The Church with an Overshot-Wheel Page #2

"The Church with an Overshot-Wheel" is a short story by O. Henry that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and redemption. Set in a small town, the narrative centers around the character of a young woman who faces a moral dilemma regarding her family and her own desires. As the story unfolds, O. Henry's trademark twist reveals the complexities of human relationships and the impact of choices made in the name of love. Through his signature wit and keen observations, the author captures the essence of small-town life and the struggles of its inhabitants, ultimately delivering a poignant message about the nature of true devotion.

• Short story

								

stream rippled unchecked down its rocky bed. Inside the mill the
changes were greater. The shafts and millstones and belts and pulleys
were, of course, all removed. There were two rows of benches with
aisles between, and a little raised platform and pulpit at one end. On
three sides overhead was a gallery containing seats, and reached by a
stairway inside. There was also an organ—a real pipe organ—in the
gallery, that was the pride of the congregation of the Old Mill Church.
Miss Phœbe Summers was the organist. The Lakelands boys proudly took
turns at pumping it for her at each Sunday’s service. The Rev. Mr.
Banbridge was the preacher, and rode down from Squirrel Gap on his old
white horse without ever missing a service. And Abram Strong paid for
everything. He paid the preacher five hundred dollars a year; and Miss
Phœbe two hundred dollars.

Thus, in memory of Aglaia, the old mill was converted into a blessing
for the community in which she had once lived. It seemed that the brief
life of the child had brought about more good than the three score
years and ten of many. But Abram Strong set up yet another monument to
her memory.

Out from his mills in the Northwest came the “Aglaia” flour, made from
the hardest and finest wheat that could be raised. The country soon
found out that the “Aglaia” flour had two prices. One was the highest
market price, and the other was—nothing.

Wherever there happened a calamity that left people destitute—a fire, a
flood, a tornado, a strike, or a famine, there would go hurrying a
generous consignment of the “Aglaia” at its “nothing” price. It was
given away cautiously and judiciously, but it was freely given, and not
a penny could the hungry ones pay for it. There got to be a saying that
whenever there was a disastrous fire in the poor districts of a city
the fire chief’s buggy reached the scene first, next the “Aglaia” flour
wagon, and then the fire engines.

So this was Abram Strong’s other monument to Aglaia. Perhaps to a poet
the theme may seem too utilitarian for beauty; but to some the fancy
will seem sweet and fine that the pure, white, virgin flour, flying on
its mission of love and charity, might be likened to the spirit of the
lost child whose memory it signalized.

There came a year that brought hard times to the Cumberlands. Grain
crops everywhere were light, and there were no local crops at all.
Mountain floods had done much damage to property. Even game in the
woods was so scarce that the hunters brought hardly enough home to keep
their folk alive. Especially about Lakelands was the rigour felt.

As soon as Abram Strong heard of this his messages flew; and the little
narrow-gauge cars began to unload “Aglaia” flour there. The miller’s
orders were to store the flour in the gallery of the Old Mill Church;
and that every one who attended the church was to carry home a sack of
it.

Two weeks after that Abram Strong came for his yearly visit to the
Eagle House, and became “Father Abram” again.

That season the Eagle House had fewer guests than usual. Among them was
Rose Chester. Miss Chester came to Lakelands from Atlanta, where she
worked in a department store. This was the first vacation outing of her
life. The wife of the store manager had once spent a summer at the
Eagle House. She had taken a fancy to Rose, and had persuaded her to go
there for her three weeks’ holiday. The manager’s wife gave her a
letter to Mrs. Rankin, who gladly received her in her own charge and
care.

Miss Chester was not very strong. She was about twenty, and pale and
delicate from an indoor life. But one week of Lakelands gave her a
brightness and spirit that changed her wonderfully. The time was early
September when the Cumberlands are at their greatest beauty. The
mountain foliage was growing brilliant with autumnal colours; one
breathed aerial champagne, the nights were deliciously cool, causing
one to snuggle cosily under the warm blankets of the Eagle House.

Father Abram and Miss Chester became great friends. The old miller
learned her story from Mrs. Rankin, and his interest went out quickly
to the slender lonely girl who was making her own way in the world.

The mountain country was new to Miss Chester. She had lived many years
in the warm, flat town of Atlanta; and the grandeur and variety of the
Cumberlands delighted her. She was determined to enjoy every moment of
her stay. Her little hoard of savings had been estimated so carefully
in connection with her expenses that she knew almost to a penny what
her very small surplus would be when she returned to work.

Miss Chester was fortunate in gaining Father Abram for a friend and
companion. He knew every road and peak and slope of the mountains near
Lakelands. Through him she became acquainted with the solemn delight of
the shadowy, tilted aisles of the pine forests, the dignity of the bare
crags, the crystal, tonic mornings, the dreamy, golden afternoons full
of mysterious sadness. So her health improved, and her spirits grew
light. She had a laugh as genial and hearty in its feminine way as the
famous laugh of Father Abram. Both of them were natural optimists; and
both knew how to present a serene and cheerful face to the world.

One day Miss Chester learned from one of the guests the history of
Father Abram’s lost child. Quickly she hurried away and found the
miller seated on his favourite rustic bench near the chalybeate spring.
He was surprised when his little friend slipped her hand into his, and
looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Father Abram,” she said, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know until to-day
about your little daughter. You will find her yet some day—Oh, I hope
you will.”

The miller looked down at her with his strong, ready smile.

“Thank you, Miss Rose,” he said, in his usual cheery tones. “But I do
not expect to find Aglaia. For a few years I hoped that she had been
stolen by vagrants, and that she still lived; but I have lost that
hope. I believe that she was drowned.”

“I can understand,” said Miss Chester, “how the doubt must have made it
so hard to bear. And yet you are so cheerful and so ready to make other
people’s burdens light. Good Father Abram!”

“Good Miss Rose!” mimicked the miller, smiling. “Who thinks of others
more than you do?”

A whimsical mood seemed to strike Miss Chester.

“Oh, Father Abram,” she cried, “wouldn’t it be grand if I should prove
to be your daughter? Wouldn’t it be romantic? And wouldn’t you like to
have me for a daughter?”

“Indeed, I would,” said the miller, heartily. “If Aglaia had lived I
could wish for nothing better than for her to have grown up to be just
such a little woman as you are. Maybe you are Aglaia,” he continued,
falling in with her playful mood; “can’t you remember when we lived at
the mill?”

Miss Chester fell swiftly into serious meditation. Her large eyes were
fixed vaguely upon something in the distance. Father Abram was amused
at her quick return to seriousness. She sat thus for a long time before
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