By all the laws of physics, Mr. Opp during the months that ensued, should have stood perfectly still. For if ever two forces pulled with equal strength in opposite directions, love and ambition did in the heart of our friend the editor. But Mr. Opp did not stand still; on the contrary, he seemed to be moving in every direction at once.

In due time “The Opp Eagle” made its initial flight, and received the approbation of the community. The first page was formal, containing the editorial, a list of the subscribers, a notice to tax-payers, and three advertisements, one of which requested “the lady public to please note that the hats put out by Miss Duck Brown do not show the wire composing the frame.”[p103]
But the first page of the “Eagle” was like the front door of a house: when once you got on the other side of it, you were in the family, as it were, formality was dropped, and an easy atmosphere of familiarity prevailed. You read that Uncle Enoch Siller had Sundayed over at the Ridge, or that Aunt Gussy Williams was on the puny list, and frequently there were friendly references to “Ye Editor” or “Ye Quill Driver,” for after soaring to dizzy heights in his editorials, Mr. Opp condescended to come down on the second page and move in and out of the columns, as a host among his guests.

It is painful to reflect what would have been the fate of the infatuated Mr. Opp in these days had it not been for the faithful Nick. Nick’s thirst for work was insatiable; he yearned for responsibility, and was never so happy as when gathering news. He chased an item as a dog might chase a rat, first scenting it, then hunting it down, and after mutilating it a bit, proudly returning it to his master.[p104]
Mr. Opp was enabled, by this competent assistance, to spare many a half-hour in consultation with Miss Guinevere Gusty concerning the reportorial work she was going to do on the paper. The fact that nobody died or got married delayed all actual performance, but in order to be ready for the emergency, frequent calls were deemed expedient.

It became part of the day’s program to read her his editorial, or consult her about some social item, or to report a new subscriber, his self-esteem meanwhile putting forth all manner of new shoots and bursting into exotic bloom under the warmth of her approval.

Miss Gusty, on her part, was acquiring a new interest in her surroundings. In addition to the subtle flattery of being consulted, she was the recipient of daily offerings of books, and music, and drugstore candy, and sometimes a handful of flowers, carefully concealed in a newspaper to escape the vigilant eye of Jimmy Fallows.

On several occasions she returned Mr. [p105] Opp’s calls, picking her way daintily across the road, and peeping in at the window to make sure he was there.

It was at such times that the staff of “The Opp Eagle” misconducted itself. It objected to a young woman in the press-room; it disapproved of the said person sitting at the deal table in confidential conversation with the editor; it saw no humor in her dipping the pencils into the ink-well, and scrawling names on the new office stationery; and when the point was reached that she moved about the office, asking absurd questions and handling the type, the staff could no longer endure it, but hastened forth to forget its annoyance in the pursuit of business.

Moreover, the conduct of the chief, as Nick was pleased to call Mr. Opp, was becoming more and more peculiar. He would arrive in the morning, his pockets bristling with papers, and his mind with projects. He would attack the work of the day with ferocious intensity, then in the midst of it, without warning, he [p106] would lapse into an apparent trance, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ceiling, and such a smile on his face as one usually reserves for a camera.

Nick did not know that it was the song of the siren that was calling Mr. Opp, who, instead of lashing himself to the mast and steering for the open sea, was letting his little craft drift perilously near the rocky coast.

No feature of the proceedings was lost upon Mrs. Gusty. She applied the same method to her daughter that she did to her vines, tying her firmly to the wall of her own ability, and prescribing the direction and length to which she should grow. The situation would need pruning later, but for the present she studied conditions and bided her time.

Meanwhile the “Eagle” was circling more widely in its flight. Mr. Opp’s persistent and eloquent articles pertaining to the great oil wealth of the region had been reinforced by a favorable report from the laboratory in the city to which he had sent a specimen from the spring [p107] on Turtle Creek. Thus equipped with wings of hope, and a small ballast of fact, the “Eagle” went soaring on its way, and in time attracted the attention of a party of capitalists who were traveling through the State, investigating oil and mineral possibilities.

One epoch-making day, the editor was called up over the long-distance telephone, and, after answering numerous inquiries, was told that the party expected to spend the following night in the Cove.

This important event took place the last of November, and threw the town into great excitement. Mr. Opp received the message early in the morning, and immediately set to work to call a meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Company.

“This here is one of the most critical moments in the history of Cove City,” he announced excitedly to Nick. “It’s a most fortunate thing that they’ve got me here to make the preliminary arrangements, and to sort of get the thing solidified, as you might say. I’ll call a [p108] meeting for eleven o’clock at Your Hotel. You call up old man Hager and the preacher, and I will undertake to notify Jimmy Fallows and Mr. Tucker.”

“The preacher ain’t in town; he’s out at Smither’s Ridge, marrying a couple. I got the whole notice written out beforehand.”

“Well, tear it up,” said Mr. Opp. “I’ve engaged a special hand to do all weddings and funerals.”

Nick looked hurt; this was the first time his kingdom had been invaded. He kicked the door sullenly.

“I can’t get the preacher if he’s out at Smither’s Ridge.”

“Nick,” said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, “is that the way for a subordinate reporter to talk to a’ editor? You don’t seem to realize that this here is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of dollars involved. It’s a’ awful weight of responsibility for one man. I’m willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I’ve got to have the backing of all the other [p109] parties. Now it’s with you whether the preacher gets there or not.”

“Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?” asked Nick as he started forth.

“No; that’s my branch of the work: but—say—Nick, your sister will have to be there; she owns some shares.”

“All right,” said Nick; “her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker’s. I’ll tell her to wait till you come.”

Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust; his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would meet them with calm but unyielding dignity.

It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face and flashing [p110] eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy Fallows, who was hitching her horse.

“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after what I’ve seen.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Opp, “that our friend here ain’t been indulging in his customary—”

“It ain’t Mr. Fallows,” she broke in sharply; “it’s Mr. Tucker. He ain’t got the feeling of a broomstick.”

“Now, Miss Jim,” began Jimmy Fallows in a teasing tone; but the lady turned her back upon him and addressed Mr. Opp.

“You see this portrait,” she said angrily, pulling it out from under the seat. “It took me four weeks, including two Sunday afternoons, to make it. I begun it the second week after Mrs. Tucker died, when I seen him takin’ on so hard at church. He was cryin’ so when they took up the collection that he never even [p111] seen the plate pass him. I went right home and set to work on this here portrait, thinking he’d be glad and willing to buy it from me. Wouldn’t you, if you was a widower?”

Mr. Opp gazed doubtfully at the picture, which represented Mr. Tucker sitting disconsolately beside a grave, with a black-bordered handkerchief held lightly between his fingers. A weeping-willow drooped above him, and on the tombstone at his side were two angels supporting the initials of the late Mrs. Tucker.

“Why, Miss Jim,” insisted Fallows, “you’re askin’ too much of old man Tucker to expect him to keep on seein’ a tombstone when he’s got one eye on you and one eye on the Widow Gusty. He ain’t got any hair on top of his head to part, but he’s took to partin’ it down the back, and I seen him Sunday trying to read the hymns without his spectacles. He started up on ‘Let a Little Sunshine In’ when they was singing ‘Come, ye Disconsolate.’ You rub out the face and [p112] the initials on that there picture and keep it for the nex’ widower. Ketch him when he’s still droopin’. You’ll get your money back. Your mistake was in waiting too long.”

“Speaking of waiting,” said Mr. Opp, impatiently, “there’s a call meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Co. for this morning at eleven at Your Hotel. Hope it’s convenient, Jimmy.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jimmy; “we got more empty chairs at Your Hotel than anything else. What’s the meeting for? Struck gold?”

Mr. Opp imparted the great news.

“Oh, my land!” exclaimed Miss Jim, “will they be here to-day?”

“Not until to-morrow night,” explained Mr. Opp. “This here meeting this morning is for the stock-holders only. We got to kinder outline our policy and arrange a sort of basis of operation.”

“Well,” said Miss Jim, “I’ll take the portrait up to Mrs. Gusty’s and ask her to take care of it for me. I don’t know [p113] as I can do the face over into somebody else’s, but I can’t afford to lose it.”

It was afternoon before the stock-holders could all be brought together. They assembled in the office of Your Hotel in varying states of mind ranging from frank skepticism to intense enthusiasm.

Mr. Tucker represented the conservative element. He was the rich man of the town, with whom economy, at first a necessity, had become a luxury. No greater proof could have been desired of Mr. Opp’s persuasive powers than that Mr. Tucker had invested in a hundred shares of the new stock. He sat on the edge of his chair, wizen, anxious, fidgety, loaded with objections, and ready to go off half-cocked. Old man Hager sat in his shadow, objecting when he objected, voting as he voted, and prepared to loosen or tighten his purse-strings as Mr. Tucker suggested.

Mat Lucas and Miss Jim were independents. They had both had sufficient experience in business to know their own [p114] minds. If there was any money to be made in the Cove or about it, they intended to have a part in it.

Mr. Opp and the preacher constituted the Liberal party. They furnished the enthusiasm that floated the scheme. They were able to project themselves into the future and prophesy dazzling probabilities.

Jimmy Fallows, alone of the group, maintained an artistic attitude toward the situation. He was absolutely detached. He sat with his chair tilted against the door and his thumbs in his armholes, and treated the whole affair as a huge joke.

“The matter up for immediate consideration,” Mr. Opp was saying impressively, “is whether these here gentlemen should want to buy us out, we would sell, or whether we would remain firm in possession, and let them lease our ground and share the profits on the oil.”

“Well, I’m kinder in favor of selling out if we get the chance,” urged Mr. Tucker in a high, querulous voice. “To [p115] sell on a rising market is always a pretty good plan.”

“After we run up ag’in’ them city fellows,” said Mat Lucas, “I’ll be surprised if we git as much out as we put in.”

“Gentlemen,” protested Mr. Opp, “this here ain’t the attitude to assume to the affair. To my profoundest belief there is a fortune in these here lands. The establishment of ‘The Opp Eagle’ has, as you know, been a considerable tax on my finances, but everything else I’ve got has gone into this company. It’s a great and glorious opportunity, one that I been predicting and prophesying for these many years. Are we going to sell out to this party, and let them reap the prize? No; I trust and hope that such is not the case. In order to have more capital to open up the mines, I advocate the taking of them in.”

“I bet they been advocating the taking of us in,” chuckled Jimmy.

“Well, my dear friends, suppose we vote on it,” suggested the preacher.[p116]
“Reach yer hand back there in the press, Mr. Opp, and git the lead-pencil,” said Jimmy, without moving.

“The motion before the house,” said Mr. Opp, “is whether we will sell out or take ’em in. All in favor say ‘Aye.’”

There was a unanimous vote in the affirmative, although each member interpreted the motion in his own way.

“Very well,” said Mr. Opp, briskly; “the motion is carried. Now we got to arrange about entertaining the party.”

Mr. Tucker, whose brain was an accommodation stopping at each station, was still struggling with the recent motion when this new thought about entertainment whizzed past. The instinct of the landlord awoke at the call, and he promptly switched off the main line and went down the side track.

“Gallop was here while ago,” Jimmy was saying, with a satisfied glance at Mr. Tucker; “said they wanted me to take keer of ’em. I’ll ’commodate all but the preachers. If there are any preachers, Mr. Tucker kin have ’em. I [p117] have to draw the line somewheres. I can’t stand ’em ‘Brother-Fallowsing’ me. Last time the old woman corralled one and brought him home, he was as glad to find me to work on as she’d ’a’ be’n to git some fruit to preserve. ‘Brother,’ he says, reaching out for my hand, ‘do you ever think about the awful place you are going to when you die?’ ‘You bet,’ says I; ‘I got more friends there than anywhere.’” And Jimmy’s laugh shook the stove-pipe.

“How many gentlemen are coming to-morrow?” asked Miss Jim, who was sitting in a corner as far as possible from Mr. Tucker.

“Ten,” said Jimmy. “Now, you wouldn’t think it, but this here hotel has got six bedrooms. I’ve tooken care of as many as twenty at a time, easy, but I’ll be hanged if I ever heard of such foolishness as every one of these fellers wantin’ a room to hisself.”

“I’ve got three rooms empty,” said Mr. Tucker.

“Well, that leaves one over,” said Mat [p118] Lucas. “I’d take him out home, but we’ve got company, and are sleeping three in a bed now.”

Mr. Opp hesitated; then his hospitality overcame his discretion.

“Just consider him my guest,” he said. “I’ll be very pleased to provide entertainment for the gentleman in question.”

Not until the business of the day was over, and Mr. Opp was starting home, did he realize how tired he was. It was not his duties as an editor, or even as a promoter, that were telling on him; it was his domestic affairs that preyed upon his mind. For Mr. Opp not only led a strenuous life by day, but by night as well. Miss Kippy’s day began with his coming home, and ended in the morning when he went away; the rest of the time she waited.

Just now the problem that confronted him was the entertainment of the expected guest. Never, since he could remember, had a stranger invaded that little world where Miss Kippy lived her [p119] unreal life of dreams. What effect would it have upon her? Would it be kinder to hide her away as something he was ashamed of, or to let her appear and run the risk of exposing her deficiency to uncaring eyes? During the months that he had watched her, a fierce tenderness had sprung up in his heart. He had become possessed of the hope that she might be rescued from her condition. Night after night he patiently tried to teach her to read and to write, stopping again and again to humor her whims and indulge her foolish fancies. More than once he had surprised a new look in her eyes, a sudden gleam of sanity, of frightened understanding; and at such times she would cling to him for protection against that strange thing that was herself.

As he trudged along, deep in thought, a white chrysanthemum fell at his feet. Looking up, he discovered Miss Guinevere Gusty, in a red cloak and hat, sitting on the bank with a band-box in her lap.

His troubles were promptly swallowed [p120] up in the heart-quake which ensued; but his speech was likewise, and he stood foolishly opening and shutting his mouth, unable to effect a sound.

“I am waiting for the packet to go down to Coreyville,” announced Miss Gusty, straightening her plumed hat, and smiling. “Mr. Gallop says it’s an hour late; but I don’t care, it’s such a grand day.”

Mr. Opp removed his eyes long enough to direct an inquiring glance at the heavens and the earth. “Is it?” he asked, finding his voice. “I been so occupied with business that I haven’t scarcely taken occasion to note the weather.”

“Why, it’s all soft and warm, just like spring,” she continued, holding out her arms and looking up at the sky. “I’ve been wishing I had time to walk along the river a piece.”

“I’ll take you,” said Mr. Opp, eagerly. “We can hear the whistle of the boat in amply sufficient time to get back. Besides, it is a hour late.”[p121]
She hesitated. “You’re real sure you can get me back?”

“Perfectly,” he announced. “I might say in all my experience I never have yet got a lady left on a boat.”

Miss Guinevere, used to being guided, handed him her band-box, and followed him up the steep bank.

The path wound in and out among the trees, now losing itself in the woods, now coming out upon the open river. The whole world was a riot of crimson and gold, and it was warm with that soft echo of summer that brings some of its sweetness, and all of its sadness, but none of its mirth.

Mr. Opp walked beside his divinity oblivious to all else. The sunlight fell unnoticed except when it lay upon her face; the only breeze that blew from heaven was the one that sent a stray curl floating across her cheek. As Mr. Opp walked, he talked, putting forth every effort to please. His burning desire to be worthy of her led him into all manner of verbal extravagances, and the mere [p122] fact that she was taller than he caused him to indulge in more lofty and figurative language. He captured fugitive quotations, evolved strange metaphors, coined words, and poured all in a glittering heap of eloquence before her shrine.

As he talked, his companion moved heedlessly along beside him, stopping now and then to gather a spray of goldenrod, or to gaze absently at the river through some open space in the trees. For Miss Guinevere Gusty lived in a world of her own—a world of vague possibilities, of half-defined longings, and intangible dreams. Love was still an abstract sentiment, something radiant and breathless that might envelop her at any moment and bear her away to Elysium.

As she stooped to free her skirt from a detaining thorn, she pointed down the bank.

“There’s some pretty sweet-gum leaves; I wish they weren’t so far down.”

“Where?” demanded Mr. Opp, rashly eager to prove his gallantry.[p123]
“’Way down over the edge; but you mustn’t go, it’s too steep.”

“Not for me,” said Mr. Opp, plunging boldly through the underbrush.

The tree grew at a sharp angle over the water, and the branches were so far up that it was necessary to climb out a short distance in order to reach them. Mr. Opp’s soul was undoubtedly that of a knight-errant, but his body, alas! was not. When he found himself astride the slender, swaying trunk, with the bank dropping sharply to the river flowing dizzily beneath him, he went suddenly and unexpectedly blind. Between admiration for himself for ever having gotten there, and despair of ever getting back, lay the present necessity of loosening his hold long enough to break off a branch of the crimson leaves. He tried opening one eye, but the effect was so terrifying that he promptly closed it. He pictured himself, a few moments before, strolling gracefully along the road conversing brilliantly upon divers subjects; then he bitterly considered the [p124] present moment and the effect he must be producing upon the young lady in the red cloak on the path above. He saw himself clinging abjectly to the swaying tree-trunk, only waiting for his strength or the tree to give away, before he should be plunged into the waters below.

“That’s a pretty spray,” called the soft voice from above; “that one above, to the left.”

Mr. Opp, rallying all his courage, reached blindly out in the direction indicated, and as he did so, he realized that annihilation was imminent. Demonstrating a swift geometrical figure in the air, he felt himself hurling through space, coming to an abrupt and awful pause when he struck the earth. Perceiving with a thrill of surprise that he was still alive, he cautiously opened his eyes. To his further amazement he found that he had landed on his feet, unhurt, and that in his left hand he held a long branch of sweet-gum leaves.

“Why, you skinned the cat, didn’t you?” called an admiring voice from [p125] above. “I was just wondering how you was ever going to get down.”

Mr. Opp crawled up the slippery bank, his knees trembling so that he could scarcely stand.

“Yes,” he said, as he handed her the leaves; “those kind of athletic acts seem to just come natural to some people.”

“You must be awful strong,” continued Guinevere, looking at him with approval.

Mr. Opp sank beside her on the bank and gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the moment. Both hands were badly bruised, and he had a dim misgiving that his coat was ripped up the back; but he was happy, with the wild, reckless happiness of one to whom Fate has been unexpectedly kind. Moreover, the goal toward which all his thought had been rushing for the past hour was in sight. He could already catch glimpses of the vision beautiful. He could hear himself storming the citadel with magic words of eloquence. Meanwhile he nursed the band-box and smiled dumbly into space.[p126]
From far below, the pungent odor of burning leaves floated up, and the air was full of a blue haze that became luminous as the sun transfused it. It enveloped the world in mystery, and threw a glamour over the dying day.

“It’s so pretty it hurts,” said the girl, clasping her hands about her knees. “I love to watch it all, but it makes the shivers go over me—makes me feel sort of lonesome. Don’t it you?”

Mr. Opp shook his head emphatically. It was the one time in years that down in the depths of his soul he had not felt lonesome. For as Indian summer had come back to earth, so youth had come back to Mr. Opp. The flower of his being was waking to bloom, and the spring tides were at flood.

A belated robin overhead, unable longer to contain his rapture, burst into song; but Mr. Opp, equally full of his subject, was unable to utter a syllable. The sparkling eloquence and the fine phrases had evaporated, and only the bare truth was left.[p127]
Guinevere, having become aware of the very ardent looks that were being cast upon her, said she thought the boat must be about due.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Opp; “that is, I was about to say—why—er—say, Miss Guin-never, do you think you could ever come to keer about me?”

Guinevere, thus brought to bay, took refuge in subterfuge. “Why—Mr. Opp—I’m not old enough for you.”

“Yes, you are,” he burst forth fervently. “You are everything for me: old enough, and beautiful enough, and smart enough, and sweet enough. I never beheld a human creature that could even begin to think about comparing with you.”

Guinevere, in the agitation of the moment, nervously plucked all the leaves from the branch that had been acquired with such effort. It was with difficulty that she finally managed to lift her eyes.

“You’ve been mighty good to me,” she faltered, “and—and made me lots happier; but I—I don’t care in the way you mean.”[p128]
“Is there anybody else?” demanded Mr. Opp, ready to hurl himself to destruction if she answered in the affirmative.

“Oh, no,” she answered him; “there never has been anybody.”

[p129]

“‘Why, Mr. Opp, I’m not old enough’”

“Then I’ll take my chance,” said Mr. Opp, expanding his narrow chest. “Whatever I’ve got out of the world I’ve had to fight for. I don’t mind saying to you that I was sorter started out with a handicap. You know my sister—she’s a—well, a’ invalid, you might say, and while her pa was living, my fortunes wasn’t what you might call as favorable as they are at present. I never thought there would be any use in my considering getting married till I met you, then I didn’t seem able somehow to consider nothing else. If you’ll just let me, I’ll wait. I’ll learn you to care. I won’t bother you, but just wait patient as long as you say.” And this from Mr. Opp, whose sands of life were already half-run! “All I ask for,” he went on wistfully, “is a little sign now and then. [p131] You might give me a little look or something just to keep the time from seeming too long.”

It was almost a question, and as he leaned toward her, with the sunlight in his eyes, something of the beauty of the day touched him, too, just as it touched the weed at his feet, making them both for one transcendent moment part of the glory of the world.

Guinevere Gusty, already in love with love, and reaching blindly out for something deeper and finer in her own life, was suddenly engulfed in a wave of sympathy. She involuntarily put out her hand and touched his fingers.

The sun went down behind the distant shore, and the light faded on the river. Mr. Opp was almost afraid to breathe; he sat with his eyes on the far horizon, and that small, slender hand in his, and for the moment the world was fixed in its orbit, and Time itself stood still.

Suddenly out of the silence came the long, low whistle of the boat. They scrambled to their feet and hurried down [p132] the path, Mr. Opp having some trouble in keeping up with the nimbler pace of the girl.

“I’ll be calculatin’ every minute until the arrival of the boat to-morrow night,” he was gasping as they came within sight of the wharf. “I’ll be envyin’ every—”

“Where’s my band-box?” demanded Guinevere. “Why, Mr. Opp, if you haven’t gone and left it up in the woods!”

Five minutes later, just as the bell was tapping for the boat to start, a flying figure appeared on the wharf. He was hatless and breathless, his coat was ripped from collar to hem, and a large band-box flapped madly against his legs as he ran. He came down the home-stretch at a record-breaking pace, stepped on board as the gang-plank was lifted, deposited his band-box on the deck, then with a running jump cleared the rapidly widening space between the boat and the shore, and dropped upon the wharf.

He continued waving his handkerchief even after the boat had rounded the [p133] curve, then, having edited a paper, promoted a large enterprise, effected a proposal, and performed two remarkable athletic stunts all in the course of a day, Mr. Opp turned his footsteps toward home.