Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine, Vol. 107 No. 3 — page 118: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

460 ‘““That’s what I sez,” answered Minnie Wampler, “seeing how youse set up and walk out and all; and it would cost him ' twenty-five cents to eat himself at the Eagle.” “We will be very glad to have him,” Marjory assured her. She felt a sudden sickness. It was very well to say that Bob was not of these peo- ple, and to love Bob when she forgot them; but surrounded with his “stilling” and ‘ yetting ” relatives—confronted with their complacent crudities—she looked at him and wondered. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the breach was too great. She looked at him again and softened. Noth- ing could make any difference; but, for his own good, staying among these people was impossible. She could see him as he grew older; shriveling from the lack of interests; going out at all hours to visit people who resort- ed only to him after the powwow doctor had failed; working endlessly for little money and no thanks. Marjory’s face took on a look of deter- mination and was greatly changed by it. Its softness was gone, and in its stead was a calculating purpose. “Vou see?” said Bob, after a long si- lence. “Yes,” answered Marjory. ‘But these are my people,” he added heavily. ‘I am one of them.” Again Marjory seemed to see the dull garb of the sect. Bob’s face was as set as a Dunkard elder’s, when, sitting with others, he decides to put a member out of the church. Suddenly Marjory spoke, briskly and to the point. “‘ Bob, dear,” she said, “‘ I love you, but I cannot love you here. I know that this is not the place for you. You have two days in which to decide which you love the best, South Hebron or me.” III. Two days had passed, and to-morrow Bob would tell her that he had decided to egive up South Hebron. He could not lose her. ° ‘swung open heavily. ARGOSY AND RAILROAD MAN’S MAGAZINE. Bob stood im a small, attic room of his aunt’s house, leaning on a bureau and look- ing out of a little paned window imto the quiet village road below. ‘There was a gray horse tied to his aunt’s fence, switching its tail nervously and stamping. ‘““Away from all this,” thought Bob, “with her.” - Several chickens spluttered in the dust of the road below, and a child came down ‘the street, singing a bit of a Dutch mother- song, and he, the man, tired and sore, had won. The night before he had lain in the hot room tossing, thinking of the sweet sofft- ness of Marjory, and then of a crippled child who might have walked if the nght doctor had been near. His father’s words —Marjory’s lips. His ache to go into the world to make his mark, and with that, his ache for the woman he loved. And Bob had won, the part that ate and slept and walked—the flesh. He was going into the world where he longed to work, and he was going with the woman he loved as his wife. Below in the street, he saw a girl, just out of childhood, walking toward the house. She paused at the gate, and then he heard through the house the clang of the bell. Absolute si- lence followed and he remembered that his aunt had gone visiting. _ He went down the stairs reluctantly. He didn’t want to hear voices of the neighbor- hood, for they awoke that voice that he was stilling—the one that called: “These are thy people, who need thee much. Sick in soul as in body. And yet too young to know the light. Home of thy people and service.” IV. ‘“ HELLO, Maggy!” said Bob, as the door “ How are you?” He recognized her as the child of a stern- faced neighbor, and saw, in her quelled look the fruit of such parentage. Then he forgot himself and his decision; for the subdued little Dutch girl was clinging to the side of the doorway and sobbing. Again Bob stood by the window of his room. It was later, and the sun lay in golden streaks across the road. There was ais . on —~~.= --« ie COM cloooks. com