Other Main-Travelled Roads. Garland Hamlin

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      "Pack up yer duds," he snarled, "an' git off'n my land. I'll have the money fer ye when ye come back. I'll give ye jest five minutes to git clear o' here. Merry, you stay here."

      The young man saw it was useless to remain, as it would only excite the old man; and so, with a look of apology, not without humor, at Marietta, he went to the house to get his valise. The girl wept silently while the father raged up and down. His mood frightened her.

      "I thought ye had more sense than t' take up with such a dirty houn'."

      "He ain't a houn'," she blazed forth, "and he's just as good and clean as you are."

      "Shut up! Don't let me hear another word out o' your head. I'm boss here yet, I reckon."

      Lime came out with his valise in his hand.

      "Good-by, Merry," he said cheerily. She started to go to him, but her father's rough grasp held her.

      "Set down, an' stay there."

      Lime was going out of the gate.

      "Here! Come and get y'r money," yelled the old man, extending some bills. "Here's twenty—"

      "Go to thunder with your money," retorted Lime. "I've had my pay for my month's work." As he said that, he thought of the sunny kitchen and the merry girl, and his throat choked. Good-by to the sweet girl whose smile was so much to him, and to the happy noons and nights her eyes had made for him. He waved his hat at her as he stood in the open gate, and the sun lighted his handsome head into a sort of glory in her eyes. Then he turned and walked rapidly off down the road, not looking back.

      The girl, when she could no longer see him, dashed away, and, sobbing violently, entered the house.

      II

      There was just a suspicion of light in the east, a mere hint of a glow, when Lyman walked cautiously around the corner of the house and tapped at Marietta's window. She was sleeping soundly and did not hear, for she had been restless during the first part of the night. He tapped again, and the girl woke without knowing what woke her.

      Lyman put the blade of his pocket-knife under the window and raised it a little, and then placed his lips to the crack, and spoke in a sepulchral tone, half groan, half whisper:—

      "Merry! Merry Etty!"

      The dazed girl sat up in bed and listened, while her heart almost stood still.

      "Merry, it's me—Lime. Come to the winder." The girl hesitated, and Lyman spoke again.

      "Come, I hain't got much time. This is your last chance t' see me. It's now 'r never."

      The girl slipped out of bed, and, wrapping herself in a shawl, crept to the window.

      "Boost on that winder," commanded Lyman. She raised it enough to admit his head, which came just above the sill; then she knelt on the floor by the window.

      Her eyes stared wide and dark.

      "Lime, what in the world do you mean—"

      "I mean business," he replied. "I ain't no last year's chicken; I know when the old man sleeps the soundest." He chuckled pleasantly.

      "How 'd y' fool old Rove?"

      "Never mind about that now; they's something more important on hand. You've got t' go with me."

      She drew back, "Oh, Lime, I can't!"

      He thrust a great arm in and caught her by the wrist.

      "Yes, y' can. This is y'r last chance. If I go off without ye t'night, I never come back. What makes ye gig back? Are ye 'fraid o' me?"

      "N-no; but—but—"

      "But what, Merry Etty?"

      "It ain't right to go an' leave Dad all alone. Where y' goin' t' take me, anyhow?"

      "Milt Jennings let me have his horse an' buggy; they're down the road a piece, an' we'll go right down to Rock River and be married by sun-up."

      The girl still hesitated, her firm, boyish will unwontedly befogged. Resolute as she was, she could not at once accede to his demand.

      "Come, make up your mind soon. The old man 'll fill me with buck-shot if he catches sight o' me." He drew her arm out of the window and laid his bearded cheek to it. "Come, little one, we're made for each other; God knows it. Come! It's him 'r me."

      The girl's head dropped, consented.

      "That's right! Now a kiss to bind the bargain. There! What, cryin'? No more o' that, little one. Now I'll give you jest five minutes to git on your Sunday-go-t'-meetin' clo'es. Quick, there goes a rooster. It's gittin' white in the east."

      The man turned his back to the window and gazed at the western sky with a wealth of unuttered and unutterable exultation in his heart. Far off a rooster gave a long, clear blast—would it be answered in the barn? Yes; some wakeful ear had caught it, and now the answer came faint, muffled, and drowsy. The dog at his feet whined uneasily as if suspecting something wrong. The wind from the south was full of the wonderful odor of springing grass, warm, brown earth, and oozing sap. Overhead, to the west, the stars were shining in the cloudless sky, dimmed a little in brightness by the faint silvery veil of moisture in the air. The man's soul grew very tender as he stood waiting for his bride. He was rough, illiterate, yet there was something fine about him after all, a kind of simplicity and a gigantic, leonine tenderness.

      He heard his sweetheart moving about inside, and mused: "The old man won't hold out when he finds we're married. He can't get along without her. If he does, why, I'll rent a farm here, and we'll go to work housekeepin'. I can git the money. She shan't always be poor," he ended, and the thought was a vow.

      The window was raised again, and the girl's voice was heard low and tremulous:—

      "Lime, I'm ready, but I wish we didn't—"

      He put his arm around her waist and helped her out, and did not put her down till they reached the road. She was completely dressed, even to her hat and shoes, but she mourned:—

      "My hair is every-which-way; Lime, how can I be married so?"

      They were nearing the horse and buggy now, and Lime laughed. "Oh, we'll stop at Jennings's and fix up. Milt knows what's up, and has told his mother by this time. So just laugh as jolly as you can."

      Soon they were in the buggy, the impatient horse swung into the road at a rattling pace, and as Marietta leaned back in the seat, thinking of what she had done, she cried lamentably, in spite of all the caresses and pleadings of her lover.

      But the sun burst up from the plain, the prairie-chickens took up their mighty chorus on the hills, robins met them on the way, flocks of wild geese, honking cheerily, drove far overhead toward the north, and, with these sounds of a golden spring day in her ears, the bride grew cheerful, and laughed.

      III

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