# Lippincott's Magazine/One Way of Love/Chapter 1

pp. 129–131

### I.

A young man was walking slowly along the country road.
His eyes, fixed moodily before him, saw nothing. But his feet kept to the narrow path that skirted its edge, avoiding the wheel-tracks and hoof-prints of the frozen surface, and keeping well within the line of stiffened asters and golden-rod that rose in gray stalks beside the stone wall on either side.
Beyond the wall fields of stubble stretched, brown and bare, in the twilight. Everywhere hung the cold, unvarying light, except along the western horizon, where a band of orange glowed against the darkening sky. Its brightness fell upon the shoulders of the young man, emphasizing the listless stoop and the slow, dispirited walk. The air of dejection might have belonged to a man of sixty.
No other human being was in sight. Presently he turned his head and looked back, listening. The movement brought his face into the glow of light: It was a strange face, the dark, troubled eyes full of inquiry, the flexible lips, slightly parted, waiting upon silence. Slowly a smile of amusement crept into the eyes, spread over the face, and drew from the lips a quick laugh.
“Uncle Eben and Aunt Jerusha!” The listless shoulders straightened themselves, and the young man faced about, looking back.
Far up the road, outlined against the orange sky, a high farm wagon was approaching. The old horse made his way over the hubs with spasmodic, seesaw leaps.
The two figures planted firmly on the high seat seemed in no way incommoded by the gait. Both were bundled in shawls and furs. That one was a man might be gathered from the grayish fringe of beard that depended from under the blue and white tippet wound tightly around head and ears. One hand reaching in front of the bundled chest, palm down and knuckles out, grasped the crossed reins and pulled gently now and then with a seesaw motion. The other figure, sitting stiffly erect, ended in a brown veil.
The young man waited till the clumsy wagon was abreast of him. He clambered over the end and, kneeling in the straw, laid an affectionate hand on each bundled figure.
The brown veil nodded graciously and stiffly. “How's the folks, Richard?” came from its folds.
“All well. Aren't you frozen?”
There was no reply from the veil. A wheezy chuckle from Uncle Eben and a gentle pull on the reins were the only response.
The wagon rattled and bumped in the silence. The sky had deepened from orange to purple and hung its light around them. In the distance a gray, weather-beaten house lifted itself, tinged with the glowing light.
“There's Mother,” said the young man. “She's seen you.”
A tall, raw-boned woman, with a large shawl pinned over her head, squaw-fashion, was coming down the path to the gate.
“Well, where did you come from?” she called out as they drew rein. “I was just thinking about you to-day.”
Her mouth was stretched in a smile of conventional welcome, but the high-pitched voice was cordial, and the dark eyes, as youthful as those of her son, looked out in pleased surprise. The rest of the face framed in the shawl was seamed with care and hard work. It beamed with good-humor and concern as she watched Uncle Eben, who, having descended from the high wagon with deliberation, was helping Aunt Jerusha to alight. The old lady hitched cautiously along the seat, put one ample foot tentatively on the step, glanced suspiciously at the motionless Jack, and was at last deposited on the ground.
With a smile on his lips the young man watched the absurd figure, supported on either side by his mother and Uncle Eben, waddle up to the front door. But as he turned towards the barn with Jack the smile disappeared and the listless look returned.
He was fighting his first real battle. Hard work, poverty, the heavy mortgage, had not served to darken his spirit. But to-night as he came by Emily Hutton's he had seen a yellow-wheeled buggy at the gate. It meant that Edwards, the storekeeper from Plainfield, was in the house, was perhaps at this minute talking to Emily. Richard's eyes smarted at the thought. He turned the hay-cutter swiftly and mixed old Jack's supper.
Perhaps Jack was surprised, a moment later, to feel an arm thrown about his neck. He turned his head inquiringly, munching. But there was no one else to see—the boy was weeping out the bitterness of his heart. She had smiled at him with her big, black eyes, and once, on a sleighing party, her head had rested for a moment on his shoulder. His heart beat faster with the thought. And now Edwards—this was the third time this week. She would marry him—— A sob ended the thought.
Jack turned his head with a soft whinny. The boy raised his head, half-shamefaced. His hat had fallen to the floor and his eyes were full of tears. He looked very boyish to be crying for a lost love.
He threw his arm again across Jack's neck and stood for a moment with his face pressed in the thick fur. Then he straightened himself and clenched his hands. He would rather die than have the folks in the house know about it! His lips were firmly closed as he stepped into the fading light, a wooden pail in each hand, and crossed the barnyard to the old pump.
When he had filled the pails he dashed the water over his face and eyes. He turned back to the barn, his head erect, and whistling softly under his breath.
“There!”—he thrust the brimming pail under old Jack's nose and patted the thick coat,—“drink that. It's well salted. It ought to agree with you.” With a smile of somewhat determined cheerfulness he turned away to finish the chores.