It was a gray day of damp air and a dull, thick sky bearing down upon the earth--a day conducive to forebodings. But Solon Denney's spirit, to the best of Little Arcady's belief, soared aloft to realms of pure sunlight.

My knowledge of subsequent events that day was gained partly by word of mouth and partly by observations which I was permitted to make.

To the hotel Solon conducted his charges, handing them from the 'bus with a flourish that seemed to confer upon them the freedom of the city.

From shop doors and adjacent street corners the most curious among us beheld a tall, full-figured woman of majestic carriage, with a high, n.o.ble forehead and a face that seemed to register traces of some thirty-five earnest but not unprofitable years. Even in the quick glance she bestowed up and down Washington Street before the hotel swallowed her up, her quality was to be noted by the discerning,--the quality of a commander, of one born to prevail. The flash of her gray-green eye was interested but unconcerned. Complemented by the marked auburn of her plenteous hair, the eyes were masterful, advertising most legibly the temperament of a capable ruler. The subdued, white-faced boy of twelve, with hair like his mother's, who trotted closely at her heels was, for the moment, a negligible factor.

An hour later I entered the sanctum of the _Argus_, to find its owner alone before his littered table. Upon his usually careless face was the most profoundly thoughtful look I had ever known him wear. Open before him was that week's _Argus_, but his eyes narrowed to its neat columns only at intervals. For the most part his gaze plunged far into virgin realms of meditation. It was only after several reminding coughs that I succeeded in recalling him from afield; and even then the deeply thoughtful look remained to estrange his face from me.

"Say, Cal, do you believe in _powers_?"

"What kind of powers?"

"Well, I don't know--every kind--just _powers_--mystic, occult powers."

"I don't care to commit myself without more details," I answered with a caution that seemed to be needed.

"Well, sir, that woman has 'em--she has _powers_--she certainly has.

There is something in her eye that paralyzes the will; you look at her and you say yes to anything she suggests."

"For example--"

"Well, I've just agreed with her that the _Argus_ isn't what it ought to be."

I gasped. This indeed savored of the blackest magic.

"What did she _do_ to you?"

"Just looked at me, that's all,--and took it for granted."

"Heavens! You're shivering!"

"You _wait_--wait till she talks to you! She's promised to give me a little book," he went on dejectedly, "'One Hundred Common Errors in Writing and Speaking,' and she says the split infinitive is a crime in this nineteenth century. But, say, this paper would never get to press if I took time to unsplit all my infinitives."

"Well, put Billy Durgin to work on her case right away," I said to cheer him. "If the woman talks like that, I'll bet Billy can find some good reason why she ought to push on after the Colonel."

Again his deeply thoughtful gaze bore upon me.

"I'm puzzled," he said,--"honestly puzzled. I don't know whether she'll be good for this town or not. She may in a way--and in a way she may not. She will be disturbing,--I can see that already,--but she is stimulating. She may stir us up to n.o.bler endeavors."

"Did she say so?"

"Well--uh--something of the sort. I believe that _was_ the expression she used. I'll tell you what you do. You come along with me and see the lady right now. They've had dinner by this time."

Together we went and were presently climbing the stairs that led to the second floor of the City Hotel.

Mrs. Potts received us graciously. Upon me she bestowed a glance of friendly curiosity, as does a kind physician who waits to be told of symptoms before prescribing. Upon Solon she bent a more knowing look, as upon one whose frailties have already been revealed. She gave us chairs and she talked. Little Roscoe Potts writhed near by upon an ottoman and betrayed that he, too, could talk when circ.u.mstances were kindly. The detail of their personalities, salient in that first moment, was that Heaven had denied them both the gift of reticence.

"Yes--I've been telling Mr. Denney--I feel that there is a work here for me," she began briskly. "I felt it strongly when I perused the columns of the newspaper which Mr. Denney was thoughtful enough to send me."

Solon's eyes uneasily sought the cabbage-like flowers in the faded carpet of the room.

"And I feel it more strongly now that I have ventured among you,"

continued the lady, glowing upon us both.

"I have long suspected that it was a regrettable waste of energy to send missionaries into heathen parts of the globe when there remain so many unenlightened corners in our own land. It almost seems now as if I had been guided here. It is true that my husband has gone, but that shall not distress me. Rodney is a drifter--I may say a natural-born drifter, and I cannot undertake to follow him. I shall remain here. I have been guided--" determination gleamed in her gray-green eyes,--"I shall remain here and teach these poor people to make something of themselves."

Solon drew a long breath. My own echoed it. Hereupon little Roscoe broke into a high-pitched recitative.

"We are now in the great boundless West, a land of rough but kind-hearted and worthy folk, and abounding with instructive sights and scenes which are well calculated--"

"My son," interrupted his mother, "kindly tell the gentlemen what should be your aim in life."

"To strive to improve my natural gifts by reading and conversation,"

answered Roscoe, in one swift breath.

"Very good--_ver-ry_ good--but for the present you may _listen_. Now, Mr. Denney--" she turned to Solon with the latest _Argus_ in her hand,--"perusing your sheet, my eye lights upon this sentence:--"

"'Lige Brackett Sundayed in our midst. He reports a busy time of Fall ploughing over Bethel way.'

"Why 'Sundayed,' Mr. Denney?" She smiled brightly, almost archly, at Solon. "I dare say you would not employ 'Mondayed' or 'Tuesdayed' or 'Wednesdayed.' You _see_? The term is what we may call a vulgarism--you perceive that, do you not?--likewise 'in our midst,' which is not accurate, of course, and which would be indelicate if it were. Now I let my eye descend the column to your account of a certain social function.

You say, 'The table fairly groaned with the weight of good things, and a good time was had by all present.' Surely, Mr. Denney, you are a man not without culture and refinement. Had you but taken thought, you could as well have said that 'An elegant collation was served, the menu including many choice delicacies, and the affair was widely p.r.o.nounced to be most enjoyable.'"

Solon's frightened eyes besought me, but I could not help him, and again he was forced to meet the kindly, almost whimsically accusing gaze of the censor, who was by no means done with him.

"Again I read here, 'The graveyard fence needs repairing badly.' Do you not see, Mr. Denney, how far more refined it were to say 'G.o.d's acre,'

or 'the marbled city of the dead'? I now turn from mere solecisms to the broader question of taste. Under the heading 'Hanged in Carroll County,'

I read an item beginning, 'At eight-thirty, A.M., last Friday the soul of Martin G. Buckley, dressed in a neat-fitting suit of black, with a low collar and black cravat, was ushered into the presence of his G.o.d.'

Pardon me, but do we not find here, if we read closely, an attempt to blend the material with the spiritual with a result that we can only designate as infelicitous?"

Solon was writhing after the manner of uneasy little Roscoe. The bland but inexorable regard of his inquisitor had subdued him beyond retort.

"I might, again, call your attention to this item." And she did, reading with well-trained inflection:--

"'Kye Mayabb from south of town and Sym Pleydell, who rents the Clemison farm, met up in front of Barney Skeyhan's place last Sat.u.r.day afternoon and started to settle an old grudge, while their respective better halves looked on from across the street. Kye had Sym down and was doing some good work with his right, when his wife called to him, "Now, Kye Mayabb, you come right away from there before you get into trouble."

Whereupon the valiant better half of him who was being beaten to death called out cheerily, "Don't let him scare you, Sym!" The boys made it up afterward, but our little street was quite lively for a time.'

"Now as to that," went on Mrs. Potts, affecting to deliberate, "could we not better have described that as 'a disgraceful street brawl'? And yet I find no word of deprecation. It is told, indeed, with a regrettable flippancy. Flippancy, I may note again, mars the following item: 'They tell a good story of old Sarsius Lambert over at Bethel. His wife was drowned a couple of weeks ago, and Link Talbot went to break the news to the old man. "Uncle Sarsh," says Link, "your wife is drowned. She fell in at the ford, and an hour later they found her two miles down-stream."

"Two miles an hour!" said Uncle Sarsius, in astonishment. "Well, well, she floated down quite lively, didn't she?"'

"You will pardon me, I trust," said Mrs. Potts, "if I say it would have been better to speak of the grief-stricken husband and to conclude with a fitting sentiment such as 'the proudest monuments to the sleeping dead are reared in the hearts of the living.'"

"I'll put it in next week," ventured Solon, meekly. "I didn't think of it at the time."

"Ah, but one should _always think_, should one not?" asked Mrs. Potts, almost sweetly. "By thinking, for example, you could elevate your sheet by eliminating certain misapplied colloquialisms. Here I read: 'The rain last week left the streets in a frightful state. The mud simply won't jell.'"

Shame mantled the brow of Solon Denney.

"In short," concluded Mrs. Potts, "I regret to say that your paper is not yet one that I could wish to put into the hands of my little Roscoe."