"And so we were married in secret, or I thought we were," she concluded.

"I know now that it was only a farce. He came to visit me twice after the sham ceremony that betrayed me, and I never saw him again until last night. Oh G.o.d, forgive him; forgive him, I--I loved him so."

The poor wronged creature burst into a fit of pa.s.sionate sobbing that could not be controlled. In vain did Mother Gray try to soothe her.

It was of no use. Until at last, exhausted, she sank again into a stupor, from which she roused only once near morning, and then she whispered simply, "Good-bye Mother; Goodbye Miss Amy. Don't let father know." And just as the day dawned in all its glory, her soul, pure and unstained as that of her babe, took its flight, and the smile of innocent girlhood was upon her lips.

When Amy reached home early in the forenoon, she met her brother in the hallway, just going out.

"You look like you'd been making a night of it," he said, with a contemptuous sneer. "Been consoling some wanderer I suppose."

The young woman made no reply, but stood with her back to the door, her eyes fixed on his face.

"Well, get out of my way," he said roughly; "can't you see I want to go out?"

Amy spoke--"I have been at the Inst.i.tution all night. Kate Cushman and the baby are both dead. Go look at your work."

Frank started as though she had struck him; and then as she stepped aside, he fairly ran from the house as though in fear of his life.

CHAPTER XXIX

In the little country village of Anderson, where the southern branch of the "Memphis" joins the main line, a group of excited citizens were standing in front of the doctor's office. "You're right sure it's small-pox, are you, Doc?"

"There's no doubt of it," answered the physician.

"Who is he?"

"He won't tell his name, but Jack Lane says it's Frank Goodrich. He came in day before yesterday on the 'Memphis,' from Boyd City, where they have just lost a case or two of the worst form."

An angry murmur arose from the little group of men. "What you goin'

to do, Doc?" asked the spokesman.

"I've sent to Pleasantville for that n.i.g.g.e.r who has had the disease, and he'll be in as soon as he can get here. We must find some place out of town for the fellow to stay, and let old Jake take care of him."

Jim Boles spoke up. "Thar's a cabin on my west forty, that's in purty good shape. A couple of us could fix her up in an hour or two; it's way back from the road, a good bit over a mile I reckon--in heavy timber too."

"I know the place," said another. "We run a fox past there last winter, and found him denned in that ledge of rocks 'bout half a quarter on yon side."

"That's it," said another. "It's sure out of the way all right."

"Well," said the doctor, "three or four of you go over there and fix up the cabin as comfortable as possible, and I'll have the negro take him out as soon as he comes."

The cabin, which was built by some early settler, had long ago been abandoned, and was partly fallen into decay. Tall weeds grew up through the ruins where the pole stable had stood; the roof and one side of the smoke-house had fallen in; and the c.h.i.n.king had crumbled from between the logs of the house; while the yard was overgrown with brush and a tangle of last season's dead gra.s.s and leaves, now wet and sodden with the late heavy rain. Deep timber hid the place from view, and a hundred yards in front of the hovel a spring bubbled from beneath a ledge of rock, sending a tiny stream trickling away through the forest.

Jim Boles and his helpers had just finished patching up the cabin roof and floor, after first building a huge fire in the long unused fireplace, when they heard the rattle of a wagon, and between the trees, caught a glimpse of a scrawny old horse, harnessed with bits of strap and string, to a rickety wagon, that seemed about to fall to pieces at every turn of the wheel. Upon the board, used for a seat, sat an old negro, urging his steed through the patches of light and shadow with many a jerk of the rope lines, accompanied by an occasional whack from the long slender pole. Behind the negro was a long object wrapped in blankets and comforters.

"Hullo!" shouted the colored man, catching sight of the cabin and the men. "Am dis yar de horspital fer de small-pox diseases? Dey dun tol'

me ter foller de road; but fo' Gawd, all de's yar roads look erlike ter me in dis yer place. Nevah seed sich er lonsom ol' hole in all ma'

bo'n days. Reckon dars any hants in dat air ol' shack?"

"No, this cabin is all right," shouted one of the men; "but you stay where you are till we get away." And they began gathering up their tools and garments.

"All right, sah; all right, sah," grinned the negro. "You'uns jes clar out ob de way fer de amblance am er comin'. We dun got de right ob way dis trip, shor'."

And so Frank Goodrich was established in the old log house, with the colored man to nurse him. A place was fixed upon where the doctor and citizens would leave such things as were needed, and Jake could go and get them.

Three days pa.s.sed, and then by bribes and threats and prayers, Frank persuaded the negro to walk to Pleasantville in the night and post a letter to Rev. Cameron, begging the minister to come to him, telling him only that he was in trouble and warning him to keep his journey secret.

What fiend prompted young Goodrich to take such a course cannot be imagined. But let us, in charity, try to think that he was driven to it by the fright and horrors of his condition.

Mrs. Cameron was away in the far east visiting her parents, and when the minister received the letter, he made hurried preparations, and telling d.i.c.k that he might be gone several days, left the city that evening. At a little way-station named in the letter, he found the negro, with his poor old horse and rickety wagon waiting him.

"Is you de parson?" asked the colored man.

"Yes, I am a minister," Cameron answered, wondering much at the appearance of the darkey and his strange turn-out. And as he climbed up to the board seat, he questioned his guide rather sharply, but the only answer he could get was: "Mistah Goodrich dun tol' me ter hol'

ma tongue er he'd hant me, an' I'm shor goin' t' do hit. Golly, dis yere chile don't want no ghostes chasin' ob him 'roun'. No sah. I'se done fotch yo' t' Mistah Goodrich en he kin tell yo' what he's er mind ter."

Needless to say, all this did not add to Cameron's peace of mind, and the moments seemed hours as the poor old horse stumbled on through the darkness of the night. At last they entered the timber, and how the negro ever guided his crippled steed past the trees and fallen logs and rocks was a mystery; but he did; and at last they saw the light of the cabin.

"Dar's de place, sah. Dis yere's de horspital. We dun got yere at las'." And the colored Jehu brought the horse to a stand-still near the tumbled down smoke-house.

"Go right in, s'ah; go right in. n.o.body dar but Mistah Goodrich. I put eway ol' Mose." And he began fumbling at the ropes and strings that made the harness.

Cameron, burning with impatience and curiosity, stepped to the door of the cabin and pushed it open. By the dim light of a dirty kerosene lantern, he could see nothing at first; but a moaning voice from one end of the room, drew his attention in the right direction. "Is that you, Brother Cameron?"

He stepped to the side of the cot. "Why Frank, what are you doing here; and what is the matter?"

"I'm sick," answered the young man, in a feeble voice. "I wanted to see you so bad. I'm awful glad you came."

"But why are you here in this miserable place? I do not understand."

"Small-pox," muttered the sick man. "Folks in town are afraid.

The n.i.g.g.e.r takes care of me. He has had it."

The minister involuntarily started back.

"Oh Brother Cameron, don't leave me here alone," cried Frank. "I can't die like this."

For one brief moment Cameron trembled. He saw his danger and the trap into which he had fallen. He thought of his work and of his wife, and took one step toward the door; then stopped.

"Oh, I can't die alone," said the voice again.

Then with a prayer to his G.o.d for help, the minister made up his mind.

"Why of course I'll not leave you, Frank," he said cheerily, resuming his seat. "You know that surely."

And so this man of G.o.d wrote his friends in the city that he would be detained a few days, and stayed by the side of the wretched sufferer in the old cabin in the lonely woods.