John Ward, Preacher | Page 2

shut off from the road by a high brick wall, gray with lichens,
and crumbling in places where the mortar had rotted under the creepers
and ivy, which hung in heavy festoons over the coping. The tall iron
gates had not been closed for years, and, rusting on their hinges, had
pressed back against the inner wall, and were almost hidden by the
tangle of vines, that were woven in and out of the bars, and waved
about in the sunshine from their tops.
The square garden which the wall inclosed was full of cool, green
darkness; the trees were the growth of three generations, and the
syringas and lilacs were so thick and close they had scarcely light
enough for blossoming. The box borders, which edged the straight prim
walks, had grown, in spite of clippings, to be almost hedges, so that the
paths between them were damp, and the black, hard earth had a film of
moss over it. Old-fashioned flowers grew just where their ancestors had
stood fifty years before. "I could find the bed of white violets with my
eyes shut," said Miss Ruth Woodhouse; and she knew how far the lilies
of the valley spread each spring, and how much it would be necessary
to clip, every other year, the big arbor vitæ, so that the sunshine might
fall upon her bunch of sweet-williams.
Miss Ruth was always very generous with her flowers, but now that
there was to be a wedding at the rectory she meant to strip the garden of
every blossom she could find, and her nephew was to take them to the
church the first thing in the morning.
Gifford Woodhouse had lately returned from Europe, and his three
years' travel had not prepared his aunts to treat him as anything but the
boy he seemed to them when he left the law school. They still "sent

dear Giff" here, or "brought him" there, and arranged his plans for him,
in entire unconsciousness that he might have a will of his own. Perhaps
the big fellow's silence rather helped the impression, for so long as he
did not remonstrate when they bade him do this or that, it was not of so
much consequence that, in the end, he did exactly as he pleased. This
was not often at variance with the desires of the two sisters, for the
wordless influence of his will so enveloped them that his wishes were
apt to be theirs. But no one could have been more surprised than the
little ladies, had they been told that their nephew's intention of
practicing law in the lumber town of Lockhaven had been his own idea.
They had cordially agreed with him when he observed that another
lawyer in Ashurst, beside Mr. Denner, would have no other occupation
than to make his own will; and they had nodded approvingly when the
young man added that it would seem scarcely gracious to settle in
Mercer while Mr. Denner still hoped to find clients there, and sat once
a week, for an hour, in a dingy back office waiting for them. True, they
never came; but Gifford had once read law with Mr. Denner, and knew
and loved the little gentleman, so he could not do a thing which might
appear discourteous. And when he further remarked that there seemed
to be a good opening in Lockhaven, which was a growing place, and
that it would be very jolly to have Helen Jeffrey there when she became
Mrs. Ward, the two Misses Woodhouse smiled, and said firmly that
they approved of it, and that they would send him to Lockhaven in the
spring, and they were glad they had thought of it.
On this June night, they had begged him to take a message to the
rectory about the flowers for the wedding. "He is glad enough to go,
poor child," said Miss Deborah, sighing, when she saw the alacrity with
which he started; "he feels her marriage very much, though he is so
young."
"Are you sure, dear Deborah?" asked Miss Ruth, doubtfully. "I never
really felt quite certain that he was interested in her."
"Certainly I am," answered Miss Deborah, sharply. "I've always
maintained they were made for each other."

But Gifford Woodhouse's pleasant gray eyes, under straight brown
brows, showed none of the despair of an unsuccessful lover; on the
contrary, he whistled softly through his blonde moustache, as he came
along the rectory lane, and then walked down the path to join the party
in the garden.
The four people who had gathered at the foot of the lawn were very
silent; Dr. Howe, whose cigar glowed and faded like a larger firefly
than those which were beginning to spangle the darkness, was the only
one ready to