The Road Not Taken Robert Frost (1874–1963).

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

John Mortonson's Funeral

John Mortonson was dead: his lines in 'the tragedy "Man"' had all been spoken and he had left the stage.
The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass. All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to that had the deceased known he would doubtless have approved. The face, as it showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look upon: it bore a faint smile, and as the death had been painless, had not been distorted beyond the repairing power of the undertaker. At two o'clock of the afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay their last tribute of respect to one who had no further need of friends and respect. The surviving members of the family came severally every few minutes to the casket and wept above the placid features beneath the glass. This did them no good; it did no good to John Mortonson; but in the presence of death reason and philosophy are silent.
As the hour of two approached the friends began to arrive and after offering such consolation to the stricken relatives as the proprieties of the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves about the room with an augmented consciousness of their importance in the scheme funereal. Then the minister came, and in that overshadowing presence the lesser lights went into eclipse. His entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose lamentations filled the room. She approached the casket and after leaning her face against the cold glass for a moment was gently led to a seat near her daughter. Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to come and go, like the sound of a sullen sea. The gloomy day grew darker as he spoke; a curtain of cloud under spread the sky and a few drops of rain fell audibly. It seemed as if all nature were weeping for John Mortonson.
When the minister had finished his eulogy with prayer a hymn was sung and the pall-bearers took their places beside the bier. As the last notes of the hymn died away the widow ran to the coffin, cast herself upon it and sobbed hysterically. Gradually, however, she yielded to dissuasion, becoming more composed; and as the minister was in the act of leading her away her eyes sought the face of the dead beneath the glass. She threw up her arms and with a shriek fell backward insensible.

The mourners sprang forward to the coffin, the friends followed, and as the clock on the mantel solemnly struck three all were staring down upon the face of John Mortonson, deceased.
They turned away, sick and faint. One man, trying in his terror to escape the awful sight, stumbled against the coffin so heavily as to knock away one of its frail supports. The coffin fell to the floor, the glass was shattered to bits by the concussion.
From the opening crawled John Mortonson's cat, which lazily leapt to the floor, sat up, tranquilly wiped its crimson muzzle with a fore paw, then walked with dignity from the room.

Ambrose Bierce

The Cellmate

The rays of the sun glistened through the mist as it rose between the mountains, covering the landscape with a wet cloak. Squinting his eyes against the shimmering light, Andy Sturgil stood in awe of the morning's beauty. The dew made everything on the ground sparkle, and reaffirmed his belief that this was truly God's country. You could keep Chicago, New York; all of those big cities. Whitesburg would do just fine.
Whitesburg Kentucky was not a bustling metropolis in 1925, but to the people, like Andy, who lived in the region, it was the center of trade, law and information. The mountain people made infrequent trips down the slopes and out of the hollows to supplement their meager lives with the essentials; coffee, sugar, flour, and sweet wheat middling. Wheat middling was the chosen grain for feeding milk cows. Middling without salt was the main ingredient for White Lightning. If a man could make good liquor, and Andy did, he would also make an excellent profit. One jug of the precious brew had sold for forty dollars at the end of the war. A man just might get fifty these days.
On this particular Indian summer day, Andy journeyed toward the town and made a mental note of what he would trade for. He was in need of an ample supply of sugar and sweet wheat middling. The still was ready for use after the new copper tubing was put on, and he was eager to churn out the best supply of White Lightning in years. Andy knew that he had to find a new location for his still because Sheriff Turner was on a rampage. The law had already destroyed four of his neighbors' secret enterprises, and Andy knew that he had to be shrewd in choosing his new spot. He had finally decided on settling the still on a dry ridge, away from any of the mountain streams, and pipe the water to where it was needed. This would take more time, but the sheriff and his men knew to look for stills along the waterways. With the arrival of winter, the snow and ice would help to cover the pipeline.
A few meager jars of last year's supply were nestled in a knapsack slung across his shoulders. Old Man Tribbit had told Andy to bring him a few jars before winter set in. He would pay the going price. It would help in fighting the sickness that always came in the cold weather months.

< 2 >

Even Doc Handy was known to prescribe toddies made with Andy's brew for the croup. So great was his reputation that Sheriff Turner made it his primary goal to lock the brewer king up every chance that he could.
Andy's thoughts touched on Turner as he made his way down the serpentine path. The bottom of his trousers swayed heavily with his strides as they collected the dew from the dense grass and brush. Andy knew that the region's stills were a source of irritation for the sheriff. In Turner's eye, the mountain people had been living by their own code for too long. As the appointed law officer in the region, he was determined to make them respect his authority.
However, in recent weeks the war that was being waged on moonshiners, had taken a backseat to a special case, which had monopolized the bulk of Sheriff Turner's time. Lloyd Frazier had been found guilty of murdering a woman. Most people knew the kind of person Lloyd had been, quiet and kind of shy. Nobody really understood how he had been capable of such a crime. They did, however, know that Lloyd's mother had been jealous of the victim; they had been seeing the same man.
Annie Frazier had given Lloyd a saddle horse in return for the promise of getting rid of her rival.

It had been difficult to find an executioner to carry out the sentence. Men had resigned rather than be responsible for taking the life of the young man.
News of a hanging had spread quickly throughout the region. Whitesburg had never had a public execution and the subject was on everyone's lips. Andy was vaguely aware of the facts. He knew little of the family, although he had known Annie. They had attended the same small one-room schoolhouse as children. He had glimpsed the boy now and then through the years in town with Annie's father. The old man had loved the boy as his own, and unlike the rest of the family, overlooked Lloyd's illegitimacy. He had also fostered the boy's love of horses, and had promised to get Lloyd the finest mount possible. The promise had turned into a dream following the old man's death. Dejected, the boy looked to his mother for any kind of affection as he continued to withdraw from the rest of the world.

< 3 >

Andy's mind closed on the subject as he approached Old Man Tribbit's door. He had been looking forward to some hot coffee and happy conversation when he arrived, but the sight of the old man's face let him know that this would not happen.
Tribbit had known the boy since childhood and knew of his devotion to his mother. He was also aware of his love of horses.
As the old man led Andy inside he asked, "Well, did you know that young Lloyd dies tomorrow?"
With a shake of his head, the old man continued, "He always did do what that no-account bitch of a woman wanted. She knew how to get to him too. She knew he wanted that chestnut mare something fierce. Lied to him, she did. Told him that the woman had threatened her. Said how afraid she was. Lord knows that boy wouldn't have hurt anyone on his own."
After settling business, Andy said good-bye to the old man, and as he closed the door behind him, he thought of Annie Frazier. She had never been a virtuous woman. It was no surprise to anyone when she turned up pregnant with Lloyd at sixteen. Still, she had been responsible for the boy and cared for him. Annie had never married, and was still a fine looking woman at the age of thirty-six. Andy knew that she had been seeing a railroad man, but didn't think much of it. Annie always had a man.

Andy's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp sounding voice. "Stop right where you are Andy." He turned to see the sheriff and two of his deputies standing close behind him.
"I'm taking you in for questioning. We've uncovered a stash of bootleg liquor and I think you know something about it."
Andy grinned at the men, knowing that Turner had no such evidence, but decided that it was best to cooperate in order to cover his tracks.
"Whatever you say John."
As Andy was escorted into the jail, another deputy motioned for Turner, and the two whispered softly, looking once in his direction.
"Andy," Turner said, "We only have one more cot left and the cell is occupied by the Frazier boy. You don't have to stay there, I mean, we could make other arrangements."
The thought of spending the night handcuffed to Turner's desk didn't appeal to him. John Turner had an irritating habit of rolling a toothpick back and forth in his mouth, and the vision of being forced to witness the smacking sounds in between lectures on law enforcement hastened his answer.

< 4 >

"I don't mind bunking with Frazier."
As the key turned the lock, a slight movement caught Andy's attention and he found himself staring into a pair of dark eyes. Surprisingly, nothing was said and Andy nodded his head as he sat on the cot. The boy looked at him for a moment and then turned away. Feeling uneasy, Andy lowered himself down on the cot and attempted to find sleep.
The sound of a horse whinnying broke the silence of the cell. Lloyd rose from the cot and moved to the window, staring at the sight below. His chestnut mare was enclosed in a small area behind the town's blacksmith barn. Beyond, were the gallows, but Lloyd's eyes were fixed on the mare.
"She needs to be brushed and one shoe is loose."
Andy opened his eyes at the soft whisper. "I'm sure they'll take care of her."
Lloyd continued as if he had not heard the remark. "She also likes a little taste of sugar now and then."
The boy continued to stand by the window, and Andy finally drifted off to sleep.
The night grew chilly and the single blanket on the cots did a poor job in keeping out the cold. After a while, a slight stirring from the other side of the cell awakened Andy. As he felt Lloyd's presence hovering over him, fear crept into his brain and he found that he could not move. Lloyd placed his own blanket over Andy and carefully spread it evenly over his shivering body. Ashamed and embarrassed by his fears, Andy pretended to be asleep while his cellmate stood by the window and watched below.
Lloyd was removed from the cell early in the morning. Andy had awakened to find that he was alone, and went to the window. The crowd seemed to fill the entire town and the sound of hymns rose into the air. He saw the boy climb the steps but could not bring himself to watch the execution. Down below, the mare paced the small enclosure and snorted nervously.
At midday, Andy was set free. He knew he would be. Sheriff Turner warned Andy to watch his back because he would always be there. As he approached the door he turned and asked, "What about the mare?"
"What about her?" Turner was busy shuffling papers and didn't bother to look up.

< 5 >

"I mean, who'll take care of her now? You think Annie will...."
"Look, I don't have time to worry about a damn horse - least of all that horse. Tanner will probably sell her for as much as he can get to make up for her room and board, even if it means the glue factory. Nobody in Frazier's family came to claim his body, let alone his property. It's up to the blacksmith."
At the end of the day, the sun slanted at the edge of the sky, casting shadows of everything it touched. On the road, which led out of town and forked into the numerous hollows and farms, Andy Sturgil made his way back to his home. He had purchased supplies; coffee, flour, sugar, and a few sacks of sweet wheat middling, without salt. He dug into the side pocket of his coat and filled his palm with sugar. There would not be enough for a huge supply of moonshine that winter. He stopped and held his open hand beneath the mare's lips.
Yes, she was a beautiful horse. He would fix the loose shoe, brush her, and give her a taste of sugar now and then.
As the two figures made their way down the road, the sun set slowly behind the mountains. The night air grew chilly, but Andy wasn't cold.
"I'll take care of her, Boy," he whispered softly.

Crystal Arbogast

Interlude

The End of the story has come and it is time to move on.

Ch XXVII In The Garden

In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have
been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out
than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still
more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to
believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it
can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the
world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things
people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just
mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as
sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad
one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ
get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may
never get over it as long as you live.

So long as Mistress Mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about
her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to
be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly,
bored and wretched child. Circumstances, however, were very kind to her,
though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push her about for
her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and
moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old
gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and
with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy
and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable
thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow
and tired.

So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his
fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and
reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical
half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the
spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon
his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful thoughts began to push
out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran
healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood.
His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was
nothing weird about it at all. Much more surprising things can happen to
any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his
mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting
in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one
place.

         "Where you tend a rose, my lad,
          A thistle cannot grow."

While the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming
alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away
beautiful places in the Norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains
of Switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind
filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. He had not been courageous;
he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark
ones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on
mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him
and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. A
terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had
let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to
allow any rift of light to pierce through. He had forgotten and deserted
his home and his duties. When he traveled about, darkness so brooded
over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because
it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. Most strangers
thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on
his soul. He was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and
the name he always entered on hotel registers was, "Archibald Craven,
Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire, England."

He had traveled far and wide since the day he saw Mistress Mary in his
study and told her she might have her "bit of earth." He had been in the
most beautiful places in Europe, though he had remained nowhere more
than a few days. He had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. He had
been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had
looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with
such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born.

But the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he
realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had
happened. He was in a wonderful valley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had
been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted any man's
soul out of shadow. He had walked a long way and it had not lifted his.
But at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a
carpet of moss by a stream. It was a clear little stream which ran quite
merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness.
Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled
over and round stones. He saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in
it and then flick their wings and fly away. It seemed like a thing alive
and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. The valley was
very, very still.

As he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven
gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley
itself. He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. He sat
and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing
at its edge. There was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so
close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found
himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago.
He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of
blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. He did not know that just
that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it
until other things were softly pushed aside. It was as if a sweet clear
spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen
until at last it swept the dark water away. But of course he did not
think of this himself. He only knew that the valley seemed to grow
quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate
blueness. He did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to
him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly
and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and
wondering at himself. Something seemed to have been unbound and released
in him, very quietly.

"What is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over
his forehead. "I almost feel as if--I were alive!"

I do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to
be able to explain how this had happened to him. Neither does any one
else yet. He did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this
strange hour months afterward when he was at Misselthwaite again and he
found out quite by accident that on this very day Colin had cried out as
he went into the secret garden:

"I am going to live forever and ever and ever!"

The singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he
slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. He did
not know that it could be kept. By the next night he had opened the
doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing
back. He left the valley and went on his wandering way again. But,
strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes
half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to
lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.
Slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive"
with the garden.

As the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to
the Lake of Como. There he found the loveliness of a dream. He spent his
days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the
soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that
he might sleep. But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew,
and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him.

"Perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger."

It was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his
thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. He
began to think of Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. Now
and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he
should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again
and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept
and the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. He
shrank from it.

One marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon
was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The
stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go
into the villa he lived in. He walked down to a little bowered terrace
at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly
scents of the night. He felt the strange calmness stealing over him and
it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep.

He did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his
dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. He
remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought
he was. He thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late
roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a
voice calling. It was sweet and clear and happy and far away. It seemed
very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very
side.

"Archie! Archie! Archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer
than before, "Archie! Archie!"

He thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. It was such a real
voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it.

"Lilias! Lilias!" he answered. "Lilias! where are you?"

"In the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "In the
garden!"

And then the dream ended. But he did not awaken. He slept soundly and
sweetly all through the lovely night. When he did awake at last it was
brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. He was an
Italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa
were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master
might do. No one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he
would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the
boat on the lake all night. The man held a salver with some letters on
it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craven took them. When he had gone
away Mr. Craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking
at the lake. His strange calm was still upon him and something more--a
lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as
he thought--as if something had changed. He was remembering the
dream--the real--real dream.

"In the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "In the garden! But the
door is locked and the key is buried deep."

When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one
lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from
Yorkshire. It was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand
he knew. He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first
words attracted his attention at once.

         "_Dear Sir:_

         "I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you
         once on the moor. It was about Miss Mary I spoke.
         I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir, I
         would come home if I was you. I think you would be
         glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--I
         think your lady would ask you to come if she was
         here.

                           "Your obedient servant,
                                           "SUSAN SOWERBY."

Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.
He kept thinking about the dream.

"I will go back to Misselthwaite," he said. "Yes, I'll go at once."

And he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to
prepare for his return to England.

      *       *       *       *       *

In a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad
journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in
all the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to forget
him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him
constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he
had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was
dead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at
last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure
it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took care
of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would
be a deformed and crippled creature.

He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father
at all. He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had
shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his
own misery. The first time after a year's absence he returned to
Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and
indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes
round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had
adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as
death. After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep,
and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a
vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. He could only be kept from
furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail.

All this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled
him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming
alive" began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and
deeply.

"Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "Ten
years is a long time. It may be too late to do anything--quite too late.
What have I been thinking of!"

Of course this was the wrong Magic--to begin by saying "too late." Even
Colin could have told him that. But he knew nothing of Magic--either
black or white. This he had yet to learn. He wondered if Susan Sowerby
had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature
had realized that the boy was much worse--was fatally ill. If he had not
been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession
of him he would have been more wretched than ever. But the calm had
brought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead of giving way to
thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in
better things.

"Could it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good
and control him?" he thought. "I will go and see her on my way to
Misselthwaite."

But when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the
cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a
group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him
that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the
morning to help a woman who had a new baby. "Our Dickon," they
volunteered, was over at the Manor working in one of the gardens where
he went several days each week.

Mr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round
red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he
awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at
their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and
gave it to "our 'Lizabeth Ellen" who was the oldest.

"If you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each
of you," he said.

Then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away,
leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind.

The drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing.
Why did it seem to give him a sense of home-coming which he had been
sure he could never feel again--that sense of the beauty of land and sky
and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing
nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six
hundred years? How he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering
to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed
with the brocaded hangings. Was it possible that perhaps he might find
him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his
shrinking from him? How real that dream had been--how wonderful and
clear the voice which called back to him, "In the garden--In the
garden!"

"I will try to find the key," he said. "I will try to open the door. I
must--though I don't know why."

When he arrived at the Manor the servants who received him with the
usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to
the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by Pitcher. He went
into the library and sent for Mrs. Medlock. She came to him somewhat
excited and curious and flustered.

"How is Master Colin, Medlock?" he inquired.

"Well, sir," Mrs. Medlock answered, "he's--he's different, in a manner
of speaking."

"Worse?" he suggested.

Mrs. Medlock really was flushed.

"Well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither Dr. Craven, nor the
nurse, nor me can exactly make him out."

"Why is that?"

"To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be
changing for the worse. His appetite, sir, is past understanding--and
his ways--"

"Has he become more--more peculiar?" her master asked, knitting his
brows anxiously.

"That's it, sir. He's growing very peculiar--when you compare him with
what he used to be. He used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to
eat something enormous--and then he stopped again all at once and the
meals were sent back just as they used to be. You never knew, sir,
perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. The
things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave
a body trembling like a leaf. He'd throw himself into such a state that
Dr. Craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir,
just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he
suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan
Sowerby's boy Dickon that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both
Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if
you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until
night."

"How does he look?" was the next question.

"If he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on
flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes
in a queer way when he's alone with Miss Mary. He never used to laugh at
all. Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. He
never was as puzzled in his life."

"Where is Master Colin now?" Mr. Craven asked.

"In the garden, sir. He's always in the garden--though not a human
creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him."

Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words.

"In the garden," he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he
stood and repeated it again and again. "In the garden!"

He had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was
standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went
out of the room. He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in
the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. The fountain
was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers.
He crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls. He
did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. He felt
as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and
he did not know why. As he drew near to it his step became still more
slow. He knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over
it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key.

So he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment
after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were
walking in a dream.

The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs,
no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet
inside the garden there were sounds. They were the sounds of running
scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they
were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and
smothered joyous cries. It seemed actually like the laughter of young
things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to
be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitement mounted--would
burst forth. What in heaven's name was he dreaming of--what in heaven's
name did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things
which were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had
meant?

And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds
forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster--they were
nearing the garden door--there was quick strong young breathing and a
wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained--and the
door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back,
and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the
outsider, dashed almost into his arms.

Mr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a
result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to
look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.

He was a tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowing with life and his
running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick
hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes
full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It
was the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath.

"Who--What? Who!" he stammered.

This was not what Colin had expected--this was not what he had planned.
He had never thought of such a meeting. And yet to come dashing
out--winning a race--perhaps it was even better. He drew himself up to
his very tallest. Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed
through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look
taller than he had ever looked before--inches taller.

"Father," he said, "I'm Colin. You can't believe it. I scarcely can
myself. I'm Colin."

Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he
said hurriedly:

"In the garden! In the garden!"

"Yes," hurried on Colin. "It was the garden that did it--and Mary and
Dickon and the creatures--and the Magic. No one knows. We kept it to
tell you when you came. I'm well, I can beat Mary in a race. I'm going
to be an athlete."

He said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed, his words
tumbling over each other in his eagerness--that Mr. Craven's soul shook
with unbelieving joy.

Colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm.

"Aren't you glad, Father?" he ended.

"Aren't you glad? I'm going to live forever and ever and ever!"

Mr. Craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still.
He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment.

"Take me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "And tell me all
about it."

And so they led him in.

The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and
flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing
together--lilies which were white or white and ruby. He remembered well
when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the
year their late glories should reveal themselves. Late roses climbed and
hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing
trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold. The
newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into
its grayness. He looked round and round.

"I thought it would be dead," he said.

"Mary thought so at first," said Colin. "But it came alive."

Then they sat down under their tree--all but Colin, who wanted to stand
while he told the story.

It was the strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought,
as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and Magic and
wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting--the coming of the
spring--the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah
to his feet to defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face. The odd
companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. The
listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came
into his eyes when he was not laughing. The Athlete, the Lecturer, the
Scientific Discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human
thing.

"Now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any
more. I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see
me--but I am never going to get into the chair again. I shall walk back
with you, Father--to the house."

      *       *       *       *       *

Ben Weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on
this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen
and being invited into the servants' hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a
glass of beer he was on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most
dramatic event Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the present
generation actually took place.

One of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the
lawn. Mrs. Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he
might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting
with Master Colin.

"Did you see either of them, Weatherstaff?" she asked.

Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of
his hand.

"Aye, that I did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air.

"Both of them?" suggested Mrs. Medlock.

"Both of 'em," returned Ben Weatherstaff. "Thank ye kindly, ma'am, I
could sup up another mug of it."

"Together?" said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her
excitement.

"Together, ma'am," and Ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp.

"Where was Master Colin? How did he look? What did they say to each
other?"

"I didna' hear that," said Ben, "along o' only bein' on th' step-ladder
lookin' over th' wall. But I'll tell thee this. There's been things
goin' on outside as you house people knows nowt about. An' what tha'll
find out tha'll find out soon."

And it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and
waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the
shrubbery a piece of the lawn.

"Look there," he said, "if tha's curious. Look what's comin' across th'
grass."

When Mrs. Medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek
and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the
servants' hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes
almost starting out of their heads.

Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many
of them had never seen him. And by his side with his head up in the air
and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy
in Yorkshire--Master Colin!


THE END

Ch XXVI "It's Mother!"

Their belief in the Magic was an abiding thing. After the morning's
incantations Colin sometimes gave them Magic lectures.

"I like to do it," he explained, "because when I grow up and make great
scientific discoveries I shall be obliged to lecture about them and so
this is practise. I can only give short lectures now because I am very
young, and besides Ben Weatherstaff would feel as if he was in church
and he would go to sleep."

"Th' best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap can get up
an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. I
wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes."

But when Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixed devouring eyes on
him and kept them there. He looked him over with critical affection. It
was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which
looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held
itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had
filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he
remembered in another pair. Sometimes when Colin felt Ben's earnest gaze
meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on
and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him.

"What are you thinking about, Ben Weatherstaff?" he asked.

"I was thinkin'," answered Ben, "as I'd warrant tha's gone up three or
four pound this week. I was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders.
I'd like to get thee on a pair o' scales."

"It's the Magic and--and Mrs. Sowerby's buns and milk and things," said
Colin. "You see the scientific experiment has succeeded."

That morning Dickon was too late to hear the lecture. When he came he
was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than
usual. As they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they
fell to work. They always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking
rain. The moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the
weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which
must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. Colin was as
good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture while he
was doing it.

"The Magic works best when you work yourself," he said this morning.
"You can feel it in your bones and muscles. I am going to read books
about bones and muscles, but I am going to write a book about Magic. I
am making it up now. I keep finding out things."

It was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel
and stood up on his feet. He had been silent for several minutes and
they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did. When
he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to Mary and Dickon as
if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. He stretched himself out
to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly. Color glowed
in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness. All at once he
had realized something to the full.

"Mary! Dickon!" he cried. "Just look at me!"

They stopped their weeding and looked at him.

"Do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he
demanded.

Dickon was looking at him very hard. Being an animal charmer he could
see more things than most people could and many of them were things he
never talked about. He saw some of them now in this boy.

"Aye, that we do," he answered.

Mary looked hard too, but she said nothing.

"Just this minute," said Colin, "all at once I remembered it
myself--when I looked at my hand digging with the trowel--and I had to
stand up on my feet to see if it was real. And it _is_ real! I'm
_well_--I'm _well_!"

"Aye, that tha' art!" said Dickon.

"I'm well! I'm well!" said Colin again, and his face went quite red all
over.

He had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought
about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through
him--a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so
strong that he could not help calling out.

"I shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "I shall
find out thousands and thousands of things. I shall find out about
people and creatures and everything that grows--like Dickon--and I shall
never stop making Magic. I'm well! I'm well! I feel--I feel as if I want
to shout out something--something thankful, joyful!"

Ben Weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round
at him.

"Tha' might sing th' Doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. He had
no opinion of the Doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any
particular reverence.

But Colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the
Doxology.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Dickon can sing it for thee, I'll warrant," replied Ben Weatherstaff.

Dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile.

"They sing it i' church," he said. "Mother says she believes th'
skylarks sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'."

"If she says that, it must be a nice song," Colin answered. "I've never
been in a church myself. I was always too ill. Sing it, Dickon. I want
to hear it."

Dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. He understood what
Colin felt better than Colin did himself. He understood by a sort of
instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. He pulled
off his cap and looked round still smiling.

"Tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to Colin, "an' so mun tha',
Ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' knows."

Colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as
he watched Dickon intently. Ben Weatherstaff scrambled up from his
knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look
on his old face as if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this
remarkable thing.

Dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in
quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice:

          "Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
           Praise Him all creatures here below,
           Praise Him above ye Heavenly Host,
           Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
                                         Amen."

When he had finished, Ben Weatherstaff was standing quite still with his
jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on
Colin. Colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative.

"It is a very nice song," he said. "I like it. Perhaps it means just
what I mean when I want to shout out that I am thankful to the Magic."
He stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "Perhaps they are both the same
thing. How can we know the exact names of everything? Sing it again,
Dickon. Let us try, Mary. I want to sing it, too. It's my song. How does
it begin? 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow'?"

[Illustration: "'PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW'"--_Page 344_]

And they sang it again, and Mary and Colin lifted their voices as
musically as they could and Dickon's swelled quite loud and
beautiful--and at the second line Ben Weatherstaff raspingly cleared his
throat and at the third he joined in with such vigor that it seemed
almost savage and when the "Amen" came to an end Mary observed that the
very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out
that Colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitching and he was staring
and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet.

"I never seed no sense in th' Doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but I
may change my mind i' time. I should say tha'd gone up five pound this
week, Mester Colin--five on 'em!"

Colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his
attention and his expression had become a startled one.

"Who is coming in here?" he said quickly. "Who is it?"

The door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had
entered. She had come in with the last line of their song and she had
stood still listening and looking at them. With the ivy behind her, the
sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak,
and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like
a softly colored illustration in one of Colin's books. She had wonderful
affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them, even
Ben Weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flower that was in bloom.
Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an
intruder at all. Dickon's eyes lighted like lamps.

"It's Mother--that's who it is!" he cried and he went across the grass
at a run.

Colin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both
felt their pulses beat faster.

"It's Mother!" Dickon said again when they met half-way. "I knowed tha'
wanted to see her an' I told her where th' door was hid."

Colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his
eyes quite devoured her face.

"Even when I was ill I wanted to see you," he said, "you and Dickon and
the secret garden. I'd never wanted to see any one or anything before."

The sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own.
She flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to
sweep over her eyes.

"Eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "Eh! dear lad!" as if she had
not known she were going to say it. She did not say, "Mester Colin,"
but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. She might have said it to Dickon in
the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her.
Colin liked it.

"Are you surprised because I am so well?" he asked.

She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes.

"Aye, that I am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my
heart jump."

"Do you think," said Colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father
like me?"

"Aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft
quick pat. "He mun come home--he mun come home."

"Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getting close to her. "Look at
th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? They was like drumsticks i' stockin' two
month' ago--an' I heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both
at th' same time. Look at 'em now!"

Susan Sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh.

"They're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "Let
him go on playin' an' workin' in th' garden an' eatin' hearty an'
drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i'
Yorkshire, thank God for it."

She put both hands on Mistress Mary's shoulders and looked her little
face over in a motherly fashion.

"An' thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'Lizabeth
Ellen. I'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. Our Martha told me as
Mrs. Medlock heard she was a pretty woman. Tha'lt be like a blush rose
when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee."

She did not mention that when Martha came home on her "day out" and
described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence
whatever in what Mrs. Medlock had heard. "It doesn't stand to reason
that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she
had added obstinately.

Mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. She
had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great
deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her
pleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear
that she might some day look like her.

Susan Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole
story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin
walked on one side of her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept
looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the
delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm, supported feeling. It
seemed as if she understood them as Dickon understood his "creatures."
She stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were
children. Soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon
her shoulder as if it were Dickon's. When they told her about the robin
and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little
mellow laugh in her throat.

"I suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but
I'm feared I should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o'
legs," she said.

It was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland
cottage way that at last she was told about the Magic.

"Do you believe in Magic?" asked Colin after he had explained about
Indian fakirs. "I do hope you do."

"That I do, lad," she answered. "I never knowed it by that name but what
does th' name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i' France
an' a different one i' Germany. Th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin'
an' th' sun shinin' made thee a well lad an' it's th' Good Thing. It
isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our
names. Th' Big Good Thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes
on makin' worlds by th' million--worlds like us. Never thee stop
believin' in th' Big Good Thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it--an'
call it what tha' likes. Tha' wert singin' to it when I come into th'
garden."

"I felt so joyful," said Colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at
her. "Suddenly I felt how different I was--how strong my arms and legs
were, you know--and how I could dig and stand--and I jumped up and
wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen."

"Th' Magic listened when tha' sung th' Doxology. It would ha' listened
to anything tha'd sung. It was th' joy that mattered. Eh! lad,
lad--what's names to th' Joy Maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick
soft pat again.

She had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and
when the hungry hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding
place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour
their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. She was
full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. She told
them stories in broad Yorkshire and taught them new words. She laughed
as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing
difficulty there was in pretending that Colin was still a fretful
invalid.

"You see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are
together," explained Colin. "And it doesn't sound ill at all. We try to
choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever."

"There's one thing that comes into my mind so often," said Mary, "and I
can scarcely ever hold in when I think of it suddenly. I keep thinking
suppose Colin's face should get to look like a full moon. It isn't like
one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some
morning it should look like one--what should we do!"

"Bless us all, I can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said
Susan Sowerby. "But tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. Mester
Craven'll come home."

"Do you think he will?" asked Colin. "Why?"

Susan Sowerby chuckled softly.

"I suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told
him in tha' own way," she said. "Tha's laid awake nights plannin' it."

"I couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said Colin. "I think about
different ways every day. I think now I just want to run into his
room."

"That'd be a fine start for him," said Susan Sowerby. "I'd like to see
his face, lad. I would that! He mun come back--that he mun."

One of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her
cottage. They planned it all. They were to drive over the moor and lunch
out of doors among the heather. They would see all the twelve children
and Dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired.

Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs. Medlock. It
was time for Colin to be wheeled back also. But before he got into his
chair he stood quite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a
kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of
her blue cloak and held it fast.

"You are just what I--what I wanted," he said. "I wish you were my
mother--as well as Dickon's!"

All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms
close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been Dickon's
brother. The quick mist swept over her eyes.

"Eh! dear lad!" she said. "Thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, I
do believe. She couldna' keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to
thee--he mun!"