The Fourth Watch

by H. A. Cody

"Oh, no. I don't mean 'im, sir, though I ain't heered from 'im fer months now. He's so shet up thar in the woods that it's hard to hear. But I feel he's all right, fer if he wasn't I'd soon know about it. No, it's not fer 'im I bawled, but fer you an' the darlin' lass. To think that ye are to leave us so soon!"

"Oh, I see," and the parson placed his hand to his forehead. "Thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Stickles, and for what you did concerning that petition. So you have come all the way to bid us good-bye. You must go into the house at once, and have a bite with us. I shall send Dan to give the horse some hay."

"Thank ye, sir. I didn't come expectin' to be taken in an' fed, but seein' as it'll be some time afore I hev sich a privilege agin, I don't mind if I do."

Spring had now come in real earnest. The days were balmy, the sun poured its bright rays upon hill and valley, and the snow disappeared as if by magic. Thousands of streams and rivulets rushed racing down to the river, sparkling and babbling, glad of their release from winter's stern grip. The early birds had returned, filling the air with their sweet music, and the trees, awakened from their long slumber, were putting forth their green buds. Everything spoke of freshness and peace.

But within the Rectory there was an unusual silence. A gloom pervaded the house, which even Nellie's sunny presence could not dispel. Dan had disappeared, and no trace of him could be found. He had departed in the night so silently that even Nellie's ever-watchful ear did not hear his footsteps upon the floor. They knew no reason why the lad should do such a thing, and anxiously they discussed the matter over the breakfast-table. Inquiries were made throughout the parish, which only served to set tongues wagging more than ever.

"I knew when the parson took him in," said one knowing person, "that something 'ud happen. Ye can never tell about sich waifs. They generally amount to nuthin' or worse."

Nellie missed Dan very much. She had come to love the lad with all his quaint ways and dreamy far-away look. He had always been so ready to do anything for her, and often she found him watching her with wondering eyes. In her heart she could not believe that the boy had run away because he was tired of living at the Rectory. She felt sure there must be some other reason, and often she puzzled her brain trying to solve the problem.

As the days passed preparations were made for their departure. There was much to do, for numerous things they must take with them. The parson took but little interest in what was going on. He seemed to be living in another world. So long had he lived at the Rectory that the building had become almost a part of himself. How many sacred associations were attached to each room! Here his children had been born; here he had watched them grow, and from that front door three times had loving hands borne forth three bodies,--two, oh, so young and tender--to their last earthly resting-place in the little churchyard. In youth it is not so hard to sever the bonds which unite us to a loved spot. They have not had time fully to mature, and new associations are easily made and the first soon forgotten. But in old age it is different. New connections are not easily formed, and the mind lives so much in the past, with those whom we have "loved long since and lost awhile."

It was hard for Nellie to watch her father as the days sped by. From room to room he wandered, standing for some time before a familiar object, now a picture and again a piece of furniture. Old chords of memory were awakened. They were simple, common household effects of little intrinsic value. But to him they were fragrant with precious associations, like old roses pressed between the pages of a book, recalling dear and far-off, half-forgotten days.

Nellie, too, felt keenly the thought of leaving the Rectory. It had been her only home. Here had she been born, and here, too, had she known so much happiness. Somehow she felt it would never again be the same; that the parting of the ways had at last arrived. Her mind turned often towards Stephen. She had seen him but little of late. Formerly he had been so much at the Rectory. Seldom a day had passed that she did not see him. But now it was so different. Sometimes for a whole week, and already it had been a fortnight since he had been there. She knew how busy he was bringing his logs down to the river. He had told her that stream driving would soon begin, when every hour would be precious to catch the water while it served. She knew this, and yet the separation was harder than she had expected. There was an ache in her heart which she could not describe. Often she chided herself at what she called her foolishness. But every evening while sitting in the room she would start at any footstep on the platform, and a deep flush would suffuse her face. She had come to realize during the time of waiting what Stephen really meant to her.