



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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CHAP-BOOK STORIES

By Various Authors

Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; Histories, Newly
composed by Many Celebrated Writers and very delightful to read.

1896, By Herbert S. Stone & Co

Chicago



CONTENTS

BATES, KATHARINE

Whither Thou Goest

An Impassable Gulf

BOYCE, NEITH

In a Garden

CHANNING, GRACE ELLERY

Oreste’s Patron

CUMMINGS, EDWARD

The Appeal to Anne

DORSEY, ANNA VERNON

The Dead Oak

HOLLOWAY, Jr., WILLIAM

The Making of Monsieur Lescarbot’s Ballad

LEFEVRE, EDWIN

On the Brink

LELAND, ANTHONY

A Woman’s Life

“When the King Comes In”

POOL, MARIA LOUISE

Mandany’s Fool

ROSS, CLINTON

The Way to Constantinople

THANET, OCTAVE

The Old Partisan




WHITHER THOU GOEST

By Katharine Bates

THE wind stirred the tops of the maple trees in the Quinsby front yard,
and the old man who stood on the steps, watching the shadows and the
moonlight, sighed as he heard the soft rustling sound. He glanced back
into the house, through the hall, into the bedroom, where his wife was
lighting a candle preparatory to turning down the bed.

“I reckon I’ll jest step down there a minit,” he whispered to himself,
and hurriedly but softly went down the steps. Far down in a corner of
the yard, near the front fence, a hammock hung between two small pin
oaks, and it was here the old man went, looking back uneasily now and
then, as if he expected a call from his wife. The hammock was an old
one, and had evidently hung there all summer, for the meshes were torn
and all the gay colors had faded to a dingy gray. It tossed lightly in
the breeze as the wind grew stronger, and the old man’s hand trembled as
he caught at its swaying folds.

“Girls,” he whispered softly, “are you both here? Are you pushing the
swing, Winnie?”

A sudden flutter went over the leaves of a lilac bush near, and he
turned quickly to it. “That’s Nan’s laugh-gigglin’ at yore old pa jest
as usual, Nanny girl?”

“Father,” his wife called from the porch, “you better come in.”

He turned and hurried back to her. She stood on the steps with the
candle still in her hand, its tiny flame looking almost blue in the
moonlight.

“Mebbe a storm is cornin’ up and you’ll ketch cold,” she said when he
reached her. Her voice was stern, but the look in her gray eyes was as
sad as the trembling of his lips when he said to her, “Ain’t it jest the
sorter night the girls use’ to beg to stay out, and not have to go to
bed yet a while?”

“It’s a mighty pretty night,” she answered. She followed him into their
room, closing the hall door after her.

“Oh, don’t shet it, Mira, don’t! It seems as if you was shettin’ the
children out.”

Mrs. Quinsby turned to him. “Hiram, I must speak out to you,” she said.
“I don’t see any more’n you why the Lord thought best to take our girls,
our two good, pretty girls, but He has done it, and it ain’t right for
you to be lettin’ yoreself fancy you hear ‘em ‘round on nights like this.
I’ve faith to believe if we can keep ourselves outer sin for the rest of
our days we shall see the children again--but not here, Hiram, not here
in the old place.”

“I know it ain’t Nan and Winnie sure ‘nough,” Hiram answered
apologetically, “but these nights make me think of ‘em a terrible
lot--and the leaves goin’ so and so in the wind does sound real like
Nan’s laugh. Mira, I was out in the garden while you was puttin’ the
dishes away and strainin’ the milk, and jest as the moon came out and
the wind started up I heard a laugh like Nan’s, and then something
danced by me that must have been Winnie. I hurried down the path
after it, and there by the poppy bed were the girls, rompin’ jest like
children again, ‘most grown girls that they are. As the wind came up
more they laughed again, not so soft as they had been doin’, but a real
burst of gay laughin’ like they use’ to work themselves up to, and then
they ran towards the arbor and peeped out from the honeysuckle, and Nan
called, ‘Here, Pa,’ and Winnie sorter sang out, ‘Father, Father,’ in her
soft way.” Mrs. Quinsby put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a
little shake. Her eyes were frightened, and her voice came quick and
stern.

“Hush, Father,” she said. “You are doin’ yoreself an injury. The girls
are in heaven, not here, and don’t you let go yore grip on yore mind.
Think of me, Hiram--you’ve got me left, and I can’t stand the thought of
the lonesomeness if you let your senses go. You and me have been married
so many years, Hiram, we could n’t get on without each other. Why, it
seems to me the good Lord would surely let me get foolish too--mebbe it
ain’t fittin’ for one of my years to say it, but I’d ruther, yes, I’d
_ruther_ if it comes down to choosin’ between my senses and you, Hiram!”

The far-away look disappeared from Hiram’s eyes. “I was jest thinkin’,
Mira,” he said reassuringly. “It was only that the night was so powerful
pretty. But now we won’t talk of the children any more.”

Mrs. Quinsby drew him back to the porch again.

“Don’t think me hard, Father,” she said entreatingly, “but I want you to
be sure. Look over there towards the church; you can see the dark heap
of trees against the sky in the churchyard, can’t you? There’s where the
girls are--there’s where they are.”

“Why, of course, Mira. Though how the Lord could take those pretty young
things, and our only two, that had come to us when we was long past
hopin’, is more’n I can see.”

They went to bed, but later in the night Mrs. Quinsby waked suddenly.
Her first thought was that the storm was really coming and she had left
the pantry windows open. She slipped out of bed, but as she realized
that her movement did not disturb her husband, a blind terror came over
her; she struck match after match before she could make herself believe
he was not there. Then she picked up a shawl and flung it over her
nightgown, and, regardless of her bare feet, rushed out to the garden.
The wind was blowing hard and the moon was half hidden by the lightly
scudding clouds, but Hiram’s laugh--the pleased, indulgent laugh that
his girls’ nonsense had so often produced--guided her to him.

“That you, Mother?” he called as she ran down the path. “What a couple
of colts you’ve brought up, Mira. Reckon you could find their beat
anywheres in Mizzourer for friskiness? Just see those girls racin’
round--a storm comin’ up always did go to their heads. Hear Nan laugh!
Ain’t she the greatest girl for foolin’ you ever saw?”

He pointed to some tall hollyhocks that she could see were bending low
with the wind, and added, “Watch her bow;