Part 24 (1/2)

”Jesus Christ be with us!” he said, solemnly. ”G.o.d, our Father, help us to love one another more and more tenderly because of our sins!”

While Elvin was harnessing, a dark figure came swiftly through the moonlight.

”Elvin,” whispered Molly, sharply. ”O Elvin, I can't bear it! You take what money you've got, an' go as fur as you can. Then you work, an'

I'll work, an' we'll pay 'em back. What good will it do, for you to go to jail? Oh, what good will it do!”

”Poor little Molly!” said he. ”You do care about me, don't you? I sha'n't forget that, wherever I am.”

Molly came forward, and threw her arms about him pa.s.sionately.

”Go! go!” she whispered, fiercely. ”Go now! I'll drive you some'er's an' bring the horse back. Don't wait! I don't want a hat.”

Elvin smoothed her hair.

”No,” said he, gravely, ”you'll see it different, come mornin'. The things of this world ain't everything. Even freedom ain't everything.

There's somethin' better. Good-by, Molly. I don't know how long a sentence they give; but when they let me out, I shall come an' tell you what I think of you for standin' by. Parson True!”

The parson came out, and Dilly followed. When the two men were seated in the wagon, she bent forward, and laid her hand on Elvin's, as it held the reins.

”Don't you be afraid,” she said, lovingly. ”If they shet ye up, you remember there ain't nothin' to be afraid of but wrong-doin', an'

that's only a kind of a sickness we al'ays git well of. An' G.o.d A'mighty's watchin' over us all the time. An' if you've sp'iled your chance in this life, don't you mind. There's time enough. Plenty o'

time, you says to yourself, plenty!”

She drew back, and they drove on. Molly, in heart-sick sobbing, threw herself forward into the little woman's arms, and Dilly held her with an unwearied cheris.h.i.+ng.

”There, there, dear!” she said, tenderly. ”Ain't it joyful to think he's got his soul out o' prison, where he shet it up? He's all free now. It's jest as if he was born into a new world, to begin all over.”

”But, Dilly, I love him so! An' I can't do anything! not a thing! O Dilly, yes! yes! Oh, it's little enough, but I could! I could save my shoe-shop money, an' help him pay his debt, when he's out o' jail.”

”Yes,” said Dilly, joyously. ”An' there's more'n that you can do. You can keep him in your mind, all day long, an' all night long, an' your sperit'll go right through the stone walls, if they put him there, an'

cheer him up.

”He won't know how, but so it'll be, dear, so it'll be. Folks don't know why they're uplifted sometimes, when there ain't no cause; but _I_ say it's other folks's love. Now you come in, dear, an' we'll make the bed--it's all aired complete--an' then we'll go to sleep, an' see if we can't dream us a nice, pleasant dream,--all about green gardins, an'

the folks we love walking in the midst of 'em!”

BANKRUPT

Miss Dorcas True stood in her square front entry, saying good-by to Phoebe Marsh. The entry would have been quite dark from its time-stained woodwork and green paper, except for the twilight glimmer swaying and creeping through the door leading into the garden. Out there were the yellow of coreopsis, and the blue of larkspur, melted into a dim magnificence of color, suffusing all the air; to one who knew what common glory was a-blowing and a-growing there without, the bare seclusion of the house might well seem invaded by it, like a heavenly flood. Phoebe, too, in her pink calico, appeared to spread abroad the richness of her youth and bloom, and radiate a certain light about her where she stood. She was tall, her proportions were ample, and her waist very trim. She had the shoulders and arms of the women of an elder time, whom we cla.s.sify vaguely now as G.o.ddesses. The Tiverton voices argued that she would have been ”real handsome if she'd had any sense about doin' her hair;” which was brought down loosely over her ears, in the fas.h.i.+on of her Aunt Phoebe's miniature. Miss Dorcas beside her looked like one of autumn's brown, quiescent stems left standing by the way. She was firmly built, yet all her lines subdued themselves to that meagreness which ever dwells afar from beauty. The deep marks of hard experience had been graven on her forehead, and her dark eyes burned inwardly; the tense, concentrated spark of pain and the glowing of happy fervor seemed as foreign to them as she herself to all the lighter joys and hopes. Her only possibility of beauty lay in an abundance of soft dark hair; but even that had been restricted and coiled into a compact, utilitarian compa.s.s. She had laid one nervous hand on Phoebe's arm, and she grasped the arm absently, from time to time, in talking, with unconscious joy in its rounded warmth. She spoke cautiously, so that her voice might not be heard within.

”Then you come over to-morrow, after the close of service, if it's convenient. You can slip right into the kitchen, just as usual. Any news?”

Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality thrilled out.

”Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to see her things. She's real pleased.”

”You don't suppose they'll ask father to marry 'em?” Miss Dorcas spoke quite eagerly.