Mrs. Ruggles lived near Crawfish Creek.  Crawfish Creek ran near Thompson City.Thompson City was in a Western State, but now is in a Middle one.It was always in the midst of a great country accepting local testimony and a rank growth of corn and politicians as the tests of greatness.The earth there was monotonously parched in summer, and monotonously muddy at all other times.The forests were gigantic, the air carbonic, and when the citizens wished to give Thompson City the highest commendation, they did so by saying that “fevernagur” was worse in some other places.

In the parlor of Mrs. Ruggles, which was also her kitchen and dining-hall, hung a frame containing a seven-by-nine mirror, which was the frame’s excuse for being, although a compartment above and one below held squares of glass covered with paint instead of mercury.The lower one was colored like the contents of a wash-tub after a liberal use of indigo; and in the centre was a horizontal stroke of red, surmounted by a perpendicular dash of white, intersected by an oblique line of black all of which represented a red boat, with a white sail and black spar, making an endless voyage across the lake of indigo.The black crosses in the sky were birds.The black lines on the left were bulrushes.  And among these bulrushes a certain gloomy little object was either a Hebrew prophet or a muskrat.

Above the mirror was painted a long-tailed coat, from behind which extended a hand holding a bell-crowned hat, to whose scarlet lining the holder seemed inviting the spectator’s particular attention.  There were also a pair of legs and boots, a heavy shock of hair, a labyrinth of neckcloth and a florid human face.Under the boots were the words,

MARQUIS DE LA FAYETTE.

And the beholder was ever in doubt whether the marquis was trying to stand exclusively upon this title or was unconsciously trampling it into the ground.

Mrs. Ruggles admired this picture.  Her knowledge of French was not great, but her ear was delicate; and thinking the words “sounded handsome,” she had deliberately conferred them in full on her first-born.When in good-humor she was content with calling him “Marquis-dee.”  In fact, it was only when chasing him into the street with a lilac bush in her hand that she insisted on addressing him by his full name.At such times, between each flourish of the lilac bush and each yell of the young nobleman, she pronounced with significant fullness, with fearful exactness, the handsome-sounding name of Marquis de la Fayette Ruggles.His playmates, however, had not the delicate ear of the mother, and as the son had brown specks on his face, he was popularly known as “Frecky Rug.”

Mrs. Ruggles and her late husband were pioneers in the Crawfish Valley.Subsequent settlers knew little, and apparently cared less, about her.They knew, however, that she had been a Peables, and that Peables blood was still doing its duty in her veins.And from her independence and reserve they argued that the Peableses must have been “high up” at least in the estimation of Mrs. Ruggles.After Mr. Ruggles had been overcome by malaria in clearing the creek bottoms the pride of the Peables blood had sustained her in a long, brave fight with circumstances.

It was while he lay one night upon his deathbed, mistaking a watching neighbor for his wife, that he started up, saying, “Becky, if I could prove it to you afore I died!”

“Out of his head,” was the quiet remark of Mrs. Ruggles to the watching neighbor by the bedside.There was no further sign of delirium.  That exclamation of the dying Mr. Ruggles was a mystery to the women of Crawfish Creek, and remains so to this day.

It may be that the pride of Mrs. Ruggles was in excess of her wisdom.It may be if that pride had been a little more respected by the irreverent Crawfish settlers, they would not have had occasion to wonder, as they did wonder, how a heart so true, an honesty so stoical, a discrimination so acute could exist with an independence so absurd, a mind so uncultured, a sense of dignity so ridiculous as were found united in her character.It may be that the Peables blood was worthy of receiving honor as great as the ridicule it did receive.It may be if the world had known the Peableses it would have been as proud of them as she was.

She was a person of scrupulous neatness, careful never to be seen by strangers except in a tidy dress, and with her hair in a Grecian knot, gracefully secured by a leather string and a wooden peg.  “Weak creepings” were her main reliance in the way of disease.She was also troubled, at times, with a “fullness of the head.”  In addition, there were other times when her right side “felt separate.”But she seldom complained of anything belonging to herself.  Even her maladies, she took pleasure in knowing, were very different from those enjoyed by certain other women.Unwilling to be too familiar with any one baser than a Ruggles, she usually dined, as she lived, alone with her noble son.

On a certain summer evening she stirred her tea a long time in silence.She stirred it vigorously, creating a maelstrom inside her cup, where, very like a whale in the story-books, a little crust of bread disappeared and reappeared, and sailed round and round as if very much perplexed.Then she unconsciously reversed the current of the maelstrom, sending the baked and buttered whale to the bottom.

“I never see that air Miller, no odds how well I be,” she remarked mechanically to the tea-pot, “but what I feel weak creepin’s come over me.He puts dye-stuff on his baird.  An’ when a man’s whiskers is gray an’ his head keeps black, it’s a sign he uses his jaw more’n he does his brains.An’ that yaller-headed doll-baby o’ his’n the peert thing: I’ll lay fifty cents she never washed a dish.To think o’ her sayin’ a thing like that about Markis-dee! an’ there’s more o’ the Peables in him to-day But I s’pose she don’t know no better.”  And Mrs. Ruggles rose from the table, while the corner of her apron made a sudden journey to the corner of her eye.It was evident her moral nature had received a wound that rankled.

A year before this time the marquis and his playmates had watched several vigorous fellows plant a theodolite on the bank of Crawfish Creek, very much as the natives must have watched the Spaniards plant their first cross on San Salvador.The contract for grading the new railway bed was in the hands of a stranger named Miller, who was said to have known better days, and in the time of his prosperity had been thought a proper person to be called Colonel.  He was a bluff man of forty years, who appeared to have known both the ups and downs of life, and whose determination to wear a black beard was equaled only by its determination to be gray.Rumor said that he had been a railroad president, that he made and spent vast sums of money, and that his home was somewhere in the East.

His only child, Alice, ten or twelve years old, bright, fair, full of animal spirits, who was indulged to the last degree by the roughly generous colonel, sometimes accompanied him about the half-developed country, searching for strange birds and blossoms in the woods or watching demurely the laborers ply their picks and shovels while he inspected their work.

The two rode almost daily between Thompson City and the line of excavation, passing the house of Mrs. Ruggles and a cool spring by the roadside near it, whence that lady had obtained the water which made the tea which was stirred into the maelstrom which has been described.While obtaining it, clad in her working garb, the patter of hoofs and a clear girlish laugh sweet as the carol of a meadow lark came ringing along the road.As the colonel and Alice halted to let her high-mettled pony and his heavier Morgan drink, Mrs. Ruggles, who could not otherwise escape observation, with becoming pride and modesty stepped behind the thick willows, leaving the marquis with a pail of water between his legs and a bunch of mottled feathers in his hand.

He stood dumb before the lovely girl, with her face sparkling from exercise and enjoyment, and her golden hair escaping from its prison of blue ribbons.While the horses drank she espied a cluster of cool violets brightening the damp grass near the spring.The marquis had presence of mind enough left to step forward and pluck them.Her “Thank you!” added greatly to his embarrassment, which he expressed by vigorously twisting the mottled feathers.

“What bird are those from?” asked Alice.

The question so increased his embarrassment that now the marquis could express it only by chewing his cap, and she smilingly waited a moment for the composure of the young naturalist’s feelings.

“She was a low, chunky hen,” said he, at length “she was a low, chunky hen, an’ she laid a hundred an’ seven eggs, an’ then she had spazzums an’ whirled roun’ till she died.”

A burst of irrepressible laughter escaped Alice, with the exclamation, “Did anybody ever see such a boy?” as she and her father rode away.And those were the exceptionable words concerning her son which so rankled that evening in the heart of Mrs. Ruggles.

The marquis gazed with hungry eyes after the airy little figure as it dashed down the unlovely, worm-fenced road.The golden hair, overflowing its boundaries of blue ribbon, was more glorious to him than the golden sunshine overflowing the blue sky.They met no more at the spring, but several times a week, from a respectful distance, he watched her riding by.From Thompson City to the little log bridge over Crawfish Creek the road lay for four miles through heavy woods.Then came cleared fields, and soon the house of Mrs. Ruggles.

So the summer days went by.The season was waning, the grading was almost done, and soon the contractor would be elsewhere.Then came one particularly warm and sultry day.The screams of locusts everywhere suggested that they were frying.  The colonel, riding once more slowly out toward the workmen with his daughter, was near the middle of the forest.The trees on either hand were tall, and the road was so straight and narrow that the sunlight scarcely touched it.The marquis, in the top of a tall chestnut that overhung the road near the edge of the wood, was overhauling a nest of flying squirrels perhaps in the hope of finding mottled feathers on their wings.  From his elevation he could see for a great distance down the level, dusty road between the trees, and far across the surrounding country.

The sun did not shine bright, yet no cloud was in the sky.The atmosphere, thick, oppressive, opaque, veiled the horizon with strange gloom.Not a leaf could stir in the vast forest.  Not a dimple nor the semblance of a current broke the surface of the sluggish creek.Not a sound, save the interminable frying of the locusts.

The colonel slackened his pace, surprised that his horse should so soon begin to drip and pant Alice, familiar with the road, in the mean time riding a mile ahead.The marquis clung to the topmost branches, looking at the still sky far above him, the still stream far below him, the still tree-tops far around him, till he caught a glimpse of the only interesting object to be seen a black pony bearing its usual burden, if Alice Miller could be called a burden, and pacing leisurely up the road beneath him.  He gazed as far as the palisade of trees permitted, but her father was not yet in sight.

Suddenly, in the west, a single vein of lightning darted down the sky.A few trees shuddered as if to shake the gathering shadows from their bosoms.Then tenfold stillness.A bird flew past with a scream of terror, the marquis looking in vain to see a hawk pursuing it.The distant moan of a cow came from the fields.Not another sound, it seemed, was in the world.

In an instant the south-west was black.  A strange, remote murmur smote the colonel’s ear.Overhead he could see but a strip of hot, hazy sky.Had he seen the whole heavens, he could have done nothing but go on.Quickly the murmur became an awful muttering, then a deafening roar.  The clatter, the rush, the crash of a tornado were behind him.The groans of the very earth were about him.The darkness of twilight was upon him.  Alice and Death were before him.A cloudy demon, towering high as the heavens, in whose path nothing could live, was striding near and nearer.

Farm-houses were overthrown.  Trees were twisted off from their roots and torn to pieces.Wild animals and birds were dashed to death.Streams were emptied of their waters.  Human beings and horses and cattle were lifted into the air, hurled hither and thither and thrown dead upon the earth.

The whirlwind was following the line of the road!Colonel Miller had no opportunity to see this, nor could he ride aside from that line if he chose.He could but cry aloud, “My darling!O God!Alice!” and lash his horse forward.The high, close forest would keep the wind from lifting his horse from the ground or himself from the saddle.But the great trees crashed like thunder behind him.Their fragments whirled above him.Their branches fell before him.The limb of a huge oak grazed his face, crushed his horse, and both rolled to the ground, blinded with dust, imprisoned within a barricade of splintered trunks and shattered tree-tops.

The marquis, from his high lookout, saw, before any one else, the approaching tornado, and, descending like a flash, he yet noted its direction.  As Alice reached the foot of his tree he was on the ground, had seized the pony’s mane, was half seated and half clinging in front of her, had snatched the reins from her hand, and was urging the frightened animal to its utmost speed.Overcome with terror and confusion, Alice clung instinctively to the saddle and to him, without hearing his hurried advice to “stick like a old burdock.”

They shot like an arrow up the road.  The noise of the tempest was audible.Closer it was coming, crushing, rending, annihilating all before it.The way grew darker.The terrified pony scarce touched the ground.His only will was to go forward, and he still obeyed a firm use of the bit.But who could hope to outrun a hurricane?  Twelve miles an hour against eighty!The marquis heeded nothing.Not far behind, the road was but a slash of fallen, writhing tree-tops.The sweat dropped from his face.He dared not look behind.

They reached it the lane, by the log bridge, running at right angles to the road and in a moment, behind them, that lane was choked with whirling debris.

But in that moment they had cleared the track of the whirlwind.For the first time Alice comprehended the conduct of the marquis.  For the first time he turned to see.A quarter of a mile each side the road the hurricane had carried complete desolation.But after passing the heavy timber it had veered several degrees, and was sparing the house of Mrs. Ruggles.

With a white face she met them at the gate.A word of explanation from the marquis an ejaculation of mental anguish from the girl.Two fugitive tie-choppers from the woods turned back to find the colonel’s body.Mrs. Ruggles, carrying Alice in her arms to the door the yaller-headed doll-baby that never washed a dish did what she could to soothe her, but did it as silently as possible.

Mrs. Ruggles intercepted the returning tie-choppers in the lane.A look of eager joy was in their faces.The bruised colonel, assisted to the threshold, sank into the big arm-chair, and Alice was in his arms.Mrs. Ruggles did not see their meeting, not at all.No, her back was toward them, but the corner of her apron made another journey to the corner of her eye as the father folded his lost child once more to his heart.

His desire to express his gratitude to Mrs. Ruggles and her boy was equaled only by her fears that he would do so.As a last resort he called the marquis to him, and, while a tear stood on his rough cheek, drew a handful of money from his pocket.But a bony hand appeared majestically between them, and a voice said, “Not by no means.  We’re not them kind o’ persons.Markis-dee, put away the camfire.”

Then a rickety gig rattled up to the gate:“Contusion severe no danger there! be lame a while so! the other bandage bridge gone creek half dry bend your leg so! current turned up-stream now the shoulder not strange Crawfish Creek should run backward he! he!” And the rickety gig rattled merrily off in search of broken bones.

Alice, meeting the marquis outside the door, approached him in a way that made him tremble.  What was said will never be known, but she placed her white little hand upon his shoulder, the golden head bowed for a moment and her sweet lips touched his sunburnt face.

By remaining quiet that night the colonel would be able to get back to Thompson City in the morning.Before nine o’clock he was at rest in the bed-room.A couch for Alice had been prepared in the same room.In the other kitchen, parlor and dining-hall a blanket was thrown down for the marquis, and two chairs fixed for the bed of Mrs. Ruggles.Before retiring, however, she sat down at her lonely table, where, notwithstanding the tea she drank to keep them off, an unusual number of weak creepings came over her.

“I couldn’t help it,” was all she said to the tea-pot.Whether she referred to the tornado, or her kindness to the sufferers, or to the manner of rendering the kindness, no one knows.That was all she said to the tea-pot, but to her son, who sat for a while beside her, she spoke in a low tone:“Markis-dee, you could never c’verse with her.You’re better’n she is.Put her out o’ yer head.She laughed at ye.”

“But she kissed me wi’ tears in ’er eyes afterward,” was his answer as he turned toward his bed on the floor.

An hour later the tea was exhausted, but Mrs. Ruggles yet sat at her lonely table, as still as the sleepers around her.The clock struck ten:  she nervously drew a soiled paper from her bosom.  Eleven:she rose with hesitation and set the tallow candle behind the door.Then she softly entered the bed-room and stood before the window where Alice lay.The sky was clear again.The moon shone on the face and form of the sleeping girl, making softer their graceful lines, richer the shadows in the golden hair, tenderer the tint of cheek and lip.

She stepped again into the shade and stole to the colonel’s bedside.His disturbed mind had turned backward over the path of life from the sudden death escaped, and, sleeping or waking, his memory had been busy with the people and events of other days.

“John Miller!” she said, in a suppressed tone.He started.“John Miller, I know ye.Common name I wa’n’t sure afore to-day.When you pulled that money out o’ yer pocket I see that in yer face that satisfied me.It’s fer the good name o’ the dead I’ve come.Elseways I never’d ha’ troubled ye.”The astonished colonel shifted his position painfully, prepared to speak or to listen.“There yer girl lies in the light o’ heaven.Nex’ room my boy lies in the shadder an’ dark.  He don’t know, an’ he never will.  John Miller, I married as honest an’ as good a man as ever you see.Folks has come to me in sickness an’ trouble, an’ gone behin’ my back to talk.Some said I done right to take him ’twas Christian in me.Some said I must ha’ been a fool.Some said we wa’n’t married a-tall.Wasn’t I a Peables?Didn’t I know ’twould be flung up to my face?Wasn’t I prouder’n any on ’em?”

A moment’s confusion and doubting of senses:then, as the suppressed voice went on, the colonel remembered.A dozen years ago; before he had meddled with railroads; back in the old town; soon after taking his father’s shop; he was plaintiff; Ruggles worked in the first room; Porter’s testimony; Becky Peables the sweetheart of both; burglary; loss trifling; George Ruggles, for one year; came back and married when released; went West.The old case had scarce crossed his mind for years.

“Yes, you sent him, an’ I waited fer him.The day he come out I married him.We had to dig hard.I’d do it ag’in.Now his boy’s saved yer girl’s life to pay ye fer puttin’ his father’n State’s pris’n.Two year ago didn’t Bill Porter sick an’ a-dyin’ hunt till he foun’ me here?Didn’t he go an’ swear?Done fer spite.  Didn’t he sen’ me the affydavy? an’ I’ve got it safe.Got it swore to by him, with the justice o’ the peace’s name signed, an’ two witnissis, an’ the judge’s red seal on top o’ that.Could I go back an’ show that paper’n tell how ’twas?  Too late!George was dead.I couldn’t go.My folks a’most disowned me when I took him.I said then I never’d step my foot into their doors.Them that gives me the col’ shoulder once don’t do it no more.Come to me? well an’ good.Go to them? never.”

The bewildered colonel, promising every possible reparation, would have thrown himself at her feet, could he have done so, for the part he had taken in the prosecution.But she permitted no interruption, and continued:“He lay by the winder where yer girl lies.The moon come in on his bed as it does on her’n.In the night, when I see the light o’ the sky shine there where he died, I feel his sperit in the room.  I moved the bed to this corner, where it’s darker.  I wa’n’t good enough to lie there.  But ’twas on his mind.He said, ’Becky, if I could prove it to you afore I died!’ An’ I say, George’s sperit sent Bill Porter here, an’ sent you here, an’ sent me into this room to-night.Now, fer the sake o’him an’ Markis-dee, go back an’ tell the truth!”

Speaking the word “truth,” she vanished across the light to her dark place of rest.

Next morning the colonel examined and copied the confession while a buggy waited for him at the door.Respecting the evident wishes of Mrs. Ruggles, he went away with no attempt to express the feelings that were uppermost in his heart.

She sleeps beside her husband in the orchard.Her old log-house has been replaced by a large white box, of which her son the marquis is proprietor.Each year adds to his acres or his stock.An able-bodied wife, whose industry and English are equal to his own, sits near him at the door on a summer evening, while he smokes his pipe, takes an oakum-headed child upon his knee, and gazes quietly in the direction of the spring and across the grain-fields where once he saw or rather heard, without waiting to see a forest swept down in a moment.He smokes and gazes as he sees again a dazzling creature ride down the dreary road, and wonders where on earth that face can be, and how much it has changed, and whether, through so many years, any memory of him can linger in her heart.  He says nothing.But he hugs closer the oakum-headed child as he remembers the one romance in his hard, humdrum life.

CHAUNCEY HICKOX.