A Country Doctor | Page 2

wind, swept over in slow
waves, and a few dry leaves rustled on an old hawthorn tree which
grew beside the hollow where a house had been, and a low sound came
from the river. The whole country side seemed asleep in the darkness,
but the lonely woman felt no lack of companionship; it was well suited
to her own mood that the world slept and said nothing to her,--it

seemed as if she were the only creature alive.
A little this side of the river shore there was an old burial place, a
primitive spot enough, where the graves were only marked by rough
stones, and the short, sheep-cropped grass was spread over departed
generations of the farmers and their wives and children. By day it was
in sight of the pine woods and the moving water, and nothing hid it
from the great sky overhead, but now it was like a prison walled about
by the barriers of night. However eagerly the woman had hurried to this
place, and with what purpose she may have sought the river bank, when
she recognized her surroundings she stopped for a moment, swaying
and irresolute. "No, no!" sighed the child plaintively, and she
shuddered, and started forward; then, as her feet stumbled among the
graves, she turned and fled. It no longer seemed solitary, but as if a
legion of ghosts which had been wandering under cover of the dark had
discovered this intruder, and were chasing her and flocking around her
and oppressing her from every side. And as she caught sight of a light
in a far-away farmhouse window, a light which had been shining after
her all the way down to the river, she tried to hurry toward it. The
unnatural strength of terror urged her on; she retraced her steps like
some pursued animal; she remembered, one after another, the fearful
stories she had known of that ancient neighborhood; the child cried, but
she could not answer it. She fell again and again, and at last all her
strength seemed to fail her, her feet refused to carry her farther and she
crept painfully, a few yards at a time, slowly along the ground. The fear
of her superhuman enemies had forsaken her, and her only desire was
to reach the light that shone from the looming shadow of the house.
At last she was close to it; at last she gave one great sigh, and the child
fell from her grasp; at last she clutched the edge of the worn doorstep
with both hands, and lay still.

II
THE FARM-HOUSE KITCHEN

Indoors there was a cheerful company; the mildness of the evening had
enticed two neighbors of Mrs. Thacher, the mistress of the house, into
taking their walks abroad, and so, with their heads well protected by
large gingham handkerchiefs, they had stepped along the road and up
the lane to spend a social hour or two. John Thacher, their old
neighbor's son, was known to be away serving on a jury in the county
town, and they thought it likely that his mother would enjoy company.
Their own houses stood side by side. Mrs. Jacob Dyer and Mrs. Martin
Dyer were their names, and excellent women they were. Their
husbands were twin-brothers, curiously alike and amazingly fond of
each other, though either would have scorned to make any special
outward demonstration of it. They were spending the evening together
in brother Martin's house, and were talking over the purchase of a bit of
woodland, and the profit of clearing it, when their wives had left them
without any apology to visit Mrs. Thacher, as we have already seen.
This was the nearest house and only a quarter of a mile away, and when
they opened the door they had found Mrs. Thacher spinning.
"I must own up, I am glad to see you more'n common," she said. "I
don't feel scary at being left sole alone; it ain't that, but I have been
getting through with a lonesome spell of another kind. John, he does as
well as a man can, but here I be,--here I be,"--and the good woman
could say no more, while her guests understood readily enough the
sorrow that had found no words.
"I suppose you haven't got no news from Ad'line?" asked Mrs. Martin
bluntly. "We was speaking of her as we come along, and saying it
seemed to be a pity she should'nt feel it was best to come back this
winter and help you through; only one daughter, and left alone as you
be, with the bad spells you are liable to in winter time--but there, it ain't
her way--her ambitions ain't what they should be, that's all I can say."
"If she'd got a gift for anything special,