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A SPRING ROMANCE.

THE yellow March sun lay powerfully on the bare Iowa prairie, where the plowed fields were already turning warm and brown, and only here and there in a corner or on the north side of the fence did the sullen drifts remain, and they were so dark and low that they hardly appeared to break the mellow brown of the fields.

There passed also an occasional flock of geese, cheerful harbingers of spring, and the prairie-chickens had set up their morning symphony, wide-swelling, wonderful with its prophecy of the new birth of grass and grain and the springing life of all breathing things. The crow passed now and then, uttering his resonant croak, but the crane had not yet sent forth his bugle note.

Lyman Gilman rested on his ax-helve at the wood-pile of farmer Bacon to listen to the music around him. In a vague way he was powerfully moved by it. He heard the hens singing their weird, raucous, monotonous song, and saw them burrowing in the dry chip-dust near him. He saw the young colts and cattle frisking in the sunny space around the straw-stacks, absorbed through his bare arms and uncovered head the heat of the sun, and felt the soft wooing of the air so much that he broke into an unwonted exclamation:

"Glory! we 'll be seeding by Friday, sure."

This short and disappointing soliloquy was, after all, an expression of deep emotion. To the western farmer the very word "seeding" is a poem. And these few words, coming from Lyman Gilman, meant more and expressed more than many a large and ambitious spring-time song.

But the glory of all the slumbrous landscape, the stately beauty of the sky with its masses of fleecy vapor, were swept away by the sound of a girl's voice humming "Come to the Savior," while she bustled about the kitchen near by. The windows were open. Ah! what suggestion to these dwellers in a rigorous climate was in the first unsealing of the windows! How sweet it was to the pale and weary women after their long imprisonment!

As Lyman sat down on his maple log to hear better, a plump face appeared at the window, and a clear girl-voice said:

"Smell anything, Lyme?"

He snuffed the air. "Cookies, by the great horn spoons!" he yelled, leaping up. "Bring me some, an' see me eat; it 'll do ye good."

"Come an' get 'm," laughed the face at the window.

"Oh, it 's nicer out here, Merry Etty. What 's the rush? Bring me out some, an' set down on this log."

With a nod Marietta disappeared, and soon came out with a plate of cookies in one hand and a cup of milk in the other.

"Poor little man, he 's all tired out, ain't he?"

Lyme, taking the cue, collapsed in a heap, and said feebly, "Bread, bread!"

"Won't milk an' cookies do as well?"

He brushed off the log and motioned her to sit down beside him, but she hesitated a little and colored a little.

"O Lyme, s'pose somebody should see us?"

"Let 'em. What in thunder do we care? Sit down an' gimme a holt o' them cakes. I 'm just about done up. I could n't 'a' stood it another minute."

She sat down beside him with a laugh and a pretty blush. She was in her apron, and the sleeves of her dress were rolled to her elbows, displaying the strong, round arms. Wholesome and sweet she looked and smelled, the scent of the cooking round her. Lyman munched a couple of the cookies and gulped a pint of milk before he spoke.

"Whadda we care who sees us sittin' side b' side? Ain't we goin' t' be married soon?"

"Oh, them cookies in the oven!" she shrieked, leaping up and running to the house, looking back as she reached the kitchen door, however, and smiling with a flushed face. Lyme slapped his knee and roared with laughter at his bold stroke.

"Ho! ho! haar—whoop! did n't I do it slick? Ain't nothin' green in my eye, I guess." In an intense and pleasurable abstraction he finished the cookies and the milk. Then he yelled:

"Hey! Merry—Merry Etty!"

"Whadda ye want?" sang the girl from the window, her face still rosy with confusion.

"Come out here and git these things."

The girl shook her head, with a laugh.

"Come out an' git 'm, 'r by jingo I 'll throw 'em at ye! Come on, now!"

The girl looked at the huge, handsome fellow, the sun falling on his golden hair and beard, and came slowly out to him—came creeping along with her hand outstretched for the plate which Lyme, with a laugh in his sunny blue eyes, extended at the full length of his bare arm. The girl made a snatch at it, but the giant's left hand caught her by the wrist, and away went cup and plate as he drew her to him and kissed her in spite of her struggles.

"My! ain't you strong!" she said half-ruefully and half-admiringly as she shrugged her shoulders. "If you 'd use a little more o' that choppin' wood, dad would n't 'a' lost s' much money by yeh."

Lyme grew grave.

"There 's the hog in the fence, Merry; what 's yer dad goin' t' say—"

"About what?"

"About our gitt'n' married this spring."

"I guess you 'd better find out what I 'm a-goin' t' say, Lyme Gilman, 'fore you pitch into dad."

"I know what you 're a-goin' t' say."

"No, y' don't."

"Yes, but I do, though."

"Well, ask me and see, if you think you 're so smart. Jest as like 's not you 'll slip up."

"All right; here goes. Marietty Bacon, ain't you an' Lyme Gilman goin' t' be married?"

"No, sir, we ain't," laughed the girl, snatching up the plate and darting away to the house, where she struck up "Weevily Wheat," and went busily on about her cooking. Lyme threw a kiss at her, and fell to work on his log with startling energy.

William Bacon was one of the richest farmers in Cedar County, and held half a dozen farms in Dry Run township. He was a giant in strength even now when his hair was getting grizzled,and his voice, like that of Jephthah, would quell a lion. Lyman, therefore, looked forward to his interview with the "old man" with as much trepidation as he had ever known, though commonly he had little fear of anything.

Marietta was not only the old man's only child but his housekeeper, his wife having long ago succumbed to the ferocious toil of the farm. It was reasonable to suppose, therefore, that he would surrender his claim on the girl reluctantly. Rough as he was, he loved Marietta strongly, and would find it exceedingly hard to get along without her.

Lyman mused on these things as he drove the gleaming ax into the huge maple logs. He was something more than the usual hired man, being a lumberman from the Wisconsin pineries, where he had sold out his interest in a camp not three weeks before the day he began work for Bacon. He had a nice "little wad o' money" when he left the camp and started for La Crosse, but he had been robbed in his hotel the first night in the city, and was left nearly penniless. It was a great blow to him, for, as he said, every cent of that money "stood fer hard knocks an' poor feed. When I smelt of it I could jest see the cold frosty mornin's and the late nights. I could feel the hot sun on my back like it was when I worked in the harvest-field. By jingo! It kind o' made my toes curl up."

But like the brave fellow that he was he went out to work again, and here he was chopping wood in old man Bacon's wood-yard, thinking busily on the scene which had just passed between him and Marietta.

"By jingo!" he said all at once, stopping short, with the ax on his shoulder. "If I had n't 'a' been robbed I would n't 'a' come here—I never 'd met Merry. Thunder and jimson root! Was n't that a narrow 'scape?"

And then he laughed so heartily that the girl looked out of the window again to see what in the world he was doing. He had his hat in his hand and was whacking his thigh with it.

"Lyman Gilman, what in the world ails you to-day? It 's perfectly ridiculous the way you yell and talk t' y'rself out there on the chips. You beat the hens, I declare if you don't."

Lyme put on his hat and walked up to the window, and, resting his great bare arms on the sill, and his chin on his arms, said:

"Merry, I 'm goin' t' tackle dad this afternoon. He 'll be settin' up the new seeder, and I 'm goin' t' climb right on the back of his neck. He 's jest gut t' give me a chance."

Marietta looked sober in sympathy.

"Well. P'raps it 's best t' have it over with, Lyme, but someway I feel kind o' scarey about it."

Lyme stood for a long time looking in at the window, watching the light-footed girl as she set the table in the middle of the sun-lighted kitchen floor. The kettle hissed, the meat sizzled, sending up a delicious odor, a hen stood in the open door and sang a sort of cheery half-human song, while to and fro moved the sweet-faced, lithe, and powerful girl, followed by the smiling eyes at the window.

"Merry, you look purty as a picture. You look just like the wife I be'n a-huntin' for all these years, sure 's shootin'."

Marietta colored with pleasure.

"Does dad pay you t' stand an' look at me an' say pretty things t' the cook?"

"No, he don't. But I 'm willin' t' do it without pay. I could jest stand here till kingdom come an' look at you—Hello! I hear a wagon. I guess I better hump into that wood-pile."

"I think so too. Dinner 's most ready, and pap 'll be here soon."

Lyme was driving away furiously at a tough elm log when farmer Bacon drove into the yard with a new seeder in his wagon. Lyme whacked away busily while Bacon stabled the team, and in a short time Marietta called in long-drawn, musical fashion—

"Dinner-r-r!"

After sozzling their faces at the well the two men went in and sat down at the table. Bacon was not much of a talker at any time, and at meal-time, in seeding, eating was the main business in hand; therefore the meal was a silent one, Marietta and Lyme not caring to talk on general topics. The hour was an anxious one for her and an important one for him.

"Wal, now, Lyme, seedin' 's the nex' thing," said Bacon as he shoved back his chair and glared around from under his bushy eyebrows. "We can't do too much this afternoon. That seeder 's got t' be set up an' a lot o' seed wheat cleaned up. You unload the machine while I feed the pigs."

Lyme sat still till the old man was heard outside calling "Poo-ee, poo-ee" to the pigs in the yard, then he smiled at Marietta, but she said:

"He 's got on one of his fits, Lyme; I don't b'lieve you 'd better tackle him t'-day."

"Don't you worry; I 'll fix him. Come, now, give me a kiss."

"Why, you great thing! You—took—"

"I know, but I want you to give me 'em. Jest walk right up to me an' give me a smack t' bind the bargain we 've made."

"I ain't made no bargain," laughed the girl. Then feeling the force of his tender tone, "Will you behave, and go right off to your work?"

"Jest like a little man—hope t' die!"

"Lyme!" roared the old man from the barn.

"Hello!" replied Lyme, grinning joyously and winking at the girl, as much as to say, "This would paralyze the old man if he saw it."

He went out to the shed where Bacon was busy as serene as if he had not a fearful task on hand. He was apprehensive that the father would "gig back" unless rightly approached, and so he waited a good opportunity.

The right opening seemed to present itself along about the middle of the afternoon. Bacon was down on the ground under the machine tightening some burs. This was a good chance for two reasons. In the first place the keen, almost savage, eyes of Bacon were no longer where they could glare on him, and in spite of his cool exterior Lyme had "jest as soon not" have the old man looking at him.

Then, besides, the old farmer had been telling about his "river eighty," which was without a tenant; the man who had taken it, having lost his wife, had grown disheartened and had given it up.

"It 's an almighty good chance for a man with a small family. Good house an' barn, good land. A likely young feller with a team an' a woman could do tiptop on that eighty. If he wanted more, I 'd let him have an eighty j'inin'—"

"I 'd like t' try that m'self," said Lyme, as a feeler. The old fellow said nothing in reply for a moment.

"Ef you had a team an' tools an' a woman I 'd jest as leef you 'd have it as anybody."

"Sell me your blacks, and I 'll pay half down, the balance in the fall. I can pick up some tools, and as fur a woman, Merry Etty an' me have talked that over to-day. She 's ready to—ready to marry me whenever you say, now."

There was an ominous silence under the seeder, as if the man could not believe his ears.

"What 's—what 's that?" he stuttered. "Who 'd you say? What about Merry Etty?"

"She 's agreed to marry me."

"The —— you say!" roared the old bear as the truth burst upon him. "So that 's what you do when I go off to town and leave you to chop wood. So you 're goin' to get married, hey?"

He was now where he could see Lyme, glaring up into his smiling blue eyes. Lyme stood his ground.

"Yes, sir. That 's the calculation."

"Well, I guess I 'll have somethin' t' say about that," nodding his head violently.

"I rather expected y' would. Blaze away. Your privilege—my bad luck. Sail in ol' man. What 's y'r objection to me fer a son-in-law?"

"Don't you worry, young feller. I 'll come at it soon enough," went on Bacon as he turned up another bur in a very awkward corner. In his nervous excitement the wrench slipped, banging his knuckle.

"Ouch! Thunder-m-m-m!" howled and snarled the wounded man.

"What 's the matter? Bark yer knuckle?" queried Lyme,feeling a mighty impulse to laugh. But when he saw the old savage straighten up and glare at him he sobered. Bacon was now in a frightful temper. The veins in his great, bare, weather-beaten neck swelled dangerously.

"Jest let me say right here that I 've had enough o' you. You can't live on the same acre with my girl another day."

"What makes ye think I can't?" It was now the young man's turn to draw himself up, and as he faced the old man, his arms folded and each vast hand grasping an elbow, he looked like a statue of red granite, and the hands resembled the paws of a crouching lion; but his eyes smiled.

"I don't think, I know ye won't."

"What 's the objection to me?"

"Objection? What 's the inducement? My hired man, an' not three shirts to yer back!"

"That 's another; I 've got four. Say, old man, did you ever work out fer a living?"

"That 's none o' yer business," growled Bacon, a little taken down. "I 've worked, an' scraped, an' got t'gether a little prop'ty here, an' they ain't no sucker like you goin' to come 'long here, an' live off me, an' spend my prop'ty after I 'm dead. You can jest bet high on that."

"Who 's goin' t' live on ye?"

"You 're aimin' to."

"I ain't, neither."

"Yes, y' are. You 've loafed on me ever since I hired ye."

"That 's a——" Lyme checked himself for Marietta's sake, and the enraged father went on.

"I hired ye t' cut wood, an' you 've gone an' fooled my daughter away from me. Now you jest figger up what I owe ye, and git out o' here. Ye can't go too soon t' suit me"

Bacon was renowned as the "hardest man in Cedar County to handle," and though he was getting old, he was still a terror to his neighbors when roused. He was honest, temperate, and a good neighbor until something carried him off his balance; then he became as cruel as a panther and as savage as a grizzly. All this Lyme knew, but it did not keep his anger down so much as did the thought of Marietta. His silence infuriated Bacon, who yelled hoarsely:

"Git out o' this!"

"Don't be in a rush, ol' man—"

With a curse Bacon hurled himself upon Lyme, who threw out one hand and seized his assailant by the collar, stopping him, while he said in a low voice:

"Stay right where you are, ol' man. I 'm dangerous. It 's fer Merry's sake—"

The infuriated father struck at him. Lyme warded off the blow, and with a sudden wrench and twist threw him with frightful force to the ground. Before Bacon could rise, Marietta, who had witnessed the scene, came flying from the house.

"Lyme! Father! What are you doing?"

"I—could n't help it, Merry. It was him 'r me," said Lyme, almost sadly.

"Dad, ain't you got no sense? What 're you thinking of? You jest stop right now. I won't have it."

He rose while she clung to him. It was the first time he had ever been thrown, and he could not but feel a certain respect for his opponent, but he could not give way.

"Pack up yer duds," he snarled, "an' git off' n my land. I 'll have the money for ye when ye come back. I 'll give ye jest five minutes to git clear o' here. Merry, you stay here."

The young man saw that it was useless to remain, as it would only excite the old man; and so, with a look of apology, not without humor, at Marietta, he went to the house to get his valise. The girl wept silently while the father raged up and down. His mood frightened her.

"I thought you had more sense than t' take up with such a dirty beggar."

"He ain't a beggar," she blazed forth, "and he 's just as good and clean as you are."

"Shut up! Don't let me hear another word out o' your head. I 'm boss here yet, I reckon."

Lyme came out with his valise in his hand.

"Good-by, Merry," he said cheerily. She started to go to him, but her father's rough grasp held her.

"Set down, an' stay there."

Lyme was going out of the gate.

"Here! Come and get y'r money," yelled the old man, extending some bills. "Here 's twenty—"

"Go to thunder with your money," retorted Lyme. "I 've had my pay for my month's work." As he said that he thought of the sunny kitchen and the merry girl, and his throat choked. Good-by to the sweet girl whose smile was so much to him. and to the happy noons and nights her eyes had made for him. He waved his hat at her as he stood in the open gate, and the sun lighted his handsome head into a sort of glory in her eyes. Then he turned and walked rapidly off down the road, not looking back.

The girl, when she could no longer see him, dashed away, and, sobbing violently, entered the house.


There was just a suspicion of light in the east, a mere hint of a glow, when Lyman walked cautiously around the corner of the house and tapped at Marietta's window. She was sleeping soundly and did not hear, for she had been restless during the first part of the night. He tapped again, and the girl woke without knowing what woke her.

Lyman put the blade of his pocket knife under the window and raised it a little, and then placed his lips to the crack, and spoke in a sepulchral tone, half groan, half whisper.

"Merry! Merry Etty!"

The dazed girl sat up in bed and listened, while her heart almost stood still.

"Merry, it 's me—Lyme. Come to the winder." The girl hesitated, and Lyman spoke again.

"Come, I hain't got much time. This is yer last chance t' see me. It 's now 'r never."

The girl slipped out of bed and, wrapping herself in a shawl, crept to the window.

"Boost on that winder," commanded Lyman. She raised it enough to admit his head, which came just above the sill; then she knelt on the floor by the window.

"Lyme, what in the world do you mean—"

"I mean business," he replied. "I ain't no last year's chicken; I know when the old man sleeps the soundest." He chuckled pleasantly.

"How d' y' fool ole Rove?"

"Never mind about that now, they 's somethin' more important on hand. You 've got t' go with me."

"O Lyme, I can 't!"

He thrust a great arm in and caught her by the wrist.

"Yes, ye can. This is y'r last chance. If I go off without ye t'-night, I never come back. Why do ye pull back? Air ye 'fraid o' me?"

"N-no; but—but—"

"But what, Merry Etty?"

"It ain't right t' go an' leave dad all alone. Where ye goin' t' take me, anyhow?"

"Milt Jennings let me have his horse an' buggy; they 're down the road apiece, an' we 'll go right down to Rock River and be married by sun-up."

The girl still hesitated, her firm, boyish will unwontedly befogged. Resolute as she was, she could not at once accede to his demand.

"Come, make up your mind soon. The old man 'll fill me with buck-shot if he catches sight o' me." He drew her arm out of the window and laid his bearded cheek to it. "Come, little one, we was made fer each other; God knows it. Come! It 's him 'r me."

The girl's head dropped, consented.

"That 's right! Now a kiss to bind the bargain. There! What, cryin'? No more o' that, little one. Now I 'll give you jest five minutes t' git on your Sunday-go-t'-meetin' clo'es. Quick, there goes a rooster. It 's gittin' white in the east."

The man turned his back to the window and gazed at the western sky with a wealth of unuttered and unutterable exultation in his heart. Far off a rooster gave a long, clear blast—would it be answered in the barn? Yes; some wakeful ear had caught it, and now came the answer, but faint, muffled, and drowsy. The dog at his feet whined uneasily as if thinking all not well. The wind from the south was full of the wonderful odor of springing grass, warm, brown earth, and oozing sap. Overhead, to the west, the stars were shining in the cloudless sky, dimmed a little in brightness by the faint silvery veil of moisture in the air. The man's soul grew very tender as he stood waiting for his bride. He was a rough, illiterate man, yet there was something fine about him after all, a kind of simplicity and a gigantic leonine tenderness.

He heard his sweetheart moving about inside, and thought: "The old man won't hold out when he finds we 're married. He can't get along without her. If he does, why, I 'll rent a farm here, and we 'll go to work house-keepin'. I can git the money. She sha'n't always be poor," he ended, with a vow. The window was raised again, and the girl's voice was heard low and tremulous:

"Lyme, I 'm ready, but I wish we didn't—"

He put his arm around her waist and helped her out, and did not put her down till they reached the road. She was completely dressed, even to her hat and shoes, but she mourned:

"My hair is every which way; Lyme, how can I be married so?"

They were nearing the horse and buggy now, and Lyme laughed. "Oh, we 'll stop at Jennings's and fix up. Milt knows what 's up, an' has told his mother by this time. So just laugh as jolly as you can."

Soon they were in the buggy, the impatient horse swung into the road at a rattling pace, and as Marietta leaned back in the seat, thinking of what she had done, she cried lamentably, in spite of all the caresses and pleadings of her lover.

But the sun burst up from the plain, the prairie-chickens took up their mighty chorus on the hills, robins met them on the way, flocks of wild geese, honking cheerily, drove far overhead towards the north, and, with these sounds of a golden spring day in her ears, the bride grew cheerful, and laughed.

At about the time when the sun was rising, Farmer Bacon, roused from his sleep by the crowing of the chickens on the dry knolls in the fields as well as by those in the barnyard, rolled out of bed wearily, wondering why he should feel so drowsy. Then he remembered the row with Lyme and his subsequent inability to sleep with thinking over it. There was a dull pain in his breast, which made him uncomfortable.

As was his usual custom, he went out into the kitchen and built the fire for Marietta, filled the tea-kettle with water, and filled the water-bucket in the sink. Then he went to her bed-room door and knocked with his knuckles as he had done for years in precisely the same fashion.

Rap—rap—rap. "Hello, Merry! Time t' git up. Broad daylight, an' birds a-singin'."

Without waiting for an answer he went out to the barn and worked away at his chores. He took such delight in the glorious morning and the turbulent life of the farmyard that his heart grew light and he hummed a tune which sounded like the merry growl of a lion. "Poo-ee, poo-ee," he called to the pigs as they swarmed across the yard.

"Ahrr! you big, fat rascals, them hams o' yourn is clear money. One o' ye shall go t' buy Merry a new dress," he said as he glanced at the house and saw the smoke pouring out the stove-pipe. "Merry 's a good girl; she 's stood by her old pap when other girls 'u'd 'a' gone back on 'im."

While currying the horses he went all over the ground of the quarrel yesterday, and he began to see it in a different light. He began to see that Lyme Gilman was a good man and an able man, and that his own course was a foolish one.

"When I git mad," he confessed to himself, "I don't know anythin'. But I won't give her up. She ain't old 'nough t' marry yet—and, besides, I need her."

Having got his chores done as usual, he went to the well and washed his face and hands, then entered the kitchen—to find the tea-kettle boiling over, and no signs of breakfast anywhere and no sign of the girl.

"Well, I guess she felt sleepy this mornin.' Poor gal! Mebbe she cried half the night."

"Merry!" he called gently at her door. "Merry, m' gal! Pap needs his breakfast."

There was no reply, and the old man's face stiffened into a wild surprise. He knocked heavily again, and got no reply, and with a white face and shaking hand he flung the door open and gazed at the empty bed. His hand dropped to his side; his head turned slowly from the bed to the open window; he rushed forward and looked out on the ground, where he saw the tracks of a man.

He fell heavily into the chair by the bed, while a deep groan broke from his stiff and twitching lips.

"She 's left me! She 's left me!"

For a long half-hour the iron-muscled old man sat there motionless, hearing not the songs of the hens or the birds far out in the brilliant sunshine. He had lost sight of his farm, his day's work, and felt no hunger for food. He did not doubt that her going was final. He felt that she was gone from him forever. If she ever came back it would not be as his daughter, but as the wife of Gilman. She had deserted him, fled in the night like a thief; his heart began to harden again, and he rose stiffly. His native stubbornness began to assert itself, the first great shock over, and he went out to the kitchen, and prepared as best he could a breakfast, and sat down to it. In some way his appetite failed him, and he fell to thinking over his past life, of the death of his wife, and the early death of his only boy. He was still trying to think what his life would be in the future without his girl when two carriages drove into the yard. It was about the middle of the forenoon, and the prairie-chickens had ceased to boom and squawk; in fact, that was why he knew that he had been sitting two hours at the table. Before he could rise he heard swift feet and a merry voice. Then Marietta burst through the door.

"Hello, pap! How you makin' out with break—" She saw a look on his face that went to her heart like a knife. She saw a lonely and deserted old man sitting at his cold and cheerless breakfast, and with a remorseful cry she ran across the floor and took him in her arms, kissing him again and again, while Mr. John Jennings and his wife stood in the door.

"Poor ol' pap! Merry could n't leave you. She 's come back to stay as long as he lives."

The old man remained cold and stern. His deep voice had a raucous note in it as he pushed her away from him, noticing no one else.

"But how do you come back t' me?"

The girl grew rosy, but she stood proudly up.

"I come back a wife of a man, pap; a wife like my mother, an' this t' hang beside hers"; and she laid down a rolled piece of parchment.

"Take it an' go," growled he; "take yer lazy lubber an' git out o' my sight. I raised ye, took keer o' ye when ye was little, sent ye t' school, bought ye dresses,—done everythin' fer ye I could, 'lowin' t' have ye stand by me when I got ol',—but no, ye must go back on yer ol' pap, an' go off in the night with a good-f'r-nothin' houn' that nobuddy knows anythin' about—a feller that never done a thing fer ye in the world—"

"W'at did you do fer mother that she left her father and mother and went with you? How much did you have when you took her away from her good home an' brought her away out here among the wolves an' Indians? I 've heard you an' her say a hundred times that you did n't have a chair in the house. Now why do you talk so t' me when I want t' git—when Lyme comes and asks for me?"

The old man was staggered. He looked at the smiling face of John Jennings and the tearful face of Mrs. Jennings, who had returned with Lyman. But his face hardened again as he caught sight of Lyme looking in at him. His absurd pride would not let him relent. Lyme saw it, and stepped forward.

"Ol' man, I want t' take a little inning now. I'm a fair, square man. I asked ye fer Merry as a man should. I told you I 'd had hard luck, when I first came here. I had five thousand dollars in clean cash stole from me. I hain't got a thing now except credit, but that 's good fer enough t' stock a little farm with. Now I wan' to be fair and square in this thing. You wan' to rent a farm; I need one. Let me have the river eighty, or I 'll take the whole business on a share of a third an' Merry Etty, and I to stay here with you jest as if nothin' 'd happened. Come, now, whatd' y' say?"

There was something winning in the whole bearing of the man as he stood before the father, who remained silent and grim.

"Or if you don't do that, why, there 's nothin' left fer Merry an' me but to go back to La Crosse, where I can have my choice of a dozen farms. Now this is the way things is standin'. I don't want to be underhanded about this thing—"

"That 's a fair offer," said Mr. Jennings in the pause which followed. "You 'd better do it, neighbor Bacon. Nobuddy need know how things stood; they were married in my house—I thought that 'u'd be best. You can't live without your girl," he went on, "any more 'n I could without my boy. You 'd better—"

The figure at the table straightened up. Under his tufted eyebrows his keen gray eyes flashed from one to the other. His hands knotted.

"Go slow!" went on the smooth voice of Jennings, known all the country through as a peacemaker. "Take time t' think it over. Stand out, an' you 'll live here alone without chick 'r child; give in, and this house 'll bubble over with noise and young ones. Now is short, and forever 's a long time to feel sorry in."

The old man at the table knitted his eyebrows, and a distorted, quivering, ghastly smile broke out on his face. His chest heaved, then he burst forth:

"Gal, yank them gloves off an' git me somethin' to eat—breakfus 'r dinner, I don't care which. Lyme, you infernal idiot, git out there and gear up them horses. What in thunder you foolin' around about hyer in seed'n'? Come, hustle, all o' ye!"

And then they shouted in laughter, while the cause of it all strode unsteadily but resolutely out towards the barn, followed by the bridegroom, who was laughing—silently.

Hamlin Garland.


This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1924.


The author died in 1940, so this work is also in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 years or less. This work may also be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.