About two weeks after the death of Doctor Gordon's wife James went to

the post office before beginning his round of calls. Lately nearly all

the practice had devolved upon him. Gordon seemed sunken in a gloomy

apathy, from which he could rouse himself only for the most urgent

necessities.

Once aroused he was fully himself, but for the most part he

sat in his office smoking or seemingly half-asleep. Once in a while a

very sick patient acted upon him as a momentary stimulus, but Alton was

unusually healthy just then. After an open and, for the most part,

snowless winter, which had occasioned much sickness, the spring brought

frost and light falls of snow, which seemed to give new life to people

in spite of unseasonableness. James had had little difficulty in

attending to most of the practice, although he was necessarily away from

home the greater part of the time. However, he often took Clemency with

him, and she would sit well wrapped up in the buggy reading a book while

he made calls.

Then there were the long drives over solitary roads,

which, though rough, causing the wheels to jolt heavily in deep ridges

of frozen soil, or sink into the red mud almost to the hubs, as the case

might be, seemed like roads of Paradise to the young man. Although he

himself grieved for Gordon's wife, and Gordon himself filled him with

covert anxiety, yet he was young and the girl was young, and they were

both released from a miserable sense of insecurity and mystery, which

had irritated and saddened them; their thoughts now turned toward their

own springtime, as naturally and innocently as flowers bloom. There was

grief, and the shadow of trouble, but of past trouble; their eyes looked

upon life and love and joy instead of death, as helplessly as a flower

looks toward the sun. They were happy, although half-ashamed of their

happiness; but, after all, perhaps, being happy after bereavement and

trouble means simply that the soul has turned to God for consolation.

James's face was beaming with his joyful thoughts as he drew up before

the village store, got out of the buggy, and tied the horse. When he

entered he said "good morning!" in a sort of general fashion. There were

many men lounging about. The morning mail had been distributed, and

although Alton people got very few letters, still there was a wide

interest in the post office, a little boxed-off space in a corner of the

store.

The store-keeper, Henry Graves, was the postmaster. He felt the

importance of his position. When he sorted and distributed the mail from

the limp leather bag, he realized himself as an official of a great

republic. He loved to proudly ignore, and not even seem to see, the

interested and gaping faces watching the boxes. Doctor Gordon's box was

an object of especial interest. Indeed, that was the only one to be

depended upon to contain something when the two mails per day arrived.

Gordon, moreover, took the only New York paper which reached the little

hamlet.




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