One First-day evening Tom mustered up courage to ask Patty to take a walk with him. That evening is impressed upon his mind even yet, for he was very happy. There was a dim glow in the sky to the westward, and the road stretched away grey and glimmering between the blackness of the banks and bushes alongside of it. So, walking slowly and talking but little, they came to the bridge just below Whiteley’s barn, and there they stood leaning on the parapet, looking up the stream into the black woods beyond, from which came the many murmuring whispers of the summer’s night. All the air was laden with the spicy odor of the night woods, and through the silence the sound of the rushing and gurgling of the water of the brook came to them clearly and distinctly. There was a bit of marshy land beyond, over which flew fireflies in thousands, here gleaming a brilliant spark and there leaving a long trail of light against the black woodlands behind. For some time they both leaned upon the bridge without saying a word; it was Patty that broke the silence at last.
“Does thee know, Thomas,” said she, “that when thee first came home I was dreadfully afraid of thee? Thee seemed to me to be so much older than I was, and then thee’d seen so much on thy travels.”
“Thee ain’t afraid of me now, is thee, Patty?”
“No, indeed; it seems as though thee might almost be a cousin of mine, I know thee so well. It does father so much good to see thee; he’s never been the same since mother died till now.”
There was a moment or two before Tom spoke.
“Perhaps it isn’t thy father I come to see, Patty,” said he, in a low voice. He leaned over the edge of the bridge as he spoke and looked fixedly into the dark rushing water beneath.
Patty made no answer, and Tom was not sure that she heard him. Neither of them said another word until Patty said, in a low voice, “I guess we’d better go home now, Thomas.”
Then they turned and walked back again to the old mill. Tom opened the gate for Patty. “Farewell, Patty,” said he.
“Won’t thee come up and see father, Thomas?” said she.
“Not to-night.”
“Farewell, then.”
Tom watched her until she had gone up the porch steps and was hidden by the vines that were clustered about it. He heard Elihu say, “Where’s Thomas?” but he did not hear Patty’s answer; then he turned and walked slowly homeward.
The summer passed, the fall passed, the winter passed, and the spring time had come again.
Tom’s walk with Patty seemed to have broken through the smoothness of the acquaintance betwixt the three.
Elihu had never been the same to him since that night; he had never been as cordial or as friendly as he had been before.
Sometimes it seemed to Tom as though Patty herself was growing tired of seeing so much of him. At such times he would vow within himself as he walked homeward that he would never call there again, and yet he always went back after a while.
So things moved along without that pleasant friendliness in their acquaintanceship until that occurred which altered the face of everything.
One First-day afternoon, Tom found himself standing on the porch of the mill-house. It was in the early part of April, but the day was very mild and soft, and Elihu and Patty were sitting on the porch.
“How is thee, Thomas?” said Elihu. He did not take the pipe from his lips as he spoke, neither did he ask the other to be seated. Tom stood leaning against the post and no one spoke for a while.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” said Patty.
“Yes, it is,” said Tom; “would thee like to take a walk up the road as far as Whiteley’s?”
“Yes, I would,” said Patty; “I haven’t been away from the house all day.”
“It’s very damp; it’s too damp to walk,” said Elihu; “besides, thee’s got thy thin shoes on.”
“But we’ll walk in the road, father; I’ll promise not to go off of the road. I’ll put on heavier shoes if thee thinks that these are too thin.”
“Very well, do as thee pleases,” said Elihu, sharply; “I think it’s too damp, but I suppose thee’ll do as thee chooses.” Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and went into the house without another word, shutting the door carefully behind him.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t want me to go,” said Patty; “it’s a lovely day for a walk. Wait till I go in and speak to him, maybe he’ll change his mind;” and she followed her father into the house.
“I can’t bear this any longer;” said Tom to himself. “I’ll have it over this afternoon, or I’ll never come here again. I’ll ask her to be my wife, and if the worst comes to the worst I’ll ship for another cruise.”
Presently Patty came out of the house again. She had thrown a scarf over her shoulders. “Is thee ready to go, Thomas?” said she.
“Yes; I’m ready.”
There was very little talk between them as they walked on side by side, for Tom’s heart was too full of that which was upon his mind to say much with his lips; so they went down the road into the hollow, past the old mill, over the bridge that crossed Stony Brook just beyond, up the hill on the other side, past Whiteley’s farm-house, and so to the further crest of the hill that overlooked Rocky Creek Valley beyond. There they stopped and stood beside the fence at the roadside, looking down into the valley beneath them. It was a fair sight that lay spread out before their eyes—field beyond field, farm-house, barn and orchard, all bathed in the soft yellow sunshine, saving here and there where a cloud cast a purple shadow that moved slowly across the hills and down into the valleys.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Patty, as she leaned against the rough fence, looking out across the valley, while the wind stirred the hair at her cheeks and temples.
“Yes; it is;” said Tom, “it’s a goodly world to live in, Patty.”
Then silence fell between them.
“There’s the old Naylor homestead,” said Patty at last.
“Yes; I see it,” said Tom, shortly, glancing as he spoke in the direction which she pointed. Then, after a while, he continued, “What a queer man Isaac Naylor is!”
“I don’t see anything queer about him,” said Patty, looking down at the toe of her shoe.
“Well, I never saw a man like him.”
“He is a very good worthy man, and everybody respects him,” said Patty, warmly.
“Oh! I don’t deny that,” said Tom, with a pang at his heart.
“Thee couldn’t truthfully deny it if thee would, Thomas,” said Patty.
“I’m only a rough sea-faring man,” said Tom. “I don’t know that any one respects me very much.” He waited a moment, but Patty said nothing; then he went on again:
“For all that, I’d rather be a man of thirty at thirty, and not as dead to all things as though I was a man of eighty. Isaac Naylor is more like a man of eighty than he is like one of thirty. No one would take him to be only five years older than I am.”
“I don’t know any man that I