In Wild Rose Time

by Amanda M. Douglas

Then there was the soft silence of a country afternoon—the hushed sweetness of innumerable voices that are always telling of God’s wonders.

“John,” she said, in her low, caressing sort of tone that she had kept from girlhood, “I think heaven won’t be quite perfect to me until I hear your voice among the multitude no man can number.”

That was all. She had let her life of seventy-four years do her preaching. But she still prayed for her sheaves.

How had he come to have so much courage on Saturday afternoon, and so little now? Of course he could not be quite sure. And there would be Austin’s incredulous laugh.

They went on to the Adirondacks. He made a sketch of Bess, and sent it to a photographer’s with instructions. He was delighted with the artist group. He was planning out his winter. He would take a studio with some one. He would see what he could do for the Quinn children, and paint his fine picture. She would see it when it was exhibited somewhere. There would be a curious satisfaction in it. And yet he was carrying around with him every day three faded, shrivelled wild-rose buds.

And then one day they brought in Austin Travis insensible—dead, maybe. There was a little blood stain on his face and his golden brown beard; and it was an hour before they could restore him to consciousness. Just by a miracle he had been saved. A bit of rock that seemed so secure, had been secure for centuries perhaps, split off, taking him down with it. He had the presence of mind to throw away his gun, but the fall had knocked him insensible. He had lain some time before the others found him. There were bruises, a dislocated shoulder, and three broken ribs. Surgery could soon mend those. But there was a puncture in the magnificent lungs, such a little thing to change all one’s life; and at first he rebelled with a giant’s strength. Life was so much to him, all to him. He could not go down into nothingness with his days but half told.

Out of all the plans and advice it was settled to try the south of France, and perhaps the Madeira Isles, to take such good care and have such an equable climate that the wound might heal. And John was to be his companion and nurse and friend for all the lighter offices. Austin had hardly allowed him to go out of his sight.

They had returned to New York. Everything was arranged. Austin was impatient to be off before cold weather. For three days John never had a moment; but Bess and Dil had not been out of his mind, and he could steal this afternoon; so, with book and picture, he set out for Barker’s Court, not much clearer about the way to heaven than he had been six weeks before.

Barker’s Court was not inviting to-day, with its piles of garbage, and wet clothes hanging about like so many miserable ghosts.

“Is it Misses Quinn ye want, or old Granny Quinn?” queried the woman he questioned. “Granny lives up to th’ end, an’ Misses Quinn’s is the third house, up-stairs.”