Contrary Mary

Over the stretches of that barren country they came to hear him,

sailing in their schooner-wagons toward the harbor of the hope which he

brought to them.

When he had preached from his pulpit, he had talked to men and women of

culture and he had spent much of his time in polishing a phrase, or in

rounding out a sentence. But now he spent his time in search of the

clear words which would carry his--message.

For Mary had said that every man who preached must have a message.

Mary!

How far she had receded from him. When he thought of her now it was

with a sense of overwhelming loss. She had chosen to withdraw herself

from him. In every letter he had seen signs of it--and he could not

protest. No man in his position could say to a woman, "I will not let

you go." He had nothing to offer her but his life in the pines, a life

that could not mean much to such a woman.

But it meant much to himself. Gradually he had come to see that love

alone could never have brought to him what his work was bringing. He

had a sense of freedom such as one must have whose shackles have been

struck off. He began to know now what Mary had meant when she had

said, "I feel as if I were flying through the world on strong wings."

He, too, felt as if he were flying, and as it his wings were carrying

him up and up beyond any heights to which he had hitherto soared.

He slept that night in one of the rare groves of old pines. He made a

couch of the brown needles and threw a rug over them. The air was soft

and heavy with resinous perfume. As he lay there in the stillness, the

pines stretched above him like the arches of some great cathedral. His

text came to him, "Come thou south wind and blow upon my garden." It

was a simple people to whom he would talk on the morrow, but these

things they could understand--the winds of heaven, and the stars, and

the little foxes that could spoil the grapes.

When he woke there was a mocking-bird singing. He had gone to sleep

obsessed by his sermon, uplifted. He woke with a sense of

loneliness--a great longing for human help and understanding--a longing

to look once more into Mary Ballard's clear eyes and to draw strength

from the source which had once inspired him.

John Ballard's Bible lay on the rug beside him. He opened it, and the

leaves fell apart at a page where a rose had once been pressed. The

rose was dead now, and had been laid away carefully, lest it should be

lost. But the impress was still there, as the memory of Mary's frank

friendliness was still in his mind.