Kitabı oku: «Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888», sayfa 6

THE HOLY NIGHT

 
It was so still a night —
So calm and still!
And watching stars, far in the silent sky,
Shone tenderly
Upon the quiet world asleep and chill,
And lying breathless in the frozen light.
 
 
O earth, unconscious earth!
Serene that hour
As the untroubled heart of the sweet maid
Who now hath laid
Her little Child to rest – her Child whose power
Hath bid e'en soulless things proclaim His birth.
 
 
Yet silent lies He now,
And asketh naught,
This sweetest One, but on His mother's breast
He findeth rest.
And of her tender smiling (sorrow-bought)
The still light falleth on His sleeping brow.
 
 
"My Own!" she whispers low,
And then her ear
Hath caught the angel anthem from above,
Where the Blest Dove
Forever broodeth, and she waits to hear
The song of peace re-echoed o'er the snow.
 
 
And yet the Babe doth sleep;
And does He dream
How, in the golden Christmases to come,
Through each fair house
That self-same song of peace, while tapers gleam,
Shall sound, as now it soundeth, strong and deep.
 
 
For happy childhood bears
Forevermore
His seal upon its brow, and childhood's voice
Shall e'er rejoice
At this glad time, when the Redeemer wore
Its poverty, its feebleness, and tears.
And every human heart
Shall tender grow
And very humble, if a child but speak,
That seemeth weak,
But still is strong in Him who would forego
Through strength of love all things that joy impart.
 
 
We praise Thee, O Thou King
Thou Holy One!
We praise Thee for our childhood, and we praise
Through all our days
This festival of peace and good-will shown
To man, while evermore the angels sing.
 

Helen Grace Smith.

JOE:

A STORY OF FRONTIER LIFE

In the early days when stage coaching formed a prominent feature of frontier existence, "The Pioneer Home" was one of the most popular of the Sierra stations. This was not due to its dimensions, nor to its architectural advantages, nor to the accommodations it offered, for it was nothing more than a roughly though substantially built, comfortable-looking log-cabin. But standing as it did on the main street of Nevada City, it would have invited observation on account of its neatly kept, old-fashioned garden of hollyhocks, marigolds, and gilly-flowers, even if a swinging black sign-board had not designated it in glaring red letters as a place of "Entertainment for Man and Beast."

It was Nathaniel Parkenson who, with the aid of his wife, rendered this depot attractive both within and without. When news of the discovery of gold in California reached there, this enterprising couple were among the first to venture from their home in Connecticut. Bent on seeking a fortune in the new El Dorado, they crossed the plains and joined an established mining camp. But their hardships were by no means terminated when their journey came to an end. Nathaniel found working the pick and shovel far more laborious than he had anticipated, and the privations and exposure of camp-life soon began to tell upon his health.

As for Mrs. Parkenson, able-bodied and capable of work though she was, she soon determined in her mind that more congenial occupation and surroundings would have to be sought. Many a plan suggested itself to her, but none formulated to her satisfaction until the coarse canvas bag in which her husband's earnings had been concealed and regularly added to through many months began to evince a state of plethora. Then she felt that the time had come when silence ceased to be golden.

"This kind of livin' ain't goin' to do for you, nor me nuther, Nathanel," was the statement with which she one day interrupted a fit of coughing on the part of her husband.

Too much absorbed with the suggestion she was about to offer to observe his surprise at the first expression of dissatisfaction he had heard from her lips, she continued: "We've got to git out er this place in a little less nor no time, unless we wait till we're tuk out, and that's all there is about it." Mrs. Parkenson emphasized her remarks with decided jerks of the head, which set in motion the half-dozen black, pipe stem curls that hung on either cheek.

Nathaniel recognised this swaying of his wife's ringlets as a sign of deep emotion, which only served to increase his surprise.

"But, Marthy, how's it to be managed?" he inquired in a gentle, deprecating tone. "Surely yer wouldn't go back East to set the folks there to makin' fun of us, would yer, arter what they said agin our comin' so far away?"

"Who spoke of East or West or any other p'ints of the cumpis, I should like to know?" asked Mrs. Parkenson, in a tone that indicated the uselessness of reply. "Ef you think I'd be satisfied jest to settle down here and cook for the fellers in this camp for the rest of my natural existence, you don't know the stuff Martha Gummidge Parkenson is made of."

Nathaniel gazed at his wife with admiration and pride, while she laid before him, in her peculiarly convincing manner, the project that had long occupied her thoughts. This was that he should obtain the agency for a stage company; and, encouraged by the expression of his countenance, she explained how she had already begun negotiations which it would be easy for him to complete.

And this is how it came about that Nathaniel Parkenson purchased the establishment in Nevada City which he called "The Pioneer Home." It did not take long for travellers to find out that here pies, biscuits, corn-bread, and Indian pudding of a superior order were to be had; for Mrs. Parkenson had profited by her New England training, and cooking was in her eyes a fine art not to be despised. Besides, she was ably assisted in her labors by Mary Jane, a niece who had joined the Parkensons shortly after their removal to Nevada City. Mary Jane was a dark-haired, brown-eyed, well-grown Yankee girl, who delighted in styling herself "Aunt Marthy's right bower," which she did with an air of unmistakable appreciation of her own importance.

The dining-room was Mary Jane's special charge; and as the stage-drivers, accompanied by the passengers they had brought, filed in with an expectant air (for they knew what good cheer was sure to await them at this station), the girl received each with a friendly nod, some cheerful remark, or other token of kindly recognition. It is needless to state that she had her favorites amongst those whom she knew best, for, being a woman and young, she had dreamed of her beau ideal in the opposite sex. Ample opportunity was at hand to study the male character in certain circumstances, and Mary Jane did not neglect it.

The bar-room was simply a part of the dining-room, a red calico curtain, almost always drawn aside, forming the line of division between the two apartments. Here the men employed in the stables, the drivers, and whatever passengers waited over for the morning stages congregated to pass the evening; and the smoking, drinking, and card-playing were interspersed with many a thrilling, blood-curdling story of the road.

Mary Jane's ideas of propriety would not permit her to cross the curtain line at such times, but standing within its folds, partly concealed, she would strain her ears to catch every detail of the narrative, oblivious of work or of Aunt Marthy's displeasure, until warned by Nathaniel to "Git along, Mol, and do up yer chores."

Thus she first learned of Joe Marshall's exploits, and his bravery elicited her admiration.

Joe drove the stage between Nevada City and Camptonville, a distance of twenty miles, including a dangerous mountain-trail. Nobody knew anything about his antecedents, but he was considered "the whip" of the hour, and his daring feats were oftener recounted than those of any other mountain Jehu. In short, his comrades regarded him as an honor to the "profession." Mary Jane did more: she fell in love with him in spite of her aunt's frequently expressed disapproval.

"Girls always have a fancy for these good-lookin', rakish kind of fellers that don't care a fig for anybody," said Mrs. Parkenson; "but, take my word for it, Joe'll be slinkin' off one of these fine days and makin' love to some other girl; then you'll just break your heart over him," she added, with a violent shake of the curls in her niece's direction.

Mrs. Parkenson's warning was not prompted by dislike of Joe, but, with an eye to the main chance, she had set her heart on bringing Dick Bowles into her family. Dick was the driver of the You Bet stage, and he had prospects in the shape of a wealthy uncle in the East who had promised to make him sole heir to his entire fortune.

"Dick ain't so very good-lookin', I'll allow," Mrs. Parkenson would add, by way of comparison; "but he's more of a man than Joe, as anybody might see with half an eye. Besides, he's clean gone on you, Mary Jane, and he don't mind if the hull world knows it; but that Joe's indifference jest riles me all over. He's nuthin' but a beardless, pretty, good-natured, kind-hearted, careless boy – that's what he is," she added with a low chuckle, "though he will persist in declarin' over and over agin that he's turned twenty-five. Some folks may credit that, but I don't."

"Humph!" exclaimed the girl, tossing her head and turning up her nose, while she thought: "I'd like to know where auntie gits her men if Joe's a boy." The angry color dyed her cheeks as she spoke in defence of her favorite: "I guess it's no fault of his if he ain't got a beard; just give him time, and I'll bet a quarter he'll turn out as good a crop as any of the other fellers."

Mary Jane was perhaps the more indignant because she could not but acknowledge to herself the justice of Mrs. Parkenson's criticism. Joe was, without doubt, undersized and boyish in stature; the most vivid imagination would fail to discover even embryotic promise of beard or mustache; and although his flowing chestnut locks might excite admiration, they served to enhance his youthful appearance. These facts provoked the girl excessively, particularly as ardor, which would have compensated her for everything else, was decidedly lacking in Joe Marshall.

Joe's peculiarities were not infrequently the subject of comment amongst the men. "It's not that ee's muskilar, but ee's wiry," was the criticism of Captain Cullen, the driver of the Malakoff stage. Cullen had been in command of a British brig before emigrating to America, and therefore retained his title, while he still struggled with his h's. "Joe hain't afraid of nothink," he would declare, shaking his head and opening his round, dull eyes to their fullest extent; "and dern me if 'is 'orses don't seem to know it by the way they 'ammer hover the road. 'Tain't that ee can outcuss the rest on us, for by Jove! I never 'eard a hoath hout of 'is lips. I've made hup my mind that it's sumthin' supernateral wot's got hinto 'im." Having thus delivered himself, Captain Cullen considered that point satisfactorily explained.

"I reckon you've about hit it," returned Dick Bowles. "Joe's got his good p'ints, to be sure, though he can't cuss wuth a damn. Mebbe it's coz he don't drink whiskey; I dunno. That larf o' hisn gets me every time; I never did hear anythin' to ekal it! Mebbe you've heard tell of the circus man that cum along here last year and offered to give Joe fifty dollars a week ef he'd agree to travel about with his show jest to start up the larf at the performances."

This was a fact. But the proprietor of the circus was not the only person on whom Joe's laughter made an impression. When his full red lips parted in merriment, displaying his large, pearly teeth, and emitting a low, gurgling sound, one was reminded of the rippling of water over pebbles. Mrs. Parkenson declared that "Joe's laugh was more contagious nor the measles."

"'Most everybody takes to Joe," said the landlord, by way of accounting for Bowles's statement. "For when he gits off that larf o' hisn, I'll be blowed ef it don't kinder draw folks towards him. But yer can't take no liberties with him, once he fixes them gray eyes on yer."

"He's too soft and sneaky for me," returned Bowles, testily. Then observing the deprecatory glances of the others, he added: "Ef I hadn't er seen him oncet when the Injins got arter him, the way he blazed away at the skinflints and then druv his team straight ahead 'thout even so much as losin' his color, I'd call him an out-an'-out milksop."

Knowing glances were exchanged by some of the men, amongst whom it was no secret that Dick was decidedly jealous of Mary Jane's preference for Joe. Dick had reason to believe that if this formidable rival were removed the girl would treat him better. For, cruel though she was at times, she accepted his attentions with unconcealed satisfaction when Joe was out of the way; it aggravated him, therefore, beyond measure to see her sweetest smiles bestowed upon his rival.

"Guess you ain't feelin' O K," said Mary Jane one evening as she placed a dish of smoking-hot bacon and eggs in front of Joe. "Wot's up? bad noos from the States?" she added, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. This was banter, for nobody knew better than she that the young man never received a communication of any sort through the mail.

Mrs. Parkenson had remarked upon this many a time, and in no complimentary terms. "It must be a black sheep, and no mistake, that home folks wouldn't send a letter to in all these years," she had said.

Joe looked into Mary Jane's face, while a pained expression flitted across his own; this was instantly followed by his peculiar laugh, though it lacked the genuine ring and sounded forced and jerky. But it attracted the attention of two strangers who sat at the end of the long table. They had arrived by one of the stages, and had registered in Parkenson's big book as "John Carter, M.D., and Edward Fulton, Minneapolis, Minn." Their business had been to examine a mine in the interest of an Eastern company, and they were now on their return-trip. Both seemed young, though the doctor's hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples, and there were dark lines beneath his eyes which told of sorrow.

The doctor started perceptibly at the sound of Joe's voice, and dropping his knife and fork, leaned forward with an attempt to obtain a view of his features. This was frustrated by our hero, who had turned away, and in a low tone was answering his interlocutrice. The doctor looked puzzled, and continued his meal.

Presently Joe left the table and passed into the bar-room. In silence he examined the last leaf of the register. His face flushed, his hand trembled; he was thankful that his agitation escaped observation. He longed to get to his little room over the stable; but the only exit was through the apartment he had just left, and he hesitated. At the sound of approaching footsteps he moved towards the curtain, raised it, and met Doctor Carter face to face. They exchanged glances; neither spoke, but the doctor looked troubled, and with a deep frown riveted his gaze on Joe's retreating form.

"Who is that youth?" he asked, pointing toward the door through which Joe had disappeared.

"That's Marshall." answered the landlord. "Everybody in these parts knows him."

"Is he employed here?" was the next query.

"He runs the Camptonville stage, and there ain't a better driver in the hull West."

"Strange!" said the doctor, evidently not satisfied with the intelligence. "Has he been here long?" he added.

"It must be all of five years since Joe put in an appearance on this line," returned the landlord.

"Five years," repeated the doctor dreamily. He looked as though some painful reminiscence had been recalled to him.

"I'd like to know what you've found to interest you in that fellow," said Fulton, who now stood at his friend's elbow. "You could scarcely eat for watching him, and I failed to make you listen when I spoke to you."

"It is a resemblance to a person whom I once knew well – nothing more – queer, is it not, with what persistency a familiar face will sometimes haunt us?" returned the doctor, assuming an off-hand air.

"This fellow's double must surely have robbed you – for you looked ready to spring upon him just now when he went out," said Fulton, jocosely.

"Robbed me?" repeated the doctor; "ah, yes – he did, indeed – but you shall hear about it another time." And they seated themselves at the card table.

When Joe closed the door behind him, he moved slowly away. His eyes were fixed on the ground; he was absorbed in thought. Suddenly his attention was arrested by Mary Jane, who awaited him, as she had frequently done, in the doorway of a rickety, long-disused barn. "I say, Joe! – hist!" she exclaimed, on seeing that he was about to pass without observing her. "Look wot I've fetched yer;" and she held up a couple of well-polished apples.

The young man's melancholy smile troubled her, and although he pressed her hand in gratitude for the attention, she felt instinctively that she had not occupied his thoughts.

"I say, Joe, what ails you?" she asked, tenderly. "Did I hurt your feelin's when I asked ef you had noos from home? I thought you'd know it was fun."

"Ah, no; you have never been unkind to me; you're a good girl. I'm not ungrateful; you must never think that – but – "

"But you're sick," she interrupted. "I just knew there was somethin' out er kilter when you kum in, fur you looked so kinder wore out. I'll run and git you some brandy."

He held her back. "No – no; stay – it's nothing; I'll be all right to-morrow – 'all hunky,' as you say." He laughed to reassure her, and asked where she got the apples.

"Jake fotched 'em up from Frisco, and it isn't everybody I'd hook things for, you'd better believe."

"Wouldn't you do it for Dick?" Joe asked, with a mischievous smile.

"None o' yer business," she returned, indignantly. It would have pleased her to notice even a suspicion of jealousy on Joe's part; but it seemed to her that the mention of his rival just at that moment was ill-timed, and she wondered why the fellow stupidly neglected his opportunities. He was evidently touched, though, for he folded her in his arms, and spoke affectionately.

"Tell me, Mary Jane," he said, looking into her eyes, "is it because you really like me so much that you are so kind to me and put nice things in my room? Did you think I couldn't guess who left the cake there yesterday?"

The girl blushed with pleasure, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. When she raised them they were filled with tears, and her voice trembled when she spoke:

"Oh, Joe, if I didn't care so orful much for you I wouldn't be always gittin scolded about you; but – but – " She was interrupted by her sobs. Joe stroked her hair lovingly, and she wept freely upon his shoulder. "Ca-ant yer see I lo-ve you better nor Dick and all the rest o' the fellers put together?" she asked, at last.

He kissed her again and again, then darted away and left her alone.

"Well, ef he isn't the queerest lot I ever did see!" said Mary Jane, after convincing herself that he had really gone. "He hugs a girl different from any man I ever heerd of; Dick could give him pints on the subject and no mistake."

Prompted by coquetry and an earnest desire to arouse Joe's resentment, she lavished attentions on Dick the next morning, much to this individual's satisfaction. Her indignation was increased considerably at Joe's unmistakable indifference. Indeed, he took so little notice of her that after hastily swallowing a cup of coffee and refusing the viands she placed before him, he devoted himself to his horses, fondling them, calling each by name, rubbing their limbs, and adjusting the various straps and buckles about the harness, until the stable boys set up their shrill nasal cries:

"All aboard for You Bet! Here you are for Camptonville! This way for Downieville, Blue Tent, Forest City!"

At the sound of a loud, piercing whistle every driver springs to the box of his respective stage, the passengers take their places, crack go the whips, and the coaches are off.

They were scarcely out of sight before Fulton began to regret that he had persuaded his friend to remain over for a day's rest, for the doctor was evidently chafing at the delay, and he seemed unaccountably out of sorts. He wandered along the road, and evinced the greatest impatience every time he consulted his watch. He questioned the landlord so closely about the stage drivers that Fulton laughingly inquired whether he proposed establishing an opposition company.

The day dragged its slow length along, and sunset brought the excitement and bustle that accompanied the return of the stages. They came in at intervals, each depositing its passengers, bundles, boxes, and mail-bags, then disappearing in the direction of the stable. It was soon observed that the Camptonville coach, usually one of the first, had not returned. Supper was served at the customary hour, and by eight o'clock the men had assembled in the bar-room; still no Camptonville coach. The air was rife with conjecture.

"I say, Parkenson, wot's 'appened to 'er?" asked Captain Cullen; "she's genally the fust in."

"I reckon we'll have to go out in search of her putty soon ef she don't appear," replied the landlord, who was showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness.

"'Taint likely the road agents has stopped her, is it?" asked Bowles, in an awed tone.

"Wall, they'll find our Joe one too many for 'em ef they git arter him, for there ain't a better fighter nor a truer shot in the hull country," returned Parkenson, so ready to exalt Marshall's qualities that it required only a slight stretch of imagination to proclaim him a pugilist. "Wasn't I along with him oncet when the Injuns attacked him – "

"Yes," interrupted the Captain, "but Hinjuns is different from road hagents; yer hain't got no chance with a lot of fellers as jump hout from be'ind a tree with a rifle levelled at yer 'ead."

"But I tell you, I seen Joe," persisted the landlord, raising his voice with a determination to be heard, "when the derned redskins cum along whooping and yelling like a lot o' devils let loose. Joe never stopped to ask how he could sarve 'em, but he jest blazed away at 'em, keeping the mustangs straight along 'thout so much as lettin' a cuss or a sound out of his mouth."

This was one of Marshall's peculiarities. He was ostentatious in his silence, seldom uttering a syllable while driving, unless it was to give vent to some scarcely audible command to his horses.

The words had hardly passed Parkenson's lips when the sound of wheels and the clatter of horses' hoofs were heard. Everybody hastened to the door; even the women were on the alert, and they had to crane their necks to get a view over the heads of the men of the belated stage. Joe Marshall's seat on the box was filled by Tucker, a well known miner.

"Lend a hand, here, boys," he cried; "Marshall's knocked up, inside there." Quickly securing the reins he jumped to the ground, just as the stage door was thrown open. Another miner of the neighborhood sat in a corner, tenderly supporting the unconscious form of poor Joe, and under his direction a dozen willing hands were enlisted to convey the wounded young man to his room.

"You're a doctor, ain't yer?" asked Mary Jane of Carter, wringing her hands in distress, while tears streamed down her cheeks. "Then why don't yer take a holt and do somethin' for Joe?"

Carter's agitation was so great, however, that he was unable to offer suggestions, and, for the moment, forgetting the requirements of his profession, he simply moved along with the crowd.

Joe's clothing was torn and stained with blood; so were the lifeless hands which lay where they had been placed across his breast; while his long, brown hair fell back in a heavy, damp mass from his broad, pallid brow, revealing an ugly cut. A stream of blood trickled from the wound, to which the doctor mechanically pressed his handkerchief from time to time, while the others were lavish in their expressions of sympathy and regret. They laid the wounded driver gently on his cot, and then withdrew and placed themselves in the doorway to await the doctor's verdict, while the landlady bustled about somewhat noisily in her eagerness to procure the necessary restoratives.

"We must have more air and quiet," was the doctor's first remark, after he had carefully examined the wounds and counted the pulse of the injured man. No second hint was needed, and he and the landlady were left alone with the patient.

In the bar-room, Tucker was giving the details of the accident. "Joe must er felt that he was in fur hard luck, fur I noticed that he wasn't like hisself the minute I jined him. He looked so sour and seemed so low in his sperits that I asked wot was up. Then he seemed madder'n ever, and he druv so reckless that I was putty derned sure we wouldn't come out with whole hides. Sure enough, afore we knowed it, the animals shied at somethin' on the road and started to run. I got a holt onto the ribbons, Harris, here, a helpin' all he could; but Joe jist let go, and laid back until we came to a turn. Then away the poor fellow went flying over the rocks 's if he'd been shot from a cannon. As soon as we could git the horses hauled in and quieted down, we went back to get Joe. We thought he was dead, but Harris got some water and throwed it on him till he began to groan, then we fixed him in the stage and fotched him along. That's the upshot of the hull business. It's dern'd lucky you had a doctor handy, though he don't seem to be much 'count."

After duly discussing the accident in all its bearings, the bar-room occupants disposed themselves as usual at the card tables.

The clock struck ten. At that moment Mary Jane, who having failed to obtain news through Joe's keyhole, had taken her stand at a window which commanded a view of the stable, saw her aunt emerge. In an instant she was at her heels, and the two women entered the bar-room together.

Mrs. Parkenson wore a mysterious air, and there was something about her that attracted all eyes. It was easy to see that she brought important tidings. Her eyes glistened, her face was flushed, and she seemed bristling with information. Some of the men rose and gathered about her, asking questions.

"He isn't wuss, is he?" said Mary Jane, with an injured air, adding: "I reckon it wouldn't take a month to git it out, ef he wus." The girl thought she had been left out in the cold, and resented her dismissal from the patient's chamber.

But without according her the slightest possible attention, Mrs. Parkenson addressed herself to the men. "What do you all think?" she asked, at last, without expecting or awaiting a reply. "When the boys were sent out of the room the doctor jest kept starin' at Joe, till I thought he was goin' to let the poor feller die 'thout doin' the fust thing for him; so I spoke up, and gave my opinion of the case. Then he roused himself, for he seemed most as much dazed as Joe was, and began doin' things to bring the boy to. At last I ses, 'Let's put his feet in hot water;' and away I started for the bucket; well, it was a long time before I could git the water to bile, and when I went back to Joe's room – of course I didn't stop to knock – what do you think I saw? You'll never guess, not if you tried a hundred years. There sot the doctor on the bed a huggin' and kissin' Joe, a-cryin' and callin' him his darlin', his long-lost pet, his angel, and all such nonsense. I thought he was crazy; the bucket fell out of my hand, and the bilin' water went streaming over the floor. If Joe hadn't er spoke to me, I dunno what I wouldn't er done to that doctor. He wouldn't let Joe say much, but he turned to me and explained that Joe ain't a he at all; he's a simon-pure, flesh-and-blood woman." She almost screamed the last words in her eagerness to make the climax effective.

For an instant the air was filled with ejaculations, so varied, so original, so potent, that Fulton, who was a stranger to the local phrases, was as much astonished at them as he could have been at the news of Joe's sex. His head reeled as he turned from one to another.

"No woman could er druv them 'orses over sech roads," at last exclaimed Captain Cullen, with a highly indignant air; "you'll hexcuse me ef I refuse to believe such 'umbug."

"Well, ef Joe's a woman, who is she, anyhow?" asked Dick Bowles, with a triumphant glance at Mary Jane.

"It's a dirty, mean shame, that's wot it is," said that young woman, angry tears welling up to her eyes.

"Joe's real name is Josephine Marsh," continued Mrs. Parkenson, anxious to keep the floor as long as possible, "and ef you'll jest listen to me a minute longer, I'll tell you the hull story. It seems that Joe's mother died in an insane asylum, and that is the cause of the hull trouble. Joe was engaged to be married to this very doctor, who lives in the town she cum from; well, one night she heard some of her folks talkin' about crazy people, and all of 'em agreed that when there was that sort er trouble in a family no marryin' ought to be allowed, and they told the reason why. Joe loved her beau too much to run the risk of bringin' such a misfortune on him as they described it to be, and she couldn't bear to stay right there and break with him, so she up and skipped. The poor thing sacrificed her hull happiness for what she thought right, and I don't care what any er you say, I respect her for it. I left the doctor explaining that her mother's case couldn't affect anybody but her own self; I don't quite understand how he made it out, but Joe was satisfied; that I could see plain enough, for it brought the color back to her cheeks in a jiffy, and she jest looked as pretty as a picter. I don't see how any of us could ever have believed such a sweet lookin' creetur to be a man, or a boy either, for that matter."

"I ain't a bit surprised," calmly observed Mary Jane, with a curl of the lip, Then turning to Dick Bowles, who beamed with happiness, she added. "I kinder thunk there was sumthin' peculiar about Joe all the time."

What Dick's private opinion may have been did not appear, for he was careful not to discuss the subject with his lady-love. It satisfied him to find that when he took her hand and pressed it tenderly, she allowed it to rest in his.