"Oh, because; somehow he seems so different since he returned."

But George shook his head. "I thought so too for a while," he replied; "but I talked with him just the other day, and I'm afraid he's given up all hope. He works to hide the hurt. But I'll tell you one thing, girlie, if anything could make a Christian of me, it would be d.i.c.k's life. There's something more than human in the way he stands up against this thing."

Then d.i.c.k received another letter, from a post office in Texas.

"Dere Dikkie: I take my pen in hand to let u no that Ime wel an hoape u ar the same. Jim Whitly is ded he don tried to nife me an i fixed him. he wanted to hire me to kil u fer some papers an we was in you ol caben kross the river from the still. He said ter tel u thet he lied to u an that Amy is pure. I don't no what he means but thot u ort ter no. I skipped--burn this. your daddys pard.

"JAKE THOMPSON."

The a.s.sociation building was finished at last, and the pastor of the Jerusalem Church sat in his little den looking over the morning mail.

There were the usual number of magazines, papers, and sample copies of religious periodicals, with catalogues and circulars from publishing houses; an appeal to help a poor church in Nebraska whose place of worship had been struck by lightning; a letter from a sister in Missouri, asking for advice about a divorce case; one from a tinware man in Arkansas, who inquired about the town with a view of locating; and one that bore the mark of the a.s.sociation, which informed him, over the signature of the Secretary, that he had been unanimously called to take charge of the new work. Cameron carried the letter, in triumph, to the kitchen.

"Well," said the little woman; "didn't I tell you that one preacher would have a hand in whatever work was started here? Of course you'll accept?"

"I don't know," Cameron answered. "We must think about it."

A day later he called for a consultation with Elder Wicks, and Uncle Bobbie said:

"To-be-sure, it's mighty hard for me to advise you in a thing like this; for as a member of the church, I'm bound to say stay; and as a member of the a.s.sociation, I say, accept. I jing! I don't know what to do." And for a few moments, the old gentleman thoughtfully stroked his face; then suddenly grasping the arms of the chair fiercely, he shouted: "As a Christian, I say, accept, an' I reckon that settles it."

And so Cameron became the manager of the new work; and his first recommendation to the directors was that they send their Secretary away for a vacation. And indeed d.i.c.k, poor fellow, needed it, though at first he flatly refused to go. But Dr. Jordan came down on him with the cheerful information that he would die if he didn't, and Uncle Bobbie finished matters by declaring that he had no more right to kill himself by over work, than he had to take Rough on Eats, or blow his head off with a gun; "and besides," added the old gentleman, "you aint paid me that hundred dollars yet. To-be-sure, the note aint due for sometime; but a fellow has got to look after his own interest, aint he?"

The first address delivered by Cameron in the auditorium of the a.s.sociation building, was from the text, "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." The audience room was crowded, and the young minister had never appeared to better advantage, or declared the teaching of his Master with greater freedom, earnestness and vigor; and to the astonishment of the people, who should come forward at the close of the service, to declare his belief in, and acceptance of Christ as the Son of G.o.d, but the so-called infidel printer, George Udell.

CHAPTER XXVI

In Southwestern Missouri, in the White Oak district, there are many beautiful glens and sheltered valleys, where a st.u.r.dy people have tamed the wildness of nature and made it obedient to their will. The fields lie fertile and fruitful on either bank of murmuring streams, clear to the foot of the hills where the timber grows. Always a road winds down the valley, generally skirting the forest, and the farmhouses are nearly all built of logs, though more modern and finished dwellings are fast taking the place of the primitive mansions. Every few miles, one may see little school-houses, most often made of good lumber and painted white, with heavy shutters and a high platform in front. For the Ozark settler takes great pride in his school-house, which is also a church and a political rallying point, and meeting-place for the backwoods "Literary;" and though he may live in a rude log hovel himself, his hall of education must be made of boards and carefully painted.

To this romantic region d.i.c.k Falkner went to spend his vacation, during the latter part of October, the loveliest season of the year in that section of the country. Mr. Cushman, who was a successful farmer living in the White Oak district, and an old friend of Uncle Bobbie's, gladly welcomed the young man, of whom his old partner, Wicks, had written so highly. When d.i.c.k left the train at Armourdale, a little village in the lead and zinc field, he was greeted at once by his host, a bluff, pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman, whom he liked at first sight, and who was completely captivated by his guest before they had been together half an hour.

Oak Springs Farm, which was to be d.i.c.k's home for the next month, took in the whole of a beautiful little glen, and many acres of timber-land on either side. Crane Creek had its source, or rather one of its sources, within a hundred feet of the house, where a big spring bubbled from beneath the roots of a giant oak, and the water went chattering and laughing away to the south and east.

Three-quarters of a mile from Oak Springs, just over the ridge in another hollow, another stream gushed bright and clear, from beneath another ancient oak and went rushing away to join its fellow brook a mile distant, where the little glens broadened into a large valley, through which the creek hurried onward to the great river, miles away in the heart of the wilderness.

It was all very beautiful and restful to the young man, wearied and worn by the rush and whirl of the city, and stifled with the dust and smoke from factory and furnace. The low hills, clothed with foliage, richly stained by October's brush; the little valley lying warm in the sunlight, was a welcome change to the dead monotony of the prairie, where the sky shut down close to the dull brown earth, with no support of leafy pillars. And the mother quail, with her full-grown family scurrying to cover in the corner of the fence; the squirrel scolding to his mate in the tree-tops, or leaping over the rustling leaves, and all the rest of the forest life, was full of interest when compared to the life of busy men or chattering sparrows in the bustling mining town.

Though Mr. Cushman and his wife had raised a large family of boys and girls, only one, a daughter, remained with them on the farm. The others had, one by one, taken their flight from the home nest, to build home nests of their own in different parts of the great world wilderness.

Kate was a hearty, robust, rosy-cheeked country la.s.s of eighteen, the youngest of the flock; her father's chum, with all his frank, open ways; and her mother's companion, with all her loving thoughtfulness.

And, best of all, she possessed the charming freshness, innocence and purity of one who had never come in touch with those who, taught by the world she had never known, were content to sham her virtues as they tried to imitate the color of her cheek.

d.i.c.k sank to rest that night with a long sigh of relief, after meeting the mother and daughter and enjoying such a supper as one only finds on a prosperous farm. And strangely enough, the last picture on his mind before he fell asleep, was of a little school-house which he had seen just at sunset, scarcely a quarter of a mile up the valley; and he drowsily wondered who taught the children there; while a great owl, perched in an old apple-tree back of the chicken house, echoed his sleepy thoughts with its "Whoo! Whoo!"

With a whoop and hallo and whistle, the noisy troop of boys and girls came tumbling out of the doorway of the White Oak School, their dinner pails and baskets on their arms, homeward bound from the irksome duties of the day. The young teacher, after standing a few moments in the doorway, watching her charges down the road and out of sight in the timber across the valley, turned wearily back, and seating herself at a rude desk in the rear of the room, began her task of looking over the copybooks left by the rollicking youngsters. Had she remained a moment longer in the door-way she would have seen a tall, well-dressed gentleman coming leisurely up the hill. It was d.i.c.k. He had been roaming all the afternoon over the fields and through the brown woods.

He came slowly up the road, and crossing the yard, stood hesitating at the threshold of the building. The teacher, bending low, did not see him for a moment; but when she raised her head, she looked straight into his eyes.

d.i.c.k would have been dull indeed had he failed to interpret that look; and Amy would have been more than dull had she failed to see the love that shone in his glance of astonishment and pleasure.

For an instant, neither spoke; then, "I have found you again," said d.i.c.k, simply. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Goodrich; I a.s.sure you the meeting is entirely by accident. I stopped for a drink of water."

"Please help yourself, Mr. Falkner," said the girl, with a little choke in her voice. "There it is." And she pointed to a wooden pail and tin dipper near the door.

"I am spending my vacation in the Ozarks; or rather, I came here to rest." He paused awkwardly. "I--I did not dream of your being here, or of course I should not have come, after your letter. Forgive me and I will go away again."

He turned to leave the room, but with his foot on the threshold, paused, and then walked back to the desk where the girl sat, leaning forward with her face buried in her arms.

"There's just one thing though, that I must say before I go. Are you in need of any help? If so, let me be of use to you; I am still your friend."

The brown head was raised and two glistening eyes proudly pleading looked at d.i.c.k.

Through a mist in his own eyes he saw two hands outstretched and heard a voice say, "I do need your help. Don't go. That is--I mean--leave me here now and to-morrow call, and I will tell you all. Only trust me this once."

d.i.c.k took the outstretched hands in his and stood for a moment with bowed head; then whispered softly, "Of course I will stay. Shall I come at this hour to-morrow?" Amy nodded, and he pa.s.sed out of the building.

Had d.i.c.k looked back as he strode swiftly toward the timber, he would have seen a girlish form in the door holding out her hands; and had he listened as he climbed the fence, he might have heard a sweet voice falter, "Oh d.i.c.k, I love you. I love you." And just as he vanished at the edge of the woods, the girl who was more than all the world to him, fell for the second time in her life, fainting on the floor.

All the forenoon of the next day, d.i.c.k wandered aimlessly about the farm, but somehow he never got beyond sight of the little white school-house. He spent an hour watching the colts that frolicked in the upper pasture, beyond which lay the children's playground; then going through the field, he climbed the little hill beyond and saw the white building through the screen of leaves and branches. Once Amy came to the door, but only for a moment, when she called the shouting youngsters from their short recess. Then recrossing the valley half a mile above, he walked slowly home to dinner along the road leading past the building. How he envied the boys and girls whose droning voices reached his ears through the open windows.

While d.i.c.k was chatting with his kind host after dinner, as they sat on the porch facing the great oak, the latter talked about the spring and the history of the place; how it used to be a favorite camping ground for the Indians in winter; and pointed out the field below the barn, where they had found arrowheads by the hundreds. Then he told of the other spring just over the ridge, and how the two streams came together and flowed on, larger and larger, to the river. And then with a farmer's fondness for a harmless jest, he suggested that d.i.c.k might find it worth his while to visit the other spring; "for," said he "the school-marm lives there; and she's a right pretty girl. Sensible too, I reckon, though she aint been here only since the first of September."

When the farmer had gone to his work, d.i.c.k walked down to the spring-house, and sitting on the twisted roots of the old oak, looked into the crystal water.

"And so Amy lives by a spring just like this," he thought, "and often sits beneath that other oak, perhaps, looking into the water as I am looking now."

A blue-jay, perched on a bough above, screamed in mocking laughter at the dreamer beneath; an old drake, leading his family in a waddling row to the open stream below the little house, solemnly quacked his protest against such a willful waste of time; and a spotted calf thrust its head through the barn-yard fence to gaze at him in mild reproach.

In his revery, d.i.c.k compared the little stream of water to his life, running fretted and troubled, from the very edge of its birthplace; and he followed it with his eye down through the pasture lot, until it was lost in the distance; then looking into the blue vista of the hills, he followed on, in his mind, where the stream grew deeper and broader. Suddenly, he sprang to his feet and walked hastily away along the bank of the creek. In a little while, he stood at the point of land where the two valleys became one, and the two streams were united, and with a long breath of relief, found that the course of the larger stream, as far as he could see, was smooth and untroubled, while the valley through which it flowed was broad and beautiful.

At the appointed time, d.i.c.k went to the school-house, and with Amy, walked through the woods toward the farm where she lived, while she told him of her life since last they met; of her father's visit and his threats, and of her fear that he would force her to go home. The farm had been sold the day after Adam was there, and how through her friends, she had obtained her present position in the school. She told of her pride and desire to wipe out alone, the disgrace, as alone she had fallen. She longed to be of use in the world.

As she talked, d.i.c.k's face grew bright. "This is good news indeed,"

he said. "I'm so glad for your sake." Then, with a smile, "I see you do not need my help now that you can be of so much help to others."

"But won't you help me plan for the future?" said Amy, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. "Won't you tell me what is best to do? I have thought and thought, but can get no farther than I am now."

"Let us say nothing about that for a time," replied d.i.c.k. "We will talk that over later."

And so it came about that the farmer's advice, spoken in jest, was received in earnest; and for four happy weeks the two lived, unrestrained by false pride or foolish prejudice; walking home together through the woods, or wandering beside the little brooks, talking of the beauties they saw on every hand, or silently listening to the voices of nature, But at last the time came when they must part, and d.i.c.k gave his answer to her question.

"You must go home," he said.

"But you know what that means," answered Amy. "I will be forced to give up my church work and be a useless b.u.t.terfly again; and besides, the conditions father insists upon--." She blushed and hesitated.