I think of no act in all the drama of the Star of Hempfield with greater affection, return in memory to none with deeper pleasure, than that which now opened upon the narrow stage of our village life. It centred around Nort and Anthy, of course, but it began with the old Captain, and about a week after Nort's visit at the farm.

The old Captain was sick in bed with one of his periodical "attacks." The old Captain was a man of great robustity and activity of both body and mind, and he made no docile invalid. At one moment he seemed to be greatly depressed, groaned a good deal, and considered that he had not long to live; but at the next moment he would become impatient, and want to be up immediately and save the nation from the ravages of the Democratic party. I went over to see him on the second day of his illness, and the first thing he said when I came in was this:

"Where's Nort? I'd like to know what's become of the boy. I never thought he'd leave Hempfield without at least saying good-bye. It isn't like him."

In writing to Nort that night, I told him of my visit to the old Captain and what the Captain said, and on the second morning, when I walked into the office of the Star, what was my astonishment to see Nort down on his knees tinkering the gasoline engine.

Fergus was sitting stiffly on his stool, with his old green shade over his eyes. I learned afterward the exact circumstances of the meeting between the two men. Nort had walked in quite as usual, and hung his coat on the customary hook.

"Hello, Fergus!" he said, also quite as usual.

Fergus looked around at him, and said nothing at all. Nort walked over to the stone, took up a stickful of type, and began to distribute it in the cases. Presently he looked around at Fergus with a broad smile on his face.

"Fergus, where's the fatted calf?"

"Humph!" remarked Fergus.

When Nort got down for another take of the type, Fergus observed to the general atmosphere:

"The old engine's out of order."

Nort stepped impulsively toward Fergus's case, and said with wistful affection in his voice:

"I knew, Fergus, that you'd kill the fatted calf for me!"

"Humph!" observed Fergus.

And that was why I found Nort bending over the engine when I came in, whistling quite in his old way. The moment he saw me, he forestalled any remark by inquiring:

"How's the Cap'n to-day?"

Anthy did not come to the office at all that morning, and toward noon I saw Nort rummaging among the exchanges and, having found what he wanted, he put on his hat and went out. He walked straight up the street to the homestead of the Doanes—his legs shaking under him. At the gate he paused and looked up, seriously considered running away, and went in and knocked at the door.

By some fortunate circumstance Anthy had seen him at the gate, and now came to the door quite calmly.

"How's the Captain?" asked Nort, controlling his voice with difficulty. "David wrote me that he was sick. I thought I might cheer him up."

"Won't you come in?"

At that moment the old Captain's voice was heard from upstairs, booming vigorously:

"Is that Nort? Come up, Nort!"

Anthy smiled. She was now perfectly self-possessed, and it was Nort, the assured, the self-confident, who had become hopelessly awkward and uncertain.

"Come up, Nort!" called the old Captain.

When he entered the bedroom, the old Captain was propped up on the pillows, his thick white hair brushed back from his noble head. He was evidently very much better.

"Captain," said Nort, instantly, before the old Captain had a moment to express his surprise, "have you seen the Sterling Democrat this week?"

"No," said the Captain, starting up in bed. "What's that man Kendrick been doing now?"

"Listen to this," said Nort, pulling the paper out of his pocket and opening it with a vast simulation of excitement, and reading the heading aloud:

"Where was Captain Doane when the flying-machine visited Hempfield?"

"Why, the scoundrel!" exclaimed the old Captain, this time sitting straight up in bed, "the arrant scoundrel!"

As Nort read the paragraph the old Captain sank back on the pillows, and when it was over he remarked in a tone of broad tolerance:

"Nort, what can you expect of a Democrat, anyway?"

He lay musing for a minute or two, and then called out in a loud voice:

"Anthy, I'm going to get up."

The old war horse had sniffed the breeze of battle. When Nort went out, he saw nothing of Anthy.

Never were there such puzzling days as those which followed. To all outward appearance the life in the office of the Star had been restored to its former humdrum. The incident of Nort's disappearance was as if it had not happened. The business of printing a country newspaper proceeded with the utmost decorum. And yet there was a difference—a difference in Nort. He was in a mood unlike anything we had seen before. He was much less boyish, more dignified, dignified at times to the point of being almost amusing. Once or twice he thoughtlessly broke out with some remark that suggested his old enthusiasm—but caught himself instantly. Also, he had very little to say to Anthy, did not once offer to walk home with her, and seemed to be most friendly of all with the old Captain. Also, I found that he was often in the office at night, sometimes writing furiously, and sometimes reading from a big solid book—which he seemed so unwilling for us to see that he carried it home with him every night.

I was greatly puzzled, but not more puzzled and disturbed than Anthy was. To her simple, direct nature Nort's moods were inexplicable; and after what had happened, his mysterious attitude toward her troubled and hurt her deeply. Two or three times when we happened to be alone together I felt certain that she was leading up to the subject, and, finally, one evening when I had gone out with the old Captain to supper, and Anthy and I were walking afterward in the little garden behind the house, it came to the surface. There was an old garden seat at the end of the path, with clambering rose vines, now in full leaf, but not in blossom, upon it. It was a charming spot, with an ancient apple tree not far away, and all around it a garden of old-fashioned flowers. We sat down on the seat.

"David," she said, evidently with some effort, "I'm puzzled about Norton Carr. What has come over him? He's so different."

"I'm puzzled, too," I said, "but probably not so much as you are. I think I know the real cause of the trouble."

Anthy looked around at me, but I did not turn my head. The evening shadows were falling. I felt again that I was in the presence of high events.

"He seems so preoccupied," she continued finally.

"Yes, I've wondered what book it is he is reading so industriously."

"Oh, I saw that," she said.

"What was it?" I asked eagerly.

"Nicolay and Hay's 'Life of Abraham Lincoln.'"

It struck me all in a heap, and I laughed aloud—and yet I heard of Nort's reading not without a thrill.

"What is the matter?" asked Anthy. "What does it all mean?"

I had very much the feeling at that moment that I had when I took Anthy's letters from my desk to show to Nort, as though I was about to share a great and precious treasure with Anthy.

So I told her, very quietly, about Nort's visit to me and some of the things he said. She sat very still, her hands lying in her lap, her eyes on some shadowy spot far across the garden. I paused, wondering how much I dared tell.

"I don't know, Anthy, that I was doing right," I said, "but I wanted him to know something of you as you really are. So I told him about your letters to Lincoln, and showed him one of them."

She flushed deeply.

"You couldn't, David!"

"Yes, I did—and that may explain why he's reading the life of Lincoln. Maybe he's trying to imitate Lincoln."

"Imitate Lincoln——"

The sound of her voice as she said these words I think will never go quite out of my memory: it was so soft and deep, so tremulous.

And then something happened that I cannot fully explain, nor think of without a thrill. Anthy turned quickly toward me, looked at me through shiny tears, and put her head quickly and impulsively down upon my shoulder.

"Oh, David," she said, "I love you!"

But I knew well what she meant. It was that great moment in a woman's life when in loving the loved one she loves all the world. She was not thinking that moment of me, dear though I might have been to her as a friend, but of Nort—of Nort.

It was only a moment, and then she leaned quickly back, looking at me with starry eyes and a curious trembling lift of the lips.

"But David," she said, "I don't want him like Lincoln."

The thought must have raised in her mind some vision of the sober-sided Nort of the last few weeks, for she began to laugh again. I cannot describe it, for it was a laughter so compounded of tenderness, joy, sympathy, amusement, that it fairly set one's heart to vibrating. There was no part of Anthy—sweet, strong, loving—that was not in that laugh.

"I don't want him like Lincoln," she said.

"What do you want him like?" I asked.

"Why exactly like himself, like Nort."

"But I thought you rather distrusted his flightiness."

She was hugging herself with her arms, and rocking a little back and forth. An odd wrinkle came in her forehead.

"David, I did—I do—but somehow I like it—I love it."

She paused.

"It seems to me I like everything about Nort."

Do you realize that such beautiful things as these are going on all around us, in an evil and trouble-ridden old world? That in nearly all lives there are such perfect moments? Only we don't remember them. We grow old and wrinkled and sick; we bicker with those we love; it grows harder to remember, easier to forget.

I was going to say that this was the end of the story of the Star of Hempfield, but I know better, of course. It was only the beginning.

"Nort, my boy, I knew it, I knew it!" said the old Captain, when Anthy and Nort told him, though as a matter of fact he had never dreamed of such a thing until two minutes before.

Fergus saw Nort and Anthy come in together, and knew without being told. He sat firmly on his stool until they went out again, so absorbed in their own happiness that they never noticed him at all, and then he climbed down and took off his apron deliberately. He felt about absently for his friendly pipe, put it slowly in his mouth, but did not light it. He stuck his small battered volume of Robert Burns's poems in his pocket—and going out of the back door struck out for the hills. The next morning he was back on his stool again just as usual. It would have been impossible to print the Star of Hempfield without Fergus MacGregor.

On a June day I finish this narrative and lay down my pen.

An hour ago I walked along the lane to the top of my pasture to take a look at the distant town. In the meadows the red clover is in full blossom, the bobolinks are hovering and singing over the low spots, and the cattle are feeding contentedly in all the pastures. I have never seen the wild raspberry bushes setting such a wealth of fruit, nor the blackberries so full of bloom. The grass is nearly ripe for the cutting.

At the top of the hill I stood for a long time looking off across the still countryside toward the town.... It is here, after all, that I belong!

I come to the end of the narrative of the Star of Hempfield with an indescribable sadness of regret. So much I proposed myself when I set out to write the story of my friends; and so very little have I accomplished! I can see now that I have not taken all of Hempfield—no, not the half of it—nor even all of my friends; but perhaps I have taken all that I could, all that was mine.

As I came down the hill my mind went out warmly toward the printing-office of the Star of Hempfield, and I thought of the pleasant old garden in front of it, of the curious bird house, built like a miniature Parthenon at the gable end, where the wrens were now rearing their broods, I thought of Dick, the canary, and of Tom, the cat, sleeping comfortably, as I so often saw him, in a patch of sunlight on the floor—and then, like a great wave of friendly warmth, came the full realization of my friends there in the office of the Star of Hempfield, so that I seemed to see them living before my eyes. I thought of how we had worked together for so many months, how we had enjoyed one another, had been thrust apart and drawn together again, had changed, indelibly, one another's inmost lives, and so played our little parts for a brief time upon the stage of life in a country town.

As I came down the hill, reflecting upon all these things, I found myself repeating aloud the words of Miranda:

"Oh wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in't."

And so my narrative must close. Friendly town of Hempfield! Even if I write no more about you I shall still feel your presence just beyond the hills. On calm mornings from the top of my pasture I shall see the smoke of your friendly fires, and when the wind favours on sunny Sabbath mornings I shall hear the distant and drowsy sweet sound of your bells. And Anthy and Nort, Fergus MacGregor, and Captain Doane, and Ed Smith—how I have enjoyed you all and all I have known of you! As I look back to the time before I knew you the world seems small and cold, and even the hills and the fields and the town somehow less admirable. I shall not easily let you go out of my life! And twinkling Star of Hempfield—may you long continue to illuminate this small corner of the world!

THE END