The author was a grey-bearded man, who was also librarian of the city library. I found him in his private office, where he listened graciously to the plans of the Priddy Historical Club. He consented to come out and address us, and also said that he would typewrite a course of historical research for our use!
The author met us, one evening, in a room of the church. He told us fascinating tales of early settlers, and left in our possession typewritten sheets filled with a well-planned and complete course of study. That was the first and only meeting of the club. The fellows lost interest at the formidableness of the program, the cloth designer had too much work to bother reading on so large a scale, and I—I had other things of great moment to bother about.
In the middle of summer, a farmer across the way asked me to work for him, and though the wages were much smaller than I earned in the mill, and my aunt at first was loath to have me accept, I began work on the farm. My uncle was greatly pleased with this arrangement.
“Thank God, you have a chance to get some color in your cheeks,” he said, and aunt laughed. “It would be a good sight to have him put a few pounds of flesh on his bones, wouldn’t it?”
At last I was out of the mill, out in the fresh air all day! I stretched my arms, ran, leaped, and worked with great delight. I felt better, stronger, more inspired than ever to get ahead. But when I went home, after the day’s work, I was so sleepy through exposure that I could no longer study. “Never mind,” I thought; “if I only get a strong body out of it, it will be all right.”
So I milked cows, delivered milk to a village three miles distant, and worked about the place, all with hearty good will. Every day I would look in a glass to see if my cheeks were puffing out or getting ruddy.
On Sunday I attended the village church and worshiped near the superintendent of the mill. I shared the farmer’s pew, and though the beat of air and sun on my eyes made me very sleepy when in a room, and though the minister must have wondered why I winked so laboriously during the service, as I tried to keep awake, I always brought to mind the pleasant places into which I had been led, and joined with the minister in a sincere prayer to the God who was leading me.
But one night I went home, and, as I neared the house, I heard hysterical screams and ran as fast as I could, knowing full well what I should see. My aunt was squirming on the floor, her hair undone, and her hat entangled in it. She had on her best dress. Her face was convulsive with hate, with intense insanity. She was shrieking: “Oh, he’s killing me, killing me! Help! Murder!” I ran to her, caught the sickening odor of whisky from her lips and on examination found that there was a gash on her cheek. Then I stood up and looked around. Uncle, breathing heavily, sat at the other end of the table, before an untasted supper. His face was very stern and troubled.
“What have you done?” I shouted. “You’ve been hitting her, you coward!”
“I had to—to protect myself,” he muttered. Then he showed me his face. The blood was dropping down when he took his handkerchief from it, and there was a gash in his temple.