One cloudless day in the fervid month of July, a handsome, bright-eyed youth of something over twenty summers, opened the gate of the little yard in front of Deacon Goodlow’s house and strode with an elastic step towards the side door. He was evidently at home and felt no need of ceremony, for without pausing to knock he turned the knob and entered.

The deacon’s house was one of those innumerable romantic little white cottages with wings added after the main structure, that dot the flat surface of Long Island, or Mattowacs, as the poetical Indians once elegantly named the wonderful sand-bar; it was hidden in trees and almost covered with vines, and had an air of superiority and taste somewhat unusual.

“Well, Katy,” said Harry, addressing a sprightly, rosy-cheeked maiden that he encountered inside, busy at some pottering woman’s work; “what do you think, now? Your father and mine are going fishing to-day. I left them talking it over, and arranging that they were to drive over in your father’s buggy, as our solitary horse is needed for other purpose.”

“I am glad of it, Harry; Mr. Hartley takes too little recreation, and father does so like a day on the Bay. He was speaking about it only yesterday.”

“But how odd that they should go alone; I wonder why your father does not take you, you like the Bay almost as well as he does.”

“Pretty nearly,” she replied with a laugh; “I love the breeze and the water, especially when we run outside and plunge into the monstrous waves of the ocean. It seems so fresh, and limitless, and powerful.”

“Yes, and you like to pull out the blue-fish; it is not all poetry, for to tell the truth, I have always felt convinced from your way of looking at them, that every time you caught a fish you thought of the pot and fancied how nice he would be on table.”

“Take care, sir, or the next time we go I will leave you to your own devices in the way of cooking. Do you remember when I found you trying to cook a big blue-fish on a long stick, over a huge hot fire, without any salt or butter?”

“But the old folks will be sure to fall out over politics or polemics, and come home in a dudgeon, as they have been near doing before this, your father is so fiery; I hope, for my future peace, his daughter does not take after him.”

“Now, Harry!” accompanied with a deep blush, was all the answer, and Katy was turning away, knowing instinctively how to punish her saucy lover, when Harry hastily continued:

“I think I have prevented that, however.”

“Have you? How?”

“I suggested something else for them to talk about, that will occupy their thoughts most of the time.”

With a shy, sidelong glance, like a bird alarmed but uncertain of the danger, Katy replied:

“And what subject was that, pray?”

“Our love, Katy.”

“A very silly subject, that need occupy nobody any time at all. You had better say your love, sir.”

“Now, darling, don’t tease, I have only a moment, or I shall be too late for the cars.”

“Then, why not go at once? I am full as busy. Was not that Jane calling me?” She made a great show of leaving, but managed to remain, evidently anticipating something of importance from her lover’s manner, and in a female way dreading though desiring the disclosure.

“Wait one instant; I need not repeat how I love you, you have heard that often.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“But to-day I am to be admitted to a partnership with my old employer, who kindly offered it, with some complimentary remarks, so late as yesterday.”

“You deserved it long ago.”

“Not at all, I was well paid for my services; but now”—having drawn the willing but skittish beauty towards him, he whispered—“now I can keep a wife.”

Her lips were close, her cheeks were tempting, her eyes turned away, her hands busy with the buttons of his coat, it is not certain he took advantage of these opportunities; but suddenly starting into life, she gave him a gentle tap on the ear, pulled away, and turning to hide her blushes, called out, as she darted from the room:

“You must catch her first, and the train starts in twenty minutes.”

“So it does,” he muttered, as the delighted look of admiration with which he had regarded her faded slowly from his eyes; “what a darling witch, it is so full of fun, and yet, as the neighboring poor can testify, so gentle, generous, and sympathetic.” A thousand thoughts of all the loving acts he would do for her came into his mind as he hastened towards the depot.

“Well, friend,” said Mr. Hartley, as the two deacons were journeying along at a sober gait in the old-fashioned but comfortable buggy of the wealthier, “what a beautiful day it is, not merely for our sport, and it could hardly be better, but to admire the beauties of nature! The summer foliage looks truly gorgeous in the broad sunshine.”

“Yes, indeed, and the influence of such a day must be felt by the moral nature of man. Even upon man debased by vice, I believe in the country as a moral purifier, and think a system should be devised by which criminals would be thrown in contact with it as much as possible.”

“I agree with you fully, and had an evidence this morning how it opens the heart and emboldens the affections. You know Harry has long been attentive to your daughter Katy, and I believe they have had a sort of half understanding.”

“A fine fellow is Harry; true, honorable, and energetic,” said Mr. Goodlow, heartily.

“He is so, and I, as his father, am proud to admit it; but Katy is a noble girl, and worthy of the finest fellow in the world.”

“Well, we start the subject with a hearty accord,” replied the friend, smiling; “I can readily imagine what will follow, and have no doubt we will be equally of accord on that.”

“The short of it is, Harry has just been placed in a position that authorizes him to marry, and he wants you to trust Katy to him. On the subject of support he was satisfactory, and on that of love enthusiastic. He hoped your favorite minister would perform the ceremony.”

This last remark was uttered very slowly, for it must be known the two deacons belonged to rival churches and different persuasions, and had had many a contest over form and ritual.

“That is a matter of small moment,” was the response, “but if any form should be simple it is the marriage ceremony. I really think it had better be performed in your church, where there is less regard for formality.”

“And for that reason I coincided in my son’s selection; our church teaches us that while we are not to insist upon forms as the essence of religion in any of its departments, we are not to indulge prejudice against them. That they are immaterial either way.”

“A strange view, indeed,” responded the opposing deacon, warming to the question; “strange that any one could conceive that the form in which he expressed his adoration was unimportant; in all religion, prayer takes the form of the bowed head and bended knee. Unseemly postures and acts are themselves irreverent, not to advert to the effect they must produce upon the mind that indulges in them on serious occasions. We owe to our fellow-men respectful deportment on solemn occasions, how much more so to our Creator. Form is the embodiment of the spirit of true worship, and partakes of its essence and beauty.”

“We fear,” responded his associate, “that form, from its very beauty, may distract the heart and engross the attention to the neglect of the essentials of devotion. Pleasing forms are beautiful to our senses, but God looks to the pure heart and humble mind; the formalities of religion too often hide an aching void of real principle, and while they quiet the conscience produce no good fruit in the soul. Therefore, we dread them, lest though the sepulchre be whited on the outside it hide rottenness within.”

They were both intelligent men, devoted to their sects, which although in belief almost identical, in forms were dissimilar; and they enforced and illustrated their views with great vigor, learning, and eloquence, and with the ordinary effect of religious discussions, that each was finally more firmly convinced that he was in the right. The hopes of their children were forgotten for the time, an occasional sharp innuendo added spice if not acerbity to the argument, and before their destination was reached a feeling of coldness, approaching dissatisfaction, had sprung up between the two friends.

There were no blue-fish running, and it was determined to try the striped bass that, although small, had begun to be plentiful, and in case of their absence to tempt the flounders, sea bass, black fish, or other like plebeians. In silence they pulled off to the fishing ground, and silently they cast overboard the anchor-stone and baited their hooks. Fishing has a calm, soothing influence incompatible with anger or estrangement. Occasional remarks were made which would doubtless have soon led to a perfect reconciliation had not the Fates prominently interfered. Mr. Hartley, who rowed the boat, had stationed himself in the bow, and strange to say began to take fish as fast as he could land them, while Mr. Goodlow, in the stern, usually the favorite location, caught nothing.

Fishing is a contemplative amusement, but when one contemplates his associate catching all the fish the amusement vanishes. Deacon Goodlow was a devotee of the gentle art, fancied himself an expert, and never doubted his far excelling his less experienced brother; had great faith in skill as opposed to luck, having often expatiated upon the fact that he rarely found an equal, and felt fully convinced that in skill he was not excelled.

Now skill is a very necessary thing and will tell in the long run, but luck is sometimes, doubtless for a wise purpose, permitted to triumph over it. In vain did the unfortunate deacon renew his baits, change the depth of his sinker, fish on the bottom or near the top; the result was the same. His irritation increased and broke forth into ejaculations of impatience, and a sudden desire to move to some other spot.

“There seem to be no fish here, we had better try a new place,” he said pettishly.

“I am doing very well, and doubt whether we could better ourselves,” replied his associate with that hilarity that success engenders, landing two bright little bass at once.

“You do not call that good fishing, they are mere sprats. I have taken many a bass of twenty-four pounds, and two of over fifty.”

“But you know the run is always small in this month.”

“Of course I know that; but I never saw such luck, you must have taken twenty, such as they are.”

“More than twenty, thirty at least; but perhaps we had better change places, I have taken more than I want and you had better try your hand.”

After some demur and a coquettish but half sulky refusal to deprive him of his “good luck,” Mr. Goodlow complied with his friend’s suggestion, but wonderful to say the luck changed at the same time; the fish all fled to the stern of the boat and were landed there faster than they had been previously over the bow. In fact, one line seemed to be bewitched as though the fish were in a piscatorial conspiracy. Even when the unfortunate fisherman extended his line and allowed his float to swing round beyond the stern and even alongside of his companion’s, that of the latter would be dragged under at every moment, while his would remain undisturbed.

“Well, I have seen luck before,” he began, fiercely, “but never such luck as this; how deep are you fishing?”

This question, as betraying the possibility of inferior judgment, fairly stuck in his throat.

“About three feet.”

“Mine is the same. No, it is mere luck, that is all.” Anger was making his language slightly ungrammatical.

Mr. Hartley replied, as he landed another brace: “Of course it is, and now let’s change seats again and see if we cannot outwit the fish.”

Being patronized by an inferior fisherman is almost unbearable, it implies triumph with nothing to justify it; and an assumption of superiority will be suspected if not intended. So Mr. Goodlow held out for a time, saying slightingly: “Oh, it was a mere question of luck, mere luck that must soon change;” but as it did not, and as his friend’s manner was soothing and even submissive, he at last consented, with the air of conferring a favor, to resume his old place in the stern.

At the first cast which Mr. Hartley made after returning to his seat at the bow, he hooked and landed the largest fish yet seen. This was too much, and if people swear inwardly it is greatly to be feared the unfortunate deacon will have to report hereafter one of the commandments broken on that occasion.

“Come,” he said, “we will go home; another time perhaps I can have a little luck. I used to think there was something like skill in fishing, but there does not appear to be in catching these miserable little fish.”

“Why, my last one must have weighed two pounds.”

“Two pounds! Not an ounce over one. I have had enough for this day, and the sun is remarkably hot.”

“Oh, I cannot go just yet; here comes another, nearly as large as the last.”

“I insist upon it,” Mr. Goodlow continued, having reeled up his line and taken apart his rod. “I will not stay longer, my horse must be fed, and it is late.”

“When a person comes out fishing,” replied Deacon Hartley, growing irritated, “it is a poor way to be wanting to go home because another catches the fish, especially as I am perfectly willing to divide equally.”

“What do you think I care for those puny little fish? You may keep them all, in welcome.”

“I suppose I may if I wish; they are mine because I have caught them, or nearly all; but I will give you half if you will cease grumbling at what you call your luck.”

“Well, what is it if not luck! Perhaps you think you surpass me in skill and experience,” answered the other sneeringly. “I tell you I am going home. It is my horse, and you may come or stay, as you choose.”

With that he seized the oars and shipping them into the nearest rowlocks, commenced furiously rowing the boat stern first. But the anchor-stone was down, and although he dragged it a few inches, he did so slowly and with great labor. Mr. Hartley went on deliberately fishing, but of course could catch nothing while the water was being disturbed.

“Pull up the anchor-stone, sir,” said Mr. Goodlow fiercely, the perspiration streaming down his face.

“I will do nothing of the kind,” responded Mr. Hartley.

The tugging at the oars was resumed, but when Mr. Goodlow was nearly exhausted, whether by accident or not will probably never be known, the oar slipped along the surface throwing a shower of water over the quondam friend, fairly taking away his breath. Without a word the latter dropped his rod, and seizing the bailing scoop, a sort of wooden shovel with a short handle, dipped it full of water and threw the contents in his companion’s face; the latter replied with a fresh douche from the oar.

The water fairly flew in mimic cataracts for ten minutes, till both parties were wet to the skin; originally, scoop had the best of it, but as skin and clothes will not take wetting beyond a certain degree, oars caught up, and the two irate lights of the church were as well drenched as if they had fallen overboard. Mutual exhaustion produced a cessation of hostilities, and after a moment’s pause, Deacon Hartley slowly drew up the anchor-stone, and Deacon Goodlow rowed silently to shore. Without a word, without a glance, the latter stepped to his buggy, untied the horse, jumped in and rode off.

Mr. Hartley had to secure the boat, collect his fish, unjoint his rod, and walk four miles home. The day was hot, the road was dusty, the fish were heavy, and tired enough he would have been, if an acquaintance passing in a wagon had not taken him up. The dust having covered him from head to foot helped disguise what had happened, and he allowed the gentleman to think he had slipped into the water.

The thoughts of the two deacons on the way home were not enviable. One had to meet a son, the other a daughter, and the latter dreaded the interview most; not that he admitted he was most to blame, but fearing more her sharp eyes and reproachful countenance.

“Oh, Harry,” said the pretty little girl usually so gay, now with sad-looking tearworn eyes, as she encountered her astonished lover on his way home from the railroad, “your father and mine quarrelled dreadfully to-day, so much so that they would not ride home together.”

“Just as I expected,” replied Harry, triumphantly; “your father is so easily excited.”

“No, but he says it was your father’s fault, at least he does not say so directly, but what he does say gives me that impression. Just think, your father threw water over mine, and he was all mud and dirt when he reached home.”

“Impossible,” said Harry, with a laugh, “he must have fallen overboard.”

“Oh, no, and your father would not ride home with him.”

“How did he get home then? he certainly would not have walked by preference four miles, on so hot a day as this. Imagine his half killing himself to deprive a person of his company who wished to be rid of him.”

“Oh, it must be; father was so angry, he told me I should not see you again.”

This response was illogical, and went far to disprove itself, but was enforced by her bursting into tears. “I have been crying ever since,” she sobbed.

Harry consoled her, sure of her affection; and knowing that parents are a slight affair against affection, he brought back smiles to her lips by his comments on her account of her father’s statement, and promised her it would come right if she only kept on obeying as scrupulously as she was then doing. She punished him for this by flying away in her former merry manner, leaving him to seek an explanation at home.

“Father,” he said, on arriving there and seeking him out, “how spruce you look; that is your best suit. Are you going to pay a visit?”

“I believe not, this evening; my other clothes were soiled while we were fishing.” Strictly true, but not all the truth.

“The deacon across the way came home rather muddy, they say. What luck did you have? Did it rain while you were out? There was not a cloud to be seen in New York.”

The father felt it would be useless to evade the question, and related the whole story, bearing kindly the good-natured comments of his son, between whom and himself there was a feeling of friendship as well as of affection.

“And now, father,” Harry began, after the recital was over, “and now how are you going to make up? You will have to make the first step, because you were not in the wrong.”

“Or, more truly, because my son loves the daughter of the person who has ill-used me. Are you not angry at my being left to walk home this hot day?”

“I should be, if that wagon had not come along; everything depends on that wagon. You know it was much pleasanter than riding with an angry man.”

“But then the dust; my clothes are ruined; a new suit will diminish your patrimony, which is not enormous.”

“Then I’ll make you a present of a splendid suit of black on my wedding day. I am rich, at least in expectation, being a partner and no longer a clerk.”

“To tell the truth,” continued the father, dropping the tone of badinage, “I did feel ashamed of myself, and was arranging a little plan of reconciliation, when our servant girl brought word that Mr. Goodlow had forbidden her drawing water from the well.”

Harry looked at his father with a surprised, troubled, and slightly angry look. The well was on Mr. Goodlow’s land, but had been used from time immemorial by both families, as there was none other near. He began to think the matter was more serious than he had at first supposed.

“I felt this to be unchristian,” continued his father, “and could not bring myself to make the first advance after it.”

“I can hardly believe the story, and will cross-question the girl,” replied Harry.

It turned out to be true, however; the girl had been going to the well, as Deacon Goodlow descended, “all mud,” as she described it, from his buggy, and he seeing her at first seemed inclined to avoid a meeting, but suddenly changing his mind told her angrily never to come there for water again. With all due allowance for kitchen exaggeration, the fact could scarcely be disputed, and Harry suddenly burst forth:

“We will dig a well of our own; I have always hated dependence for anything, even on her father, and then we’ll see—”

What they would see was not very clear, except that they would see the well built, for Harry, with his usual impetuosity, at once set about making the necessary arrangements, his new position enabling him to supply the requisite means. He engaged the men and selected the spot that very evening.

Next day the well was commenced and advanced rapidly towards completion, the water for family use being carted in the mean time from a distance in barrels. What the deacon over the way must have thought when he saw the excavation progressing and the water cart regularly every morning passing in front of his door, no one knows; for not a word did he say. He could not have had an easy conscience nor a pleasant time, however, for Harry had not put his foot on the premises, and consequently Katy’s eyes were almost as full of water as the barrel.

It was a long way down to the region of water, and if truth, as is generally believed, lies so deep, there is no wonder it is rarely reached; but the effort was at length successful, and when the liquid vein was struck the crystal fluid proved plentiful, half filling the deep well.

The water carts ceased their journey, the workmen were discharged, Deacon Hartley had a well of his own, Harry felt independent; but there was something else wanted. The latter had not exactly evaded Katy, who he knew was pining to see him, but, feeling his pride hurt, had not taken as great pains as he might to have thrown himself accidentally in her way. She had felt this neglect, and now when his pride was satisfied hers was aroused, and she kept herself carefully in-doors.

It took a week to build the well, and a week had elapsed since—that was two weeks of misery, all because the fish did not bite as they should have done, and neglected scientific allurements for less artistic attractions. Deacon Goodlow was miserable, because Katy looked unhappy and reproachful, occasionally enforcing her reproaches with a sob or two. Deacon Hartley was miserable, partly because he was ashamed of himself and partly because it went against his whole nature to quarrel; Katy was miserable, because her lover had neglected her, and she had had no chance to disobey her father’s injunctions not to see him; Harry was the most miserable of the party now that the excitement of achieving his independence was over, because he missed the presence of his lady-love, and knew in his heart he had vented a little of his anger by neglecting her.

Harry was pining for her now in a much more rampant way than she had previously pined for him, and had revolved twenty impracticable schemes of restoring matters to their condition previous to the war. The inevitable laws of nature, however, that had caused all these mental wounds, helped to bring them to a crisis and finally to effect a cure. It was Sunday morning, and Harry had resolved twenty times he would join Katy on her way to church, for she went before her father to teach a class of Sunday scholars, and twenty times resolved that he would not. His father had convinced himself as many times that neighborly ill-will should be corrected at a sacrifice even of a little pride, and as often that he could not make the first advance; when a small voice was heard at the door, and electrified them both. It was not a sweet voice nor the tone rich, in fact it might be called harsh and unrefined, but the sound was pleasanter to Harry’s ears than any he had heard in two weeks. The voice belonged to the extra help of Mr. Goodlow’s household.

“Please, sir, master said I mussent, but could we have a little water from your well?”

Harry and his father gazed at each other and then at the girl in wonder.

“Please, sir,” she continued, seeing their bewildered air, and addressing herself to Harry in an injured tone, “our well has run itself dry. Ever since you built yours the water has been getting lower, and last night it all went. Master says it’s on account of the elevation, but I say it’s because yours is further down hill.”

“Do you mean to say you have no water at all?” said Harry.

“But I do, then, unless you call mud water; we managed to make tea last night by tying a new bit on to the rope; but wasn’t it bitter and gritty, though? You ought to have tasted it; but to-day it’s as thick as paste, and you know we cannot send a water cart on Sunday.”

“How did you manage for washing?”

“That’s how it comes we have no water for breakfast. We had saved up a little that had settled the worst down to the bottom, but we did not have enough to wash, and Miss Katy, when she tried to use the well water, came out all streaked, and used up all that we had put by; because, as she said, she would rather go without her breakfast than go dirty. I guess I wouldn’t, though.”

“But why did you not send to us before?” said Mr. Hartley, compassionately.

“Why, because master thought as he had ordered away your girl, you would do the like by me; unless he begged pardon, or something of that sort, and he did not feel equal to that after your throwing him overboard the day you went fishing.”

“He surely never said I threw him overboard?”

“No, but I guessed it; how could he ’a got so wet otherwise, and why was he so mad?”

“Well, you guessed all wrong; I did nothing of the sort, and hope you have told no one such a silly story.”

“Never mind that now,” interrupted Harry. “Mr. Goodlow is waiting for his breakfast; so take as much water as you want or you will be too late.”

“Give my respects to Mr. Goodlow,” added his father, “and say he is welcome to water from our well at any time, and that I regret it has injured his.”

“Yes, and you can add that father will call on him this evening, and now be off; I’ll draw the water for you.” This was very polite in Harry, but respect for woman, even in the humblest ranks, is ever the attribute of an American, and—it is possible Harry may have wished to send a message to Katy. “Leastways,” as the girl would have said, Katy was hardly out of sight of her front gate when she heard a step she well knew.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, turning a pair of sorrowful eyes upon him, that shot reproachful torments into his very heart. “How could you?”

The sentence was incomplete in its construction, but complete enough in its effects; it was enforced with a little sob and made Harry about as contemptible a wretch, in his own esteem, as if she had rehearsed a set speech of an hour’s duration, depicting his enormities.

“I am so sorry, Katy. Do you forgive me? I have been wretched.” This was a good tack, and being borne out by his appearance and evident contrition, went a long way towards securing his pardon.

What exactly was said, the tones being low and the faces close together, will never be discovered, but light came back to Katy’s eyes, color to her cheeks, and a smile, if nothing more, to her lips; and ere the church was reached a happier couple could not be found within it. Joy is doubly blessed if preceded by sorrow, and only those who have known its want can appreciate happiness.

That Sunday evening, as had been his custom, unbroken for many years till the last two weeks, Harry presented himself at Mr. Goodlow’s gate and entered unannounced. It can hardly be said he was wholly undisturbed, but outwardly exhibited perfect composure, prepared to meet and determined to exhaust the worst. Courage dispels danger, and there was nothing and nobody to meet more terrible than Katy herself. She was in splendid spirits, full of fun, rendered more touching and gentle on account, of the recent estrangement, and charmed Harry with the renewal of her former witchery. He gave himself up to the mere enjoyment of her presence, following her every motion with unwearying admiration, and never removing his eyes from her loved form. He seemed as though drinking through his eyes her graceful beauty, and experienced all those charming sensations that love alone bestows.

He had almost forgotten, basking in present joy and dreaming hazily of future happiness, there was an angry father in existence, when the latter gentleman appeared at the door. A gleam of surprise crossed his features, but Harry at once stepped forward and was in the act of boldly justifying his presence, when he saw another figure in the doorway—that of his own parent.

Mr. Goodlow slowly advanced, and extending his hand frankly to Harry, said:

“I am glad to see you, and hope you will forget the errors and weaknesses of humanity, and forgive me the annoyance my foolish and unworthy quarrel has caused.”

“And you, Katy,” said Mr, Hartley, “must do the like by me; we have been guilty of wrong, and should only do worse by being ashamed to own it before our children, whom our example is most likely to affect.”

Harry felt as though he had escaped from a building on fire, and at once recovering his elasticity, replied:

“No; in quarrelling Katy and I never intend to follow any one’s example. Do we, Katy?”

“We only regret,” she continued, evading his gaze, “that a shadow should have come between those we love so dearly.”

“I hope, never to return,” replied Mr. Goodlow, “and that these weeks of folly and punishment may not be lost upon us all; but let us speak no more of it.”

“We have something more serious still to mention,” resumed Mr. Hartley, gaily. “We have been settling your wedding-day, and, Katy, you should be very grateful, for I named an early one.” He took her affectionately in his arms, for she had always been like a daughter, and kissed her warmly while she hid her blushing face.

“That is right, father,” burst forth Harry, enthusiastically. “I suppose you went on the principle, ‘If ’tis well done, when ’tis done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly.’”

“No, Harry, on an entirely different one,” said Mr. Goodlow, laughing heartily. “On the principle, that ‘All’s well that ends well.’ Though that is but a dry joke, as far as we are concerned.”