LOVE AT HOME
Long years before the war, happy children were growing
in the village of Alton. They studied the history
of wars much as they conned their lessons in geography.
Scenes of strife belonged to the past, or were enacted
among people wholly unlike any who dwelt in their
peaceful community. That Americans should ever
fight each other was as undreamed of as that the minister
should have a pitched battle in the street with his
Sunday-school superintendent. They rejoiced mildly
when in their progress through the United States history
they came to pages descriptive of Indian wars and
the Revolutionary struggle, since they found their
lessons then more easily remembered than the wordy
disputes and little understood decisions of statesmen.
The first skating on the pond was an event which far
transcended in importance anything related between
the green covers of the old history book, while to
Albert Nichol the privilege of strapping skates on
the feet of little Helen Kemble, and gliding away
with her over the smooth ice, was a triumph unknown
by any general. He was the son of a plain farmer,
and she the daughter of the village banker. Thus,
even in childhood, there was thrown around her the
glamour of position and reputed wealth—advantages
which have their value among the most democratic folk,
although slight outward deference may be paid to their
possessors. It was the charming little face itself,
with its piquant smiles and still more piquant pouts,
which won Albert’s boyish admiration. The
fact that she was the banker’s daughter only
fired his ambition to be and to do something to make
her proud of him.
Hobart Martine, another boy of the village, shared
all his schoolmate’s admiration for pretty Nellie,
as she was usually called. He had been lame from
birth, and could not skate. He could only shiver
on the bank or stamp around to keep himself warm,
while the athletic Al and the graceful little girl
passed and repassed, quite forgetting him. There
was one thing he could do; and this pleasure he waited
for till often numb with cold. He could draw
the child on his sled to her home, which adjoined his
own.
When it came his turn to do this, and he limped patiently
through the snow, tugging at the rope, his heart grew
warm as well as his chilled body. She was a rather
imperious little belle with the other boys, but was
usually gentle with him because he was lame and quiet.
When she thanked him kindly and pleasantly at her gate,
he was so happy that he could scarcely eat his supper.
Then his mother would laugh and say, “You’ve
been with your little sweetheart.” He would
flush and make no reply.
