The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 2

there'll be more interestin' things told than we've heerd in our born days--that woman is allus thinkin'!"
In this final respect, the judgment of the Lady of the House of Fivecoats was sound.
How gallant the mind is! If the past be sad, it mingles with Diversion's multitude till Sadness is lost; if the present be unhappy, it has a magic thrift of joys, and Unhappiness is hushed by Memory's laughter; if both past and present have a grief, it seeks amid its scanty store for some event, for instance, whose recurrence brings some brightness; to greet this it sends affectionate anticipations--and were its quiver empty, it would battle still some way!
So the wife of Dale looked forward to Doctor Johnston's visits, yet there were so many doors between her silence and the world, she did not turn as he entered one eventful day.
Doctors are Nature's confessors, and down the memory of this one wandered a camel of sympathy upon which the sick had heaped their secret woes for years, though one added naught to the burden.
It was the tale he wished to hear, and when some fugitive phrase promised revelation, he folded the powders slowly; but when it ended in a sigh, he strapped up bottles and expectations and went away, reflecting how poor the world where one might hear all things save those which interested.
But Time is a patient locksmith to whom all doors swing open.
"I always sit by this window," she began as he removed the fever thermometer; "I've looked so long, I see nothing in a way--and at night I always put the light here. If he should come in the dark I want him to see--here is a letter."
The Doctor read and returned it with a look of infinite pity.
"I had a dream last night; I may be superstitious or it may be the fever-- but it was so real. I saw it all; it was just like my prayer. I believe in God, you know." She smiled in half reproach. "Yes, in spite of all.
"In that dream something touched my hand and a voice whispered the word, 'Now.' Oh, how anxious it was! I awoke, sitting up; the lamp had gone out, yet it was not empty--and there was no wind."
John Dale stumbled into the room, his arms full of wood, and an old dog, lying before the fireplace, thumped his tail against the floor with diminishing vigor.
She arose. "I'll get you a bite to eat, Doctor."
"Never mind! I must be going." He made a sign to Dale, who followed to the gate.
"John, I've been calling here a long time--"
"I know I ought to pay somethin'," Dale started to say.
"It isn't that--I've just diagnosed the case; only one man can cure it."
"Would he--on credit?" Dale anxiously inquired.
"He never charges." Johnston smiled sorrowfully at the old man's despair.
"Who is he?"
"The President; the President of the United States," he added as Dale's eyes filled with questions. "I came out of college a sceptic, John, and I'd be an infidel outright but for that wife of yours--she's nearer the sky, somehow, than any other mortal I've seen. I don't believe in anything, of course--but that dream--if I were you I'd trust it--I'd follow where it led."
With his foot on the hub, the farmer slowly whetted his knife on his boot. "I'll go with you, Doctor."
* * * * *
"I called at the office, but it was locked, and so I'm here," apologized Dale as Judge Long opened the door of his old-fashioned stone house in Point Elizabeth, the county seat.
"Glad to see you--had your supper?"
Hearing voices in the dining-room, he answered in the affirmative.
"Then have a cigar and wait in the library; the folks are having a little company."
The old man surveyed the room; the books alone were worth more than his earthly possessions. From a desk loomed a bust of Webster. Shadows seemed to leap from it; the sombre lips bespoke the futility of striving against stern realities.
There was gayety in the dining-room; Judge Long was a fountain of mirth, a favorite at taverns, while riding the circuit--before juries--wherever people gathered.
A gale of laughter greeted his last anecdote and the diners protested as he arose.
Dale told his story excitedly, and at the conclusion Judge Long slowly brushed away the tobacco smoke.
"I'm sorry, John, but we did all we could last month--and we failed; there's just one thing to do--face the matter. It's hard, but this world is chiefly water, and what isn't water is largely rock--it's for fish and fossils, I suppose."
"But we will win now!" The old man's hand fell with decision.
"Why do you say that?"
"Mother had another dream last night."
"But, you know, she had one a month ago," quietly protested Long.
"Yes--and it came true--we didn't do our part just right. We can't fail this time; there