The Balking of Christopher
by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the
trees were filmed with green and paling with promise of bloom; the front
yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high time to
plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his
rocking-chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and did absolutely
nothing about it.
Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later
kneaded the bread, all the time glancing furtively at her husband. She had
a most old-fashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She was always
a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. Cyrus Dodd,
and his sister Abby, who had never married, reproached her for this
attitude of mind. "You are entirely too much cowed down by Christopher,"
Mrs. Dodd said.
"I would never be under the thumb of any man," Abby said.
"Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his spells?" Myrtle would ask.
Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. "It is all your
fault, mother," Abby would say. "You really ought not to have allowed your
son to have his own head so much."
"You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against," replied
Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some
twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to anything but
birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will was
powerless. He had come into the world without his consent being obtained;
he had passed in like manner from it. But during his life he had ruled, a
petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled Christopher, and
his wife, although a woman of high spirit, knew of no appealing.
"I could never go against your father, you know that," said Mrs. Dodd,
following up her advantage.
"Then," said Abby, "you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame
to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher."
"I would have married him, anyway," declared Myrtle with sudden defiance;
and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly.
"There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it," said she.
"Yes, I do, mother," agreed Myrtle. "Christopher hasn't one bad habit."
"I don't know what you call a bad habit," retorted Abby. "I call having
your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a bad
habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always has.
He tramples on poor Myrtle."
At that Myrtle laughed. "I don't think I look trampled on," said she; and
she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although she
had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme nervousness.
This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore this
nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her forehead was
wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher were not young
people; they were a little past middle age, still far from old in look or
Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put
into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she
dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic. Then
she spoke in a small voice. "Christopher," said she.
Christopher made no reply.
"It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?" said Myrtle.
Christopher was silent.
"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get at
the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most two
Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her wonder
her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. "He ain't
going to wear his best hat to plow," thought Myrtle. For an awful moment
it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with her
husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it at the
little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out.
"Be you going to plow the south field?" Myrtle said, faintly.
"No, I ain't."
"Will you be back to dinner?"
"I don't know—you needn't worry if I'm not." Suddenly Christopher
did an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years,
and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put his
arm around her and kissed her.
After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then she
sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station at the
barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily.
"Mr. Dodd sick?" said he at length.
"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and, keeping
her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on the stove.
"D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?"
"He said he wasn't."
Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard.
Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's,
the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he was
neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes. He
set his face harder. Christopher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set. Now
it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon the
one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an almost
classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of keen
light. He was only a farmer, but in spite of his rude clothing he had the
face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in sore trouble
of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask him for
advice. Christopher had never done this before. He had a sort of
incredulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated that
sort of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself. And,
moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. He was
unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year. "He
can't think I'm coming to set my cap at him, anyway," Christopher
reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew near the parsonage. The
minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village.
"Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has doubts
about some doctrine," was the first thing Christopher said to the minister
when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small room, lined
with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace, the portrait of
the minister's mother—Stephen was so like her that a question
concerning it was futile.
Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark—he was a
hot-tempered man, although a clergyman; then he asked him to be seated.
Christopher sat down opposite the minister. "I oughtn't to have spoken
so," he apologized, "but what I am doing ain't like me."
"That's all right," said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an
extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face,
still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three little
mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, came and
rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. Christopher
mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as unconscious
with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look at the little
dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it best. He kept
his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; at length he
spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did with force,
bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which were the words
of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth and in all
creation—the odds of fate itself.
"I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton," he began.
"Then say it, Mr. Dodd," replied Stephen, without a smile.
Christopher spoke. "I am going back to the very beginning of things," said
he, "and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for that.
I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my
"I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me," said
"Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!"
said Christopher. "But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky
sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world without
"You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the
Lord," said Stephen.
"I am asking the Lord," said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. "I
am asking the Lord, and I ask why?"
"You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time,"
"But here am I," said Christopher, "and I was a question to the Lord from
the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth."
"Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question," said
Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger about
him. "There was time before time," said he, "before the fifty years and
more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is the truth. I
came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, and then I was
told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty years and more I
have thought about it, and I have found out that, at least. I am a slave—a
slave of life."
"For that matter," said Stephen, looking curiously at him, "so am I. So
are we all."
"That makes it worse," agreed Christopher—"a whole world of slaves.
I know I ain't talking in exactly what you might call an orthodox strain.
I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk
to somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it; and
no man living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in another world,
that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to live in
this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. My life
has been harder for me than a harder life might be for another man who was
different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got to be thankful
for. I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves into this world.
I am glad my wife and I haven't any children to ask 'why?'
"Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had what men
call luck. My folks were poor; father and mother were good, hardworking
people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and death, and losses
by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one spring our house went,
and every stick we owned, and much as ever we all got out alive. Then
lightning struck father's new house, and the insurance company had failed,
and we never got a dollar of insurance. Then my oldest brother died, just
when he was getting started in business, and his widow and two little
children came on father to support. Then father got rheumatism, and was
all twisted, and wasn't good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who
had been expecting to get married, had to give it up and take in sewing
and stay at home and take care of the rest. There was father and George's
widow—she was never good for much at work—and mother and Abby.
She was my youngest sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted
to get an education; might just as well have wanted to get a seat on a
throne. I went to work in the grist-mill of the place where we used to
live when I was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah
wasn't going to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, poor thing, and
worked too hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm, with the
mortgage hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died,
and then father. Along about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but,
Lord, how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a failure, and it
has kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much
rain everything mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut everything to
pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just managed to pay the
interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well
have tried to pay the national debt.
"Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and
you ain't like ever to see her, but she was a beauty and something more. I
don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've never
had sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she got
married I guess I knew a little about what the martyrs went through.
"Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to live.
It took a burden off the rest of us, but I had got attached to the
children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor
Myrtle came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our folks,
and I begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of women who are
pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the other girl,
and she said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that time mother's
brother John—he had never got married-died and left her a little
money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought the little
house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always hard to get
along with, though she is a good woman. Mother, though she is a smart
woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to interfere much
with men-folks. I guess she didn't interfere any too much for my good, or
father's, either. Father was a set man. I guess if mother had been a
little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful 'why?' I guess I
might have taken my bitter pills and held my tongue, but I won't blame
myself on poor mother.
"Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented—she has never
said a word to make me think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of
women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is a good
woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she deserved
somebody who could make her a better husband. All the time, every waking
minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious.
"You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted, and
more than wanted-needed, and needed far more than happiness. I have never
been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money, and it
wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born with.
And everything has gone wrong even about the work for the money. I have
been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence or the Evil
One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and I have only paid
the interest on the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a little ahead in
case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay the mortgage, but put
a few dollars at a time in the savings-bank, which will come in handy
The minister regarded him uneasily. "What," he asked, "do you mean to do?"
"I mean," replied Christopher, "to stop trying to do what I am hindered in
doing, and do just once in my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked me this
morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't going to
plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't going to try
for hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have worked for nothing
except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have had bad luck.
But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look at here, Mr.
Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never in my life had a chance at the
spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the spring and the
summer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may fall and rot if
they want to. I am going to get as much good of the season as they do."
"What are you going to do?" asked Stephen.
"Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing right,
and I think I am. You know, I've got a little shack up on Silver Mountain
in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got enough sugar to say so,
but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to think I might
get something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going to live there
awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to hustle by for the
sake of a few dollars and cents."
"But what will your wife do?"
"She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few
provisions. I sha'n't need much. I want a little corn meal, and I will
have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over that
she can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the shack,
and there are trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries, and
there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old bed and a stove and a few
things in the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what I want, and
I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money when she wants it, and
then I am going to the shack, and"—Christopher's voice took on a
solemn tone—"I will tell you in just a few words the gist of what I
am going for. I have never in my life had enough of the bread of life to
keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I believe
sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a flower. They crowd it
out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this earth, my fill
of the bread of life."
Stephen Wheaton gasped. "But your wife, she will be alone, she will
"I want you to go and tell her," said Christopher, "and I've got my
bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed
when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss.
She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, she
can go and visit somewhere." Christopher rose. "Can you let me have a pen
and ink?" said he, "and I will write those checks. You can tell Myrtle how
to use them. She won't know how."
Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his hand,
striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen him from
his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of Silver
Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, and
Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to arise and
go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he went.
Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door.
She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands
twitching at her apron.
"What is it?" said she.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," replied Stephen.
Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly easy.
Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place.
"It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases," she said with an odd
dignity, as if she were defending him.
"Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a
different life," Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words
might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite
fitted to her life, and her life to her.
But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. "Yes,"
said she, "Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head for
it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round the
farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck even
with that." Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing. "But
maybe," said Myrtle, "his bad luck may turn out the best thing for him in
Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks.
"I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help," said Myrtle, and
for the first time her voice quavered. "He must have some clothes up
there," said she. "There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights, late
as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and other
things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire anybody;
aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother Dodd and Abby
won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will have to be
"Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it," Stephen Wheaton said.
"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to live
awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to," returned Myrtle with her odd,
"But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a
horse and wagon," said Stephen.
"I will, and be glad. When will you go?"
"I'll have them ready," said Myrtle.
After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a
little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways of
man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to pack a
load for the wagon.
The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen
Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse up
the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many winds
in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The gray
farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held the lines;
he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares instead of
climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning.
But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young
manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he
himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but
here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into his
lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul.
Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the
uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted
home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the
spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the highest,
and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give them the
right of way.
It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack—merely a
one-roomed hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door—Christopher
stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute
doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. He
had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the
chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee.
Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. "Lord!" said he,
"did Myrtle send you up with all those things? Well, she is a good woman.
Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so happy. How is
"She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told her."
Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. "She would. She can understand
not understanding, and that is more than most women can. It was mighty
good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast. Lord! Mr.
Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that smell
sweet. Think of having the common food of man sweetened this way! First
time I fully sensed I was something more than just a man. Lord, I am paid
already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this rate, and
then I can go back. To think I needn't plow to-day! To think all I have to
do is to have the spring! See the light under those trees!"
Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a tree
and brought a pail of water for him from the spring near by.
Then he said to Stephen: "Come right in. The bacon's done, and the coffee
and the corn-cake and the eggs won't take a minute."
The two men entered the shack. There was nothing there except the little
cooking-stove, a few kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old
table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was spread an
Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the
minister draw up, and the two men breakfasted.
"Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?" said Christopher.
"You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd," laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly
enjoying himself, and the breakfast was excellent.
"It ain't that," declared Christopher in his exalted voice. "It ain't
that, young man. It's because the food is blessed."
Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went
fishing, and had fried trout for dinner. He took some of the trout home to
Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of
sadness. "Did he seem comfortable?" she asked.
"Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to
your husband. He is an uncommon man."
"Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was," assented Myrtle.
"You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?" asked
"Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises," said Myrtle, "but I sha'n't be
alone any more. Christopher's niece wrote me she was coming to make a
visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather
guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man. Anyway,
she's lost her school, and her brother's married, and she don't want to go
there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says she can't bear
the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a little, and she'd
pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of her little savings, and
neither would Christopher want me to. He's always thought a sight of
Ellen, though he's never seen much of her. As for me, I was so glad when
her letter came I didn't know what to do. Christopher will be glad. I
suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on." Myrtle spoke a
bit wistfully, and Stephen did not tell her he had been urged to come
"Yes, off and on," he replied.
"If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you have
something to take to him—some bread and pies."
"He has some chickens there," said Stephen.
"Has he got a coop for them?"
"Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried up
bacon and corn meal and tea and coffee."
"I am glad of that," said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but her
face never lost its expression of bewilderment and resignation.
The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to
Christopher on his mountainside. He drove Christopher's gray horse
harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting much
pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was beautiful,
and Stephen carried in his mind a peculiar new beauty, besides. Ellen,
Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and, early as it was,
she had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She had opened the door
for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl, shaped like a boy, with
a fearless face of great beauty crowned with compact gold braids and lit
by unswerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, determined chin and a brow of
"Good morning," said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen and
approved, for she smiled genially. "I am Mr. Dodd's niece," said she. "You
are the minister?"
"And you have come for the things aunt is to send him?"
"Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy," said
Ellen. "It is very kind of you. While you are harnessing, aunt and I will
pack the basket."
Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether pleasant
or otherwise, he could not determine. He had never seen a girl in the
least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did.
When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there,
and he drank a cup of coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him.
"Only think, Mr. Wheaton," said she, "Ellen says she knows a great deal
about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead."
Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen.
Stephen spoke eagerly. "Don't hire anybody," he said. "I used to work on a
farm to pay my way through college. I need the exercise. Let me help."
"You may do that," said Ellen, "on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think of
letting you work without any recompense."
"Well, we will settle that," Stephen replied. When he drove away, his
usually calm mind was in a tumult.
"Your niece has come," he told Christopher, when the two men were
breakfasting together on Silver Mountain.
"I am glad of that," said Christopher. "All that troubled me about being
here was that Myrtle might wake up in the night and hear noises."
Christopher had grown even more radiant. He was effulgent with pure
"You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?" said Stephen, looking up at
the great symmetrical efflorescence of rose and green which towered about
Christopher laughed. "No, bless 'em," said he, "the trees shall keep their
sugar this season. This week is the first time I've had a chance to get
acquainted with them and sort of enter into their feelings. Good Lord!
I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on their
young leaves! They know more than you and I. They know how to grow young
Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the
farm with his aid. The two women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to
have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When Stephen left, he
looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, "Do you think I am
"Crazy? No," replied Stephen.
"Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starving to death. Glad you
don't think I'm crazy, because I couldn't help matters by saying I wasn't.
Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen her since
she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like Myrtle; but I
guess if she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't think anybody
ought to go just her way to have it the right way."
"I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time
this morning," said Stephen.
"I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer,"
Christopher called after him. "I begin to feel that I am getting what I
came for so fast that I can go back pretty soon."
But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of the
evening after a burning day, and descended the mountain in the full light
of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came down
like a young one.
When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared.
Across the grass-land a heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn.
Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon, sat
a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things.
Christopher did not see the man on the other side of the wagon leading the
horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward and
Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watching for him, as
she had watched every night.
"Who is it on the load of hay?" asked Christopher.
"Ellen," replied Myrtle.
"Oh!" said Christopher. "She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to
take up the burden I had dropped while I went to learn of Him."
"Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?" asked Myrtle. She thought that
what her husband had said was odd, but he looked well, and he might have
said it simply because he was a man.
Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. "I am better than I ever was in my
whole life, Myrtle, and I've got more courage to work now than I had when
I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested for all
my life. We shall get along all right as long as we live."
"Ellen and the minister are going to get married come Christmas," said
"She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people,"
It was after the hay had been unloaded and Christopher had been shown the
garden full of lusty vegetables, and told of the great crop with no
drawback, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at the
"I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I
shall never complain again, no matter what happens. I have found that all
the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries to do
right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They are just
the flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, too, that mark the
way. And—I have found out more than that. I have found out the
answer to my 'why?'"
"What is it?" asked Stephen, gazing at him curiously from the
wonder-height of his own special happiness.
"I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is
through the earth," said Christopher.