"How did you know?" asked that extraordinary young man.

I laughed.

"Nort," I said, "you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to write--and is ashamed of himself because he can't."

With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she knows best how to do.

"Captain," I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, "Nort has brought a ma.n.u.script with him to read to us."

At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast.

"The Captain has one, too," I said.

"A mere editorial," responded the Captain with dignity.

"Where's yours, Fergus?" I asked.

Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was amused.

At this point Harriet broke in.

"Before you do anything else," said she, "I want you all to come out and have a bite to eat."

That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she appears with--gingerbread--and stampedes the entire company. Why, you couldn't have kept Fergus----

Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin gla.s.s dishes that came from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the delectable mola.s.ses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin gla.s.s tumblers (of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost foamy at the top.

There are perfect moments in this life!

Nort was in the wildest spirits, the rebound from his unusual mood of seriousness. Nothing escaped him--neither the napkins, nor the spoons, nor the thin old gla.s.s, nor the perfect gingerbread, nor the marvellous apple sauce, nor the glow in Harriet's face. She knew that Nort would see it all! Harriet is never so beautiful as when she sits at the head of her own table, her moment of supreme artistry.

"I went to church to-day," said Nort finally.

"You did!" Harriet was vastly pleased.

"Yes," smiled Nort.

This was truly a youth after her own heart.

"Nothing else to do on Sunday in Hempfield," said Nort; "and it was interesting."

He stopped and looked slowly around at me.

"The truth about the church in Hempfield, David!" he exclaimed, as though we had a secret between us.

I laughed.

"That's one thing," I said, "you can't easily tell the truth about--in Hempfield."

"Why not?" asked Harriet with astonishment. "Is there anything that should encourage one to truth-telling more than the church?"

"Read it, Nort," said I, "read it."

"Well," said Nort, again drawing forth his ma.n.u.script, "you know what the ordinary church report in the _Star_ is like. 'The usual services were held last Sunday morning at the Congregational Church. An appreciative audience listened to an eloquent sermon by the Rev. Mr.

Sargent, his text being John x, 3.' Now, I ask you if that gives you any picture of what the meeting was like? Everybody who was there knew that Mr. Sargent preached, and n.o.body who was absent could get anything out of such a report. So what's the use of printing it? I thought I'd write a true report of what I saw--and I'll bet it will be read in Hempfield."

The old live gleam was in Nort's eyes.

Here on my desk I have the very ma.n.u.script from which Nort read, and I give it just as it was written, as a doc.u.mentary evidence of Nort's life.

The usual forenoon service was held in the Congregational Church on Sunday. Being a hot day, the Rev. Mr. Sargent wore his black alpaca coat, and preached earnestly for thirty minutes, his text being John x, 3. Miss Daisy Miller played a selection from Mozart, though the piano was unfortunately out of tune. There were in attendance fifteen women, mostly old, seven men, and four children, besides the choir.

During the sermon old Mr. Johnson went to sleep and Mrs.

Johnson ate four peppermints. Deacon Mitch.e.l.l took up a collection of fifty-six cents, besides what was in the envelopes. Following is a complete list of those in attendance:

--and Nort solemnly read off the names.

I wish I could describe the hush which followed Nort's reading, and the horror in Harriet's face. Fergus was the first to break the tension. He seemed to be slowly strangling, and his face contrived to twist itself into the most alarming contortions. The old Captain finally observed indulgently:

"Nort will have his little joke."

"Joke!" exclaimed Nort. "Isn't every word of it true? I leave it to Miss Grayson if I haven't been absolutely accurate. And I could have said a lot more about the service that would have been equally true--and a great deal funnier."

I could see generations of Puritan ancestors marshalling themselves for the fray in Harriet's horrified countenance. I could scarcely keep from laughing.

"Yes," I began, "every word is true----"

"The piano tuner," broke in Harriet, "couldn't come last week."

"But, Nort," I continued; "you may have seen the church in Hempfield, but have you felt it?"

"Even if old Mrs. Johnson _does_ eat peppermints----" Harriet was saying.

"Then you wouldn't put the truth in the _Star_?" said Nort.

I was about to reply, when the old Captain raised a commanding hand.

"The trouble is," said he with great deliberation, "that we _do_ print the truth in the _Star_; but this new generation, fed upon luxury and ease, has lost its desire for the truth. We're preaching the same sound doctrine that we've preached for thirty years--but the people refuse the truth. They say to us, 'Prophesy not unto us right things. Speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.' They are wandering in the wilderness.

They have made unto themselves a graven image of free trade, and they are falling down and worshipping before the profane altar of what they are pleased to call the Rights of Women. Rights of Women!"

Whenever the old Captain grew most eloquent he always waxed Biblical.

Here Nort broke in again:

"Well, if you don't like that report--I wrote it more than half in fun anyway--here's another. It's the truth--I felt it, too, David--and I haven't used a single name!"

I can see him yet, sitting up there behind the table, quite rigid, reading from his ma.n.u.script:

"There is a man in this town who quarrels regularly with his wife. He quarrelled with her this morning at breakfast: said the eggs were overdone and the coffee was cold. The sun was shining in at the window, the birds were singing, and the gra.s.s was green--but he was quarrelling with his wife----"