I run right home an' told mother, an' she told father, An' that evenin' they druv down to Dr. Smilie's. The doctor 'lowed 'twas consumption, but he was angry enough 'bout Anabel Flesche. "I'll see that hussy stops her trapesin'," he said, "Rilin' up a sick man with her witch stories," he said. "I'll witch her, I'll run her out o' town, if she comes ag'in." Anabel did n't come ag'in, but I guess she done it the first time, When a man don't want to live, he don't live, an' that 's gospel. An' 't was queer how diff'rent he was to Florella. I think he was the quietest man I ever see. He did n't seem to have no pleasure 'cept in speakin' 'bout Florella. By times he told me everythin'; How he courted her, an' what she said, an' the way she looked when he brought her home. I got awful near life for a young girl, with the things he told me. I've be'n married an' widowed since, but I don't know as I ever got nearer to things than Joe's talk brought me. Men ain't alike, an' women ain't alike, an' marriages is the most unlike of all. My marriage, when it come, was no more like Joe's and Florella's Than a piney 's like a cabbage. But this ain't my story. "Florella had a strong will," says Joe to me one afternoon. Autumn had come by then, an' some o' the leaves had fell, An' those that hung on were so bright they seemed to fairly smarten up the sun. Joe was layin' in his bed, with a patchwork quilt over him, A lovely one 't was, the State House Steps pattern; Florella 'd made it, she was wonderful clever with her needle. Right on the chimbly hung a picture o' Florella Some travelin' artist had painted the year she was married. I don't suppose city folk would have made much of it, But I thought 't was a sweet pretty thing, an' the spon-image o' Florella. "Florella had a mighty strong will," says Joe ag'in. "She owned me body an' soul, an' that was a rare pride to me." I could n't figger what to answer, so I did n't. "I guess she owns me still," he says, an' I don't know ef he was really talkin' to me. "I'm glad she does. It's got to be both of us, all or neither together." He smiled at that, very slow an' tired, almost as though it hurt his lips to do it. "Perhaps you don't understand, little Becky," said he. I don't know whether I did or not, an' I did n't have a chance to say, For all of a sudden crash down come Florella's picture on the floor, with the cord broke. I jumped nearly out o' my skin, I expect I screamed, too, But Joe did n't so much as shiver. "Yes," he said, lookin' at me with his steady smile, "This proves it. You mark my words. It can't go on much longer. Poor Florella!" He sighed then an' laid down, an' I thought he went to sleep. I picked up the picture, but the glass had cut it badly, All about the mouth, too. It made it look the way Florella's corpse did an' give me a turn. So I set it with its face ag'inst the wall. But I need n't have bothered, for Joe never waked up. He warn't dead when the doctor got ther', But he was unconscious an' hardly breathin'. All over for Joe, yes, But not for us. About a week after the funeral father met Anabel Flesche. "So Joe Perry 's dead," whined Anabel, an' father was sure the old hag looked pleased. So he only said, "Yes, he 's dead," and was pushin' on, when Anabel stopped him. "Florella's a determined woman," she cackled, "ain't you afeerd she 'll try somebody else?" "What the hell do you mean?" cried out father. "She loved life," said Anabel, in a queer, sly way. "Joe 's gone, but ther's others." Father was so angry he could n't trust himself to speak, He just touched up his horse an' druv on. But what Anabel said rankled. He an' mother talked it over that night. I warn't supposed to hear, but I did. I was all shook up with the things had happened, An' I dares n't stay in bed alone with nobody near, Till father an' mother come up. It comforted me to know they was in the next room, An' I could sleep then. Mother was real strict, an' I was al'ays sent to bed at nine; They'd come up 'bout ten, an' I 'd set that hour on the stairs, That's how I come to hear. Afterwards I 'lowed I knew, an' they told me everythin'. Father an' Jared Pierce went straight to the selectmen, An' told 'em what Anabel was hintin'. Then some old people rec'llected things which had happened years ago, An', puttin' two an' two together, they decided to see for themselves. The selectmen was all ther', an' father, an' Jared Pierce; They did it at night so 's not to scare folks. I warn't ther', but father told it so I think I seen it: The leaves blowin' an' sidlin' down, The lantern light jerkin' 'long the ground, The noise o' the pickaxes an' spades. They got up the coffin an' opened it. Florella's body was all gone to dust, Though 'twarn't much more 'n a year she be❜n buried, But her heart was as fresh as a livin' person's. Father said it glittered like a garnet when they took the lid off the coffin. It was so 'live, it seemed to beat almost. Father said a light come from it so strong it made shadows Much heavier than the lantern shadows an' runnin' in a diff'rent direction. Oh, they burnt it; they al'ays do in such cases. Nobody's safe till it's burnt. Now, sir, will you tell me how such things used to be? They don't happen now, seemingly, but this happened. You can see Joe's grave over to Penowasset buryin'-ground Ef you go that way. The church-members would n't let Florella's ashes be put back in hers, So you won't find that. Only an open space with a maple in the middle of it; They planted the tree so 's no one would n't ever be buried in that spot ag'in. The Children BY MARGARET KERNOCHAN LEECH HEY were not so much to sacrifice as a man does when shaving, she wiped hear her mech and win. a life for, Gertrude thought as she sat by the tennis court and watched the four children quarreling. Allen had thrown down his racket in a temper. "I'm not going to play any more," he said. "It's always the same thing. You can make somebody else the goat." Eddie was, as usual, on Allen's side. "It was his ball," he told Evelyn. "Why do you have to butt in? You heard him say he had it." Gertrude knew that in a moment Evelyn's sulky mouth would twist, and she would walk off the court with her arm across her face. Soon one of the others would go ill-naturedly to bring her back, and the set would be resumed. Behind the low frame-house the sun was sinking in a red disk, and the evening air was very close. Gertrude sat forward in the rocking-chair that Chris had brought down from the porch, so that she could have the fun of watching the tennis. She let her hands drop between her knees, which she had spread slightly apart. It rested her to sit in this way, because she was heavy and no longer young, and the heat distressed her. Between her fingers she held a handkerchief. Now and then she sat up and jerked it across her face as though it had been a fan; or, drawing up her mouth She wore a dress of blue-and-white printed voile, with a pretty collar which she had hemstitched when she should have been finishing a dress for Evelyn. Gertrude had enjoyed the naughtiness of working on the collar instead of Evelyn's dress. And she had felt a guilty elation at Evelyn's petulant tears when she found the dress incompleted. Evelyn never wanted to do anything for herself. She had been very fretful about having to put in the hem. The children were playing again. "How was that for a shot?" Chris called to his mother. "Fine, dear. You 're improving," she called back, but he must have guessed she had not been looking. It was rude of her not to watch, Gertrude thought, after Chris had been so thoughtful about bringing down the chair from the porch. She must take more interest in their tennis. With an odd detachment she followed their motions, as though they were four strange children, not her four children at all. The boys were well enough, but they were clumsy animals and would never have grace or skill. Allen and Eddie were sturdy, indistinguished cubs. Chris, though heavily built, was frail and nervous, with a bad complexion. He was grown up: he would enter college in the fall |