That Fortune | Page 7

eyes, called out upon his approach:
"Why, Phil, what in the world--"
"Oh, Alice!" cried the boy, eagerly, having in a moment changed in his
mind the destination of the flowers; "I've found a place where the
checker-berries are thick as spatter." And Phil put the flowers and the
berries in his cousin's hand. Alice looked very much pleased with this
simple tribute, but, as she admired it, unfortunately asked--women
always ask such questions:
"And you picked them for me?"
This was a cruel dilemma. Phil was more devoted to his sweet cousin
than to any one else in the world, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings,
and he hated to tell a lie. So he only looked a lie, out of his affectionate,
truthful eyes, and said:
"I love to bring you flowers. Has uncle come home yet?"
"Yes, long ago. He called and looked all around for you to unharness
the horse, and he wanted you to go an errand over the river to Gibson's.
I guess he was put out."
"Did he say anything?"
"He asked if you had weeded the beets. And he said that you were the
master boy to dream and moon around he ever saw." And she added,
with a confidential and mischievous smile: "I think you'd better brought
a switch along; it would save time."

Phil had a great respect for his uncle Maitland, but he feared him
almost more than he feared the remote God of Abraham and Isaac. Mr.
Maitland was not only the most prosperous man in all that region, but
the man of the finest appearance, and a bearing that was equity itself.
He was the first selectman of the town, and a deacon in the church, and
however much he prized mercy in the next world he did not intend to
have that quality interfere with justice in this world. Phil knew indeed
that he was a man of God, that fact was impressed upon him at least
twice a day, but he sometimes used to think it must be a severe God to
have that sort of man. And he didn't like the curt way he pronounced
the holy name--he might as well have called Job "job."
Alice was as unlike her father, except in certain race qualities of
integrity and common-sense, as if she were of different blood. She was
the youngest of five maiden sisters, and had arrived at the mature age
of eighteen. Slender in figure, with a grace that was half shyness, soft
brown hair, gray eyes that changed color and could as easily be sad as
merry, a face marked with a moving dimple that every one said was
lovely, retiring in manner and yet not lacking spirit nor a sly wit of her
own. Now and then, yes, very often, out of some paradise, no doubt,
strays into New England conditions of reticence and self-denial such a
sweet spirit, to diffuse a breath of heaven in its atmosphere, and to
wither like a rose ungathered. These are the New England nuns, not
taking any vows, not self-consciously virtuous, apparently untouched
by the vanities of the world. Marriage? It is not in any girl's nature not
to think of that, not to be in a flutter of pleasure or apprehension at the
attentions of the other sex. Who has been able truly to read the thoughts
of a shrinking maiden in the passing days of her youth and beauty? In
this harmonious and unselfish household, each with decided individual
character, no one ever intruded upon the inner life of the other. No
confidences were given in the deep matters of the heart, no sign except
a blush over a sly allusion to some one who had been "attentive." If you
had stolen a look into the workbasket or the secret bureau-drawer, you
might have found a treasured note, a bit of ribbon, a rosebud, some
token of tenderness or of friendship that was growing old with the
priestess who cherished it. Did they not love flowers, and pets, and had
they not a passion for children? Were there not moonlight evenings

when they sat silent and musing on the stone steps, watching the
shadows and the dancing gleams on the swift river, when the air was
fragrant with the pink and the lilac? Not melancholy this, nor
poignantly sad, but having in it nevertheless something of the pathos of
life unfulfilled. And was there not sometimes, not yet habitually,
coming upon these faces, faces plain and faces attractive, the shade of
renunciation?
Phil loved Alice devotedly. She was his confidante, his defender, but he
feared more the disapproval of her sweet eyes when he had done wrong
than the threatened punishment of his uncle.
"I only meant to be gone just