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[Illustration: Sarah K. Bolton]




                            A COUNTRY IDYL

                                  AND

                             OTHER STORIES

                                  BY

                         SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON

      AUTHOR OF “POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS,” “GIRLS WHO BECAME
         FAMOUS,” “FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS,” “FAMOUS AMERICAN
             STATESMEN,” “FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE,” “FAMOUS
                  EUROPEAN ARTISTS,” “FAMOUS TYPES OF
                   WOMANHOOD,” “STORIES FROM LIFE,”
           “FROM HEART AND NATURE” (POEMS), “FAMOUS ENGLISH
                 AUTHORS,” “FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN,”
                      “FAMOUS VOYAGERS,” “FAMOUS
                     LEADERS AMONG WOMEN,” “FAMOUS
                      LEADERS AMONG MEN,” “SOCIAL
                       STUDIES IN ENGLAND,” “THE
                         INEVITABLE, AND OTHER
                             POEMS,” ETC.

                  NEW YORK: 46 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET

                      THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY

                      BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET




                           COPYRIGHT, 1898,
                    BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.

ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL PRESS, BOSTON.




                                  TO

                                CHARLES

                                  AND

                                 ETHEL




                    CONTENTS.

                                   PAGE

  A COUNTRY IDYL                      5

  THE SECOND TIME                    14

  FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS           22

  THE RING OF GOLD                   27

  FOUR LETTERS                       35

  REWARDED                           47

  THE UNOPENED LETTER                58

  THREE COLLEGE STUDENTS             61

  THE TWILIGHT HOUR SOCIETY          78

  SLAVE AMY                          90

  LIKE OUR NEIGHBORS                 93

  TWO AT ONCE                        97

  THE HOUSE-WARMING                 101

  HANNAH AND JOE                    106

  BURTON CONE’S REASON              114

  UNSUITABLE                        134

  PLAYING WITH HEARTS               143

  DUTY                              153

  WAIFY                             165

  THE BLACK AND TAN                 179

  THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER              188

  LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT             193

  AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL               200

  A NEW KIND OF WEDDING             213

  LOST HIS PLACE                    221

  STRUCK IT RICH                    229

  FOOD AT THE DOOR                  236

  HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID          242

  THE STORY OF DOUGLAS              252




                            A COUNTRY IDYL
                          AND OTHER STORIES.




A COUNTRY IDYL.


IN THE midst of New England mountains, covered with pine and cedar,
lies the quiet town of Nineveh, looking towards the sea. Years ago it
had mills where lumber was sawed and grain was ground; but now the old
wheels alone are left, the dams are broken, and the water falls over
the scattered rocks, making music in harmony with the winds among the
pines. The houses have gone to decay; the roofs have fallen in, leaving
the great, rough chimneys standing like the Druid towers of Ireland.

In one of these old houses, before the young men of New England had
gone West to seek their fortunes, lived a miller and his wife. The
Crandall family were happy, save that no children had come into the
home. Finally a sister of the wife died, bequeathing her little girl
to the Nineveh household.

Nellie Crandall grew from babyhood the picture of health, an innocent,
cheerful girl, in sweet accord with the daisies of the fields and the
old-fashioned flowers she cared for in her foster-mother’s garden.

In the house across the way lived John Harding, a tall, awkward boy,
the pride of the country school for his good scholarship, and in
principle as strong as the New England hills he lived among.

John and Nellie had played together from childhood. He had made chains
for her neck of the pine needles; she had fastened golden coreopsis in
his homespun coat; and, while no word had been spoken, the neighboring
people expected that a new house would sometime be built in Nineveh,
and a young couple begin anew the beautiful commonplaces of life.

There was considerable excitement one morning in the quiet town.
Byron Marshall, a city youth, had come to Nineveh to visit the Monroe
family, cousins of the Hardings. Byron was a handsome, slender lad,
well-mannered, just leaving college and ready for a profession. He met
Nellie Crandall, and was pleased with the natural country girl.

“No good’ll come of it,” said one of the old ladies of Nineveh. “I
never believed in mismating. John Harding would give his life for that
girl, while the city youth, I know, is a selfish fellow.”

The summer wore away with rides and picnics, and if John’s heart was
pained at the attentions given to Nellie, and accepted by her, he said
nothing.

After Byron’s return to the city a correspondence was begun by him.

One Sunday evening, when John came as usual to see Nellie, and they
were sitting in the moonlight beside the old mill at the bridge, he
said abruptly, “I’m going away from home, Nellie. I have begun to think
you wouldn’t mind since Byron came.”

“But I do mind,” said the girl. “I like Bryon, and he seems fond of me;
but, John, I don’t want you to go, we’ve been such good friends.”

“Yes, but we must be all in all to each other or I can’t stay. I’ve
loved you all these years with never a thought of another. I’ve loved
every flower in your garden because you have tended it. This old mill
seems precious because you have sat here. All Nineveh is sacred to me
because it is your home, but I cannot stay here now.”

Nellie was young; she had seen little of the world, did not know the
true from the false, and, half captivated with the college youth, she
dare not give her promise to John.

They parted in the moonlight, he heavy of heart at going and she
regretting that two loved her. John went to a distant State and found
employment. No word came from him, and Nellie, who missed him sadly,
depended more than ever on the letters which came from Byron.

The next summer Byron spent at Nineveh, and it was talked about the
little town that Nellie was engaged, and would soon be a city lady,
living in comfort and prominence.

Two years later there was a wedding at the Crandall home, and the
pretty bride said good-by to the old mill and the great pines, and
left the miller and his wife desolate. Two years afterwards, when she
brought back a little son, named Samuel, after the miller, they were
in a measure comforted, though they never liked Byron as well as John,
“who was of their kind.”

When John Harding knew that Nellie was really lost to him and married
to another, he, longing for companionship, married a worthy girl,
prospered in business, and was as happy as a man can be who does not
possess the power to forget. He had learned what most of us learn
sooner or later—that life does not pass according to our plan, plan we
ever so wisely; that, broken and marred, we have to take up the years
and make the mosaic as perfect as we can.

As time passed some of the Nineveh families died, and some moved away
to other and busier scenes. Samuel Crandall had been laid in the little
cemetery, and Mrs. Crandall was more lonely than ever.

One night there came a wagon to the door, and Nellie Marshall, her face
stained with tears, alighted, with her three children. “We have come to
stay, mother,” said the broken-hearted woman. “Byron has gone, nobody
knows where. He has used the money of others, and we are penniless.”

Mrs. Crandall wept on her daughter’s neck, as she told somewhat of the
hardships of her life with her unfaithful and dishonest husband.

Other years passed, and another grave was made beside that of Samuel
Crandall, and Mrs. Marshall, now grown white-haired, lived for her
three children, and reared them as best she could in their poverty.

One day there was a rumor in the town that John Harding was coming to
Nineveh on a visit. He was well-to-do now, and would come in a style
befitting his position. Mrs. Marshall wondered if he would call upon
her, and if he would bring Mrs. Harding to see the woman so changed
from her girlhood in looks, but nobler and sweeter in character.

Mr. Harding had been in Nineveh for a week. Nellie Marshall had
heard of it, and her heart beat more quickly at any footstep on the
threshold. One moonlight night she could not resist putting just one
spray of golden coreopsis in the buttonhole of her black dress, for if
he should come that night he would like to see it, perhaps; for, after
all, women do not forget any more than men.

About eight o’clock there was a knock at the door; she was agitated.
“Why should I be? He is married,” she assured herself.

She opened the door, and John, grown stouter in form and more
attractive in face than ever, stood before her. He met her cordially,
talked with the children, and seemed more joyous than when a boy.

“And where is Mrs. Harding?” Nellie finally found the courage to ask.

“She is not with me,” was the answer.

The call, really a long one, seemed short.

“When do you leave for the West, Mr. Harding?” She had almost said
“John,” for she had thought of him all these years by the old familiar
name.

“Not for two or three weeks, and I shall see you again.”

Day after day passed, and he did not come. And now she realized, as she
had never before, that this was the only man she had ever loved; that
his presence made day, his absence night; that she had loved him from
childhood. And now all was too late.

The time came for him to return to the West, and once more he stood by
the flower-beds along the walk to the Nineveh house, this time just as
the sun was setting over the cedars. He kissed the children. “I have
none of my own,” he said, and took Nellie’s hand, holding it a little
longer than he had held it before. Her lips trembled, and her eyes must
have told all her heart.

“I have felt so deeply for you,” he said; and his own voice grew
tremulous. “And will you let me leave this little remembrance for the
children?” He slipped a roll of bills into her hand, and was gone in a
moment.

Weeks passed, and finally a letter came. She knew the handwriting. What
could John wish of her? Perhaps he was inclined to adopt one of her
children, and, if so, which could she spare?

Not the oldest boy, for he was her pride; not the second, a girl, who
was her comfort and companion; not the youngest, for somehow he looked
like John, and he was dearer to her than all beside. When Byron was
unkind her heart always turned to John, and perchance stamped her
thoughts upon the open, frank face of her youngest child.

She put the