THE MAN THOU GAVEST
BY
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
AUTHOR OF JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, A SON OF THE HILLS,ETC.
“Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sellherself for anything—even for the justice I might think wasyours?”
FRONTISPIECE BY E.F. WARD
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book of mine to the lovely spot where mostof it was written
THE MACDOWELL COLONY PETERBOROUGH NEW HAMPSHIRE
AND
“TO HER WHO UNDERSTANDS”
Deep in the pine woods is the little Studio wherework is made supremely possible. Around the house the birds andtrees sing together and no disturbing thing is permitted totrespass.
Within, like a tangible Presence, an atmosphereof loved labour; good will and high hopes greet the coming guestsand speed the parting.
Little Studio in the pine woods, my appreciationand affection are yours!
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
CHAPTER I
The passengers, one by one, left the train but Truedale took noheed. He was the only one left at last, but he was not aware of it,and then, just as the darkness outside caught his attention, thetrain stopped so suddenly that it nearly threw him from hisseat.
“Accident?” he asked the conductor. “No, sah!Pine Cone station. I reckon the engineer come mighty nighforgetting—he generally does at the end. The tracks stophere. You look mighty peaked; some one expectingyo’?”
“I’ve been ill. My doctor ordered me to the hills.Yes: some one will meet me.” Truedale did not resent theinterest the man showed; he was grateful.
“Well, sah, if yo’ man doesn’t showup—an’ sometimes they don’t, owing to badroads—you can come back with us after we load up with thewood. I live down the track five miles; we lie thar fur the night.Yo’ don’t look equal to taking to yo’ twostanding feet.”
The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for thereturn trip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom andsilence to await events.
No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up togloomy thoughts. Evidently he must return on the train andto-morrow morning take to—just then a spark like a fallingstar attracted his attention and to his surprise he saw, not adozen feet away, a tall lank man leaning against a tree in anattitude so adhesive that he might have been a fungus growth orsprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurred to Truedale thatthis indifferent onlooker could be interested in him, but he mightbe utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.
“Hello, friend!”
By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl,Truedale concluded the man was nodding.
“I’m waiting for Jim White.”
“So?” The one word came through the darkness withoutinterest.
“Do you happen to know him?”
“Sorter.”
“Could you—get me to his place?”
“I reckon. That’s what I come ter do.”
“I—I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is inthat shed?”
“It’s up to—to Jim’s place. Can you ridebehind me on the mare? Travelling is tarnation bad.”
Once they were on the mare’s back, conversation dragged,then died a natural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bitof anti-war romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his gripknocking unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.
It was nine o’clock when, in a l