By Shore and Sedge | Page 8

from the fact that it temporarily obliterated the
children, and quite removed her from any responsibility in the
unpicturesque household. This effect was only marred by the absence
of any impression upon Gideon, who scarcely appeared to notice the
change, and whose soft eyes seemed rather to identify the miserable
woman under her forced disguise. He prefaced the meal with a fervent
grace, to which the widow listened with something of the conscious
attitude she had adopted at church during her late husband's
ministration, and during the meal she ate with a like consciousness of
"company manners."
Later that evening Selby Hiler woke up in his little truckle bed,
listening to the rising midnight wind, which in his childish fancy he
confounded with the sound of voices that came through the open door
of the living-room. He recognized the deep voice of the young minister,
Gideon, and the occasional tearful responses of his mother, and he was
fancying himself again at church when he heard a step, and the young
preacher seemed to enter the room, and going to the bed leaned over it
and kissed him on the forehead, and then bent over his little brother and
sister and kissed them too. Then he slowly re-entered the living-room.
Lifting himself softly on his elbow, Selby saw him go up towards his
mother, who was crying, with her head on the table, and kiss her also
on the forehead. Then he said "Good-night," and the front door closed,
and Selby heard his footsteps crossing the lot towards the barn. His
mother was still sitting with her face buried in her hands when he fell
asleep.
She sat by the dying embers of the fire until the house was still again;
then she rose and wiped her eyes. "Et's a good thing," she said, going to
the bedroom door, and looking in upon her sleeping children; "et's a
mercy and a blessing for them and--for--me. But-- but--he
might--hev--said--he--loved me!"
III

Although Gideon Deane contrived to find a nest for his blanket in the
mouldy straw of the unfinished barn loft, he could not sleep. He
restlessly watched the stars through the cracks of the boarded roof, and
listened to the wind that made the half-open structure as vocal as a
sea-shell, until past midnight. Once or twice he had fancied he heard
the tramp of horse-hoofs on the far-off trail, and now it seemed to
approach nearer, mingled with the sound of voices. Gideon raised his
head and looked through the doorway of the loft. He was not mistaken:
two men had halted in the road before the house, and were examining it
as if uncertain if it were the dwelling they were seeking, and were
hesitating if they should rouse the inmates. Thinking he might spare the
widow this disturbance to her slumbers, and possibly some alarm, he
rose quickly, and descending to the inclosure walked towards the house.
As he approached the men advanced to meet him, and by accident or
design ranged themselves on either side. A glance showed him they
were strangers to the locality.
"We're lookin' fer the preacher that lives here," said one, who seemed
to be the elder. "A man by the name o' Hiler, I reckon!"
"Brother Hiler has been dead two years," responded Gideon. "His
widow and children live here."
The two men looked at each other. The younger one laughed; the elder
mumbled something about its being "three years ago," and then turning
suddenly on Gideon, said:
"P'r'aps YOU'RE a preacher?"
"I am."
"Can you come to a dying man?"
"I will."
The two men again looked at each other. "But," continued Gideon,
softly, "you'll please keep quiet so as not to disturb the widow and her
children, while I get my horse." He turned away; the younger man
made a movement as if to stop him, but the elder quickly restrained his
hand. "He isn't goin' to run away," he whispered. "Look," he added, as
Gideon a moment later reappeared mounted and equipped.
"Do you think we'll be in time?" asked the young preacher as they rode
quickly away in the direction of the tules.
The younger repressed a laugh; the other answered grimly, "I reckon."
"And is he conscious of his danger?"

"I reckon."
Gideon did not speak again. But as the onus of that silence seemed to
rest upon the other two, the last speaker, after a few moments' silent
and rapid riding, continued abruptly, "You don't seem curious?"
"Of what?" said Gideon, lifting his soft eyes to the speaker. "You tell
me of a brother at the point of death, who seeks the Lord through an
humble vessel like myself. HE will tell me the rest."
A silence still more constrained on the part of the two strangers
followed,