Seth | Page 6

to the Creek--a

business-like elderly gentleman and his daughter, a pretty girl, with
large bright eyes and an innocent rosy face, which became rosier and
prettier than ever when Mr. Ed ward Langley advanced from the dépôt
shed with uncovered head and extended hand. "Cathie!" he said, when
the first greetings had been interchanged, "what a delight this is to me!
I did not hope for such happiness as this."
"Father wanted to see the mines," answered Cathie, sweetly demure,
"and I--I wanted to see Black Creek; your letters were so enthusiastic."
"A day will suffice, I suppose?" her paternal parent was wandering on
amiably. "A man should always investigate such matters for himself. I
can see enough to satisfy me between now and the time for the return
train."
"I cannot," whispered Langley to Cathie: "a century would not suffice.
If the sun would but stand still!"
The lad Seth was late for dinner that day, and when he entered the
house Bess turned from her dish-washing to give him a sharp, troubled
look, "Art tha' ill again?" she asked.
"Nay," he answered, "nobbut a bit tired an heavy-loike."
He sat down upon the door-step with wearily-clasped hands, and eyes
wandering toward the mountain, whose pine-crowned summit towered
above him. He had not even yet outlived the awe of its majesty, but he
had learned to love it and draw comfort from its beauty and strength.
"Does tha' want thy dinner?" asked Bess.
"No, thank yo'," he said; "I couldna eat."
The dish-washing was deserted incontinently, and Bess came to the
door, towel in hand, her expression at once softened and shaded with
discontent. "Summat's hurt yo'," she said. "What is it? Summat's hurt
yo' sore."

The labor-roughened hands moved with their old nervous habit, and the
answer came in an odd, jerky, half-connected way: "I dunnot know
why it should ha' done. I mun be mad, or summat. I nivver had no hope
nor nothin': theer nivver wur no reason why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun
be wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me i' this road. I conna get
rid on it, an' I conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' me? What's
takken howd on me?" his voice breaking and the words ending in a
sharp hysterical gasp like a sob.
Bess wrung her towel with a desperate strength which spoke of no
small degree of tempestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself and her lips
were compressed. "What's happened?" she demanded after a pause. "I
conna mak' thee out."
The look that fell upon her companion's face had something of shame
in it. His eyes left the mountain side and drooped upon his clasped
hands. "Theer wur a lass coom to look at 'th place today," he said--"a
lady lass, wi' her feyther--an' him. She wur aw rosy red an' fair white,
an' it seemt as if she wur that happy as her laughin' made th' birds mock
back at her. He took her up th' mountain, an' we heard 'em both even
high up among th' laurels. Th' sound o' their joy a-floatin' down from
the height, so nigh th' blue sky, made me sick an' weak-loike. They wur
na so gay when they comn back, but her eyes wur shinin', an' so wur his,
an' I heerd him say to her as 'Foak didna know how nigh heaven th' top
o' th' mountain wur.'"
Bess wrung her towel again, and regarded the mountain with manifest
impatience and trouble. "Happen it'll coom reet some day," she said.
"Reet!" repeated the lad, as if mechanically. "I hadna towd mysen' as
owt wur exactly wrong; on'y I conna see things clear. I niwer could, an'
th' more I ax mysen' questions th' worse it gets. Wheer--wheer could I
lay th' blame?"
"Th' blame!" said Bess. "Coom tha' an' get a bite to eat;" and she shook
out the towel with a snap and turned away. "Coom tha," she repeated;
"I mun get my work done."

That night, as Seth lay upon his pallet in the shanty, the sound of
Langley's horse's hoofs reached him with an accompaniment of a clear,
young masculine voice singing a verse of some sentimental modern
carol--a tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the sounds neared the
cabin the lad sprang up restlessly, and so was standing at the open door
when the singer passed. "Good-neet, mester," he said.
The singer slackened his pace and turned his bright face toward him in
the moonlight, waving his hand. "Good-night," he said, "and pleasant
dreams! Mine will be pleasant ones, I know. This has been a happy day
for me, Raynor. Goodnight."
When the two met again the brighter face had sadly changed; its beauty
was marred with pain, and the shadow