain’t all steerin’,” ventured Diantha, timidly. “There’s lots of little handles and things ter turn, an’ there’s some things you do with your feet. Colonel Smith did.”

The name Smith to Phineas was like a match to gunpowder. He flamed instantly into wrath.

“Well, I cal’late what Colonel Smith does, I can,” he snapped. “Besides”--airily--“mebbe I shan’t git the feet kind, anyhow; I want the best. There’s as much as four or five kinds, Jim Blair says, an’ I cal’late ter try ’em all.”

“Oh-h!” breathed Diantha, falling back in her chair with an ecstatic sigh. “Oh, Phineas, won’t it be grand!” And Phineas, seeing the joyous light in her eyes, gazed straight down a vista of happiness that led to wedding bells and bliss.

Phineas was gone some time on his Boston trip. When he returned he looked thin and worried. He started nervously at trivial noises, and his eyes showed a furtive restlessness that quickly caused remark.

“Why, Phineas, you don’t look well!” Diantha exclaimed when she saw him.

“Well? Oh, I’m well.”

“An’ did you buy it--that autymobile?”

“I did.” Phineas’s voice was triumphant. Diantha’s eyes sparkled.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

“Comin’--next week.”

“An’ did you try ’em all, as you said you would?”

Phineas stirred; then he sighed.

“Well, I dunno,” he acknowledged. “I hain’t done nothin’ but ride in ’em since I went down--I know that. But there’s such a powerful lot of ’em, Dianthy; an’ when they found out I wanted one, they all took hold an’ showed off their best p’ints--’demonstatin’,’ they called it. They raced me up hill an’ down hill, an’ scooted me round corners till I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t have a minute ter myself. An’ they went fast, Dianthy-powerful fast. I ain’t real sure yet that I’m breathin’ natural.”

“But it must have been grand, Phineas! I should have loved it!”

“Oh, it was, ’course!” assured Phineas, hastily.

“An’ you’ll take me ter ride, right away?” If Phineas hesitated it was for only a moment.

“‘Course,” he promised. “Er--there’s a man, he’s comin’ with it, an’ he’s goin’ ter stay a little, jest ter--ter make sure everything’s all right. After he goes I’ll come. An’ ye want ter be ready--I’ll show ye a thing or two!” he finished with a swagger that was meant to hide the shake in his voice.

In due time the man and the automobile arrived, but Diantha did not have her ride at once. It must have taken some time to make sure that “everything was all right,” for the man stayed many days, and while he was there, of course Phineas was occupied with him. Colonel Smith was unkind enough to observe that he hoped it was taking Phineas Hopkins long enough to learn to run the thing; but his remark did not reach Diantha’s ears. She knew only that Phineas, together with the man and the automobile, started off early every morning for some unfrequented road, and did not return until night.

There came a day, however, when the man left town, and not twenty-four hours later, Phineas, with a gleaming thing of paint and polish, stood at Diantha’s door.

“Now ain’t that pretty,” quavered Diantha excitedly. “Ain’t that awful pretty!”

Phineas beamed.

“Purty slick, I think myself,” he acknowledged.

“An’ green is so much nicer than red,” cooed Diantha.

Phineas quite glowed with joy--Colonel Smith’s car was red. “Oh, green’s the thing,” he retorted airily; “an’ see!” he added; and forthwith he burst into a paean of praise, in which tires, horns, lamps, pumps, baskets, brakes, and mud-guards were the dominant notes. It almost seemed, indeed, that he had bought the gorgeous thing before him to look at and talk about rather than to use, so loath was he to stop talking and set the wheels to moving. Not until Diantha had twice reminded him that she was longing to ride in it did he help her into the car and make ready to start.

It was not an entire success--that start. There were several false moves on Phineas’s part, and Diantha could not repress a slight scream and a nervous jump at sundry unexpected puffs and snorts and snaps from the throbbing thing beneath her. She gave a louder scream when Phineas, in his nervousness, sounded the siren, and a wail like a cry from the spirit world shrieked in her ears.

“Phineas, what was that?” she shivered, when the voice had moaned into silence.

Phineas’s lips were dry, and his hands and knees were shaking; but his pride marched boldly to the front.

“Why, that’s the siren whistle, ’course,” he chattered. “Ain’t it great? I thought you’d like it!” And to hear him one would suppose that to sound the siren was always a necessary preliminary to starting the wheels.

They were off at last. There was a slight indecision, to be sure, whether they would go backward or forward, and there was some hesitation as to whether Diantha’s geranium bed or the driveway would make the best thoroughfare. But these little matters having been settled to the apparent satisfaction of all concerned, the automobile rolled down the driveway and out on to the main highway.

“Oh, ain’t this grand!” murmured Diantha, drawing a long but somewhat tremulous breath.

Phineas did not answer. His lips were tense, and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead. For days now he had run the car himself, and he had been given official assurance that he was quite capable of handling it; yet here he was on his first ride with Diantha almost making a failure of the whole thing at the start. Was he to be beaten--beaten by a senseless motor car and Colonel Smith? At the thought Phineas lifted his chin and put on more power.

“Oh, my! How f-fast we’re goin’!” cried Diantha, close to his ear.

Phineas nodded.

“Who wants ter crawl?” he shouted; and the car leaped again at the touch of his hand.

They were out of the town now, on a wide road that had few turns. Occasionally they met a carriage or a wagon, but the frightened horses and the no less frightened drivers gave the automobile a wide berth--which was well; for the parallel tracks behind Phineas showed that the car still had its moments of indecision as to the course to pursue.

The town was four miles behind them when Diantha, who had been for some time vainly clutching at the flying ends of her veil, called to Phineas to stop.

The request took Phineas by surprise. For one awful moment his mind was a blank--he had forgotten how to stop! In frantic haste he turned and twisted and shoved and pulled, ending with so sudden an application of the brakes that Diantha nearly shot head first out of the car as it stopped.

“Why, why--Phineas!” she cried a little sharply.

Phineas swallowed the lump in his throat and steadied himself in his seat.

“Ye see I--I can stop her real quick if I want to,” he explained jauntily. “Ye can do ‘most anythin’ with these ’ere things if ye only know how, Dianthy. Didn’t we come slick?”

“Yes, indeed,” stammered Diantha, hastily smoothing out the frown on her face and summoning a smile to her lips--not for her best black silk gown would she have had Phineas know that she was wishing herself safe at home and the automobile back where it came from.

“We’ll go home through the Holler,” said Phineas, after she had retied her veil and they were ready to start. “It’s the long way round, ye know. I ain’t goin’ ter give ye no snippy little two-mile run, Dianthy, like Colonel Smith did,” he finished gleefully.

“No, of course not,” murmured Diantha, smothering a sigh as the automobile started with a jerk.

An hour later, tired, frightened, a little breathless, but valiantly declaring that she had had a “beautiful time,” Diantha was set down at her own door.

That was but the first of many such trips. Ever sounding in Phineas Hopkins’s ears and spurring him to fresh endeavor, were Diantha’s words, “I could ‘a’ rode on an’ on furever”; and deep in his heart was the determination that if it was automobile rides that she wanted, it was automobile rides that she should have! His small farm on the edge of the town--once the pride of his heart--began to look forlorn and deserted; for Phineas, when not actually driving his automobile, was usually to be found hanging over it with wrench and polishing cloth. He bought little food and less clothing, but always--gasolene. And he talked to any one who would listen about automobiles in general and his own in particular, learnedly dropping in frequent references to cylinders, speed, horse power, vibrators, carburetors, and spark plugs.

As for Diantha--she went to bed every night with thankfulness that she possessed her complement of limbs and senses, and she rose every morning with a fear that the coming night would find some of them missing. To Phineas and the town in general she appeared to be devoted to this breathless whizzing over the country roads; and wild horses could not have dragged from her the truth: that she was longing with an overwhelming longing for the old days of Dolly, dawdling, and peace.

Just where it all would have ended it is difficult to say had not the automobile itself taken a hand in the game--as automobiles will sometimes--and played trumps.

It was the first day of the county fair again, and Phineas and Diantha were on their way home. Straight ahead the road ran between clumps of green, then unwound in a white ribbon of dust across wide fields and open meadows.

“Tain’t much like last year, is it, Dianthy?” crowed Phineas, shrilly, in her ear--then something went wrong.

Phineas knew it instantly. The quivering thing beneath them leaped into new life--but a life of its own. It was no longer a slave, but a master. Phineas’s face grew white. Thus far he had been able to keep to the road, but just ahead there was a sharp curve, and he knew he could not make the turn--something was the matter with the steering-gear.

“Look out--she’s got the bits in her teeth!” he shouted. “She’s bolted!”

There came a scream, a sharp report, and a grinding crash--then silence.

From away off in the dim distance Phineas heard a voice.

“Phineas! Phineas!”

Something snapped, and he seemed to be floating up, up, up, out of the black oblivion of nothingness. He tried to speak, but he knew that he made no sound.

“Phineas! Phineas!”

The voice was nearer now, so near that it seemed just above him. It sounded like--With a mighty effort he opened his eyes; then full consciousness came. He was on the ground, his head in Diantha’s lap. Diantha, bonnet crushed, neck-bow askew, and coat torn, was bending over him, calling him frantically by name. Ten feet away the wrecked automobile, tip-tilted against a large maple tree, completed the picture.

With a groan Phineas closed his eyes and turned away his head.

“She’s all stove up--an’ now you won’t ever say yes,” he moaned. “You wanted ter ride on an’ on furever!”

“But I will--I don’t--I didn’t mean it,” sobbed Diantha incoherently. “I’d rather have Dolly twice over. I like ter crawl. Oh, Phineas, I hate that thing--I’ve always hated it! I’ll say yes next week--to-morrow--to-day if you’ll only open your eyes and tell me you ain’t a-dyin’!”

Phineas was not dying, and he proved it promptly and effectually, even to the doubting Diantha’s blushing content. And there their rescuers found them a long half-hour later--a blissful old man and a happy old woman sitting hand in hand by the wrecked automobile.

“I cal’lated somebody’d be along purty soon,” said Phineas, rising stiffly. “Ye see, we’ve each got a foot that don’t go, so we couldn’t git help; but we hain’t minded the wait--not a mite!”

And a Great Man who proves himself truly great

It was Old Home Week in the little village, and this was to be the biggest day. From a distant city was to come the town’s one really Great Man, to speak in the huge tent erected on the Common for just that purpose. From end to end the village was aflame with bunting and astir with excitement, so that even I, merely a weary sojourner in the place, felt the thrill and tingled pleasantly.

When the Honorable Jonas Whitermore entered the tent at two o’clock that afternoon I had a good view of him, for my seat was next the broad aisle. Behind him on the arm of an usher came a small, frightened-looking little woman in a plain brown suit and a plainer brown bonnet set askew above thin gray hair. The materials of both suit and bonnet were manifestly good, but all distinction of line and cut was hopelessly lost in the wearing. Who she was I did not know; but I soon learned, for one of the two young women in front of me said a low something to which the other gave back a swift retort, woefully audible: “His wife? That little dowdy thing in brown? Oh, what a pity! Such an ordinary woman!”

My cheeks grew hot in sympathy with the painful red that swept to the roots of the thin gray hair under the tip-tilted bonnet. Then I glanced at the man.

Had he heard? I was not quite sure. His chin, I fancied, was a trifle higher. I could not see his eyes, but I did see his right hand; and it was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white with the strain. I thought I knew then. He had heard. The next minute he had passed on up the aisle and the usher was seating the more-frightened-than-ever little wife in the roped-off section reserved for important guests.

It was then that I became aware that the man on my right was saying something.

“I beg your pardon, but-did you speak--to me?” I asked, turning to him hesitatingly.

The old man met my eyes with an abashed smile.

“I guess I’m the party what had ought to be askin’ pardon, stranger,” he apologized. “I talk to myself so much I kinder furgit sometimes, and do it when folks is round. I was only sayin’ that I wondered why ’twas the good Lord give folks tongues and forgot to give ’em brains to run ’em with. But maybe you didn’t hear what she said,” he hazarded, with a jerk of his thumb toward the young woman in front.

“About Mrs. Whitermore? Yes, I heard.”

His face darkened.

“Then you know. And she heard, too! ‘Ordinary woman,’ indeed! Humph! To think that Betty Tillington should ever live to hear herself called an ‘ordinary woman’! You see, I knew her when she was Betty Tillington.”

“Did you?” I smiled encouragingly. I was getting interested, and I hoped he would keep on talking. On the platform the guest of honor was holding a miniature reception. He was the picture of polite attention and punctilious responsiveness; but I thought I detected a quick glance now and then toward the roped-off section where sat his wife and I wondered again--had he heard that thoughtless comment?

From somewhere had come the rumor that the man who was to introduce the Honorable Jonas Whitermore had been delayed by a washout “down the road,” but was now speeding toward us by automobile. For my part, I fear I wished the absentee a punctured tire so that I might hear more of the heart-history of the faded little woman with the bonnet askew.

“Yes, I knew her,” nodded my neighbor, “and she didn’t look much then like she does now. She was as pretty as a picture and there wa’n’t a chap within sight of her what wa’n’t head over heels in love with her. But there wa’n’t never a chance for but two of us and we knew it: Joe Whitermore and a chap named Fred Farrell. So, after a time, we just sort of stood off and watched the race--as pretty a race as ever you see. Farrell had the money and the good looks, while Whitermore was poor as a church mouse, and he was homely, too. But Whitermore must have had somethin’--maybe somethin’ we didn’t see, for she took him.

“Well, they married and settled down happy as two twitterin’ birds, but poor as Job’s turkey. For a year or so she was as pretty and gay as ever she was and into every good time goin’; then the babies came, one after another, some of ’em livin’ and some dyin’ soon after they came.

“Of course, things was different then. What with the babies and the housework, Betty couldn’t get out much, and we didn’t see much of her. When we did see her, though, she’d smile and toss her head in the old way and say how happy she was and didn’t we think her babies was the prettiest things ever, and all that. And we did, of course, and told her so.

“But we couldn’t help seein’ that she was gettin’ thin and white and that no matter how she tossed her head, there wa’n’t any curls there to bob like they used to, ’cause her hair was pulled straight back and twisted up into a little hard knot just like as if she had done it up when some one was callin’ her to come quick.”

“Yes, I can imagine it,” I nodded.

“Well, that’s the way things went at the first, while he was gettin’ his start, and I guess they was happy then. You see, they was pullin’ even them days and runnin’ neck and neck. Even when Fred Farrell, her old beau, married a girl she knew and built a fine house all piazzas and bow-winders right in sight of their shabby little rented cottage, I don’t think she minded it; even if Mis’ Farrell didn’t have anythin’ to do from mornin’ till night only set in a white dress on her piazza, and rock, and give parties, Betty didn’t seem to mind. She had her Joe.

“But by and by she didn’t have her Joe. Other folks had him and his business had him. I mean, he’d got up where the big folks in town begun to take notice of him; and when he wa’n’t tendin’ to business, he was hobnobbin’ with them, so’s to bring more business. And--of course she, with her babies and housework, didn’t have no time for that.

“Well, next they moved away. When they went they took my oldest girl, Mary, to help Betty; and so we still kept track of ’em. Mary said it was worse than ever in the new place. It was quite a big city and just livin’ cost a lot. Mr. Whitermore, of course, had to look decent, out among folks as he was, so he had to be ’tended to first. Then what was left of money and time went to the children. It wa’n’t long, too, before the big folks there begun to take notice, and Mr. Whitermore would come home all excited and tell about what was said to him and what fine things he was bein’ asked to do. He said ‘twas goin’ to mean everythin’ to his career.

“Then come the folks to call, ladies in fine carriages with dressed-up men to hold the door open and all that; but always, after they’d gone, Mary’d find Betty cryin’ somewhere, or else tryin’ to fix a bit of old lace or ribbon on to some old dress. Mary said Betty’s clo’s were awful, then. You see, there wa’n’t never any money left for her things. But all this didn’t last long, for very soon the fine ladies stopped comin’ and Betty just settled down to the children and didn’t try to fix her clo’s any more.

“But by and by, of course, the money begun to come in--lots of it--and that meant more changes, naturally. They moved into a bigger house, and got two more hired girls and a man, besides Mary. Mr. Whitermore said he didn’t want his wife to work so hard now, and that, besides, his position demanded it. He was always talkin’ about his position those days, tryin’ to get his wife to go callin’ and go to parties and take her place as his wife, as he put it.

“And Mary said Betty did try, and try hard. Of course she had nice clo’s now, lots of ’em; but somehow they never seemed to look just right. And when she did go to parties, she never knew what to talk about, she told Mary. She didn’t know a thing about the books and pictures and the plays and quantities of other things that everybody else seemed to know about; and so she just had to sit still and say nothin’.

“Mary said she could see it plagued her and she wa’n’t surprised when, after a time, Betty begun to have headaches and be sick party nights, and beg Mr. Whitermore to go alone--and then cry because he did go alone. You see, she’d got it into her head then that her husband was ashamed of her.”

“And was--he?” demanded I.

“I don’t know. Mary said she couldn’t tell exactly. He seemed worried, sometimes, and quite put out at the way his wife acted about goin’ to places. Then, other times, he didn’t seem to notice or care if he did have to go alone. It wa’n’t that he was unkind to her. It was just that he was so busy lookin’ after himself that he forgot all about her. But Betty took it all as bein’ ashamed of her, no matter what he did; and for a while she just seemed to pine away under it. They’d moved to Washington by that time and, of course, with him in the President’s Cabinet, it was pretty hard for her.

“Then, all of a sudden, she took a new turn and begun to study and to try to learn things--everything: how to talk and dress and act, besides stuff that was just book-learnin’. She’s been doin’ that for quite a spell and Mary says she thinks she’d do pretty well now, in lots of ways, if only she had half a chance--somethin’ to encourage her, you know. But her husband don’t seem to take no notice, now, just as if he’s got tired expectin’ anythin’ of her and that’s made her so scared and discouraged she’s too nervous to act as if she did know anythin’. An’ there ’t is.

“Well, maybe she is just an ordinary woman,” sighed the old man, a little sternly, “if bein’ ‘ordinary’ means she’s like lots of others. For I suspect, stranger, that, if the truth was told, lots of other big men have got wives just like her--women what have been workin’ so tarnal hard to help their husbands get ahead that they hain’t had time to see where they themselves was goin’. And by and by they wake up to the fact that they hain’t got nowhere. They’ve just stayed still, ’way behind.

“Mary says she don’t believe Betty would mind even that, if her husband only seemed to care--to--to understand, you know, how it had been with her and how--Crickey! I guess they’ve come,” broke off the old man suddenly, craning his neck for a better view of the door.

From outside had sounded the honk of an automobile horn and the wild cheering of men and boys. A few minutes later the long-delayed programme began.

It was the usual thing. Before the Speaker of the Day came other speakers, and each of them, no matter what his subject, failed not to refer to “our illustrious fellow townsman” in terms of highest eulogy. One told of his humble birth, his poverty-driven boyhood, his strenuous youth. Another drew a vivid picture of his rise to fame. A third dilated upon the extraordinary qualities of brain and body which had made such achievement possible and which would one day land him in the White House itself.

Meanwhile, close to the speaker’s stand sat the Honorable Jonas Whitermore himself, for the most part grim and motionless, though I thought I detected once or twice a repetition of the half-troubled, half-questioning glances directed toward his wife that I had seen before. Perhaps it was because I was watching him so closely that I saw the sudden change come to his face. The lips lost their perfunctory smile and settled into determined lines. The eyes, under their shaggy brows, glowed with sudden fire. The entire pose and air of the man became curiously alert, as if with the eager impatience of one who has determined upon a certain course of action and is anxious only to be up and doing. Very soon after that he was introduced, and, amid deafening cheers, rose to his feet. Then, very quietly, he began to speak.

We had heard he was an orator. Doubtless many of us were familiar with his famous nickname “Silver-tongued Joe.” We had expected great things of him--a brilliant discourse on the tariff, perhaps, or on our foreign relations, or yet on the Hague Tribunal. But we got none of these. We got first a few quiet words of thanks and appreciation for the welcome extended him; then we got the picture of an everyday home just like ours, with all its petty cares and joys so vividly drawn that we thought we were seeing it, not hearing about it. He told us it was a little home of forty years ago, and we began to realize, some way, that he was speaking of himself.

“I may, you know, here,” he said, “for I am among my own people. I am at home.”

Even then I didn’t see what he was coming to. Like the rest I sat slightly confused, wondering what it all meant. Then, suddenly, into his voice there crept a tense something that made me sit more erect in my seat.

“My indomitable will-power? My superb courage? My stupendous strength of character? My undaunted persistence and marvelous capacity for hard work?” he was saying. “Do you think it’s to that I owe what I am? Never! Come back with me to that little home of forty years ago and I’ll show you to what and to whom I do owe it. First and foremost I owe it to a woman--no ordinary woman, I want you to understand--but to the most wonderful woman in the world.”

I knew then. So did my neighbor, the old man at my side. He jogged my elbow frantically and whispered:--

“He’s goin’ to--he’s goin’ to! He’s goin’ to show her he does care and understand! He did hear that girl. Crickey! But ain’t he the cute one to pay her back like that, for what she said?”

The little wife down front did not know--yet, however. I realized that, the minute I looked at her and saw her drawn face and her frightened, staring eyes fixed on her husband up there on the platform--her husband, who was going to tell all these people about some wonderful woman whom even she had never heard of before, but who had been the making of him, it seemed.

“My will-power?” the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was saying then. “Not mine, but the will-power of a woman who did not know the meaning of the word ‘fail.’ Not my superb courage, but the courage of one who, day in and day out, could work for a victory whose crown was to go, not to herself, but to another. Not my stupendous strength of character, but that of a beautiful young girl who could see youth and beauty and opportunity nod farewell, and yet smile as she saw them go. Not my undaunted persistence, but the persistence of one to whom the goal is always just ahead, but never reached. And last, not my marvelous capacity for hard work, but that of the wife and mother who bends her back each morning to a multitude of tasks and cares that she knows night will only interrupt--not finish.”

My eyes were still on the little brown-clad woman down in front, so I saw the change come to her face as her husband talked. I saw the terror give way to puzzled questioning, and that, in turn, become surprise, incredulity, then overwhelming joy as the full meaning came to her that she herself was that most wonderful woman in the world who had been the making of him. I looked then for just a touch of the old frightened, self-consciousness at finding herself thus so conspicuous; but it did not come. The little woman plainly had forgotten us. She was no longer Mrs. Jonas Whitermore among a crowd of strangers listening to a great man’s Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry, tired, all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first time from the lips of her husband that he knew and cared and understood.

“Through storm and sunshine, she was always there at her post, aiding, encouraging, that I might be helped,” the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was saying. “Week in and week out she fought poverty, sickness, and disappointments, and all without a murmur, lest her complaints distract me for one precious moment from my work. Even the nights brought her no rest, for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and from cradle to crib, covering outflung little legs and arms, cooling parched little throats with water, quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threatening outcries with a low ’Hush, darling, mother’s here. Don’t cry! You’ll wake father--and father must have his sleep.’ And father had it--that sleep, just as he had the best of everything else in the house: food, clothing, care, attention--everything.

“What mattered it if her hands did grow rough and toil-worn? Mine were left white and smooth--for my work. What mattered it if her back and her head and her feet did ache? Mine were left strong and painless--for my work. What mattered her wakefulness if I slept? What mattered her weariness if I was rested? What mattered her disappointments if my aims were accomplished? Nothing!”

The Honorable Jonas Whitermore paused for breath, and I caught mine and held it. It seemed, for a minute, as if everybody all over the house was doing the same thing, too, so absolutely still was it, after that one word--“nothing.” They were beginning to understand--a little. I could tell that. They were beginning to see this big thing that was taking place right before their eyes. I glanced at the little woman down in front. The tender glow on her face had grown and deepened and broadened until her whole little brown-clad self seemed transfigured. My own eyes dimmed as I looked. Then, suddenly I became aware that the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was speaking again.

“And not for one year only, nor two, nor ten, has this quintessence of devotion been mine,” he was saying, “but for twice ten and then a score more--for forty years. For forty years! Did you ever stop to think how long forty years could be--forty years of striving and straining, of pinching and economizing, of serving and sacrificing? Forty years of just loving somebody else better than yourself, and doing this every day, and every hour of the day for the whole of those long forty years? It isn’t easy to love somebody else always better than yourself, you know! It means the giving up of lots of things that you want. You might do it for a day, for a month, for a year even--but for forty years! Yet she has done it--that most wonderful woman. Do you wonder that I say it is to her, and to her alone, under God, that I owe all that I am, all that I hope to be?”

Once more he paused. Then, in a voice that shook a little at the first, but that rang out clear and strong and powerful at the end, he said:

“Ladies, gentlemen, I understand this will close your programme. It will give me great pleasure, therefore, if at the adjournment of this meeting you will allow me to present you to the most wonderful woman in the world--my wife.”

I wish I could tell you what happened then. The words--oh, yes, I could tell you in words what happened. For that matter, the reporters at the little stand down in front told it in words, and the press of the whole country blazoned it forth on the front page the next morning. But really to know what happened, you should have heard it and seen it, and felt the tremendous power of it deep in your soul, as we did who did see it.

There was a moment’s breathless hush, then to the canvas roof there rose a mighty cheer and a thunderous clapping of hands as by common impulse the entire audience leaped to its feet.

For one moment only did I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Jonas Whitermore, blushing, laughing, and wiping teary eyes in which the wondrous glow still lingered; then the eager crowd swept down the aisle toward her.

“Crickey!” breathed the red-faced old man at my side. “Well, stranger, even if it does seem sometimes as if the good Lord give some folks tongues and forgot to give ’em brains to run ’em with, I guess maybe He kinder makes up for it, once in a while, by givin’ other folks the brains to use their tongues so powerful well!”

I nodded dumbly. I could not speak just then--but the young woman in front of me could. Very distinctly as I passed her I heard her say:

“Well, now, ain’t that the limit, Sue? And her such an ordinary woman, too!”

For fifty years the meadow lot had been mowed and the side hill ploughed at the nod of Jeremiah’s head; and for the same fifty years the plums had been preserved and the mince-meat chopped at the nod of his wife’s-- and now the whole farm from the meadowlot to the mince-meat was to pass into the hands of William, the only son, and William’s wife, Sarah Ellen.

“It’ll be so much nicer, mother,--no care for you!” Sarah Ellen had declared.

“And so much easier for you, father, too,” William had added. “It’s time you rested. As for money--of course you’ll have plenty in the savings-bank for clothes and such things. You won’t need much, anyhow,” he finished, “for you’ll get your living off the farm just as you always have.”

So the matter was settled, and the papers were made out. There was no one to be considered, after all, but themselves, for William was the only living son, and there had been no daughters.

For a time it was delightful. Jeremiah and Hester Whipple were like children let out of school. They told themselves that they were people of leisure now, and they forced themselves to lie abed half an hour later than usual each day. They spent long hours in the attic looking over old treasures, and they loitered about the garden and the barn with no fear that it might be time to get dinner or to feed the stock.

Gradually, however, there came a change. A new restlessness entered their lives, a restlessness that speedily became the worst kind of homesickness--the homesickness of one who is already at home.

The extra half-hour was spent in bed as before--but now Hester lay with one ear listening to make sure that Sarah Ellen did let the cat in for her early breakfast; and Jeremiah lay with his ear listening for the squeak of the barn door which would tell him whether William was early or, late that morning. There were the same long hours in the attic and the garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her treasured wax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and in the garden Jeremiah found more weeds than he had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure.

The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah Ellen just six months when the Huntersville Savings Bank closed its doors. It was the old story of dishonesty and disaster, and when the smoke of Treasurer Hilton’s revolver cleared away there was found to be practically nothing for the depositors. Perhaps on no one did the blow fall with more staggering force than on Jeremiah Whipple.

“Why, Hester,” he moaned, when he found himself alone with his wife, “here I’m seventy-eight years old--an’ no money! What am I goin’ ter do?”

“I know, dear,” soothed Hester; “but ’t ain’t as bad for us as ’tis for some. We’ve got the farm, you know; an’--”

“We hain’t got the farm,” cut in her husband sharply. “William an’ Sarah Ellen’s got it.”

“Yes, I know, but they--why, they’re us, Jeremiah,” reminded Hester, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.

“Mebbe, Hester, mebbe,” conceded Jeremiah; but he turned and looked out of the window with gloomy eyes.

There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this from Nathan Banks, a favorite nephew, suggesting that “uncle and aunt” pay them a little visit.

“Just the thing, father!” cried William. “Go--it’ll do you both good!” And after some little talk it was decided that the invitation should be accepted.

Nathan Banks lived thirty miles away, but not until the night before the Whipples were to start did it suddenly occur to Jeremiah that he had now no money for railroad tickets. With a heightened color on his old cheeks he mentioned the fact to William.

“Ye see, I--I s’pose I’ll have ter come ter you,” he apologized. “Them won’t take us!” And he looked ruefully at a few coins he had pulled from his pocket. “They’re all the cash I’ve got left.”

William frowned a little and stroked his beard.

“Sure enough!” he muttered. “I forgot the tickets, too, father. ’T is awkward--that bank blowing up; isn’t it? Oh, I’ll let you have it all right, of course, and glad to, only it so happens that just now I--er, how much is it, anyway?” he broke off abruptly.

“Why, I reckon a couple of dollars’ll take us down, an’ more, mebbe,” stammered the old man, “only, of course, there’s comin’ back, and--”

“Oh, we don’t have to reckon on that part now,” interrupted William impatiently, as he thrust his hands into his pockets and brought out a bill and some change. “I can send you down some more when that time comes. There, here’s a two; if it doesn’t take it all, what’s left can go toward bringing you back.”

And he handed out the bill, and dropped the change into his pocket.

“Thank you, William,” stammered the old man. “I--I’m sorry--”

“Oh, that’s all right,” cut in William cheerfully, with a wave of his two hands. “Glad to do it, father; glad to do it!”

Mr. and Mrs. Whipple stayed some weeks with their nephew. But, much as they enjoyed their visit, there came a day when home--regardless of weeds that were present and wax wreaths that were absent--seemed to them the one place in the world; and they would have gone there at once had it not been for the railroad fares.

William had not sent down any more money, though his letters had been kind, and had always spoken of the warm welcome that awaited them any time they wished to come home.

Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came to Jeremiah.

“We’ll go to Cousin Abby’s,” he announced gleefully to his wife. “Nathan said last night he’d drive us over there any time. We’ll go to-morrow, an’ we won’t come back here at all--it’ll be ten miles nearer home there, an’ it won’t cost us a cent ter get there,” he finished triumphantly. And to Cousin Abby’s they went.

So elated was Jeremiah with the result of his scheming that he set his wits to work in good earnest, and in less than a week he had formulated an itinerary that embraced the homes of two other cousins, an aunt of Sarah Ellen’s, and the niece of a brother-in-law, the latter being only three miles from ’his own farmhouse--or rather William’s farmhouse, as he corrected himself bitterly. Before another month had passed, the round of visits was accomplished, and the little old man and the little old woman--having been carried to their destination in each case by their latest host--finally arrived at the farmhouse door. They were weary, penniless, and half-sick from being feasted and fêted at every turn, but they were blissfully conscious that of no one had they been obliged to beg the price of their journey home.

“We didn’t write we were comin’,” apologized Jeremiah faintly, as he stumbled across the threshold and dropped into the nearest chair. “We were goin’ ter write from Keziah’s, but we were so tired we hurried right up an’ come home. ’Tis nice ter get here; ain’t it, Hester?” he finished, settling back in his chair.

“’Nice’!” cried Hester tremulously, tugging at her bonnet strings. “‘Nice’ ain’t no name for it, Jeremiah. Why, Sarah Ellen, seems if I don’t want to do nothin’ for a whole month but set in my own room an’ jest look ’round all day!”

“You poor dear--and that’s all you shall do!” soothed Sarah Ellen; and Hester sighed, content. For so many, many weeks now she had sat upon strange chairs and looked out upon an unfamiliar world!

It was midwinter when Jeremiah’s last pair of shoes gave out. “An’ there ain’t a cent ter get any new ones, Hester,” he exclaimed, ruefully eying the ominously thin place in the sole.

“I know, Jeremiah, but there’s William,” murmured Hester. “I’m sure he--”

“Oh, of course, he’d give it to me,” cried Jeremiah quickly; “but--I--I sort of hate to ask.”

“Pooh! I wouldn’t think of that,” declared Hester stoutly, but even as she spoke, she tucked her own feet farther under her chair. “We gave them the farm, and they understood they was to take care of us, of course.”

“Hm-m, yes, I know, I know. I’ll ask him,” murmured Jeremiah--but he did not ask him until the ominously thin place in the sole had become a hole, large, round, and unmistakable.

“Well, William,” he began jocosely, trying to steady his shaking voice, “guess them won’t stand for it much longer!” And he held up the shoe, sole uppermost.

“Well, I should say not!” laughed William; then his face changed. “Oh, and you’ll have to have the money for some new ones, of course. By George! It does beat all how I keep forgetting about that bank!”

“I know, William, I’m sorry,” stammered the old man miserably.

“Oh, I can let you have it all right, father, and glad to,” assured William, still frowning. “It’s only that just at this time I’m a little short, and--” He stopped abruptly and thrust his hands into his pockets. “Hm-m,” he vouchsafed after a minute. “Well, I’ll tell you what--I haven’t got any now, but in a day or two I’ll take you over to the village and see what Skinner’s got that will fit you. Oh, we’ll have some shoes, father, never fear!” he laughed. “You don’t suppose I’m going to let my father go barefoot!--eh?” And he laughed again.

Things wore out that winter in the most unaccountable fashion--at least those belonging to Jeremiah and Hester did, especially undergarments. One by one they came to mending, and one by one Hester mended them, patch upon patch, until sometimes there was left scarcely a thread of the original garment. Once she asked William for money to buy new ones, but it happened that William was again short, and though the money she had asked for came later, Hester did not make that same request again.

There were two things that Hester could not patch very successfully--her shoes. She fried to patch them to be sure, but the coarse thread knotted in her shaking old hands, and the bits of leather--cut from still older shoes--slipped about and left her poor old thumb exposed to the sharp prick of the needle, so that she finally gave it up in despair. She tucked her feet still farther under her chair these days when Jeremiah was near, and she pieced down two of her dress skirts so that they might touch the floor all round. In spite of all this, however, Jeremiah saw, one day--and understood.

“Hester,” he cried sharply, “put out your foot.”

Hester did not hear--apparently. She lowered the paper she was reading and laughed a little hysterically.

“Such a good joke, Jeremiah!” she quavered. “Just let me read it. A man--”

“Hester, be them the best shoes you’ve got?” demanded Jeremiah.

And Hester, with a wisdom born of fifty years’ experience of that particular tone of voice, dropped her paper and her subterfuge, and said gently: “Yes, Jeremiah.”

There was a moment’s pause; then Jeremiah sprang to his feet, thrust his hands into his pockets, and paced the tiny bedroom from end to end.

“Hester, this thing’s a-killin’ me!” he blurted out at last. “Here I’m seventy-eight years old--an’ I hain’t got money enough ter buy my wife a pair of shoes!”

“But the farm, Jeremiah--”

“I tell ye the farm ain’t mine,” cut in Jeremiah savagely. “Look a-here, Hester, how do you s’pose it feels to a man who’s paid his own way since he was a boy, bought a farm with his own money an’ run it, brought up his boys an’ edyercated ’em--how do ye s’pose it feels fur that man ter go ter his own son an’ say: ’Please, sir, can’t I have a nickel ter buy me a pair o’ shoestrings?’ How do ye s’pose it feels? I tell ye, Hester, I can’t stand it--I jest can’t! I’m goin’ ter work.”

“Jere-mi-ah!”

“Well, I am,” repeated the old man doggedly. “You’re goin’ ter have some shoes, an’ I’m goin’ ter earn ’em. See if I don’t!” And he squared his shoulders, and straightened his bent back as if already he felt the weight of a welcome burden.

Spring came, and with it long sunny days and the smell of green things growing. Jeremiah began to be absent day after day from the farmhouse. The few tasks that he performed each morning were soon finished, and after that he disappeared, not to return until night. William wondered a little, but said nothing. Other and more important matters filled his mind.

Only Hester noticed that the old man’s step grew more languid and his eye more dull; and only Hester knew that at night he was sometimes too tired to sleep--that he could not “seem ter hit the bed,” as he expressed it.

It was at about this time that Hester began to make frequent visits to the half-dozen farmhouses in the settlement about them. She began to be wonderfully busy these days, too, knitting socks and mittens, or piecing up quilts. Sarah Ellen asked her sometimes what she was doing, but Hester’s answers were always so cheery and bright that Sarah Ellen did not realize that the point was always evaded and the subject changed.

It was in May that the inevitable happened. William came home one day to find an excited, weeping wife who hurried him into the seclusion of their own room.

“William, William,” she moaned, “what shall we do? It’s father and mother; they’ve--oh, William, how can I tell you!” and she covered her face with her hands.

William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his wife’s arm with fingers that hurt.

“What is it--what’s happened?” he asked hoarsely. “They aren’t hurt or--dead?”

“No, no,” choked Sarah Ellen. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. They’re all right that way. They--they’ve gone to work! William, what shall we do?”

Again William Whipple gripped his wife’s arm with fingers that hurt.

“Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven’s sake! What does this mean? What are you talking about?” he demanded.

Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief and lifted her head.

“It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston’s,” she explained brokenly. “Maria dropped something about a quilt mother was piecing for her, and when I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked queer, and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried to change the subject; but I wouldn’t let her, and finally I got the whole story out of her.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” urged William impatiently, as Sarah Ellen paused for breath.

“It seems mother came to her a while ago, and--and she went to others, too. She asked if there wasn’t some knitting or patchwork she could do for them. She said she--she wanted to earn some money.” Sarah Ellen’s voice broke over the last word, and William muttered something under his breath. “She said they’d lost all they had in the bank,” went on Sarah Ellen hurriedly, “and that they didn’t like to ask you for money.”

“Why, I always let them have--” began William defensively; then he stopped short, a slow red staining his face.

“Yes, I know you have,” interposed Sarah Ellen eagerly; “and I said so to Maria. But mother had already told her that, it seems. She said that mother said you were always glad to give it to them when they asked for it, but that it hurt father’s pride to beg, so he’d gone to work to earn some of his own.”

“Father!” exclaimed William. “But I thought you said ’twas mother. Surely father isn’t knitting socks and mittens, is he?”

“No, no,” cried Sarah Ellen. “I’m coming to that as fast as I can. You see, ’twas father who went to work first. He’s been doing all sorts of little odd jobs, even to staying with the Snow children while their folks went to town, and spading up Nancy Howe’s flower beds for her. But it’s been wearing on him, and he was getting all tired out. Only think of it, William--working out--father and mother! I just can’t ever hold up my head again! What shall we do?”

“Do? Why, we’ll stop it, of course,” declared William savagely. “I guess I can support my own father and mother without their working for a living!”

“But it’s money, William, that they want. Don’t you see?”

“Well, we’ll give them money, then. I always have, anyway,--when they asked for it,” finished William in an aggrieved voice.

Sarah Ellen shook her head.

“It won’t do,” she sighed. “It might have done once--but not now. They’ve got to the point where they just can’t accept money doled out to them like that. Why, just think, ’t was all theirs once!”

“Well, ’tis now--in a way.”

“I know--but we haven’t acted as if it were. I can see that now, when it’s too late.”

“We’ll give it back, then,” cried William, his face clearing; “the whole blamed farm!”

Sarah Ellen frowned. She shook her head slowly, then paused, a dawning question in her eyes.

“You don’t suppose--William, could we?” she cried with sudden eagerness.

“Well, we can try mighty hard,” retorted the man grimly. “But we’ve got to go easy, Sarah Ellen,--no bungling. We’ve got to spin some sort of a yarn that won’t break, nor have any weak places; and of course, as far as the real work of the farm is concerned, we’ll still do the most of it. But the place’ll be theirs. See?--theirs! Working out--good Heavens!”

It must have been a week later that Jeremiah burst into his wife’s room. Hester sat by the window, bending over numberless scraps of blue, red, and pink calico.

“Put it up, put it up, Hester,” he panted joyously. “Ye hain’t got to sew no more, an’ I hain’t neither. The farm is ours!”

“Why, Jeremiah, what--how--”

“I don’t know, Hester, no more than you do,” laughed Jeremiah happily; “only William says he’s tired of runnin’ things all alone, an’ he wants me to take hold again. They’re goin’ ter make out the papers right away; an’ say, Hester,”--the bent shoulders drew themselves erect with an air of pride,--“I thought mebbe this afternoon we’d drive over ter Huntersville an’ get some shoes for you. Ye know you’re always needin’ shoes!”