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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

'
Hope wrote me every week for a time. A church choir had offered
her a place soon after she went to the big city. She came home
intending to surprise us all, the first summer but unfortunately, I
had gone away in the woods with a party of surveyors and missed
her. We were a month in the wilderness and came out a little west
of Albany where I took a boat for New York to see Hope. I came
down the North River between the great smoky cities, on either
side of it, one damp and chilly morning. The noise, the crowds, the
immensity of the town appalled me. At John Fuller's I found that
Hope had gone home and while they tried to detain me longer I
came back on the night boat of the same day. Hope and I passed
each other in that journey and I did not see her until the summer
preceding my third and last year in college - the faculty having
allowed me to take two years in one. Her letters had come less
frequently and when she came I saw a grand young lady of fine
manners, her beauty shaping to an ampler mould, her form
straightening to the dignity of womanhood.


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