An election of civil and judicial officers was impending in Kildeer County when a comet appeared in the July sky, a mysterious, aloof, uncanny presence, that invaded the night and the stereotyped routine of nature with that gruesome effect of the phenomenal which gives to the mind so definite a realization of how dear and secure is the prosaic sense of custom.

All the lenses of the great observatories of the world had, in a manner, sought to entertain the strange visitant of the heavens. The learned had gone so far as to claim its acquaintance, to recognize it as the returning comet of a date long gone by. It even carried amidst its shining glories, along the far unimagined ways of its orbit, the name of a human being of the man who had discovered it on its former visit, for thus splendidly does astronomy honor its votaries. Less scientific people regarded it askance as in some sort harbinger of woe, and spoke of presage, recalling other comets, and the commotions that came in their train from the Deluge, with the traditional cometary influences rife in the breaking up of “the fountains of the great deep,” to the victories of Mohammed II. and the threatened overthrow of Christendom, and even down to our own war of 1812. Others, again, scorned superstition, and entertained merely practical misgivings concerning the weight, density, and temperature of the comet, lest the eccentric aerial wanderer should run amuck of the earth in some confusion touching the right of way through space.

Meanwhile, it grew from the semblance of a vaporous tissue an illuminated haze only discernible through the telescope, the private view of the favored few till it gradually became visible to the unassisted eye of the profanum vulgus, and finally it flamed across the darkling spaces with its white crown of glory, its splendid wing-like train, and its effect of motion as of a wondrous flight among the stars and all the world, and, for aught we know, many worlds, gazed at it.

Only in some great desert, the vast stretches of unsailed seas, or the depths of uninhabited forests, were its supernal splendors unnoted. It sunk as wistful, as tremulous, a reflection in a lonely pool in the dense mountain wilds as any simple star, a familiar of these haunts, that had looked down to mark its responsive image year after year, for countless ages, whenever the season brought it, in its place in the glittering mail of the Archer, or among the jewels of the Northern Crown, once more to the spot it had known and its tryst with its fair semblance in the water.

The great silver flake which the comet struck out upon the serene surface lay glinting there among the lesser stellar reflections, when a man, kneeling in a gully of the steep bank sloping to the “salt lick,” leaned forward suddenly to gaze at it; then, with a gasp, turned his eyes upward to that flaming blade drawn athwart the peaceful sky. He did not utter a sound. The habit of silence essential to the deer-hunter kept its mechanical hold upon his nerves. Only the hand with which he grasped the half-exposed roots of a great sycamore-tree, denuded in some partial caving of the bank long ago, relaxed and trembled slightly.

He was a man of scant and narrow experience, his world the impenetrable mountain wilderness, and, though seemingly the pupil of nature, versed in the ways of beast and bird, the signs of the clouds, the seasons of bourgeoning and burr, it was but of casual external aspects. He knew naught of its wondrous history, its subtler significance, its strange record the flood-tides registered on that cliff beyond the laurel; the reptilian trail in the ledge beneath the butt of his rifle, the imprint still fast in the solid rock, albeit the species extinct; the great bones of ancient unknown beasts sunk in the depressions of this saline quagmire, which herds of them had once frequented for the salt, as did of late the buffalo, and now the timorous deer, wont to come, like shadows wavering in the wind, to lick the briny earth. The strange, glinting blade overhead had no claim on his recognition as the “comet of Aristotle,” or the “evil-disposed comet” personified by the Italians as Sir Great-Lance, il Signor Astone, or Halley’s comet, or Donati’s. Self is the centre of the solar system with many souls, and around this point do all its incidents revolve. For him that wondrous white fire was kindled in the skies, for him, in special relation to his small life, to the wish nearest his hot human heart, to the clumsy scheme dear to his slow, crude brain. He thought it a warning then: and later he thought this still.

Some vague stir the wind perhaps, or perhaps a light-footed dryad flitted past and was gone. The surface of the “lick” rippled with her footprints, and was smooth again. All the encompassing masses of trees and undergrowth about the place were densely black and opaque, giving the sense of absolute solidity and weight, except upon the verges, which were somehow shaded off into a cloudy brown against the translucent dove-tinted tissues in which the night seemed enveloped and obscured save for the white gleaming of the stars. This was the clear color that the brackish water wore as it reflected the night. It reflected suddenly a face a face with a long velvety muzzle, a pair of spreading antlers, and dark eyes, gentle, timorous, liquidly bright. The water stirred with a sibilant lapping sound as the buck’s tongue licked at the margin. Once he held up his head to listen, with his hoof lifted, then he bent again to the ripples. There was slight relation between him, the native of these woods, and that wayward waif of the skies; but among the unnumbered influences and incidents of its course it served to save that humble sylvan life for a space. The hunter neither saw nor heard.

It was only when the deer with a sudden snort and a precipitate bound fled crashing through the laurel that Walter Hoxon became aware of his presence, and of the stealthy approach that had alarmed him. The approach was stealthy no longer. A quick, nervous tread, a rustling of the boughs, and as the hunter rose to his feet his elder brother emerged from the undergrowth, taller than he as they stood together on the margin of the lick, more active, sinewy, alert.

“Whyn’t ye take a shot at him, Wat?” cried Justus Hoxon tumultuously. “I’ll be bound ye war nappin’,” he added in keen rebuke.

A pause, then Walter Hoxon pulled himself together and retorted:

“Nappin’!” in scornful falsetto. “How could I get a shot, with ye a-trompin’ up ez n’isy ez a herd o’ cattle?”

The reproach evidently struck home, for the elder said nothing. With the thoroughness characteristic of the habitual liar, Walter proceeded to add circumstance to his original statement.

“I seen the buck whenst he fust kem sidlin’ an’ slippin’ up ter the water, oneasy an’ onsartain from the fust minute. I hed jes’ sighted my rifle. An’ hyar ye kem, a-bulgin’ out o’ the lau’l, an’ sp’iled my shot.” As the verisimilitude of his representations bore upon him, he unconsciously assumed the sentiments natural to the situation simulated. “Who tole ye ez I war hyar, anyhows?” he demanded angrily.

“’Dosia,” replied Justus Hoxon in a mild tone. Then, with an effort at exculpation, “I ’lowed ye’d be keen plumb sharp set fur news ’bout the prospec’s o’ the ‘lection. An’ she ’lowed ez ye hed kem down hyar hopin’ ter git a deer. ’T war The’dosia.”

At the name the other had turned slightly away and looked down, a gesture that invidious daylight might have interpreted as anxiety, or faltering, or at the least replete with consciousness. But even if open to observation, it could scarcely have signified aught to Justus Hoxon, wrapped in his own thoughts, and in his absorbing interest in the events of the day. His mental attitude was so apparent to his brother, albeit his form was barely distinguishable as they stood together by the salt lick, that Wat ventured a question a bold one, it seemed to him, and he felt a chill because of its temerity.

“Glad ter see ye, I s’pose?”

“Plumb tickled ter death,” exclaimed Justus, his laughing voice full of reminiscent enthusiasm. “Thar war a big crowd at the Cross-Roads ter hear the speakin’, an’ a toler’ble gatherin’ at Sycamore Gap. Everybody inquired partic’lar arter ye, an’ whenst I tole ’em ye war tuk sick, an’ couldn’t be thar, an’ I war ‘lectioneerin’ in yer place, they shuck han’s, an’ shuck han’s. One olé man olé Sam Coggins, up ter Sims’s Mill says ter me, he says, ’I dunno yer brother, Justus Hoxon; but blister my boots, ef I don’t vote fur anybody ez air kin ter you-uns, an ez ye hev set yer heart on lectin ter office. An the way folks inquired arter ye, an

“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout the ’lection,” Wat broke in brusquely. “I war axin’ ’bout ’Dosia. She war” he hesitated “liable ter be glad ter see ye, I reckon.”

There was a note of surprise in his brother’s voice from which Wat shrank in sudden alarm. “Oh, ’Dosia! Course she war glad. I seen her jes’ now, an’ she told me ez ye hed kem down ter the lick ter git a shot at the deer, bein’ ez she hed ’lowed the venison war powerful good ’bout now. I never stayed but a minute. I says, ‘’Dosia, ye an’ me hev got the rest o’ our lives ter do our courtin’ in, but this ’lection hev got ter be tended ter now, kase ef Wat ain’t ’lected it’ll set him back all his life. Some folks ’low ez ’t ain’t perlite an’ respec’ful, nohow, fur pore folks like we-uns ter run fur office, like ez ef we war good ez anybody.’ An’ ‘Dosia she jes’ hustled me out’n the house. ’G’long! G’long! Do everything ’bout’n the ‘lection! Turn every stone! Time enough fur courtin’ arterward! Time enough!’”

Once more Justus laughed contentedly.

The man beside him stirred uneasily, then broke out irritably: “Waal, I’m powerful tired o’ this ’lection foolishness, fur one. I wisht I hed never let ye push an’ boost me inter it. I reckon them war right ez ‘lowed pore folks like we-uns ain’t fit ter run fur office, an’ ain’t goin’ ter git ‘lected. I’d never hev dreamt o’ sech ef it hedn’t been fur you-uns never in this worl’.” Walter’s voice sunk moodily, and he had a flouting gesture as he turned aside.

A vicarious ambition is the most ungrateful of passions. There was something more than anger, than eager affection, than urgent reproach, than prescient alarm, albeit all rang sharply forth, in his brother’s voice raised to reply; it was a keen note of helplessness, from which Walter’s nerves recoiled with a sense of pain, so insistently clamorous it was.

“How kin ye say that!” cried Justus. “Fur ye ter stan’ thar, ready ter throw away all yer good chances, jes’ kase ye hev got the rheumatics an’ don’t feel like viewin’ the people though it ’pears like ye air well enough ter go huntin’ of deer of a damp night at a salt lick! An’ then, kase a mean-spirited half-liver flings dirt on ye an’ yer fambly, fur ye ter sit down on a low stool, an’ fill yer mouth with mud, an’ ’low this air plenty good enough fur we-uns! ’Pore folks ain’t fit ter git ‘lected ter office!’” with scornful iteration. “My Lord! this hyar is a democratic kentry!” with an echo from the stump speeches of the day. “Leastwise the folks yander at Sycamore Gap ‘peared ter think so. This hyar Tom Markham he war speakin’ on the issues o’ the day, an’ bein’ he’s a frien’ o’ Sheriff Quigley’s, he tuk a turn at me an’ you-uns, o’ course. Tole the folks how my dad an’ mam died whenst I war twelve year old, an’ how the only reason the fambly warn’t sent ter the pore-house war kase the county folks war dil’tory, an’ put it off, till they ’lowed our own house war pore enough. An’ then he sot out ter be mighty funny, an’ mocked the way I useter call the t’other chil’n ‘Fambly,’ sech ez ’Fambly, kem ter dinner, Fambly!’ ‘Shet up yer cryin’, Fambly!’ An’ then he tole how I cooked gathered all sorts o’ yarbs an’ vegetables tergether an’ sot a pot ter bile, an’ whenever ‘Fambly’ war hongry ‘Fambly’ tuk a snack, an’ gracefully eat out’n the pot with thar fingers. An’ sometimes ‘Fambly’ war moved ter wash thar clothes, an’ they all repaired ter the ruver-bank, an’ rubbed out thar rags, an’ hung ’em on the bushes ter dry an’, duty done, ‘Fambly’ went a-wadin’. Everybody jes’ laffed an’ laffed!”

There was a strained tone in his voice, not far foreign to a sob, as he repeated these derisive flouts at his early and forlorn estate.

“An’ now,” resuming their rehearsal, “this enlightened constituency was asked ter bestow on a scion o’ this same ’Fambly’ ignorant, scrub, pauper an office of great importance to the people, that needed to fill it a man o’ eddication an’ experiunce, varsed in the ways o’ the world asked to bestow the office o’ sheriff o’ the county on a man who war so obviously incomp’tent an’ illit’rate that he darsn’t face the people ter make his perposterous demand!”

The wind came and went. The darkling bushes bowed and bent again. The leaves took up their testimony in elusive, sibilant mutterings. Justus Hoxons eyes were cast upward for a moment, as he watched a massive bough of an oak-tree sway against the far sky, shutting off the stars, which became visible anew as the elastic branch swung back once more. Only the pallor of his face and a certain lustrous liquid gleam betokening his eyes were distinguishable to his brother, who nevertheless watched him with anxiety and quickened breathing as he went on:

“That thar feller hed sca’cely stepped down off’n that thar stump afore I war on ter it. I asked fur a few minutes’ attention, an’ ‘lowed, I did, that Mr. Markham’s account o’ the humble beginnin’s of me an’ ‘Fambly’ war accurate an’ exac’. (Everybody hed looked fur me ter deny it, or ter git mad, or suthin’, an’ they war toler’ble s’prised.) ‘Fambly’ did eat out’n the pot permiscuous, an’ made a mighty pore dinner thar many a day. An’ ‘Fambly’ washed thar clothes ez described, infrequent enough, an’ no doubt war ez ragged an’ dirty ez they war hongry. But, I said, Mr. Markham hedn’t told the haffen o’ it. Cold winter nights, when the snow sifted in through the cracks, an’ the wind blew in the rotten old door, ‘Fambly’ liked ter hev friz ter death. They hed the pneumonia, an’ whoopin’-cough, an’ croup; an’ in summer, bein’ a perverse set o’ brats, ‘Fambly’ hed fever an’ ager, an’ similar ailments common ter the young o’ the human race, the same ez ef ‘Fambly’ war folks! ’T war ‘stonishin’, kem ter think of it, how ‘Fambly’ hed the insurance ter grow up ter look like folks, let alone settin’ out ter run fur office; an’ ef God hedn’t raised ’em up some mighty good frien’s in this county, I reckon thar wouldn’t be much o’ ‘Fambly’ left. Some folks ’low ez Providence hev got mighty leetle jedgmint in worldly affairs, an’ this mus’ be one o’ the strikin’ instances of it. These frien’s gin the bigges’ boy work ter do, an’ that holped ter keep ‘Fambly’s’ bodies an’ souls tergether. I reckon, says I, that I hev ploughed in the fields o’ haffen the men in our deestric’; I hev worked in the tan-yard; I hev been striker in the blacksmith shop; an’ all the time that pot, aforesaid, b’iled at home, an’ ‘Fambly’ tuk thar dinner thar constant, with thar fingers, ez aforesaid. But ‘Fambly’ warn’t so durned ragged, nuther. Good neighbors gin ’em some clothes wunst in a while, an’ l’arned the gals ter sew an’ cook some. An’ thar kem ter be a skillet an’ a fryin’-pan on the h’a’th ter holp the pot out. Why, ‘Fambly’ got so prosperous that one day, whenst a’ olé, drunken, cripple, ragged man war passin’, they enj’yed themselves mightily, laffin’ at somebody po’rer than themselves. An’ olé Pa’son Tyson war goin’ by in his gig, an’ he tuk note o’ the finger o’ scorn, an’ he stopped. He said mighty leetle, but he tuk the trouble ter cut a stout hickory sprout, an’ he gin ‘Fambly’ a good thrashin’ all roun’. It lasted ‘Fambly’ well. They ain’t laffed at ‘God’s pore’ sence! Waal, ‘Fambly’ ‘s takin’ up too much o’ this enlightened assembly’s attention. Enough to tell what’s kem o’ ‘Fambly.’ The oldes’ gal went ter free school, l’arned ter read, write, an’ cipher, an’ married Pa’son Tyson’s son, ez air a minister o’ the gospel a-ridin’ a Methodis’ circuit in north Georgy now. An’ the second gal” his voice faltered she went ter free school, l’arned mo’ still o’ readin’ an’ writin’ an’ cipherin’, an’ taught school two year down on Bird Creek, an’ war goin’ ter be married ter a good man, well-ter-do, who had built her a house, not knowin’ ez God hed prepared her a mansion in the skies. She is livin’ thar now! An’ las’, the Benjamin o’ all the tribe, kems my brother Walter. He went ter school; kin read, write, an’ cipher; he’s been taught ez much ez any man ez ever held the office he axes ter be ‘lected ter, an’ air thoroughly competent. Fac’ is, gentlemen, thar’s nothin’ lef’ ter show fur the humble ‘Fambly’ Mr. Markham’s be’n tellin’ ’bout, but me. I never went ter school, ‘ceptin’ in yer fields. I l’arned ter cure hides, an’ temper steel, an’ shoe horse-critters, so that pot mought be kep’ a-b’ilin’, an’ ‘Fambly’ mought dine accordin’ to thar humble way in them very humble days that somehow, gentlemen, I ain’t got an’ can’t git the grace ter be ’shamed of yit.”

He paused abruptly as he concluded the recital of his speech, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I wisht ye could hev hearn them men cheer. They jes’ hollered tharse’fs hoarse. They shuck hands till they mighty nigh yanked my arm out’n its socket.” With the recollection, he rubbed his right arm with a gesture of pain.

Something there was in the account of this ovation that smote upon the younger brother’s sense of values, and he hastened to take possession of it.

“Oh, I knowed I war powerful pop’lar in the Sycamore Gap deestric’,” he said, dropping his lowering manner, that had somehow been perceptible in the darkness, and wagging his head from side to side with a gesture of great security in the affections of Sycamore Gap. “Sycamore Gap’s all right, I know; I’ll poll a big majority thar, sure.”

“I reckon ye will; but I warn’t so sure o’ that at fust,” replied the elder. “They ’peared ter me at fust ter be sorter set ag’in us leastwise me, though arter a while I could hardly git away from ’em, they war so durned friendly.”

Walter cast a keen look upon him; but he evidently spoke from his simple heart, and was all unaware that he was personally the source of this sudden popularity in Sycamore Gap his magnetism, his unconscious eloquence, and his character as shown in the simple and forlorn annals of “Fambly.” And yet he was not crudely unthinking. He perceived the incongruity of his brother’s successive standpoints.

“I dunno how ye kin purtend ter be so all-fired sure o’ Sycamore Gap,” he said suddenly. “’T ain’t five minutes sence ye war ‘lowin’ ez pore folks couldn’t git ‘lected ter office, an’ ye wished ye hed hed nothin’ ter do with sech, an’ ‘t war me ez bed jes’ pushed an’ boosted ye inter it.”

The resources of subterfuge are well-nigh limitless. Walter Hoxon was an adept in utilizing them. He had seen a warning in the skies, and it had struck terror and discouragement to his heart; but not to his political prospects had he felt its application. Other schemes, deeper, treacherous, secret, seemed menaced, and his conscience, or that endowment to quake with the fear of requital that answers for conscience in some ill-developed souls, was set astir. Nevertheless, the election might suffice as scapegoat.

“Look a-yander, Justus,” he said suddenly, pointing with the muzzle of his gun at the brilliant wayfarer of the skies, as if he might in another moment essay a shot. “That thar critter means mischief, sure ez ye air born.”

The other stepped back a pace or two, and lifted his head to look.

“The comic?” he demanded. Walter’s silence seemed assent. “Laws-a-massy, ye tomfool,” Justus cried, “let it be a sign ter them ez run ag’in’ ye! Count the comic in like a qualified voter it kem hyar on account o’ the incumbent’s incompetence in office. Signs! Rolf Quigley is sign enough, if ye want signs in ’lections, with money, an’ frien’s, an’ a term of office, an’ the reg’lar nominee o’ the party, an’ ye jes’ an independent candidate. No star a-waggin’ a tale aroun’ the sky air haffen ez dangerous ter yer ‘lection ez him. An’ he ain’t lookin’ at no comic! He looked this evenin’ like he’d put his finger in his mouth in one more minute, plumb ’shamed ter his boot-sole o’ the things Markham hed said. An’ Markham he kem up ter me before a crowd o’ fellers, an’ says, says he: ’Mr. Hoxon, I meant no reflections on yer fambly in alludin’ ter its poverty, an’ I honor ye fur yer lifelong exertions in its behalf. I take pride, sir, in makin’ this apology.’ An’ I says: ‘I be a’ illit’rate, humble man, Mr. Markham; but I will venture the liberty to tell ye ez ye mought take mo’ pride in givin’ no occasion fur apologies ter poverty.’ Them fellers standin’ aroun’ jes’ laffed. I knowed he didn’t mean a word he said then, but war jes’ slickin’ over the things he hed said on Quigley’s account, kase the crowd seemed ter favor me. I say, comic! Let Rolf Quigley take the comic fur a sign.”

It is easy to pluck up fears that have no root. “Oh, I be goin’ ter ’lectioneer all the same ez ever. Whar ‘s the nex’ place we air bound fur?”

Walter put his hand on his brother’s shoulder as he asked the question, and in the eager unfolding of plans and possibilities the two, as Justus talked, made their way along the deer-path beside the salt lick, leaving the stars coldly glittering on the ripples, with that wonderful streak of white fire reflected among them; leaving, too, the vaguely whispering woods, communing with the wind as it came and went; reaching the slope of the mountain at last, where was perched, amid sterile fields and humble garden-patch, the little cabin in which “Fambly” had struggled through its forlorn youth to better days.

The door was closed after this. A padlock knocked against it when the wind blew, as if spuriously announcing a visitor. The deceit failed of effect, for there was no inmate left, and the freakish gust could only twirl the lock anew, and go swirling down the road with a rout of dust in a witches’ dance behind it. The passers-by took note of the deserted aspect of things, and knew that the brothers were absent electioneering, and wondered vaguely what the chances might be. This passing was somewhat more frequent than was normal along the road; for when the mists that had hung about the mountains persistently during a warm, clammy, wet season had withdrawn suddenly, and one night revealed for the first time the comet fairly ablaze in the sky, a desire to hear what was said and known about it at the Cross-Roads and the settlement and the blacksmith shop took possession of the denizens of the region, and the coteries of amateur astronomers at these centres were added to daily. Some remembered a comet or two in past times, and if the deponent were advanced in years his hearers were given to understand that the present luminary couldn’t hold a tallow dip to the incandescent terrors he recollected. There were utilitarian souls who were disquieted about the crops, and anxiously examined growing ears of corn, expecting to find the comet’s influence tucked away in the husks. Some looked for the end of the world; those most obviously and determinedly pious took, it might seem, a certain unfraternal joy in the contrast of their superior forethought, in being prepared for the day of doom, with the uncovenanted estate of the non-professor. A revival broke out at New Bethel; the number of mourners grew in proportion as the comet got bigger night by night. Small wonder that as evening drew slowly on, and the flaring, assertive, red west gradually paled, and the ranges began to lose semblance and symmetry in the dusk, and the river gloomed benighted in the vague circuit of its course, and a lonely star slipped into the sky, darkening, too, till, rank after rank, and phalanx after phalanx, all the splendid armament of night had mustered, with that great, glamourous guidon in the midst small wonder that the ignorant mountaineer looked up at the unaccustomed thing to mark it there, and fear smote his heart.

At these times certain of the little sequestered households far among the wooded ranges got them within their doors, as if to place between them and the uncanny invader of the night, and the threatening influences rife in the very atmosphere, all the simple habitudes of home. The hearthstone seemed safest, the door a barrier, the home circle a guard. Others spent the nocturnal hours in the dooryard or on the porch, marking the march of the constellations, and filling the time with vague speculations, or retailing dreadful rumors of strange happenings in the neighboring coves, and wild stories of turmoil and misfortune that comets had wrought years ago.

It was at one of these makeshift observatories that Justus Hoxon stopped the first evening after his electioneering tour in the interest of his brother. The weather had turned hot and fair; a drought, a set-off to the surplusage of recent rain, was in progress; the dooryard on the high slope of the mountain, apart from its availability for the surveillance of any eccentric doings of the comet, was an acceptable lounging-place for the sake of the air, the dew, the hope of a vagrant breeze, and, more than all, the ample “elbow-room” which it offered the rest of the family while he talked with Theodosia Blakely. The rest of the family unwelcome wights! were not disposed to make their existence obtrusive; on the contrary, they did much to further his wishes, even to the sacrifice of personal predilection. Mrs. Blakely, her arms befloured, her hands in the dough, had observed him at the gate, while she stood at the biscuit-block in the shed-room, and although pining to rush forth and ask the latest news from the settlement and the comet, she only called out in a husky undertone: “’Dosia, ‘Dosia, yander’s Justus a-kemin’ in the gate! Put on yer white apern, chile.”

Because she had been adjured to put on her white apron, Theodosia did not put it on. She advanced to the window, about which grew, with its graceful habit, a hop-vine. A little slanting roof was above the lintel, a mere board or so, with a few warped shingles; but it made a gentle shadow, and Theodosia thought few men besides the one at the gate would have failed to see her there. He lingered a little, turning back to glance over the landscape, and then he deflected his course toward a rough bench that was placed in a corner of the rail fence, threw himself upon it, and fanned himself with his broad-brimmed hat.

“The insurance o’ the critter! I’m a mind ter leave ye a-settin’ thar by yerse’f till ye be wore out waitin’,” she muttered.

She hesitated a moment, then took her sunbonnet and went out to meet him.

The scene was like some great painting, with this corner in the foreground left unfinished, so minute was the detail of the distance, so elaborate and perfect the coloring of the curves of purple, and amethyst, and blue mountains afar off, rising in tiers about the cup-shaped valley. Above it hung a tawny tissue of haze, surcharged with a deeply red, vinous splendor, as if spilled from the stirrup-cup of the departing sun. He was already out of sight, spurring along unknown ways. The sky was yellow here and amber there, and a pearly flake, its only cloud, glittered white in the midst. Up the hither slope the various green of the pine and the poplar, the sycamore and the sweet-gum, was keenly differentiated, but where the rail fence drew the line of demarkation, Art seemed to fail.

A crude wash of ochre had apparently sufficed for the dooryard; no weed grew here, no twig. It was tramped firm and hard by the feet of cow, and horse, and the peripatetic children, and poultry. The cabin was drawn in with careless angles and lines by a mere stroke or two; and surely no painter, no builder save the utilitarian backwoodsman, would have left it with no relief of trees behind it, no vineyard, no garden, no orchard, no background, naught; in its gaunt simplicity and ugliness it stood against its own ill-tended fields flattening away in the rear.

Such as it was, however, it satisfied all of Justus Hoxon’s sense of the appropriate and the picturesque when Theodosia Blakely stepped out from the door and came slowly to meet him. The painter’s art, if she were to be esteemed part of the foreground, might have seemed redeemed in her. Her dress was of light blue homespun; her sunbonnet of deep red calico, pushed back, showed her dark brown hair waving upward in heavy undulations from her brow, her large blue eyes with their thick black lashes, her rich brunette complexion, her delicate red lips cut in fine lines, and the gleam of her teeth as she smiled. She had a string of opaque white, wax-like beads around the neck of her dress, and the contrast of the pearly whiteness of the bauble with the creamy whiteness and softness of her throat was marked with much finish. Her figure was hardly of medium height, and, despite the suppleness of youth, as “plump as a partridge,” according to the familiar saying. The clear iris of her eyes gave an impression of quick shifting, and by them one could see her mood change as she approached.

She looked at him intently, speculatively, a sort of doubtful curiosity furtively suggested in her expression; but there was naught subtle or covert in the gaze that met hers naught but the frankest pleasure and happiness. He did not move, as she advanced, nor offer formal greeting; he only smiled, secure, content, restful, as she came up and sat down on the end of the bench. The children, playing noisily in the back yard on the wood-pile, paused for a moment to gaze with callow interest at them; but the spectacle of “The’dosia’s sweetheart” was too familiar to be of more than fleeting diversion, and they resorted once more to their pastime. Mrs. Blakely too, who with rolling-pin in her hand had turned to gaze out of the window, went back to rolling out the dough vigorously, with only the muttered comment, “Wish The’dosia didn’t know how much I’d like that man fur a son-in-law, then she’d be willin’ ter like him better herse’f.”

He was unconscious of them all, as he leaned his elbow on the projecting rails of the fence at their intersection close at hand.

“Hev ye hed yer health, The’dosia?” he said.

“Don’t I look like it?” she replied laughingly.

There was something both of cordiality and coquetry in her manner. Her large eyes narrowed as she laughed, and albeit they glittered between their closing lids, the expression was not pleasant. Levity did not become her.

“Yes, ye do,” he said seriously. “Ye ‘pear ter be real thrivin’ an’ peart an’ healthy.”

His look, his words, were charged with no sort of recognition or value of her beauty: clearly her challenge had fallen to the ground unnoticed.

“He’d like me jes’ ez well ef I war all pitted up with the smallpox, or ez freckled ez a tur-r-key-aig,” she thought, flushing with irritation.

Beauty is jealous of preeminence, and would fain have precedence even of love. She could take no sort of satisfaction in a captive that her bright eyes had not shackled. Somehow this love seemed to flout, to diminish, her attractions. It was like an accident. She could account for his subjection on no other grounds. As she sat silent, grave enough now and very beautiful, gazing askance and troubled upon him, he went on:

“I war so oneasy an’ beset lest suthin’ hed happened on the mounting, whilst I war away, ter trouble you-uns or some o’ yer folks. I never hed time ter study much ’bout sech in the day, but I dreamt ’bout ye in the night, an’ all night,” he laughed a little, “all sort’n mixed up things. I got ter be a plumb Joseph fur readin’ dreams only I could read the same one forty diff’rent ways, an’ every way made me a leetle mo’ oneasy than the t’other one. I s’pose ye hev been perlite enough ter miss me a leetle,” he concluded.

She flashed her great eyes at him with a pretended stare of surprise. “My no!” she exclaimed. “We-uns hev hed the comet ter keep us comp’ny we ain’t missed nobody!”

He laughed a little, as at a repartee, and then went on:

“Waal, the comic war a-cuttin’ a pretty showy figger down yander at Colbury. ‘Ston-ishin’ how much store folks do ’pear ter set on it! They hed rigged up some sort’n peepin’-glass in the Court-House yard, an’ thar war mighty nigh the whole town a-squinchin’ up one eye ter examinate the consarn through it all the court off’cers, ‘torney-gin’ral, an’ sech, an’ old Doctor Kane an’ Jedge Peters, besides a whole passel o’ ginerality folks. They ’lowed the glass made it ’pear bigger.”

“Did it?” she asked, with sudden interest.

“Bless yer soul, chile, I didn’t hev time ter waste on it. Jedge Peters he beckoned ter me, an’ ’lowed he’d interjuce me ter it; but I ’lowed the comic outside war plenty big enough fur me. ‘Jedge,’ I says, ’my mission hyar air ter make onnecessary things seem small, not magnified. That’s why I’m continually belittlin’ Rolf Quigley. Wat kin go on lookin’ cross-eyed at the stars, ef so minded, but I be bound ter tend ter the ‘lection.’ An’ the jedge laffed and says: ‘Justus, nex’ time I want ter git ‘lected ter office, I’m goin’ ter git ye ter boost me in. Ye hev got it a sight mo’ at heart than yer brother.’ Fur thar war Wat, all twisted up at the small e-end o’ the tellingscope, purtendin’ ter be on mighty close terms with the comic, though lots o’ other men said it jes’ dazed thar eyes, an’ they couldn’t see nuthin’ through it, an’ mighty leetle arterward through sightin’ so long one-eyed.”

“Waal, how’s the prospects fur the ’lection?” she asked.

“Fine! Fine!” he answered with gusto. “Folks all be so frien’ly everywhar ter we-uns.”

He leaned his shoulder suddenly back against the rough rails of the fence. His hat was in his hand. His hair, fine, thin, chestnut-brown, and closely clinging about his narrow head, was thrown back from his forehead. His clear blue eyes were turned upward, with the light of reminiscence slowly dawning in them. It may have been the reflection of the dazzling flake of cloud, it may have been some mental illumination, but a sort of radiance was breaking over the keen, irregular lines of his features, and a flush other than the floridity of a naturally fair complexion was upon his thin cheek and hollow temple.

“O The’dosia,” he cried, “I can’t holp thinkin’, hevin’ so many frien’s nowadays, whenst it’s ‘Hail!’ hyar, an’ ‘Howdy!’ thar, an’ a clap on the shoulder ter the east, an’ a ‘How’s yer health?’ ter the west, an’ a handshake ter the north, an’ ‘Take a drink?’ ter the south, from one e-end o’ the county ter the t’other, how I fared whenst I hed jes’ one frien’ in the worl’, an’ that war yer mother! An’ how she looked the fust day she stood in the door o’ my cabin up thar kem ter nuss Elmiry through that spell she hed o’ the scarlet fever. An’ arterward she says ter me: ‘Ye do manage s’prisin’, Justus; an’ I be goin’ ter save ye some gyardin seed out’n my patch this year, an’ ef ye’ll plough my patch I’ll loan ye my horse-critter ter plough your’n. An’ the gals kin kem an’ l’arn ter sew an’ churn, an’ sech, long o’ ‘Dosia.’ An’ how they loved ye, ’Dosia special Elmiry!”

His eyes filled with sudden tears. They did not fall; they were absorbed somehow as he resumed:

“Sech a superflu’ty o’ frien’s nowadays! Ef ’t warn’t they’d count fur all they’re wuth in the ballot-box, I’d hev no use fur ’em. I kin sca’cely ‘member thar names. But then I hed jes’ one jes’ one in all the worl’ yer mother! Bless her soul!” he concluded enthusiastically.

He was still and reflective for a moment. Then he made a motion as though he would take one of Theodosia’s hands. But she clasped both of them demurely behind her.

“I don’t hold hands with no man ez blesses another ’oman’s soul by the hour,” she said, with an affectation of primness.

There may have been something more serious in her playful rebuff, but in the serenity of his perfect security he did not feel it or gauge its depth.

A glimpse of her mother at the window added its suggestion a lean, sallow, lined face, full of anxious furrows, with a rim of scanty gray-streaked hair about the brow, with spectacles perched above, and beneath the flabby jaw a scraggy, wrinkled neck.

“An’ she’s so powerful pretty!” Theodosia exclaimed, with an irreverent burst of laughter, “I don’t wonder ye feel obligated ter bless her soul.”

“She ’pears plumb beautiful to my mind,” he said unequivocally, “all of a piece with her beautiful life.”

Theodosia was suddenly grave, angered into a secret, sullen irritation. These were words she loved for herself: it was but lately she had learned so to prize them. Her eyes were as bright as a deer’s! Had not some one protested this, with a good round rural oath as attestation? Her hair on the back of her head, and its shape to the nape of her neck, were so beautiful she had never seen it: how could she say it wasn’t? Her chin and her throat well, if people could think snow was a prettier white, he wouldn’t give much for their head-stuffin’. And her blush! her blush! It was her own fault. He would not have taken another kiss if she had not blushed so at the first that he must needs again see her cheek glow like the wild rose.

These were echoes of a love-making that had lately taken hold of her heart, that had grown insistently sweet and dear to her, that had established its sway impetuously, tyrannically, over her life, that had caused her to seem more to herself, and as if she were infinitely more to her new lover.

She wondered how she could ever have even tolerated this dullard, with his slow, measured preference, his unquestioning security of her heart, his doltish credulity in her and her promise, his humble gratitude to her mother, who had often enough, in good sooth, got full value in return for aught she gave, who appeared “beautiful” to his mind. She broke forth abruptly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes brave and bright, the subject nearest her heart on her lips, in the sudden influx of courage set astir by the mere contemplation of it.

“Waal now, tell ‘bout Wat how he enj’ys bein’ a candidate, an’ sech.” Then, with a tremor because of her temerity: “I have hearn o’ that thar beautisome old ’oman a time or two afore, but Wat ez a candidate air sorter fraish an’ new.”

He turned his clear, unsuspicious eyes upon her. He had replaced his wide wool hat on his head, and he leaned forward, resting his cheek on his hand and his elbow on his knee. He aimlessly flicked his long spurred boot, as he talked, with a willow wand which he carried in lieu of horsewhip.

“Waal, Wat is some similar ter a balky horse. He don’t seem ter sense a word I say, nor ter be willin’ ter do a thing I advise, nor even ter take heart o’ grace ‘bout bein’ ’lected, till we gets out ’mongst folks, an’ thar handshakin’s and frien’liness seems ter hearten up the critter. I hev jes’ hed ter baig an’ baig, an’ plead an’ plead, with that boy ‘bout this an’ that an’ t’other, till I wouldn’t go through ag’in what I hev been through ter git ‘lected doorkeeper o’ heaven. But,” with a sudden change of tone and a flush of pride, “The’dosia, ye dunno what a’ all-fired pretty speaker Wat hev got ter be. Jes’ stan’s up ez straight an’ smilin’ afore all the crowd, an’ jes’ tells off his p’ints, one, two, three, ez nip! An’ the crowd always cheers an’ cheers jes’ bawls itse’f hoarse. Whenever thar’s a chance ter speak, Wat jes’ leaves them t’other candidates nowhar.”

Ah, Theodosia’s beauty well deserved the guerdon of sweet words. She might have been pictured as a thirsting Hebe. She had a look of quaffing some cup of nectar, still craving its depths, so immediate a joy, so intense a light, were in her widely open eyes; her lips were parted; the spray of blackberry leaves that she held near her cheek did not quiver, so had her interest petrified every muscle. She was leaning slightly forward; her red sunbonnet had fallen to the ground, and the wind tossed her dark brown hair till the heavy masses, with their curling ends disheveled, showed tendrils of golden hue. Her round, plump arm was like ivory. The torn sleeve fell away to the elbow, and her mother, glancing out of the window, took remorseful heed of it, and wished that she herself had set a stitch in it.

“The’dosia shows herself so back’ard ‘bout mendin’, an’ sech she air enough ter skeer any man away. An’ Justus knows jes’ what sech laziness means. Kin mend clothes hisse’f ez good ez the nex’ one, an’ useter do it too, strong an’ taut, with a double thread, whenst the fambly war leetle chil’n an’ gin ter bustin’ out’n thar gear.”

But Justus took no note of the significance of the torn sleeve.

“Why, ’Dosia,” he went on, “everybody ’lowed ez Wat’s speeches seemed ter sense what the people wanted ter hear. Him an’ me we’d talk it over the night before, an’ Wat he’d write down what we said on paper an’ mem’rize it; an’ the nex’ day, why, folks that wouldn’t hev nuthin’ ter say ter him afore he spoke would be jes’ aidgin’ up through the crowd ter git ter shake han’s with him.”

She smiled with delight at the picture. If it were sweet to him to praise, how sweet it was to her to listen! “Tell on!” she said softly.

Her interest flattered him; it enriched the reminiscence, dear though his memory held it. He had no doubt as to the unity of feeling with which they both regarded the incidents he chronicled. He went on with the certainty of responsive sentiment, the ease, the serenity of a man who opens his heart to the woman he loves.

“Why, ’Dosia,” he said, “often, often if it hed n’t been fur the folks, I could hev run up an’ dragged him off’n the rostrum an’ hugged him fur pride, he looked so han’some an’ spoke so peart! An’ ter think ‘t war jes’ our leetle Wat the Fambly’s leetle Wat growed up ter be sech a man! Ye’ll laff at me other folks did whenst I tell ye that ag’in an’ ag’in I jes’ cotch’ myse’f cheerin’ with the loudest. I could n’t holp it.”

“He’ll be ’lected, Justus?” she breathlessly inquired, and yet imperatively, as if, even though she asked, she would brook no denial.

“Oh, they all say thar’s no doubt no doubt at all.”

She drew a long breath of contentment, of pleasure. She leaned back, silent and reflective, against the rail fence behind the bench, her eyes fixed, absorbed, following the outline of other scenes than the one before them, which indeed left no impression upon her senses, scenes to come, slowly shaping the future. All trace of the red glow of the sun had departed from the landscape. No heavy, light-absorbing, sad-hued tapestries could wear so deep a purple, such sombre suggestions of green, as the circling mountains had now assumed: they were not black, and yet such depths of darkness hardly comported with the idea of color. The neutral tints of the sky were graded more definitely, with purer transparency, because of the contrast. The fine grays were akin to pearl color, to lavender, even, in approaching the zenith, to the palest of blue so pale that the white glitter of a star alternately appeared and was lost again in its tranquil inexpressiveness. The river seemed suddenly awake; its voice was lifted loud upon the evening air, a rhythmic song without words. The frogs chanted by the waterside. Fireflies here and there quivered palely over the flat cornfields at the back of the house. There was a light within, dully showing through the vines at the window.

“An’ then, ’Dosia,” said Justus softly, “when the ’lection is over, it’s time fur ye an’ me ter git married.”

She roused herself with an obvious effort, and looked uncomprehendingly at him for a moment, as if she hardly heard.

“The las’ one o’ Fambly will be off my han’s then. Fambly will hev been pervided fur every one, Wat an’ all. I hev done my bes’ fur Fambly, an’ I dunno but I hev earned the right ter think some fur myse’f now.”

He would not perhaps have arrogated so much, except to the woman by whom he believed himself beloved. She said nothing, and he went on slowly, lingering upon the words as if he loved the prospect they conjured up.

“We-uns will hev the gyardin an’ orchard, an’ pastur’ an’ woods-lot an’ fields, ter tend ter, an’ the cows an’ bees, an’ the mare an’ filly, an’ peegs an’ poultry, ter look arter. An’ the house air all tight, the roof an’ all in good repair, an’ we-uns will have it all ter ourselves.”

She turned upon him with sudden interest.

“What will kem o’ Wat?”

“Oh, he mus’ live in town whilst sher’ff, bein’ off’cer o’ the court an’ official keeper o’ jail, though he kin app’int a jailer.”

“Live in Colbury!” she exclaimed in wonderment.

Justus laughed in triumph. “Oh, I tell ye, Wat’s ’way up in the pictur’s! He’ll be a reg’lar town man ’fore long, I reckon, dandified an’ sniptious ez the nex’ one, marryin’ one o’ them finified town gals ez wear straw hats stiddier sunbonnets, though they do look ter be about ez flimsy an’ no-’count cattle ez any I ever see,” the sterling rural standpoint modifying his relish of Walter’s frivolous worldly opportunities.

She tossed her head in defiance of some sudden unspoken thought. As she lifted her eyes, fired by pride, she saw the comet all a-glitter in the darkening sky.

She hardly knew that he had seized her hand; but his importunity must be answered.

“D’rec’ly after the ’lection ’lection day, ’Dosia?” he urged.

“Ain’t ye got no jedgmint,” she temporized, laughing unmirthfully, “axin’ sech a question ez that under that onlucky comet!”

“I hev been waitin’ so long, ’Dosia!”

It was the first suggestion of complaint she had ever heard from him.

“Then ye air used ter waitin’, an’ ’t won’t kill ye ter wait a leetle longer. I’ll let ye know ’lection day.”