XX
SNOW-BOUND
They were all on the porch the next morning to see March off. It was not so very cold, but there was a marked chill in the air and the sky was leaden.
"It's my last day, mother, then vacation for two weeks. Hooray!" He leaped into the saddle, and Fleet reared gently to show her approval.
"Don't you get out a little earlier to-day, March?" said his mother, looking up at the leaden sky. "I 'm afraid it's going to snow heavily. Promise me not to start from Barton's if the storm is a hard one; you can stay at the inn or at the principal's. I would rather you remained away from home two days, or over Sunday, than to have you attempt the Mountain in too severe a storm."
"I 'll be careful, mother."
"Better give your promise to your mother, March; she 'll feel better 'bout you 're not startin' out," said Chi.
"I promise, little Mother Blossom." He threw himself off the horse, and gave her another kiss; "I would n't go to-day except for the exams.–I can't miss them."
"Good luck, dear," said his mother, and her eyes followed the horse and rider down the Mountain.
"I 'll go over the first thing 'n' give them posies to Marier-Ann, 'n' then I 'll make tracks for home, 'n' get my snow-shed up before it begins to come down."
"Do you think we shall need it?"
"Sure 's fate," replied Chi, laconically, and went into the barn to harness Bess.
It was noon before Chi had set up his snow-shed, a long, low, wooden tunnel, which he had manufactured to connect the woodshed door with a side door of the barn. By means of this he was enabled, in unusually heavy storms, to communicate with the barn and attend to the stock without "shovelling out."
It was about three in the afternoon when the first flakes began to fall, or rather to "spit," as Chi expressed it, and the snow fell intermittently and lightly until four, when there was a sudden change of wind. It veered to the north-east, and blast after blast, charged with icy particles, hurled itself against the Mountain. Within half an hour it was almost as dark as at midnight, and the snow swept in drifting clouds over woodlands and pasture. When the wind ceased for a moment, white, soft avalanches descended upon farmhouse, barn, and mountain-road, until, by six o'clock, the road was impassable and the drifts at the back of the house a foot above the bedroom windows. Chi had made all snug for the night.
"This beats anything I ever saw, Mis' Blossom. I 'm mighty glad Ben ain't comin' home to-day, 'n' that March gave you the promise to stay at Barton's if it stormed hard."
"You don't think he would venture to start, do you, Chi?" asked Mrs. Blossom, trying not to appear anxious for the sake of the others.
"Bless you, no;" was Chi's hearty response. "March has got too level a head to risk himself 'n' Fleet in such a storm–it's a regular howler of a blizzard. If he did start," he added, "he 'd go in somewheres on the road–he couldn't get far."
After tea there was no settling down to the cosey evening pastimes or employments. If such a thing could be, the storm seemed to increase in severity. The wind struck the house at times with terrific force; the intermittent drift of snow and ice against the window panes startled the inmates of the long-room like the rattle of small shot. Chi had put out the fire in the fireplace before supper, for the wind drove flame and ashes out into the room.
Again and again Mrs. Blossom went to the windows–first one then another, and pressed her face close to the pane; but they were plastered so thick with snow that her efforts to see into the night were fruitless. Chi sat by the kitchen stove, which he had filled with wood. His boots rested on the fender, and, apparently, he was indifferent to the storm. But, in reality, not the creak of a beam, not the springing of a board, not an unwonted sound within or without the house escaped his notice.
In marked contrast to Chi's apparent apathy was Tell's restlessness. Since six o'clock he had shown signs of uneasiness. With strides, heavy and long, the huge beast paced up and down the long-room. Sometimes he followed Mrs. Blossom to the window, and, sitting down on his haunches beside her, rested his nose on the window sill and gazed at the whitened panes. At others he took his stand beside Chi and looked into his face, their eyes meeting on a level as the man sat and the dog stood. The dog looked as if he were questioning him dumbly.
As the evening wore on the dog's pace grew more rapid, more uneven; his tail waved in a jerky, excited manner. At last he lay down by the shed door, and, placing his nose on the threshold, gave vent to a long, low, half-stifled moan. At the sound Chi brought down his heels and the tipped chair-legs with a thump, and started to his feet. Mrs. Blossom turned to him with a white face, and Rose cried out:–
"Oh, Chi! What is the matter with Tell? He never acted this way before."
"Don't know," said Chi, shortly; "dumb beasts are curious creatures. Guess he don't like the storm. I 'll go out, Mis' Blossom, 'n' see if the stock 's all right. Kind of looks as if Tell was givin' us a warnin'."
"Oh, Chi, don't go through the tunnel now," cried Mrs. Blossom, all the pent-up anxiety finding expression in her voice.
Chi manufactured a laugh: "That's all safe, Mis' Blossom. I chained it and roped it down, both–it can't get away, 'n' the snow can't crush it. Don't you worry about me. I 'll be back inside of fifteen minutes." He took his lantern from the shelf over the sink:–"Get up, Tell." The dog rose, but, as Chi opened the door, he tried to push past him. Chi crowded him with his leg:–"No you don't, old feller! there ain't room only for just one of us to-night. Lay down!"
And Tell lay down, with his nose on his paws, and both nose and paws pressed close to the crack on the threshold. Another long crescendo moan, that, at the last, sounded like a sharp wail, filled the long-room, and Budd and Cherry clung to their mother in terror.
"You must go to bed, children," said Mrs. Blossom, her face white as the snow on the window panes, but with a voice of forced calm. "When you 're asleep, you won't hear all this trouble the storm is raising to-night."
"But I don't want to sleep upstairs alone without March, Martie," protested Budd, trying to be brave, but showing his fear.
"You can sleep in Hazel's room to-night, Budd, and Cherry can get into my bed and sleep with me."
The twins looked relieved. "Oh, that's different, Martie," said Budd, with a grateful look. Cherry begged for a little cotton wool to stuff in her ears:–"Then I can't hear Tell and this awful noise." A novel idea, which Budd at once adopted and put into practice. Their mother looked relieved when they were safely bestowed in their new quarters.
About ten minutes afterwards they heard Chi's steps in the shed. Then the door opened slowly, as he shoved Tell aside. When he entered the room Mrs. Blossom gave one look at his face.
"Oh, Chi, what has happened!" She cried out as if hurt.
Chi's face showed grayish white and drawn in the lamplight. His hand shook a little as he reached for a second lantern, turning his back on the three terrified faces.
"Horse stalled, that's all. Had a tough tussle to get him round, but he 's all right now." His voice sounded hoarse.
"Was it Bob or Bess?" asked Rose.
Chi, without answering, turned quickly to Tell, who was pressing him nearly off his feet, and at the same time, lashing his tail as if in fury.
"What ails you, anyway?" said Chi, roughly. "D' you want to get out?"
For answer the dog rushed to the front door that opened on the porch, rose on his hind legs, stemmed his powerful forepaws against the panels and, throwing back his massive head, sent forth from his deep throat a roar that seemed to shake the rafters.
"Mis' Blossom," Chi's voice shook and his hand trembled till the glass globe of the lantern tinkled in the wire frame, "I 'm goin' to let him out, 'n' I 'm goin' to follow on–there 's trouble somewhere on the Mountain, 'n' I 'm goin' to find out where 't is."
All three cried out, protesting, entreating, praying him to desist. But Chi shook his head.
"I tell you I 've got to go, Mary Blossom"–Chi had never called her that but once before, and Mrs. Blossom, recalling the time, felt her heart as lead within her–"you're brave,–brave as a woman can be; don't say nothin', but let me go. Have plenty of hot water 'n' flannels, 'n' some spirits ready 'gainst I come back–"
"Lady-bird, give me the dog collar with the bell you gave Tell last Chris'mus; 'n' Molly Stark, fill your mother's hot water-bag–'n' hurry up; 'n' Mis' Blossom, give me Ben's brandy flask, he didn't take it with him."
Chi, while issuing these orders, was strapping down his trousers over his long boots; then he poured out a brimming cup of hot water, and mixed with it some of the brandy from the flask. He put the collar on Tell, the bell ringing loud and clear with every movement. He opened the door; the dog bounded out into the night. Chi followed him, a coil of rope around his neck, a shovel over one shoulder with a lantern suspended from the handle, and in his hand a second lantern. The hot-water bag he had put beneath his sweater, and a leathern belt girded him.
So equipped he went out into the drifting snows and the night of storm. The terrified women were left alone.
"Mother, oh, mother!" cried Rose, wringing her hands, "I know it's something dreadful; Chi would never look that way."
Mary Blossom could not answer. Her silence was prayer. It was all of which she was capable at that time.
"I don't know what the matter was in the barn, mother," again cried Rose, in an agony of fear. "Chi did n't tell us all, I 'm sure. Let me go through the tunnel and find out, do, mother!"
"Oh, Rose, I can't–I can't!" Mrs. Blossom spoke under her breath.
"Please, mother. It 's all safe, and the wind has gone down a little since Chi went; let me go–I can't rest till I do. You can hold the light at the shed door end and I won't be gone but a minute or two. I 'll take the dark lantern with me–Oh, mother! do, do–!"
"Well, Rose, perhaps it's for the best. I 'll watch you through."
"May I watch, too?" asked Hazel, eagerly.
"No, dear, I want you to stay here in case the children should wake. Come, Rose."
They were gone but a few minutes; then Mrs. Blossom came in followed by her daughter. The girl's teeth were chattering; she looked blue and pinched.
"What did you find, Rose?" Her mother's voice was scarce above a whisper.
"I found Fleet!"
The two women sat down on the settle, holding each other close; and the wind rose again in its fury.
Wrapping a heavy shawl about her Hazel crept away upstairs to the back garret and the window overlooking the woods'-road, which formed the approach to the house. There was a little snow-drift beneath it where the flakes had sifted through; but the wind was felt less severely on that side of the house. She opened the window a few inches, propping it on a corn cob she had stepped upon; then, kneeling, she put her ear to the opening and strained her hearing in every lull of the storm.
At last–she knew not how long she had listened–she heard Tell's deep roar. It came muffled, but distinct. She scarce trusted her ears; but again she heard it, and, this time, in a dead silence, she caught the sound of the bell. Surely Tell was nearing the house. She ran downstairs.
"They 're coming!" she cried, hardly realizing what she said in her excitement. Mrs. Blossom and Rose leaped to their feet. They threw open the door.
"Chi! Chi!" they called out into the night. There was a joyous bark for answer–then a groan, and Chi staggered across the snow-laden porch and fell with his heavy burden on the threshold.
At midnight the wind went down, but the snow continued to fall. All the next day it fell steadily, but at sunset it ceased, and a young moon looked over the shoulder of Mount Hunger upon an unbroken white coverlet that, in some places, was drifted to the depth of twenty feet.
There was twilight in Aunt Tryphosa's little cabin "over eastwards," for the snow was piled to the eaves, and the tulips furnished their only sunshine for two days.
There was consternation at Hunger-ford, for the family were cut off from their neighbors and the outside world of letters and papers.
There were councils at Lemuel's and the Spillkinses'–for how could they gather their forces to break out the Mountain?
There were heavy hearts and reddened eyelids in the farmhouse, for March, rescued by Chi and revived by vigorous treatment, had succumbed to the exposure and chill, and lay unconscious in fever–and no help at hand.
Chi, spent to exhaustion, had rallied at midnight, but knew that it was beyond human powers to attempt to reach Barton's or even Lemuel Wood's, their next neighbor, through the drifts.
So they waited, helpless–one day, two days. On the second day the white expanse showed no tracks. Then March began to wander, and clutch his breast, where his mother had found the telegram, which his father had sent to him from Ogdensburg:–
"Heavy blizzard. Roads blocked. Tell mother at once. Don't worry."
Chi walked the house night and day in his misery of helplessness. At last, on the third day, looking eastwards he descried a black blotch on the white,–it was a four-ox team breaking out from the Fords'. Later in the day, when the men were within two hundred yards of the house, he saw another black spot on the lower road. It was the Mill Settlement road-team, with a full equipment of men and tools, to cut a way through the drifts.
Soon there was help and to spare. Alan Ford was riding down the narrow way between high walls of glittering white to Barton's for aid, and bringing back telegrams of anxious inquiry from Mr. Blossom and Mr. Clyde. On the fourth day, the blockade was raised, and the south-bound express to Barton's River brought Mr. Blossom from the north, and another train brought Mr. Clyde from the south. Two days after all the Lost Nation knew that March would live.
XXI
A LITTLE DAUGHTER OF THE RICH
It was days before March himself was aware of that fact.
Budd and Cherry were at the Fords'. May was with Aunt Tryphosa and Miss Alton at Lemuel Wood's. Maria-Ann had come over to help Mrs. Blossom with the work, and Chi had taken care of the stock. Rose and her mother watched and waited in the sick room, relieved on alternate nights by Mr. Blossom and Chi.
The great storm was a thing of the past. The sun shone in a deep blue heaven, and the white world of the Mountain showed daily life and movement. The teamsters were at work loading the sledges with logs, and the ponderous drags squeaked and grated as they slid down the crisping highway.
A crow cawed loudly on the first of March, and the hens came out to find a warm nook in the south-east corner of the barn-yard, where a heap of sodden straw was thawing.
All in the farmhouse were rejoicing, for March had spoken in his weakness–a few words, but clear, coherent, for the frost and fever, both, had left his brain. When he spoke the second time it was to ask for Chi; and Chi had tiptoed into the room in his stocking-feet and laid his hand on March's thin, white one, gulped down the tears and the rising sob that was choking him, and–spoke of the weather!
The next day March turned to his mother, who was sitting by the bed, brooding him with her great love, and asked suddenly, but in a clear and much stronger voice:
"Where 's Hazel?"
Mrs. Blossom hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly:–"Hazel is at home with her father for a few weeks."
March turned his face to the wall and was silent for several hours.
When he was stronger Mrs. Blossom gave him the little note Hazel had left for him, and, with mother-tact, knowing March's reserve of nature, went out of the room while he read it. She saw no signs of it when she returned and asked no questions, but March's gray eyes spoke a language for which there was but one interpretation. With his rare smile, he held out his hand for his mother's, and clasped it closely.
Soon he was able to be up and about, and the children were again at home. Life in the farmhouse resumed its old course–but with a difference. Just what it was no one attempted to define. But each felt it in his own way. March was more gentle with Budd and Cherry, more often with his mother and Chi, more companionable for his father. Rose was quieter, but, if possible, more loving towards all. Budd was at times wholly disconsolate, and wasted sheets of his best Christmas note-paper in writing letters to Hazel which were never sent.
Chi went oftener to the small house "over eastwards," where he was sure of willing ears and sympathetic hearts when he unburdened himself in regard to his "Lady-bird."
"Fact is," he said to Maria-Ann, as she stood with her apron over her head watching him plough their garden plot (that was his annual neighborly offering), "she 's left a great hole in that house, 'n' there is n't one of us that don't know it 'n' feel it;–kind of empty like in your heart, you know, just as your stomach feels when you 've ploughed an acre of sidlin' ground, before breakfast–Get up, Bess, whoa–back!–you don't hear that laugh of hers in the barn, nor out in the field, nor up in the pasture; 'n' you don't see those great eyes lookin' up at you when you 're harnessin', nor peekin' round the corner of the stall to see if you 're most through milkin'. 'N' you don't hear a fiddle makin' it lively after supper, 'n' the children ain't danced once in the barn this spring." Chi sighed heavily.
"Don't Mr. Ford go over there pretty often?" queried Maria-Ann. "I see him gallopin' by two or three times a week."
"Well, what if you do?" Chi answered grumpily, much to Maria-Ann's surprise. "He can't fiddle the way Ladybird does, 'n' they all sit 'n' jabber some kind of lingo–French, they call it, but I call it, good, straight Canuck–'n' act as if they were at a party,–Rose, 'n' Miss Alton, 'n' the whole of 'em. 'T ain't much company for me. I get off to bed about dark. 'N' the worst of it is, when he isn't to our house, they're all to his–Come around!" Chi jerked the reins, to Bess's resentful surprise.
"They say he's payin' attention to Rose," ventured Maria-Ann, her eyes following the furrow, which was running not quite true.
"They 're a parcel of fools," growled Chi, eyeing the furrow with a dissatisfied air, "Rose need n't look Alan Ford's way for attention. She can have all she wants most anywheres.–Get up, Bess! what you backin' that way for!–'n' folks tongues can be measured by the furlong 'twixt here and Barton's."
"Well, there ain't any harm in Rose's havin' attention, Chi," said Maria-Ann with some spirit, and ready to stand up for her sex.
"Did n't say there was," retorted Chi, in mollified tones. "There ain't no more harm in Rose's havin' attention than in your havin' it."
"Me!" exclaimed Maria-Ann, pleasantly surprised out of her momentary resentment. "I ain't had any chance to have any."
"Ain't you?" said Chi, busying himself with the plough preparatory to leaving. "Well, that ain't any sign you won't have–Get along, Bess!–I 'll leave this plough here till to-morrow; I ain't drawn those last two furrers straight, 'n' I 've got too much pride to have any man see that–Malachi Graham, his mark.–No, sir-ee," said Chi, emphatically, "straight or starve is my motto every time, just you remember that, Marier-Ann Simmons."
"I will, Chi," laughed Maria-Ann, and went back to her washing, singing joyfully to her rubbing accompaniment:–
"Come, sinners all, repent in time,
The Judgment Day is dawning;
Sun, moon, and stars to earth incline,
The trumpet sounds a warning."
Meanwhile letters were coming to every member of the family from Hazel. As March regained his strength there came as special gifts to him, books and magazines, and from time to time a beautiful photograph of an old-world cathedral–Canterbury, or York; a stately castle like Warwick, or Heidelberg; a peasant's chalet, or an English cottage to gladden his artist soul and eye, and transform the walls of his room into dwelling-places for his ideals.
"Mother," he said rather wistfully to Mrs. Blossom, on the first May day as they sat together under the old Wishing-Tree, talking over the plans for his future, "how can I go to work to make it all come true?"
He held in his hand a large photograph of the interior of Cologne Cathedral, which Hazel had given him.
"There are many ways, dear, which are most unexpectedly opened at times. No boy with health and perseverance has much to fear."
"But, mother, father had both, and he was n't able to go through college. He told me all about it the other day, and how he had missed it all through his life."
"I know, March, father failed in attaining to that which was his great desire, but he succeeded so immeasurably in another direction, that I think, sometimes, it must have been all for the best."
"Why, mother, father is poor now–how do you mean he has succeeded?"
"My dear boy, you are only in your seventeenth year, and I don't know that I can make it plain to you because you are young; but when your father conquered every selfish tendency in him, put aside what he had striven so hard for and what was just within his reach, and turned about and did the duty that the time demanded of him;–when he took his dead father's place as provider for the family, and, by his own exertions, placed his mother and sisters beyond want, before he even allowed himself to tell me he loved me, he proved himself a successful man; for he developed, in such hard circumstances, such nobility of character, that he is rich in love and esteem,–and that, March, and only that, is true wealth."
"I see what you mean, mother, but it does n't help me to see how I 'm to get through college, and get the training I need in my profession." March uttered the last word with pride. "There is so much a man has to have for that. Look at that now," he continued, holding up the photograph; "I need all that, and that means Europe, and Europe means money and time, and where is it all to come from?"
His mother smiled at the despairing tone. "As for time, March, you are only in your seventeenth year. That means ten years before you can begin to work in your profession; and as for the means–" she hesitated–"I think it is time to tell you something I 've been keeping and rejoicing over these last two weeks." She drew a letter from her dress-waist and handed it to him. "Read this, dear, and tell me what you think of it." Wondering, March took it and read:–
HAWKING VALLEY, NORTH CAROLINA,
April 15, 1897.
MY DEAR MRS. BLOSSOM,–Just a year ago to-day I sent my one child to you, trusting the judgment of my dear friend, Doctor Heath, in a matter which he felt concerned the future welfare of my daughter. My home has been very lonely without her. You, as a parent, can know something of what this separation has entailed.
It seemed wise to me, and I know you concurred in my opinion, to take her away from the conditions, in which she has thriven so wonderfully, while you were burdened, both in heart and hands, by such a critical illness as your son's. The result confirms the wisdom of my action, for March's convalescence has been slow and long; I am thankful to be assured it is sure. The burden of an extra member in your family at this time would, in the long run, prove too heavy for you.
I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you have done for Hazel. I have no words to express it. She returns to me full of life and joy, with no apparent unwillingness to take up her life again with me, which must seem dull to her in contrast to that which she had with you. Yet I know in her loyal little heart she belongs to you, is a part of your family henceforth–and I am glad to know it is so, for she needs, and will need, as a young girl, your motherly influence at all times.
I 'm not taking her away from you for good. Oh, no! That would be her loss as well as mine; but I am testing her a little. I have said I had no words with which adequately to express my gratitude. I am your debtor for my child's physical well-being–for much else which I do not find it easy to define. Will you allow me to make some compensation for your year of devotion? I do not care what form it take, providing you will permit me to try to discharge something of the debt–the whole can never be repaid. Will you not let me send that splendid son of yours through college? and give him two years of Europe afterwards? That future profession of his has always been of great interest to me. If the boy is too proud, as I suspect is the case, to accept the necessary amount other than as a loan, make it plain to him that I will even yield a point there–a pretty bad state of affairs for me as a debtor to find myself in. If he won't do this for me–won't Rose help me out by permitting me to aid her in cultivating that voice of hers? I know your magnanimity, and depend upon you to help me in this.
Hazel does not know I am writing to you, or she would send loving messages.
My kindest regards to Mr. Blossom, with hearty congratulations for March, and all sorts of neighborly remembrances for all others of the Lost Nation.
Sincerely your friend,
JOHN CURTIS CLYDE.
To Mrs. Benjamin Blossom.
"Oh, mother!"
A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which he handed to his mother.
"Oh, mother! if only I could–but I can't!"
He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms.
"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."
A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"
The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass.
"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity. You have read what Mr. Clyde says–you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter–"
"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."
"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us–a real little sister–" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence.
"Hazel is n't my sister."
"Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you must see how dear she has become to us all–and Mr. Clyde has put it in such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over, March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking about it for two weeks."
"It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible, as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement, flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with himself.
"Well, I can't understand you, March."
"I wish you could."
His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of yours?"
March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise never to tell?"
"Not even your father, March?"
"No, father, nor any one–ever, mother."
"Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you."
"Oh, mother, have n't you seen?–don't you know, that I–that I love Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through studying, and–and–Oh, don't you see?"
And Mrs. Blossom did see–at last.
She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference between you and Hazel?"
"What difference, mother?"
Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the world–and she found it difficult to answer.
"You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for all who come close to her.–Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to make?"
"But, mother,"–there was strong protest in the voice–"she did n't have any beauty till she came up here to us–and if she was a rich girl, she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too." March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful–and she is beautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't be all right in the end."
Mrs. Blossom was silenced,–"hoist with her own petard." "How can I destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But aloud, she said:–"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts. Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing–and there are fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,–temptations of which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home–just remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'–if only she be worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be–even of you."