Mr. Crawford’s injustice resulted in the early death of one daughter, and left bitter memories of her father in the heart of the other.
FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
JASON and Eunice Kimball had always longed for money. They had spent their fifteen years of married life on a New England farm, with all its cares and hardships, its early rising, long hours of labor, and little compensation.
The white house, with its green blinds, roof sloping to the rear, and great fir-trees in the front yard, had grown dingy with dust and rain, and there had been no money to repair it.
The children, Susie, James, and little Jason, fourteen, twelve, and ten years old, had worked like their thrifty parents, gaining the somewhat meagre schooling of a half-deserted New England town.
Now a great change had come to the Kimball family. A relative had died and had left to Mrs. Kimball fifteen thousand dollars. It seemed an enormous amount in one way, but not enormous in another. The children must be better dressed and prepared for college, the father must give up the slow gains of the farm and go into business, and Mrs. Kimball must make herself ready in garb and manner for the new life. It was evident that they must move to some village where schools were good and business would be prosperous. What town and what business? These were the exciting topics that were discussed by night and by day. Jason knew how to till the soil, to harvest grain, to be an industrious and good citizen and a kind husband, but he knew little about the great world of trade.
“I might buy out a small grocery, Eunice,” said the husband one evening. “People must eat, whether they have decent clothes or books or schools.”
“Ah, if you once looked at Mr. Jones’s books and saw the uncollectible bills, even from so-called ‘good families,’ you would not undertake that business!”
“I might buy a tract of land in a growing town and sell lots.”
“But what if a panic came, and you lost all?” said the conservative wife.
As soon as it became known that the Kimballs had fallen heir to fifteen thousand dollars, Mr. Kimball was besought on all sides to enter one kind of business or another. One applicant had invented a unique coffee-pot, which would make good coffee out of even a poor berry, and a fortune could certainly be made, if only capital were provided. Another person had a new style of wash-boiler, and experimented with it on Mrs. Kimball’s kitchen stove, breaking every lid in the operation. Fortunes seemed lying about at every corner of the street, and the only wonder was that everybody did not get rich. Mr. Kimball was besought to take out life insurance, to buy acres of land in the far West, unseen by buyer or seller, to give to every charity within the State, where-ever the knowledge of the fifteen-thousand-dollar inheritance had permeated.
Finally the town for a home was decided upon, and the business – that of selling coal.
A pretty house was purchased, his children placed in school, a seat in church rented, and a shop for the sale of hard and soft coal.
Mr. Kimball knew nothing of the coal business; but he formed a partnership with a man who knew everything about it – in fact, too much, for at the end of a year the firm failed, the five thousand dollars that Mrs. Kimball gave to her husband having melted away like snow in spring.
Mrs. Kimball’s patience had not increased with her gift of money. She blamed her husband for losing, blamed herself for giving the money to him, blamed the world in general.
Mr. Kimball tried other matters, and failed. It was difficult to find a situation in which to work for others, as he was of middle age and young men were preferred. He tried life insurance, and either lacked the courage to visit people in season and out of season, or he lacked volume of speech or multiplicity of argument.
It became evident to the neighbors and to the minister of the parish that matters were going wrong in the Kimball home. The husband wished to go into business again; the wife felt sure that he would lose, and nothing would be left for the children. They reasoned, they quarrelled, and Mrs. Kimball became ill from anxiety.
At last it was noised about that a separation might come in the divided family. Friends interposed, but nothing satisfactory was accomplished. The few thousands that remained were safe in the bank; and this amount Mrs. Kimball had decided should not be touched.
One morning the little village was thrown into consternation. The bank had lost all its funds through the speculation of one of its officers. Save for the little home, the Kimballs were penniless.
Sorrow is sometimes a great strengthener. Mrs. Kimball rose from her illness to face the problems of life. Both parents loved their children, and they were too young to be thrown upon the world.
“Let us sell our home,” said Mrs. Kimball, “buy back the old farm, and live together till the end.”
And Jason said, “Yes, wife, we shall be happier in the old place without the fifteen thousand dollars.”
THE RING OF GOLD
MARTIN DALY had become discouraged. Like many another miner in the far West, he had made money and lost it, had prospected for mines, found ore, and been cheated out of his rights, had grown poor and ill, and had thrown himself under a tree, careless whether he lived or died.
The great snowy mountain-peaks and the rich verdure had lost their attraction for him. He had hoped and been disappointed so many times that he had come to believe himself unlucky; that he should never possess a dollar; that there was neither happiness nor home for him.
He had seen more prosperous days. His large dark eyes, his broad brow, his well-shaped mouth and chin, bespoke refinement in the years that were gone. He had been well educated, had tried many things and failed in them, not from lack of energy nor from lack of judgment, but his fate seemed to be an adverse one.
He had done many good acts, had always helped his brother miners, had tried to look on the bright side of life, had fought manfully, and been defeated in the battle. He had imagined sometimes that the clouds had a silver lining, but the storms always came sooner or later. He meditated thus as he lay under the tree, and finally, more dead than alive from want and exhaustion, fell asleep.
Two men passed along under the brow of the mountain, by the tree. They were tall and straight, and from their dark hair and skin it was easy to perceive their Indian blood.
“The white man is dead,” said one of the men, as he bent on his knee beside the sleeper.
“No, there is a twitching of the eyelids,” said the other. “He is pale and sick. I will take him home, and Mimosa will care for him.”
The conversation, carried on in a low tone, awakened the miner.
“Come with us, and you shall have food and shelter,” said the friendly Indian.
Scarcely able to bear his weight, Martin leaned upon the arms of the two men, and soon found himself in the humble Indian cabin.
“Mimosa, here is a stranger. Take care of him. Red Cloud never left a human being to die. He will get well, and then we will send him back to his people.”
A shy, pale Indian girl came forward and did as she was bidden. She did not speak, but looked very pityingly out of her fawn-like dark eyes. When Martin had been placed in the simple bed she prepared food for him, and fed him as though he were a child. Day by day she came and went, speaking little, but doing gently the things which only a woman’s hands can do.
After a time the miner, still a young man, gained in strength, and began once more to hope for a successful future.
“Mimosa,” he said one day, “I owe my life to you, and if I am ever rich I will come back and reward you.”
“I shall miss you,” said the girl shyly. “But I want no money. I shall be happy because you are well again and happy.”
“I shall yet find gold, Mimosa. I used to think I should be rich, and then I became poor and sick and lost heart. You wear a ring on your finger and sometimes a chain about your neck, both of beaten gold. Did the metal come from mines near here?”
“My