The Second Chance Part 25

"Coax!" said Bud, scornfully. "I wouldn't coax them. What do I care about the money, anyway? That's not what I'm kicking about."

"Oh, Buddie, you are a reckless young scamp to let ten dollars go in one snort, and then say you don't care."

With an angry exclamation Bud turned away.

The next time Bud went to Millford Mrs. Burrell saw him pa.s.sing the house and called him in. She had heard an account of the affair from the wife of the elevator "boss," and had told it to Mr. Burrell, who promptly declared he did not believe it, whereupon Mrs. Burrell grew indignant. Did he doubt Mrs. Johnston's word?

Mr. Burrell cautioned her not to speak of it to any one, and went out at once to see Bud. Mr. Burrell had only been gone a few minutes when Bud himself came driving past the house. Mrs. Burrell told herself that Providence had put Bud in her way. Mrs. Burrell blamed Providence for many things quite unjustly. "Come in, Bud," she called from the door; "I want to see you."

Bud knew the minister's wife but slightly; he had seen her at the services in the schoolhouse. He had intended going in to see Mr.

Burrell, for he felt that he must tell some one that he was not guilty, and he felt that the minister was the one whose opinion he most valued. So he went in gladly, hoping that Mr. Burrell might be there.

"Now, Bud," Mrs. Burrell began, with her severest air, "I am sorry to say what I have to say, but it's all for your own good, and it really hurts me to say it."

"Don't say it then!" burst from the boy's white lips; he was too sore to stand any more.

"I must say it, Bud," she went on, as conscientious in her cruelty as Queen Mary. "You have done very wrong, and you must repent. I could not sleep a wink last night, thinking of it, and Mr. Burrell did think so much of, you, too."

"_Did_ think!" Bud inferred from the heavy emphasis that Mr.

Burrell's regard was all past, and he hid his face so that she might not see how deeply she had hurt him.

"But you are young yet, and your life is all before you, and you must repent and begin all over again. 'While the lamp of life holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return.' You must pray for strength, so you won't be tempted to be dishonest again, and you really should apologize to young Mr. Steadman. Mrs. Johnston says his face is very sore."

Bud looked up quickly and said with flas.h.i.+ng eyes: "I'm glad of that.

I wish I had smashed him again--the pup!"

Then Mrs. Burrell was shocked utterly. "My dear boy," she said, "I am afraid your heart is very hard and wicked. Mr. Burrell thought you were soundly converted, too, but you seem to be really rebellious against G.o.d, who is kinder and better than any earthly parent. This is a matter for earnest and agonizing prayer."

Bud stood up and looked at her with eyes that flamed with anger.

Unfortunately Bud, like Martha, was entirely lacking in humour; otherwise his heart would have been saved many a cruel hurt. "I don't want your prayers," he said, when he could control himself.

Something in the boy's face touched Mrs. Burrell's heart with pity.

"Perhaps I've been wrong," she said. "I do make mistakes sometimes. I may have made one now."

"You certainly have," he said, as he took his hat and left the house.

Mrs. Burrell watched him going down the path with his long, swinging stride, and her heart was strangely troubled. She had a conviction that she had done no good, and perhaps had done a great deal of harm.

"When I try to do good, evil comes of it," she said sorrowfully, and then she went to her own room and prayed; and it was an earnest and agonizing prayer, too; though very different from the prayer she had in mind when she spoke to Bud, for the burden of it all was this, that G.o.d would in some way overrule all her mistakes for good, and not let the boy suffer because of any word of hers.

She continued to plead until her heart found peace in the thought that has comforted so many of us in our sore need, that perhaps when He sees the faulty, crooked lines we are drawing, the Great Surveyor will, in His mercy, put in for us, here and there, the correction lines.

When Bud drove home that night his thoughts were far too bitter for a boy of eighteen. A sense of injustice was poisoning the fountains of his heart, and so, when he met Mr. Burrell, he felt he could stand no more. The whole world was against him now, he thought, and he would let them see he didn't care. He would never tell any one now about the wheat. He would never give away his father; but he would leave Millford right straight, leave it for ever, so when Mr. Burrell drew in his horse to speak to him, Bud turned his head and drove rapidly away. Mr. Burrell went home very sad about it all, wondering if Bud were really guilty, but determined to stand by him just the same.

When he got home Mrs. Burrell told him about her interview with Bud.

She was thoroughly repentant now, and tearfully declared that she knew now she had been very unwise.

Mr. Burrell drove back that night to see Bud, but he was too late, for Bud had gone.

Arriving at his home, Bud stabled his horses, and then went into the house. His father was filling bags in the granary, but Bud felt that he could not bear to see him. He went to his own room and hurriedly changed his clothes. He had only one thought--to get away--to get away where no one knew him. In the last few hours the whole world had changed for him--that Mr. Burrell should so easily believe him guilty had overflowed his cup of bitterness.

A red and silver scripture text, in the form of a s.h.i.+eld, hung on his bedroom wall; Martha had given it to him, some time ago, and it had often brought him comfort and inspiration.

"He is able to deliver you," it said.

Bud read it now scornfully, and with a sudden impulse tore it down and crushed it in his hands. "There's nothing in it," the boy cried bitterly.

He went out to the pasture and whistled to his pacing colt, which came to him at once. The boy laid his head on the colt's velvet neck and patted it lovingly.

"I'll come back for you, Bunko," he said. "You're mine, anyway."

The colt rubbed his head against Bud's arm.

Across the ravine, where the fringed blue gentian looked up from the sere gra.s.s, the cows were grazing, and Bud, from habit, went for them and brought them up to the bars.

The sun was setting when Bud reached the Cavers's house, for he could not go without saying good-bye to Libby Anne. She was driving their two cows in from a straw stack, and called gaily to him when she saw him coming.

"I've come to say good-bye, Lib," said Bud simply.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know--anywhere to get away from here." Then he told her what had happened.

"I'm glad you took a smash at Tom Steadman," she said, her big eyes flas.h.i.+ng, when he had finished. Then suddenly she began to cry. "I don't want you to go," she sobbed. "You won't ever come back; I won't see you ever again."

"Don't say that, Libby," Bud cried in real distress--she looked so little and pale in her black dress--"I will come back some time, and I won't forget my little girl. You're my girl, you know, Lib."

"I'm your girl all right," the child said unsteadily. "But I want you to stay. I can't make up things like Pearl and Mary Watson can--I can do some pretendin' games pretty good now, but I can't pretend about you--I'll know you're gone all the time, Bud," and she caught her breath in a quivering sob.

Then Bud lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her over and over again.

"Don't cry, Libby," he said. "I'm going away to make lots of money, and you mustn't fret. Every night I want you to say to yourself: 'I'm Bud's girl, and he won't forget me;' and whenever you get lonely or downhearted, just say that. Now Libby Anne, tell me who you are."

"I'm Bud's girl, all right," she answered gravely.

The sun had gone down in a crimson haze, and a misty tenderness seemed to brood over the world. The September evening was so full of peace and beauty with its m.u.f.fled tinkle of cowbells and the soft song of the whippoorwill that came at intervals from the maple bush on Oak Creek, it was hard to believe that there were troubled hearts anywhere.

The hoa.r.s.e whistle of a long freight train on the C. P. R. boomed harshly through the quiet air. "I must go, Lib," said Bud.

Libby Anne stood looking after him as he went quickly down the road.

The evening twilight soon hid him from her sight, but she still looked down the winding road until it dipped down in the valley of Oak Creek.

Suddenly from the river-bank came the weird cry of a prairie wolf, and Libby Anne, turning with a shudder, ran home in the gathering dusk.