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diff --git a/old/54033-0.txt b/old/54033-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 12ee256..0000000 --- a/old/54033-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6222 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, When She Came Home from College, by Marian -Hurd McNeely and Jean Bingham Wilson, Illustrated by George Gibbs - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: When She Came Home from College - - -Author: Marian Hurd McNeely and Jean Bingham Wilson - - - -Release Date: January 20, 2017 [eBook #54033] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN SHE CAME HOME FROM COLLEGE*** - - -E-text prepared by Emmy, MWS, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team -(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images digitized by the Google Books -Library Project (http://books.google.com) and generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 54033-h.htm or 54033-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/54033/54033-h/54033-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/54033/54033-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/whenshecamehome00presgoog - - - - - -WHEN SHE CAME HOME FROM COLLEGE - - -[Illustration: (page 16) - -HEL-LO, LITTLE GIRL] - - -WHEN SHE CAME HOME FROM COLLEGE - -by - -MARIAN KENT HURD - -and - -JEAN BINGHAM WILSON - -With Illustrations by George Gibbs - - - - - - -[Illustration: TOVT -RIEN OV -RIEN] - -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Company -The Riverside Press Cambridge -1909 - -Copyright, 1909, by Marian Kent Hurd and Jean Bingham Wilson -All Rights Reserved - -Published October, 1909 - - - - -Contents - - - I. Alma Mater 1 - - II. Home 15 - - III. The Theory of Philosophy 40 - - IV. The Practice 56 - - V. The “Idgit” 81 - - VI. The Duchess 106 - - VII. “The Falling out of Faithful Friends” 128 - - VIII. Applied Philanthropy 142 - - IX. “Without” 170 - - X. The Vegetable Man’s Daughter 193 - - XI. Real Trouble 222 - - XII. The End of the Interregnum 249 - - - - -Illustrations - - - _Hel-lo, little girl_ (page 16) _Frontispiece_ - - _Cantyloops! What’s them?_ 68 - - _Why are you eating in here?_ 72 - - _In the middle of the floor sat the Idgit_ 104 - - _I’m Mrs. ’Arris, an’ I’ve come to ’elp you hout_ 108 - - _Such a sadly changed Gassy_ 182 - - _Barbara sank down wearily_ 190 - - - - -When She Came Home From College - - - - -CHAPTER I - -ALMA MATER - - -“WELL, this is cheerful!” cried the Infant, as she stepped briskly into -the room where the rest of the “Set” were dejectedly assembled. “What -if this _is_ the last night of college! What if our diplomas _are_ all -concealed in the tops of our top trays! Can’t this crowd be original -enough to smile a little on our last evening, instead of looking like a -country prayer-meeting?” - -The Infant cast herself upon the cushionless frame of a Morris -armchair, and grinned at the forms on the packing-boxes around her. Her -eyes roved round the disorderly room, stripped of the pretty portières, -cushions, mandolins, and posters, which are as inevitably a part of a -college suite as the curriculum is a part of the college itself. Even -the Infant suppressed a sigh as she caught sight of the trunks outside -in the corridor. - - “Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean; - Tears from the depths of some divine despair, - Rise from the heart and gather to the eyes, - On looking at the—excelsior—on the floor, - And thinking of the days that are no more,” - -she chanted. - -“It’s all very well to talk in that unfeeling way, Infant,” said -Knowledge, separating herself with difficulty from the embrace of the -Sphinx and sitting up on the packing-box to address her chums to better -advantage. “It’s very well to talk, but the fact remains that to-morrow -we are all to be scattered to the four corners of the United States. -And who knows whether we shall ever all be together again in our whole -lives?” Knowledge forgot the dignity of her new A. B. and gulped -audibly; while the Sphinx patted her on the back, and said nothing, as -usual. - -“Well!” retorted the Infant, rising, “if I _am_ the youngest, I have -more sense than the rest of you. I’ve kept my chafing-dish out of -my trunk, and I’ve saved some sugar and alcohol and chocolate, and -‘borrowed’ some milk and butter from the table downstairs; because I -knew something would be needed to revive this set, and I hadn’t the -money to buy enough smelling-salts.” - -The Infant ran down the corridor, and came back with her battered dish; -and the girls gathered together on the dusty floor around the box, -which now served as a table. Their faces, worn from the strain of the -week of graduation, relaxed noticeably as the familiar odor began to -float upon the air. - -“This _is_ comfortable,” sighed Barbara, gratefully. “Let me take the -spoon, Infant. Your four years of college life have not yet A. B.’d you -in fudge.” - -“Oh, you are not quite crushed by the pangs of the coming separation, -after all, then,” grinned the youngest member. “Girls, did you hear -an awful chuckle when our Barbara finished her Commencement speech -yesterday? It was I, and I was dreadfully ashamed.” - -“Mercy, no!” cried Atalanta, turning shocked eyes at the offender. -“What on earth did you chuckle for, when it was so sad?” - -“That’s just it!” said the Irreverent Infant. “When Babbie began -to talk of Life and Love and the Discipline of Experience and the -Opportunities for Uplifting One’s Environment,—wasn’t that it, -Babbie?—I began to wonder how she knew it all. Babbie has never loved -a man in her life” (the Infant glanced sharply at Barbara’s clear -profile); “Babbie has never had any experiences to be disciplined -about; Babbie’s environment, which is _we_, girls, hasn’t been -especially uplifted by any titanic efforts on her part; and as for -Life, why, Babbie’s had only twenty-one years of it, and some of them -were unconscious. So when her oration ended with that grand triumphant -climax, and every one was holding her breath and looking awed and -tearful, I was chuckling to think how beautifully Barbara was selling -all those people.” - -A horrified clamor arose from the girls. - -“Why, Evelyn Clinton! It was lovely!” - -“Infant, you shameless creature!” - -With a whirl of her white skirts, amid the confusion that followed, the -House Plant rose to her feet and the rescue of her chum. “Just because -you can’t appreciate what a splendid mind Babbie has, Evelyn Clinton, -and how much the English professors think of her, and what a prodigy -she is, anyway—” - -“Hear, hear!” cried Barbara, laughing. - -“—And how proud we are of her,” went on the impetuous House Plant -“Just because you have no soul is no reason why you should deny its -possession by others!” - -“Well, I’ve stirred you all up, anyway,” said the Infant, comfortably. -“And that is all I wanted.” - -Barbara took the spoon out of the fudge dreamily. “You may be right,” -she said to the Infant. “You know I didn’t get the Eastman Scholarship.” - -“Don’t you ever mention that odious thing again!” cried Atalanta. “You -know that the whole class thinks you should have had it.” - -Barbara turned her face aside to hide a momentary shadow. - -“Well, in any case,” she said, “there is work ahead for me. Every one -who anticipates a literary career must work hard for recognition.” - -“You won’t have to,” declared the House Plant, hugging her chum, and -followed by a murmur of assent from the floor. “Why, Babbie, didn’t you -get five dollars from that Sunday-School Journal, and don’t they want -more stories at the same rate? I think that is splendid!” - -“I shall not write insipid little stories when I go home,” Barbara -answered, smiling kindly down at the enthusiastic little devotee -who had subsided at her feet “I shall write something really worth -while,—perhaps a story which will unveil characters in all their -complexity and show how they are swayed by all the different elements -which enter into environment—” - -“Ouch!” exclaimed the Infant “You are letting the fudge burn, and -unveiling your characteristic of absent-mindedness to the set, who -know it already. This stuff is done, anyway, and I’ll pour it out Or, -no,—let’s eat it hot with these spoons.” - -The Infant dealt out spoons with the rapidity of a dexterous -bridge-player, and the girls burned their tongues in one second, and -blamed their youngest in the next. - -“By the way, Babbie,” suggested the Infant with a view to hiding -speedily her second enormity, “you never told us the advice that New -York editor gave you last week.” - -Barbara’s scorn rose. “He was horrid,” she said. “He told me that an -entering wedge into literary life was _stenography_ in a magazine -office. Imagine! He said that sometimes stenographers earned as much as -twenty dollars a week. I told him that perhaps he had not realized that -I was of New England ancestry and Vassar College, and that I was not -wearing my hair in a huge pompadour, nor was I chewing gum.” - -The others looked impressed. - -“What did he reply?” asked the Infant. - -“He said, ‘Dear me, I had forgotten the need of a rarefied atmosphere -for the college graduate. I am sorry that I am no longer at leisure.’ -And I walked out.” - -“You did just right,” declared the House Plant, warmly, confirmed in -her opinion by a murmur of assent from the girls. - -“Right!” echoed the Infant. “Babbie, you are the dearest old goose in -the world. You will never succeed nor make any money if you take an -attitude like that.” - -“I shall not write for money,” declared Barbara, beginning to pace the -floor. “What is money, compared to accomplishment? I shall go home, -shut myself up, and write, write, write—until recognition comes to me. -I am sure it will come if I work and wait!” - -She flung her head back with her usual independent gesture, and -the crimson color rose in her cheeks. And the girls eyed, a little -awesomely, this splendid prodigy, in whose powers they believed with -that absolute, unquestioning faith which is found only in youth and -college. The short silence was broken almost immediately by the Infant. - -“Are you going to have a chance to write at home, undisturbed?” she -asked. “Our house is a perfect Bedlam all the time. Two young sisters -and a raft of brothers keep me occupied every minute.” - -“There are four children younger than I, too,” answered Barbara. “But -do you suppose that I am going to allow them to come between me and my -life-work? It would not be right; and my mother would never permit it.” - -“Mine would,” said the Infant, gloomily. “She thinks it is the mission -of an elder sister to help manage those who have the luck to be younger -and less responsible. I wish your mother could have come to graduation, -Babbie. She might have converted my mother to her standpoint.” - -“I wish she had come,” said Barbara, wistfully. “It seems as if she -might have managed some way.” - -Her mind flew back to the quiet little Western town,—a thousand miles -away; to the household full of children, presided over by that serene, -sweet-faced mother. Why could not that mother have left the children -with some one, and have come to see her eldest daughter graduate “with -honor”? - -“What a splendid thing it is to have a real gift to develop, like -Babbie’s,” sighed the House Plant. - -Barbara looked uncomfortable. “You all have them,” she said. “I think I -talk about mine more than the rest of you.” - -“You may give us all presentation copies of your magnum opus,” -announced the Infant, mercenarily. “You will come forth from your -lair—I mean workroom—a dozen years hence, and find us all living happy, -commonplace lives. The House Plant here will be fulfilling her name by -raising six Peter Thompson children and embroidering lingerie waists. -Atalanta,—by the way, girls, mother asked me why we called that very -slow-moving girl Atalanta, and I told her I was ashamed to think that -she should ask such a question,—well, Atalanta will marry that Yale -individual who never took his eyes off her at Class-Day march. And -I think you are mean not to tell us, Atalanta, when we know you’re -engaged.” - -The Infant threw a spoon at her blushing friend, who unexpectedly -justified her nickname by dodging it. - -“As for the Sphinx,” went on the Infant, happy in the unusual feat -of holding the attention of the girls, “the poor Sphinx can’t get -married because she never says enough for a man to know whether it’s -yes or no. She will just keep on loving her pyramids and cones, and -teaching algebraic riddles, until she dies. Knowledge will always look -so dignified that she will frighten men away. Father exclaimed to me, -when he met her, ‘What a lovely, calm, classical face!’ I said, ‘Yes, -that is our Knowledge all over.’ And you can imagine how I felt when -she opened those dignified lips of hers and remarked conversationally, -‘Say! Isn’t it hot as hot?’” - -The girls laughed at poor Knowledge, and the cruel Infant continued to -read the future. - -“Well, all of us will get presentation copies of Bab’s great work, -even I, who will be making home happy ‘if no one comes to marry me’”— - -“‘And I don’t see why they should,’” finished Barbara, cuttingly. She -rapped the Inspired Soothsayer on her fluffy head with a curtain-rod. - -“Your mind runs on matrimony to a disgusting extent, Infant,” she -warned. “I shall never marry unless I can carry on my writing.” - -“And be a second Mrs. Jellyby?” inquired her friend. “All right; -I’ll come to live with you and keep the little Jellybys out of the -gravy while you unveil the characters of some Horace and Viola to the -admiring world. Oh, girls! The fudge is gone, and it’s twelve o’clock, -and even _my_ eyelids will not stay apart much longer.” - -The girls rose slowly from their improvised chairs, and stood together, -half-unconsciously taking note of the dear, familiar room in its -dismantled, unfamiliar condition. Out in the corridor a few unseen -classmates began to sing, - - “Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus—” - -“What on earth are they gaudeamusing about to-night?” growled the -Infant; but no one answered her. - -They stood looking at each other in silence. - -“Some of you I won’t see again,” said Barbara, in a wavering voice. “My -train goes so early. Dear, dear Sphinxy,—and Atalanta—” - -An odd, snuffling sound caused her to look around. “The Infant’s -crying!” she exclaimed. - -The Infant threw her arms about Barbara’s neck. “I guess I have -feelings,” she sobbed, “if I did try to make things cheerful. Don’t -forget me, Babbie dear, for I do love you astonishingly, and expect -great things from you.” - -Barbara hurried blindly down the corridor, with the faithful House -Plant beside her. At the end she turned, and faintly saw the four white -figures still watching her. They were looking their last at their -beloved companion, the girl whose strength of character and instinctive -leadership had first attracted, then held them together, through four -eventful years at college. - -Barbara waved her handkerchief at the silent figures, and her head -dropped on her room-mate’s shoulder as they neared their familiar door. - -“Oh, Helen dear!” she sobbed. “How can we ever leave this college?” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -HOME - - -THE Overland Passenger was clanking its way across the prairies of the -middle West. Barbara, sitting on one of the stuffy red-plush seats, -pressed her face against the window-pane, and looked out into the -night. There was little to see,—the long, monotonous stretches of land, -cloaked in shadows, with dim lights showing from a few farmhouses, and -a wide expanse of sky, freckled with stars, above. But Barbara was -nearing home, and the dull pain which had been with her since the last -good-bys at college was forgotten, as her eyes drank in every familiar -detail of the shadowy landscape. Above the purr and hiss of the engine -sounded the jerky refrain of the rails, and the girl’s heart echoed the -words. - -“Near-home, near-home,” it throbbed. - -The noise of the train deepened as the piers of a bridge flashed by. A -porter with a lighted lantern passed through the car, and a traveling -agent in the seat ahead began to gather up his hand-baggage. But -Barbara still gazed out of the window, over the great piles of pine -that marked the boundary of the Auburn lumber-yard, towards a dim light -that shone down from the hill. - -“Auburn, Auburn! This way out,” called the brakeman. - -A thin, gray man stood at the steps of the car almost before the wheels -ceased to move. His voice and his hands went up simultaneously. - -“Hel-lo, little girl,” he said to Barbara. - -“Dear old Dad!” said Barbara to him. - -“We’ll have to trust to the livery,” said Dr. Grafton. “Maud S. has had -a hard day, and I didn’t have the heart to have her harnessed again -to-night.” - -“There’s a rummage-sale hat,” laughed Barbara, as a driver in a shabby -suit of livery and an ill-fitting top hat approached for her baggage -checks. - -Auburn knew naught of cabs. A “hack line,” including perhaps three -dozen carriages which had passed beyond the wedding and funeral stage, -attended passengers to and from the railway station. In a spirit -of metropolitanism which seized the town at rare intervals, the -proprietors of the “line” had decided to livery their drivers. So they -had attended a rummage sale, given by the women members of an indigent -church, and had purchased therefrom every top hat in sight, regardless -of size, shape, or vintage. These they had distributed among their -drivers in an equally reckless and care-free way. Auburn, as a whole, -had not yet ceased to thrill with pride at her liveried service; but -those of her inhabitants who happened to be blessed with a sense of -humor experienced a sensation other than that of pride, upon beholding -the pompous splendor of Banker Willowby’s last season’s hat held in -place by the eyebrows of Peanuts Barker, or Piety Sanborn’s decorous -beaver perched upon the manly brow of Spike Hannegan. - -The mutual enjoyment of this other sensation renewed the old feeling of -fellowship between Barbara and her father. - -“It’s good to have you back, Girl,” he said. - -Barbara crept a bit closer. “It’s good to be here,” she answered. - -The Grafton house stood at the top of the longest hill in Auburn, and -it was ten minutes more before the carriage stopped at the maple tree -in front of the doctor’s home. The electric lights of Auburn, for -economical reasons, were put out upon the arrival of the moon, and -it was still and dark when the two started up the walk together. The -stars hung low near the horizon, a sleepy bird was talking to himself -in the willow tree, and the air was full of the bitter-sweet of cherry -blossoms. A little gray, shaggy dog came bounding over the terrace to -meet them, and the doorway was full of children’s heads. - -Barbara’s mother stood on the front porch. Her eyes were soft and full, -and her face was the glad-sorry kind. She did not say a word, only -opened her arms, and the girl went in. - -The children’s greetings were characteristic. Eighteen-year-old Jack -added a hearty smack to his “Hello, Barb”; David laid a pale little -cheek against his sister’s glowing one; and the Kid thrust his school -report into Barbara’s hand, and inquired in eager tones what gifts were -forthcoming. Only one member of the family circle was absent. - -“Gassy’s gone to bed,” exclaimed Jack. “She’s got a grouch.” - -“I have not,” retorted an aggressive voice. “Hello, Barbara.” A thin -little girl of eleven, in a nightgown, her head covered with bumps of -red hair wrapped about kid-curlers, seized Barbara from behind. There -was a vigorous hug, which sent a thrill of surprise to the big sister’s -heart, and Gassy became her own undemonstrative self again. - -“Gee, you ought to see how you look!” said Jack. - -“_You_ ought not, ’cause ’twould make you unhappy,” retorted Gassy. - -“I should think you’d _feel_ unhappy, sleeping on that tiara of -bumps. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. You look just like a -tomato-worm.” - -“Careful, Jack,” cautioned his father. - -But the warning came too late. The small girl rushed at her tormentor, -leapt upon him, and thrust a cold little hand inside of his gray -sweater. - -“There, there, children, don’t squabble before Barbara; she’s forgotten -that you are not always friends,” said Mrs. Grafton. “Run back to bed, -Cecilia; you’ll take cold. The rest of us are going, too. It’s long -past bedtime.” - -Barbara had expected to find the first nights away from her college -room lonely ones; but the big four-poster, ugly as it had always seemed -to her, was an improvement upon the cot that was a divan by day and -a bed by night. Blessed, too, was the silence that was almost noisy, -out-of-doors, and the good-night pat of the mother, as she tucked her -firstling in. It was good, after all, to be at home, and good, too, -that she could be of use there. Her last thought was of the new green -carpet in the sitting-room below. - -“It’s an outrage on æsthetics, that shade,” she said to herself. “I -wish mother hadn’t bought it until I got home. They do need me here.” - - * * * * * - -“It’s the same old place,” said Barbara, at four o’clock the next -afternoon, “the same dear, old, sleepy place. Aside from the fact that -I find some more tucks let down in gowns and some more inches added -to trousers each year, I don’t think Auburn changes anything—even her -mind—from going-away time to coming-home time. Procrastination is the -spice of life, here.” - -“The things that keep a town awake are usually sent away to college,” -said her mother, slyly. “But Auburn is solid, as well as conservative.” - -“It’s pitifully, painfully solid,” said Barbara. “If it only realized -its own deficiencies, there would be hope for it. But it is always so -complacent and contented with itself. The road that leads up the hill -to Dyer’s Corner is characteristic of the whole town. Some man with -plenty of time on his hands—or for his feet—ambled along up the hill in -the beginning of things, and for fifty years the people have followed -his long, devious path, rather than branch out and originate another -easier. I believe that any sign of progress, civic or intellectual, -would cut Auburn to the quick,—if there is any quick to cut, in the -town.” - -“Haven’t you noted the fine schedule on our electric-car line?” laughed -her mother. - -“That’s just what I was thinking of. I commented on the improved time -that the cars make to Miss Bates, this morning. To my surprise she -stiffened at once. ‘You ain’t the first to make complaint,’ she said. -‘There ain’t no need of running a street-car like a fire-engine; and -they say that since this new schedule has been fixed, the conductors -won’t deliver dinner-pails to the factory men, or hold the car for you -while you go on a short errand. Auburn ain’t going to tolerate that.’ -Doesn’t that sound just like Miss Bates, and like Auburn?” - -“That’s right; run down Auburn,” said Jack, tossing his strap of -school-books on a chair, and hanging his cap on the rubber-plant. -“You’ll make yourself good and popular if you go about expressing -opinions like that in public. Auburn was good enough for Airy Fairy -Lilian in high-school days, but having received four years of -‘culchaw,’ and a starter on the alphabet to add to her name, the -plebeian ways of the old home-place jar her nerves. I like your -loyalty, Mistress Barbara!” - -“That is totally uncalled for, Jack,” said Barbara. “I like Auburn -as much as you do. But it’s not an intellectual affection. I can’t -help seeing, in spite of my love for it, that the town is raw and -Western,—and painfully crude.” - -“An intellectual affection! That’s as bad as a hygienic plum-pudding,” -groaned Jack. “If I didn’t have to go out to coach the football team -in five minutes, I would sit down and express my sympathy at the -stultifying life which you must lead for the next sixty years. Unless, -of course, we marry you off. There is always that alternative.” - -“I hope you _are_ going to be contented, dear,” said Mrs. Grafton, as -her tall son relieved the rubber-plant of its burden, and clattered -noisily out of the room. “I realize that after four years of the jolly -intercourse you have had with the girls, and the growing college life, -we must seem slow and prosaic to you here; nothing much happens when -you are away. Of course, I don’t miss things as much as you will. _I’m_ -used to the old slow way, and besides, I’m too busy to have time to -think of what is lacking. But I don’t want you to be hungry for what is -not. The happiest thing I’ve had to think about all these four years, -has been your home-coming, but I’ve been a little worried about your -coming, sometimes. Do you think you are going to be contented with us?” - -Barbara’s answer was judicial. “Why, yes, I think so,” she said. “Of -course I shall miss the college life, and the intellectual stimulus -I had there, but _I’m_ going to work hard, too. All the theories I -learned at Vassar are just ready to be put into practice, and I have -so much to give the world that I can hardly wait to take my pen in -hand. Oh, I am so glad, mother, that my life-work is laid out for me. -I tell you frankly that I never could stand living in Auburn if I were -not busy. The sordidness of the workers, and the pettiness of the -idlers, would make me desperate. But I shall go to work at once, and -write—write—all the things I have been longing to give utterance to for -four years.” - -“But you can’t write all the time,” said Mrs. Grafton. - -“No, I don’t intend to. There are other things to do. There has never -been any organized philanthropy in Auburn, and there is plenty of work -for somebody in that line. I hope, too, that I may fall in with some -congenial people who will care to do some regular, systematic study -with me,—though I suppose they will be hard to find in a town of this -size. Then, too, I thought that I might help Susan.” - -Mrs. Grafton’s busy needle flew as she talked. “How, dear?” - -“Oh, in her studies. Susan and I kept together in high-school days, -and I think that it has always been a tragedy in her life that she -couldn’t have a college education. She has a fine mind,—not original, -you know, but clear-thinking,—and she loves study. Poor girl, I can -help her so much. And of course it will be a mental stimulus to me, -too.” - -“I’m afraid Susan won’t have time.” - -“Why, what is she doing?” - -“Housework,” replied her mother. “She is cooking, and caring for her -father and brothers, and she does it well, too.” - -“What a shame!” - -“What, to do it well?” - -“You know what I mean, you wicked mother. A shame to let all that -mental ability go to waste, while the pots and pans are being scoured. -It doesn’t take brains to do housework.” - -“Doesn’t it!” sighed Mrs. Grafton; “I find, all the time, that it takes -much more than I possess. When it comes to the problems of how to let -down Cecilia’s tucks without showing, how to vary the steak-chops diet -that we grow so tired of, and how to decrease the gas-bills, I feel my -mental inferiority. I’m glad that you have come home with new ideas; we -need them, dear.” - -A voice rose from the foot of the stairs below,—a shrill soprano voice, -that skipped the scale from C to C, and back again to A. - -“That’s Ellen,” said Mrs. Grafton, laying down her sewing with a sigh. -“I can’t teach her to come to me when she wants me. She says that she -doesn’t mind messages if she can ‘holler ’em,’ but she ‘won’t climb -stairs fer Mrs. Roosevelt herself.’ I suppose I’ll have to go down.” - -“What does she want?” - -“That’s what makes it interesting: you never know. Perhaps an -ironing-sheet, or the key to the fruit-closet. Maybe the plumber has -come, or the milkman is to be paid, or the telephone is ringing. Or -possibly a book-agent has made his appearance. She always keeps it a -mystery until I get down.” - -“I don’t see how on earth you live in that way. I never could get -anything done.” - -“I don’t accomplish much,” sighed her mother. “The days ought to be -three times as long, to hold all the things they bring to be done. My -life is like the mother’s bag in the ‘Swiss Family Robinson.’” - -“I can’t work that way,” said Barbara. “It’s ruinous to any continuity -of thought. I suppose that means that I’ll have to shut myself up in my -room to write.” - -Mrs. Grafton had gone downstairs. - -“I don’t see how mother can stand it,” said the girl to herself. “Two -telephone calls, an interview with the butcher, a stop to tie up -David’s finger, a hunt for father’s lost letter, some money to be sent -down to the vegetable man, and two calls to the front door,—that makes -eight interruptions in the last hour. If she would only systematize -things, so she wouldn’t be disturbed, she wouldn’t look so tired as she -does. There ought not to be so much work in this house.” - -She glanced around the big, homey-looking living-room, through the -door into the narrow, old-fashioned hall, and beyond, into the -sunny dining-room. The house was an old one; the furnishing, though -comfortable, showed the signs of hard usage and disorder. An umbrella -reposed on the couch, Jack’s football mask lay on the table, and her -mother’s ravelings littered the floor. A heterogeneous collection of -battered animals occupied the window-sill, and a pile of the doctor’s -memoranda was thrust under the clock. - -“I don’t wonder that things stray away here,” she added, “with no -one to pick them up but mother. She ought to insist upon orderliness -from each member of the family, and save herself. I’m afraid that her -over-work is partly her own fault.” - -“Another mishap,” said her mother, as she picked up her sewing on -entering the room. “The gas-stove this time. Ellen can’t make it burn, -and I’ve had to telephone the gas-man. Her baking is just under way, -too, and I’ll have to send out for some bread for supper. I hate to ask -you to do it, dear, this first day, but I’m afraid that Jack won’t be -back in time to go.” - -“Where shall I go? To Miss Pettibone’s?” - -“Yes; my purse is on the table. Get a loaf of bread and some cookies, -and anything else that would be good for supper. The meal is likely to -be a slim one.” - -Miss Pettibone’s tiny front room took the place of a delicatessen shop -in Auburn. She was a little, brown, fat acorn of a woman, who had been -wooed in her unsuspicious middle age by a graceless young vagabond, who -had brightened her home for six weeks and then departed, carrying with -him the little old maid’s heart, and the few thousand dollars which -represented her capital. She was of the type of woman who would feel -more grief than rage at such faithlessness, and she refused to allow -her recreant lover to be traced. After the first shock was over, she -turned to her one accomplishment as a means of livelihood, and produced -for sale such delicious bread, such delectable tarts, such marvelous -cakes and cookies, that all Auburn profited by the absence of the -rogue. She did catering in a small way, and sometimes, as an especial -favor, serving; and the sight of Miss Pettibone in a stiff white apron, -with a shiny brass tray under her arm, going into a side entrance, was -as sure a sign of a party within, as Japanese lanterns on the front -porch, or an order for grapefruit at the grocer’s. The tragedy of her -life had not embittered her, and all the grief that she had stirred -into her cakes was as little noticeable in the light loaves as the -evidences of sorrow in her intercourse with the world. Optimism was the -yeast of her hard little life, and had raised her to the soundness and -sweetness of her own bread. - -There was no one in the shop as Barbara swung the door open and set -a-jingle the bell at the top. But there was encouragement in the sight -of a spicy gingerbread, some small yellow patty-cakes, some sugary -crullers, and a pot of brown baked beans, in the glass-covered counter. -Miss Pettibone came bustling into the room at the sound of the bell. - -“Why, Barbara Grafton,” she said delightedly; “you, of all people! When -did you get back?” - -“Last night,” answered Barbara. - -“Well, I declare! If I’m not glad to see you! You haven’t changed a -mite,—even to get taller. I guess you’ve got your growth now. You -spindled a good deal while you was stretching, but you seem to be -fleshing up now.” - -“I’m always a vulgarly healthy person,” said Barbara. “But how about -you? How is the rheumatism?” - -“It’s in its place when the roll is called. I’ve had a lame shoulder -all spring.” - -“I’m sorry about that.” - -“Well, you don’t need to be. That’s one of the things that make dying -easy. Providence was pretty kind when she began to invent aches and -pains. Just think how hard it would be to step off, if you had to -go when you was perfect physically. But that ain’t the usual way, -thank goodness! All of the rheumatic shoulders, and bad backs, and -poor sights, and failing memories, are just stones that pave the road -to dying. I guess that’s what St. Paul meant when he said, ‘We die -daily.’ But you don’t look as though you had begun, yet.” - -“College food seems to agree with me, Miss Pettibone, but it’s not like -your baking. I’ve come for a loaf of bread, and to carry off that pot -of beans.” - -“You can have the bread, child, but not the beans; they was sold hours -ago.” - -“Too bad,” sighed Barbara. “Give me the gingerbread.” - -“I’m sorry, but that’s sold, too.” - -“Why do you keep them, then?” - -“I always ask my customers to leave them, if they ain’t in any hurry -for them. It keeps my shop full, and besides, it makes folks that come -in late see what they’ve missed. I notice that the minute a sold sign -goes on a thing, it raises its value with most people. Barbara, it does -my heart good to see you back again.” - -“I’m glad to be back, too. How much are the little cakes?” - -“Are you, my dear? Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. Twenty cents a -dozen. Do you want them right away? You see, going away from home -spoils lots of young folks, these days. Sending ’em away is like -teaching them to tell time when they’re children. Of course it’s a -matter of education, but after that they’re always on the outlook to -see if the clock is fast or slow. And most of the young people who go -away to college find it pretty slow in Auburn. I’m glad that _you_ -ain’t going to be discontented.” - -Barbara looked guilty. She did not want to accept undeserved praise, -and yet it was hard to be frank without being impolite. - -“Of course I expect to miss college life, Miss Pettibone,” she began. - -“Dear me, yes. I know what that will mean to you. Why, after I came -back from Maine, twenty years ago, I was as lonesome for sea-air as -though it had been a person. To this day I long for the tang of that -salt wind. That’s why I use whale-oil soap—because the smell of the -suds reminds me of the sea. Of _course_ you’re going to miss college, -Barbara.” - -“I shall try to keep so busy that I won’t have time to be lonely,” said -Barbara. - -“That’s the right spirit. It won’t be hard to do, either, in your -house. Your family is a large one, and your mother is put to it to do -everything. Gassy ain’t old enough yet to be of much help, and it’s -easier to keep a secret than a girl, in Auburn. I guess she’ll be -glad to have you here to pitch in. It’s a good thing that you like -housework.” - -“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it. Housekeeping is not my forte. -Of course I shall help mother, but I don’t intend to do that kind of -work to the exclusion of all other. I intend to save the best of myself -for my writing.” - -Miss Pettibone looked properly awed. - -“Well, it’s a wonderful thing to be able to write. I always said that -you’d be an authoress, when I used to see those school compositions of -yours that the ‘Conservative’ used to print. Why, Barbara, you come in -here once when you was in Kindergarten school, and you set down on my -front window-sill, and you says, ‘Miss Pettibone,’ you says, ‘I’ve -written a pome.’ And I says, ‘Good fer you, Barbara, let’s hear it.’ So -you smoothed down your white apron, and recited it to me. ‘It’s about -my mother,’ you says; ‘and this is it:— - - ‘Oh, Mrs. Grafton,’ said Miss Gray, - ‘Oh, do your children run away?’ - ‘Oh, no,’ said she, ‘they never do; - Because I always use my shoe.’ - -Then when you was through you explained to me that your ma didn’t -really whip you. You just had to put in that part about the shoe to -make it rhyme, you said. You was an awful old-fashioned child, Barbara!” - -“My poetry was of about the same quality then that it is now,” laughed -Barbara. “I’ll take the bread and the cakes with me, Miss Pettibone. -This is like old Auburn days. I haven’t carried a loaf of bread on the -street since I left home.” - -“Well, paper bundles with the steam rising from them ain’t very swell, -but sometimes the insides makes it worth while,” said the little -baker. “Come in and see me often, Barbara, when it ain’t an errand. And -give my love to your mother. She hasn’t been looking well lately, seems -to me.” - -Barbara smiled her good-by, and the little bell jingled merrily as the -door swung shut. - -“It’s always good to see Miss Pettibone,” she said to herself as she -started up the quiet street. “She belongs in a story-book,—a little -felt one with cheery red covers. It is queer about her, too. She is as -provincial as any one in Auburn, and yet she is never commonplace.” - -At the corner she encountered another of the characters of Auburn. This -was Mrs. Kotferschmidt, the old German woman, whose husband had been -for years the proprietor of the one boat-livery of the town. He had -died during the past winter, and Barbara, meeting the widow, stopped to -offer her condolences. The old boatman had taught her to swim and to -row, and her expressions of sympathy were genuine. - -“Mother wrote me about your loss,” she said. “I was so sorry to hear -about Mr. Kotferschmidt.” - -The old lady rustled in her crape, but the stolid face in the black -bonnet showed no sign of emotion. - -“Oh, you don’t need to mind that,” she said politely. “He was getting -old, anyways. In the spring I hired me a stronger man to help me mit -the boats.” - -Mrs. Kotferschmidt was the only passer Barbara met on her way home. -Chestnut Street was practically deserted. The school-children’s -procession had passed, and the business-men’s brigade had not yet -started to move. The shaded avenue, with its green arch of trees -overhead, stretched its quiet, leisurely way from Miss Pettibone’s shop -to the Grafton house. A shaft of red sun cut its way through the thick -leaves, and covered with a glorified light the square, substantial -houses that bordered the road. A few children played upon the street, a -dog was taking an undisturbed siesta on the sidewalk, and three snowy -pigeons were cooing softly as they strutted along the gutter. It -was all pretty and peaceful, but quiet, desperately quiet. Barbara’s -thoughts went back to the college campus, crowded with chattering -students, leisurely professors, hurrying messenger-boys, and busy -employees, and full of activity at this hour. What if the Sphinx could -see her now, or the Infant, or the dear House Plant, with that plebeian -loaf of bread under her arm, on that deserted Western road? She knew -what they would say; she could almost feel their glances of pity. Oh, -it was a misfortune to be born in a place like Auburn,—a stultifying, -crude, middle-western town. She choked down a lump in her throat that -threatened her. - -“I must get to work,” she thought. “Soon,—soon! I shall never be able -to exist in Auburn, if I give myself time to think about it.” - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY - - -IT was eight o’clock on a warm morning in June, a few days after -Barbara’s return. She rose from the table, where she had been -breakfasting in solitude, and sought her mother. - -It was not easy to find her. The girl looked into the kitchen, passed -through her father’s office, and ran upstairs to Mrs. Grafton’s -chamber—all without result. - -“Jack!” she called, stopping at the door of her brother’s room, and -severely regarding the recumbent figure in bed. “Jack! I’d be ashamed -of lying in bed so late! Where’s mother?” - -A muffled groan, a tossing of the long swathed figure—and silence. - -“Jack! Tell me at least, if you know where she is.” - -The swathed figure rose up in majesty, and a pair of half-open, sleepy -eyes became visible in a yawning face. - -“Well, I’ll be hanged!” said Jack. “If you didn’t actually wake me up -to ask where mother is. What do you think I am! A supernatural dreamer, -with visions of everything mother does floating around my bed? Think I -can see all over the house with my eyes shut?” - -Jack flounced back, and recomposed his long limbs for slumber. - -“You ought to be up, anyway, by this time,” declared Barbara, eyeing -him with cold disapproval. “There are plenty of things that you could -do to help.” - -She walked down the stairs, puzzling over the strange lack of system -that she saw everywhere about her. There was Jack, lying at his ease -in his room, with a superb disregard of responsibilities. She caught a -glimpse of Gassy sitting in the dusty, disorderly library, reading the -story from which she had been forcibly separated the evening before at -bedtime. And finally, as she reëntered the dining-room, she stumbled -over the Kid, who was arranging plates, taken from the uncleared -dining-table, in a neat line on the carpet. - -“Don’t upset my ships!” he roared, as Barbara unconsciously crunched a -butter-plate under her erring tread. - -She stared in horror at the débris; then, sweeping the plates up, to -the accompaniment of shrieks from the youngest Grafton, she sat down on -a chair and took her struggling little brother on her lap. - -“Charles Grafton, listen to me!” she said firmly but not angrily, -remembering the pedagogic articles on “Anger and the Child,” and the -extracts which had filled a large college note-book. “Charles! What do -you mean by doing such a dreadful thing as this? Answer, immediately.” - -It was while she was trying to understand his stormy articulations that -Mrs. Grafton appeared, and sank down wearily in a chair near the door. -The Kid immediately wriggled from his sister and ran to his mother, -weeping. - -“Just see what this boy has done!” cried Barbara. “I picked up half -these plates from the floor. I never saw such a child! This table ought -to have been cleared long ago, anyway.” - -“Ellen can’t clear the table until breakfast is over,” said Mrs. -Grafton, soothing the little boy in her arms. “Your father, Cecilia, -Charles, and I had our breakfast as usual at quarter after seven. I -imagine that Ellen was waiting for you to finish. Moreover, the gas-man -came to look at the meter in the cellar, and she and I both went down -with him. I just came up from there.” - -Mrs. Grafton’s face settled into weary lines, and she sighed heavily. -But Barbara did not notice. She was looking at the new egg-stain on the -Wilton rug. - -“Mother,” she said, in her fresh, energetic voice, “I really do think -things might be managed more systematically here than they actually -are. You know that, if there is one thing that we learn at college, it -is the need of system. Now see here!” Barbara rose, and began to pace -back and forth over the egg-stain. “We rise at six-thirty, an absurdly -early hour, though perhaps necessitated by the work of a large family—” - -“Yes,” interposed her mother, smiling through her pallor. “We _all_ -rise at half-past six.” - -Barbara flushed. “Now, mother!” she said. “I know I haven’t done it -these few days since I came home, but that was accidental. It shall not -happen again. And Jack is dreadful about getting up!” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Grafton, “this ‘system’?” - -“Oh, yes. We should rise and finish breakfast by quarter-past eight. -Then let Ellen do the dishes, of course, and all the work in the -kitchen. Then make Jack get up and do the outside work, the lawns, -sweeping the porches, and so forth, to get it out of the way early. -Cecilia,—how I hate that nickname Gassy!—Cecilia ought to do her share. -She should be taught to keep her room in order, and the library too, I -think.” - -“I won’t!” shouted an excitable little voice from the next room. - -“Don’t talk that way, Cecilia,” called Barbara. “You’ll never improve, -if you don’t do something in this world.” - -“Why don’t _you_ do something, then?” retorted the voice, “instead of -telling mother how to run the house?” - -A smile flickered upon Mrs. Grafton’s pale face, and died in another -sigh. Barbara rose and shut the dining-room door. - -“Now I”—she resumed—“I will guarantee to keep the lower floor looking -fresh and clean,—not doing the sweeping, of course; and I will take -care of my own room and Jack’s also. That will probably occupy me -until half-past nine, after which I must spend my time until twelve -in writing every minute, undisturbed. In this way, you see, we shall -each have our own individual work,—David and the Kid being allowed to -play,—and your burden will be considerably lessened. And all through a -little application of system.” - -“System!” echoed her mother, mechanically allowing Charles to slip from -her lap. - -“Yes,” said Barbara. “That leaves your room and David’s and the -ordering for you.” - -“My room, and David’s, and the ordering,” repeated Mrs. Grafton. - -“Why, yes,” Barbara responded, looking curiously at her mother. “What -is the matter, dear? You look so queer and white. Aren’t you well?” - -“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Grafton. “Here is Susan coming to see you. Keep -her out on the porch, Barbara, there is so much to do in the house.” - -Left alone, Mrs. Grafton’s eyes filled, and her lips began to twitch -nervously. “So much to do!” she repeated. She put her handkerchief up -to her shaking lips. “What am I crying for?” she asked herself sternly. -“I never used to be so foolish.” But her eyes kept filling and her lips -twitching. She had a feeling that she was allowing herself to be weak. -Then a sense of hopelessness in a domestic universe seemed to rise up -and overwhelm her, and she wept again. - -Suddenly she rose and hurried from the room, as she caught the sound of -Jack’s boots on the stairs. - -“I’m so glad to see you!” cried Barbara, pushing forward the best -porch-chair to receive her guest. “And I’m especially glad that you -came so early, for I shall be inaccessible after ten o’clock. My -literary hours begin then.” - -Susan fanned herself. “I just stopped a minute on my way to get some -sewing-silk,” she said, “but I couldn’t help trying to get a glimpse -of you again. How fresh and at leisure you look, Babbie. All your work -done so soon?” - -“No-o,” answered Barbara, a slight blush making her confession -charming. “The fact is, Sue, I got up later than usual this morning, -for some reason, and mother and I have been taking our time in -discussing a new system of housekeeping, by which I am to lighten -mother’s labors considerably.” - -Susan looked wistful as she rocked back and forth. “I suppose your -college training makes you accommodate yourself to all circumstances,” -she said. “It must be hard to have to come to every-day living like -this, after all the advantages you have had. I believe you know enough -theory to fit into any situation.” - -“Oh, no,” interposed Barbara, “not _every_ one.” - -“And all these four years,” went on Susan, her sweet face sobering, -“I have just been doing housework, and trying to take dear mother’s -place. My life has been bounded by dishpans and darning-cotton, and my -associates have been housemaids and dressmakers. I haven’t improved at -all.” - -“Now you are fishing!” rejoined Barbara. “I must say, Susan, that as -for not being a college girl, you show it less than any other girl I -ever saw.” - -“You flatter me,” declared Susan. “And oh, Barbara, I want to say that -it’s awfully sweet of you to be willing to read with me an hour every -day. It will help me ever so much, to get your trained point of view -about things. I am so immature in my mental judgments, I know.” - -“I am only too glad to help you,” said Barbara, heartily. “And really, -Sue, you are a godsend to me, for you are the only girl in town that is -congenial to me at all.” - -Susan looked pleased. “That’s kind of you,” she answered. “Well, I must -not keep you from helping your mother. By the way, how is she to-day? -Everybody is saying how tired and worn out she looks, and is glad that -you have come to share her burdens.” - -“Why, mother’s all right,” replied Barbara. “How people will talk and -gossip about nothing! Good-by, Sue dear. Take some roses on the way -out. And let’s begin reading to-morrow.” - -She paused a moment on the porch, looking with appreciative eyes at the -pretty lawn, with its wealth of gay-colored nasturtiums and roses. As -she passed through the hall, her eyes fell upon Gassy, still curled up -in the chair, and absorbed in her book. - -“Cecilia!” called Barbara, with all the authority of an elder sister. -“You have done nothing all morning. Take the duster and dust the -living-room immediately.” - -The little girl’s legs kicked convulsively in protest. “Oh-h, how I -hate you, Barbara!” she cried abstractedly. “I’ve only eight pages -more.” - -“Nearly ten o’clock!” sighed the girl, as she mounted the stairs to her -room. “I shan’t get much done to-day.” - -She made her bed with resigned patience, pinned an “Engaged” sign on -her door, and fell to work. But even through the closed door came -the busy sounds of an active household. A thump, thump, thump of the -furniture downstairs in the living-room proclaimed that a vigorous -sweeping was going on; the maddening click-click-clash outside drew -her to the window to behold Jack sulkily guiding the lawn-mower. Just -below her came the measured hum of the sewing-machine, and Barbara -remembered, with a guilty start, that she had promised to finish those -sheets herself, the day before. Finally, the sound of a toy drum and -the martial tramp of little feet in the hall outside her door nerved -her to action. - -“What _are_ you doing, children?” she cried, putting her head out -through the door in despair. - -David and the Kid stopped marching simultaneously, and eyed their big -sister. “I’m Teddy Roosevelt,” said David, mildly, “and the Kid is all -my Rough Riders.” - -“Well, you must not ride here,” declared Barbara. “You are disturbing -me and I can’t write. Go downstairs and play,—right away. You must not -annoy me again.” - -She shut her door, cutting a yell from the Kid into two sections. The -martial sounds died away, and she was free to resume her thoughts. -Their continuity seemed broken, however. It was some time before she -took up her work again. - -About an hour afterwards, as Barbara, with pleased expression and -a flying pen, was half way through an enthusiastically philosophic -peroration, she was disturbed by a sudden jar, as if some heavy weight -had fallen, shaking her chair considerably. In a minute, footsteps -sounded outside again, and some one timidly opened her door. It was -David. - -“Mother—” he began. - -“I _cannot_ be disturbed!” cried Barbara, frantically, waving her pen. -“Run away, David; I simply must not be talked to!” - -The little fellow, with a scared look, obeyed, and Barbara was once -more left alone. It was not the conglomeration of sounds which now -annoyed her,—it was the utter absence of the noises to which she had -grown accustomed. The hum of the sewing-machine had abruptly ceased, -and a sudden cry of “Jack, come here, quick!” had stopped the teasing -whir of the grass-cutter. To Barbara there was something ominous in the -sudden cessation. - -“Well, it’s nearly twelve, anyway,” she exclaimed, shutting up her -desk. “I’ll give up for this morning.” - -She opened her door and went downstairs. No one in the halls; no one in -the living-room. She turned toward the kitchen, but was arrested by the -sound of her father’s voice coming from the sewing-room,—his voice, but -strange, low, unnatural. - -“There, Jack! That’s enough water. Slowly, Ellen. Stop crying, -Charles. Mother’s all right.” - -Barbara reached the door in one bound. “What—” she began, and stopped, -while her shocked eyes took in the scene before her. - -In a frightened, huddled group near her stood Gassy, David, and the -Kid, staring at their mother, who lay on the floor perfectly quiet. -Jack and Ellen stood by, with water and cloths, and the doctor was -gently sponging away the blood from a cut on Mrs. Grafton’s temple. No -one spoke to Barbara or noticed her. - -As she crossed over, brushing the children from her path, her father -looked up and saw the alarmed look on her face. “Your mother fainted, -that’s all,” he said reassuringly. “She fell from the sewing-machine -and cut herself. But she will be all right soon!” - -Mrs. Grafton opened her eyes and faintly smiled. - -“O mother dear!” cried Barbara. “O mother! It is my fault! I said I -would do those sheets yesterday.” - -Mrs. Grafton began to cry. “I don’t want to hear about sheets,” she -sobbed weakly. - -“No, dear, no, dear, you needn’t,” soothed the doctor, motioning -Barbara away. - -It was a new sensation to Barbara to stand back, while the doctor -carried Mrs. Grafton upstairs to her room, and, aided only slightly, -put her to bed. Mechanically she did as ordered, and followed her -father out of the room, when her mother had fallen asleep, with a -feeling that the end of the world had come, and that “system” had -deserted the universe. - -“Yes, it is a nervous break-down,” said the doctor, throwing himself -into an easy-chair in the living-room. “I might have known that it -would come, with the crushing weight of this household on her delicate -shoulders. But your mother is so brave and bright that I didn’t realize -what she has been doing.” - -“And of course I’ve been away,” sighed Barbara. - -“Well, _she_ must go away now,” said Dr. Grafton, with determination. -“A complete rest and change she must have, as soon as possible. And -Barbara, my girl, you’ll have to take the helm.” - -“Oh, I will,” she cried confidently. “I can and will gladly. I won’t -let it crush _me_. I’ll reduce it all to a science.” - -“H’m,” said her father. “This science is not taught at Vassar. However, -I don’t see what else we can do. And your mother must go at once.” - -Barbara lost her sense of the logical continuity of events during the -next few days. Packing, planning, consoling small brothers, encouraging -her mother, who was inclined to rebellion,—the minutes and hours flew. -Before she realized, she stood one morning on the front porch with her -arms around the sobbing Kid, resolutely forcing a smile, while she -waved a cheerful farewell to the departing phaeton, containing a very -pale mother and a very determined-looking father. - -“Good-by, mother dear!” called little David, winking away his tears. -“Come back soon.” - -“Come back _well_!” added Barbara, cheerfully. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE PRACTICE - - -MAUD S. lengthened her measured tread an infinitesimally small -distance, in response to the doctor’s impatient command. But she did -it sorrowfully, and with the air of yielding to a child’s whim. Maud -S. had been born and brought up in Auburn, and she had been educated -to a stern sense of the proprieties. It was right and proper to forego -appearances, and even to abandon one’s dignity, if necessary, upon -a call of mercy; but a trip to the station, with a trunk aboard, -and a feeble passenger inside, certainly ought to be made decently -and in order. Moreover, it was the first outing that Mrs. Grafton -had taken for eight years, and the occasion was one that required -proper observance. To be told to “Chirk up, Maud,” right in front of -Banker Willowby’s house, was certainly irritating, and her excessive -good-breeding showed in the forbearance with which she received the -admonition. Maud S. made up in refinement and courtesy what she lacked -in speed, and she showed her delicacy, even in her resentment, by the -ladylike way in which she flapped her ears forward, in order that she -might not hear the domestic conversation that was going on in the -carriage behind her. - -“I feel like a deserter from the regiment,” sighed Mrs. Grafton. “I -ought not to be going away from home.” - -“Well, I’m sorry to say it,” responded the doctor, “but you certainly -ought to be getting away from home just as fast as the train will carry -you,—and Maud S. will condescend to take you to it. I can’t get you out -of Auburn too soon.” - -“It is wicked of me to leave the house and the children.” - -“It would be wicked of me not to _make_ you leave the house and the -children! You have had an undisturbed diet of house and children four -years too long. No wonder your heart rebels. A fine kind of doctor I -am, not to have detected this long ago! If it had been any patient but -my wife, I should have been quick to discover it. But it’s partly your -own fault, Elizabeth; you had no business to be so uncomplaining about -yourself. Even that excuse, though, doesn’t keep me from realizing how -brutally thoughtless I have been.” - -The mother-mind went back to the forlorn little group on the porch. -“Poor children,” she sighed; “I don’t know how they are going to get -along; if they only had some one to rely upon for their three meals a -day! But Ellen is woefully inefficient, and she has to be handled with -sugar-tongs, besides. The spring sewing isn’t finished yet; the porch -ought to be screened; David—poor little pale face—ought to be sent away -before his hay fever begins; and the fruit-canning season is just at -hand.” - -“Oh, _we’ll_ get along,” assured the doctor, in the old, illogical way -that means nothing, and yet is so comforting to a woman; “Barbara’s -young and strong, and full of energy. She’ll put her hand to the helm, -if need be.” - -“But this is her vacation, and I want her to enjoy it. She’s worked -hard at her books for four years. Besides, she is so full of her -writing now—” - -Dr. Grafton laughed,—a merry, contagious laugh, that rivaled his -medical skill in winning his patients. “I thought as much,” he said. -“Getting admission to her room nowadays is attended with all the -formalities of the Masonic ritual, and she goes about with ink on her -fingers and ink on her nose. I suppose she is fired by the ambition -of the Banbury Cross lady in making ‘music wherever she goes.’ Poor -little Barbara; she’s taking herself so very seriously, these days! She -feels that she must gush forth a stream of living water for thirsty -mankind, forgetting, dear little lass, that she is not a spring yet, -but only a rain-barrel. Four years of college have filled her, but she -doesn’t realize that now is the time to keep all the bung-holes shut. -I suppose we must all pass through that think-we-are-artists disease, -but Barbara seems to have an aggravated case.” - -“She has been encouraged in it a good deal.” - -“Yes, I know she has,—more’s the pity. A prodigy now and then must be -encouraging to a college faculty, but it’s a bit hard on the prodigy -herself, and harder still on the prodigy’s family. Intellectual lights -ought to be hidden under a ton, instead of a bushel, so it wouldn’t be -so easy to dig them out. I believe, myself, that Barbara _has_ a fine -mind, and unusual ability, but, dear heart, she’s only a child! She has -to live before she can write.” - -“I haven’t dared tell her that yet,” said her mother; “I don’t want -even to seem to discourage her. And you know how confident Barbara is.” - -“I wish she were a bit less _self_-confident; she’s bound to be -disappointed, and I’m afraid that she sets her hopes so high that the -fall, when it comes, will be a hard one. I wish, too, that she wasn’t -quite so serious about it all. Her saving grace of humor seems to have -utterly deserted her at this trying period of her existence.” - -“That’s a way that humor sometimes has,” said Mrs. Grafton. “The very -jolliest, drollest woman I ever knew confided to me once that her sense -of humor had entirely deserted her, at one time. She had been out -sailing with the man who afterward became her husband, and during the -course of the evening he had done a little love-making. ‘He called me -Sweetie,’ she said to me. ‘Think of it! Sweetie! Why, it’s as bad as -Pettie, or Lambie!’ And the worst of it was that it didn’t even seem -funny to me until after I thought it over at home. ‘When love comes in -the door, humor flies out of the window,’ she said; and I suppose it -may be the same way with genius.” - -“If Barbara’s genius was armed with a broom instead of a pen, it would -be better for her,” said her father. “And that is why I am glad, -for her sake as well as yours, that you are going away. The girl -isn’t all dreamer; she has a practical compartment in that brain of -hers, and your absence will give her a chance to open the doors and -windows of it, and sweep the cobwebs out. Oh, I’m not worried about -_Barbara_,—she’ll rise to occasions. And _we’ll_ get along beautifully. -If _you’ll_ only come back to us well and strong—” - -Maud S. made an unnecessary clatter over the macadam road, in order -not to hear the rest of the sentence. The anxious note in her master’s -voice swallowed up the last trace of her resentment. - -In the meantime the little group on the Grafton porch had turned back -into the house. Jack had taken his fishing-tackle, and gone off down -the dusty road without a word. David, with a plaintive expression on -his thin little face, had turned to his beloved “Greek Heroes” for -comfort. The Kid’s tears had been dried by Barbara’s handkerchief and -two raisin cookies, and he had gone to the sand-pile to play. Gassy, -alone, was unaccounted for. She had slipped away from the porch when -her mother was assisted into the carriage, and was not in sight when -the others turned back into the house. - -“Picking up, first,” sighed Barbara, as she came back into the big -living-room, which seemed unusually untidy and cheerless. “Then the -bed-making and the chamber-work, planning the meals, and ordering the -supplies. I think I shall write out all the menus for Ellen,—that will -be the easiest way.” She was putting the room in order, and her hands -flew with her thoughts. “I mean to do everything systematically. I -want to prove to father that, college fits a girl for anything,—even -practical life, and if I keep the house in order, discipline the -children, and have some excellent meals, I think he’ll be convinced. It -will take some time to get things started, but I believe that after I -have them systematized, they will go smoothly, and I shall have plenty -of time left for my writing. Mother always spent so much time on the -unnecessary little things; no wonder she went to pieces—poor mother!” - -Something dimmed Barbara’s tender eyes, but she steadied her lips and -went on with her plans:— - -“One thing I intend to change, and that is having dinner at noon. It’s -horribly unhygienic, and old-fashioned, too. I’ll speak to Ellen about -it.” - -She pulled open the door of the hall-closet to find a dust-cloth. A -huddled pile of pink gingham, with two long, black legs protruding, lay -prone upon the floor. The head was hidden. - -Barbara put an arm about the place which seemed to mark a waist in the -gingham. “What’s the matter, dear?” she asked tenderly. - -There was a long-drawn breath, and an unmistakable snuffle. Then -Gassy’s voice answered coldly,— - -“Nuthin’.” - -“Well, don’t lie in here in the dark. Come out with me, little sister.” - -Gassy came, slowly and reluctantly. She rose from the floor, back -foremost, keeping her face assiduously turned away from her sister. - -“I don’t like to see you cry—” - -“Wasn’t crying,” stiffened Gassy, with a sob. - -“I mean I don’t like to have you tucked away in here, when I need you -outside. I want your help, little girl.” - -“What for?” demanded Gassy, suspiciously. - -“Oh, just to have you about, to talk to,” said Barbara. “Come on out -with me, and help me plan the lunch.” - -“Lunch? Are we goin’ to have a picnic?” asked Gassy, seating herself -with her proud little face turned toward the window. - -“No; but we’re going to have dinner at night while mother’s away. And -Cecilia, how would you like to turn vegetarian?” - -“Just eat vegetables?” - -“Yes; it’s much more hygienic.” - -“No meat at all?” - -“No; we eat altogether too much flesh.” - -“It would be cheaper to board at a livery stable,” said Gassy. - -“And healthier, too, I think. I’ve gone without meat voluntarily for -three whole years, and I have been in perfect physical condition. It’s -a help mentally, too. And diet isn’t restricted if you substitute eggs -and nuts and fruit for meat.” - -Nuts and fruit sounded good to Gassy. “All right,” she said; “I’d like -to try it. But we can’t do it yet awhile; we’re working out a bill at -the butcher’s. His wife broke her collarbone last year, and he’s paying -the doctor’s bill in meat. Besides, what will Ellen say?” - -Barbara wondered, herself. But she was too proud to admit her -foreboding. - -“Ellen draws her salary” (college settlement lessons forbade her using -the term “wages”) “for following our wishes—” - -“Then she doesn’t earn it,” interrupted Gassy. - -“And I’m sure she could find no objection to any decision of ours as to -the best kind of food. Will you ask her to come here, Cecilia, as soon -as she gets her dishes washed? I’ll have the menu ready for her by that -time.” - -Miss Parloa’s cook-book, which Barbara took down from the shelf -to assist her in her task, was not a vegetarian; but memories of -her self-imposed college meals still lingered. By the time Ellen’s -lumbering step was heard in the back hall the menu was ready, neatly -written upon the first page of a new little blank-book. - -“I wuz down in the cellar,” stated Ellen, “and I can’t leave my work to -come every time I’m wanted. Just holler the things down to me. Me and -your ma has an understanding about that.” - -“If you come in here after the dish-washing every morning, Ellen, -you won’t have to make an extra trip upstairs,” said Barbara, in -the approved college-settlement tone. “I have no desire to demand -unnecessary service from you. I shall always have the menu for the day -ready for you at this hour. This is for to-day: while mother is gone we -shall have dinner at night, and luncheon at noon.” - -Ellen’s expression was not wholly encouraging, as she took the little -book. It read:— - - Cantaloupes with ice. - ------ - Eggs in tomato cases. Rice patés. - Thin bread and butter. - Parmesian balls on lettuce, with French dressing. - Olives. Wafers. - ------ - Mint sherbet. - ------ - Nuts. - -“Cantyloops! What’s them?” demanded Ellen. - -[Illustration: CANTYLOOPS! WHAT’S THEM?] - -Barbara explained. - -“Oh, mush-melons! Why didn’t you say so? Mush-melons won’t be ripe fer -a month. What’s that next thing?” - -“That’s a new way of serving eggs,” said Barbara; “the recipe’s in the -book. It’s simple, and very pretty.” - -“You can’t serve ’em that way in this town,” grumbled Ellen. “Tomatoes -don’t come in cases,—they come in baskets. And as long as there’s a -dish in the house where I’m working, I won’t never set a tomato-basket -on the table. What’s rice payts!” - -“The recipes are all in the book: I’ve marked the pages,” said Barbara, -with dignity. “Of course, Ellen, if cantaloupes are not in the market, -we’ll have to substitute something else. Or perhaps we could get along -without that course.” - -“We might have the ice, without the melons,” suggested Gassy. - -Barbara glanced up suspiciously, but the sharp little face was innocent. - -“That is all, then, Ellen. The recipes are given in full, and you will -have no trouble in following them. I have ordered all the necessary -materials. The rice and the cheese will be here in half an hour. Miss -Cecilia will show you where the mint-bed is in the garden.” - -Ellen’s large freckled face took on an expression of astonishment. -“_Who_ will?” she asked. - -“Miss Cecilia,” responded Barbara. - -Ellen’s eyes followed Barbara’s glance. “Oh, _Gassy_!” she said. -“Didn’t know who you meant, before. Say, Barbara Grafton, I can’t -never get up a meal like this, with no meat, and on ironing-day, too. -Your ma never has sherbet but Sundays, and then Jack turns the crank -fer me. And nuts! Nuts won’t be ripe till October.” - -“The nuts are already ordered,” said Barbara, turning away. “That will -do, Ellen. I’m going upstairs now to do the chamber-work, and after -that I shall go to my writing. I don’t want to be disturbed. If any one -comes to see me, say that I’m not at home.” - -“I’ll holler if I want you,” said Ellen, grimly. - -“No, don’t do that, because it breaks into what I am doing. I shall -be downstairs again before luncheon-time, and you can tell me then -anything you need. Cecilia, I trust you to see that I am not disturbed -for two hours. Don’t call me before twelve o’clock, no matter what -happens.” - -It was long past noon when the last sheet of “The Spirit of the Eternal -Ego” slipped from Barbara’s hand, and the pen was dropped. She glanced -up at the little clock near the vine-wreathed window. “Ten minutes of -one!” she exclaimed; “I must have missed the din—luncheon bell. But my -essay is done—hurray!” - -She hurried down the stairs. The living-room was empty and the porch -deserted. The dining-room table had not been set. In the kitchen the -sink was piled high with dirty dishes, dish-towels hung over every -chair, and a trail of grease-spots ran from pantry to back door. The -kitchen table was pulled up before a window, and about it were seated -David, with some canned peaches, Gassy, with a saucer full of ground -cinnamon and sugar, and Jack, with a massive sandwich of cold beefsteak -and thick bread. On the table were a bowl of cold baked beans, a saucer -of radishes, a dish of pickles, and a bottle of pink pop. - -Barbara shuddered. “Where’s Ellen?” she asked. - -Jack looked up. “Ah, the authoress!” he exclaimed. “I judge from your -appearance upon the scene of action that the fire of genius has ceased -to rage in unabated fury.” - -[Illustration: WHY ARE YOU EATING IN HERE?] - -“Why are you eating in here? Where’s Ellen?” Barbara repeated. - -“In reply to your first question, to save carrying; in reply to your -second, I canna say. I know not where she went; I only know where she -deserves to go.” - -“Has she gone away to stay?” - -“In the language of the housewife, she has ‘left,’” said Jack. “I -hurried home from the river, bringing two thirty-pound trout to grace -the festal board, an hour ago. I found that if there was to be any -festal board, I must supply both the festives and the boarding. The -gas-stove had ceased to burn; the kitchen was still. Ellen had flown -the coop. I was for calling you, but Gassy, here, was obdurate. She -said that you had left orders with your private secretary that, come -what might, you were not to be disturbed. Luckily, father telegraphed -that he was not coming home until to-morrow. So, with the aid of my -little family circle, I prepared the repast which you see before you. -It was dead easy: each one took out of the ice-box his favorite article -of food, and for a wonder, no two happened to want the same article. -Fall to, yourself, fair lady; there is still some cold boiled cabbage -in the refrigerator, and you have earned it after your valiant fight as -bread-winner for the family this morning!” - -“Stop your nonsense, Jack. Didn’t Ellen make any explanation of her -going?” - -“Like the girl in the ballad, ‘She left a note behind.’ It was written -on the other side of a wonderful menu, which probably was the cause of -her leaving. I don’t wonder it scared her off. The note lies there on -the table.” - -Barbara picked it up. The page had been torn from the blank-book, and -on it was scrawled:— - -“i am leving youse. my folks have been at me to come home, and i have -desided not to stay where i cant holler, also i cant get no dinner like -this, youse can pay my wages to the boy that comes for my close.” - -Barbara sank hopelessly into a chair. There seemed nothing further to -be said upon the subject of Ellen. - -“Where’s Charles?” she inquired. - -“Don’t _you_ know?” said Jack. “I haven’t seen him since I came home. -We thought you must have sent him on an errand, when he didn’t appear -at noon. The Kid always turns up regularly at meal-time.” - -“I haven’t seen him since mother left,” replied Barbara. “Then I sent -him to the sand-pile. I haven’t an idea where he is.” - -“You told him he couldn’t go to a picnic,” said David, dreamily. - -“Why, no, I didn’t.” - -“But you did, Barbara. He came and knocked on your door while you -were writing, and told you he wanted to go. And you said no. Then he -hollered that he thought you were”—David hesitated delicately over the -epithet—“a mean old thing; that he hadn’t asked you to let him have a -picnic before since mother had left. And you told him to run away,—that -you were busy.” - -“Did I?” asked Barbara, trying to remember. She had a faint -recollection of such an interruption, but she was never sure of what -happened during the hours which she spent in the throes of authorship. -“How long ago was it?” - -“’Bout eleven o’clock.” - -Barbara looked worried. “I can’t think where he could have gone,” she -said. “Have you looked everywhere in the house?” - -“Everywhere we could think of,” responded Jack. “Don’t worry, Barb; -he’ll show up as soon as he gets hungry. Disappearance is his long -suit.” - -“Does he often run away like this?” - -“Every time the spirit moves him. Not even a letter-press could keep -him down when the wanderlust seizes him. Sometimes he is gone for -hours. Punishment doesn’t seem to do him much good, either, though I -must say he never gets enough of it to make any impression. If he were -mine, I should test the magic power of a willow switch.” - -“How do you find him?” - -“Oh, he comes wandering in, like the prodigal son, after he has fed -upon husks for a while. Maybe he has been unable to face the ordeal of -a separation from Ellen, and has gone with her.” - -“I wish he hadn’t gone while father and mother are away. I feel, -somehow, as though it were my fault.” - -“Now stop worrying, Barbara; he’ll turn up. My only fear is that you’ll -receive him with open arms when he arrives. Just you plan to be a -little severe on him, and we’ll cure him of his habit before mother -gets home.” - -But in spite of Jack’s reassurance, Barbara was troubled, and as she -cleared away the remains of the children’s feast, she caught herself -looking out of the window, and listening for the click of the gate. At -two o’clock, when the last dish was put away, the Kid had not returned; -at three he was not in sight; at four none of the neighbors had seen -him; at five she left the anxious seat at the front window for the -kitchen, with reluctance; and at six it was a worried-looking Barbara -who greeted Jack’s return from baseball practice. - -“Hasn’t the little rascal turned up yet?” asked the boy. “I think I’ll -go out and take a look at some of his favorite haunts. Now, Barbara, if -he comes while I’m away, don’t you play prodigal with him!” - -The dinner was eaten, and cleared away. At seven there was no Kid. At -eight the other children went to bed without him. At nine o’clock Jack -returned with no news. Even he showed anxiety as Barbara met him at the -door with expectant face. - -“Nobody has seen a glimpse of him,” he reported. “I’ve been the round -of his intimates, and to all of his pet resorts, and I’ve scoured the -town. I don’t know what else to do.” - -There was a noise on the front porch. A slow, halting step came up the -stairs. Barbara rushed toward the door. - -“Careful, now,” cautioned Jack. “That’s the Kid, all right Don’t you -greet him with outstretched arms.” - -But the caution was not necessary. All of the pent-up anxiety turned -into wrath as Barbara became sure of the step. Her heart hardened -toward the small offender as she hastily made her plans for his -reception. In response to the second knock at the door, she answered -the summons. - -“Who’s there?” she asked, without opening the screen. - -“It’s me,” said a still, small voice. - -“What do you want?” - -“Want to come in.” - -“Well, you can’t come in. I don’t let strange men into my house at this -time of night.” - -There was a pause on the front step as the little lad wearily shifted -his weight from one foot to the other. Then he knocked again. - -“Want to get in.” - -Jack looked at Barbara, warningly. “I can’t let you in,” she said; “I’m -alone in the house; my father and mother are away from home, and I -never let strangers in when I’m alone.” - -“I’m not strangers; I’m Charles.” - -“Charles wouldn’t be out at this time of night,” remarked Barbara, -impersonally. - -“I’m hungry,” said the Kid. - -There was a wistfulness in the voice that touched all the mother in the -girl. “Well, I never turn any tramp away hungry,” she said; “I’ll give -you some bread and milk, but then you’ll have to go.” - -She unlocked the door, and surveyed her small brother chillingly. The -Kid had evidently made a day of it. His cap was gone, his shoestrings -were untied, his face and hands were streaked with dirt, and one -shirt-waist sleeve was torn away. - -“Goodness, how dirty!” she said. “There is a place set at the table for -our own little boy, but he’s a clean child, and I can’t let you have -it as you are now. You’ll have to wash, first. Go up those stairs, and -you’ll find a bathroom, the first room to the left. Wash your hands and -face, and then come down. I’ll give you something to eat before you go.” - -The Kid looked at Barbara steadily. Wonderment, doubt, and -understanding were expressed in turn on his round face. He turned -without a word, his small fat legs climbed the stairway, and his dirty -little figure disappeared inside the bathroom door. - -His sister for the first time ventured a look at Jack. - -“Bravo, Bernhardt!” he said. - -“I hated to do it,” said Barbara. “But I know that he deserved it, and -I feel sure that it was the right thing. A psychological punishment is -so much better than a scolding or a whipping. And Charles realized what -it meant; did you see his dear puzzled little face take on contrition -as he began to understand my meaning? Mother says that he is a hard -child to manage, but I don’t see why. He responds so readily to an -appeal to his reason.” - -There was a sound in the upper hall. From the bathroom door floated -down the voice of the Kid:— - -“Missus,” he called; “hey, Missus! There ain’t no soap in here.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE “IDGIT” - - -THERE were two newspapers in Auburn. The “Transcript” was one of the -oldest newspapers in the middle West, and it well upheld the dignity -of its years. It was Republican as to politics, conservative as to -opinion, and inclined to Methodism as to religion. It prided itself -upon the fact that in the fifty years of its existence it had never -changed its politics or its make-up, and had never advanced its -subscription price or a new theory. It represented Auburn in being -slow, substantial, and self-satisfied. - -The “Ledger” was a new arrival in Auburn, and had not yet proved its -right to live. It had a flippant tone that barred its entrance to the -best families, and Auburn had never given it the official sanction -that would insure its permanent success. The difference in the spirit -of the two papers might be seen by a glance down the personal columns -of each. The “Transcript” was wont to state in dignified terms that -“Joseph Slater departed yesterday for Jamestown.” The “Ledger” would -announce flippantly, “Joe Slater went to Jimtown yesterday. What’s up, -Joe?” This was spicy, all Auburn agreed, but it savored of vulgarity, -and the old residents clung to their old paper, in spite of the fact -that the new sheet was enterprising, clean, and up-to-date. The -“Ledger” catered to advertisements; the “Transcript” paid special -attention to the obituary column. And the citizens of Auburn subscribed -to the “Transcript,” and borrowed the “Ledger.” - -On the morning of the sixteenth of July the “Transcript” contained two -items more than the “Ledger.” The first of these was headed: - - AUBURN AUTHORESS! - - Miss Birdine Bates of this city contributes some lines - upon the death of little Martha Johnson. - - Dearest parents, from the Heavens - Comes this message unto thee,— - Do not weep for little Mattie, - Thou art not so glad as she. - - There were six Johnson children - Living on the fruits of heaven. - But the winged angels asked for - Still another, which made seven,— - - And they held out beckoning fingers, - Saying, “Little Mattie, come!” - In a dainty old-rose casket - Little Mattie was took home. - - There is no hearth, however tended, - But one dead lamb is there; - And Martha will be greatly missed - For one who was so small and spare. - - But in the crystal, opal heavens, - Clustering near the golden gate, - Her and all the other Johnsons - For her family sit and wait. - - Cheer up, mother, sister, brothers, - And the pastor of her church, - For though Martha’s joined the angels, - She leaves none in the lurch. - -The other item was not poetic. It was in the advertisement column, and -read:— - - WANTED: immediately. A good cook. Must be neat, - willing, honest, and experienced. No laundry work. - References required. Only competent workers need apply. - Address X. Y. Z., this office. - -“I saw your advertisement in the paper this morning,” said Miss Bates, -stopping at the doctor’s gate in the early evening. - -Barbara sat on the porch step, her bright head drooped upon the -vine-covered railing. It had been sweeping-day, and the unused muscles -of her back were protesting against their unaccustomed exercise. -Perhaps it was weariness that sent the querulous note into her voice. - -“How did you know it was mine?” - -“Why, I happened to meet David on the way to the ‘Transcript’ office -this morning. I knew that Ellen left you several days ago, so I -put two and two together. Besides, my dear, I would have known for -other reasons. The advertisement showed that it was written by an -inexperienced housekeeper.” - -“How?” asked Barbara. - -“Nobody ever advertises for help in Auburn. Newspapers aren’t much good -for that. If you want a girl, all you have to do is to spread the news -among your acquaintances.” - -“That isn’t hard, with _you_ to help,” muttered Gassy, from the step -above. - -“What’s that, Cecilia? Oh, I thought you spoke to me.—And they will be -on the outlook for you. It is much cheaper than advertising. How are -you getting along without Ellen?” - -Barbara thought of the half-done potatoes, the broken water-pitcher, -and the soda-less biscuits that had been incidents of the day. But she -was in no humor for a confession to Miss Bates. - -“Pretty well,” she said. - -“That’s good. You know so little about housework, Barbara, that I -wouldn’t have been surprised if you were missing her. Not that you’re -to blame for that. Lots of people set a college education above home -training, nowadays. Just about noon to-day I smelled something burning, -and I said to myself, ‘There goes Barbara Grafton’s dinner.’ But of -course it might have come from some other kitchen. The wind came -straight this way, though.” - -“Yes?” said Barbara, wearily. - -“Is it true that you’ve turned vegetarian? I was at the butcher’s this -morning, and Jack came in and got a steak. I knew that your pa is away, -but I thought that one steak wouldn’t do for your family. I happened -to mention it to the butcher, and he said that your meat orders were -falling off lately. So I just wondered if you had given up eating meat.” - -A long, thin arm, extended from the step above, thrust Barbara -vigorously in the side. In the dusk the action was hidden from the -visitor, but Barbara knew well its purport She was being enjoined to -tell nothing to Miss Bates. - -“Our appetites for meat seem to be falling off this hot weather,” she -returned guardedly. - -“Of course it’s a lot cheaper to live that way,” said the visitor. -“Saves cooking, too. And you won’t have time to do much cooking if all -these reports I hear of your starting a benevolent society are true.” - -There was no response from Barbara. - -“If you’re thinking of going into club-work, you’d better join our -lodge,—the Ancient Neighbors. Maybe you’d be elected to office. Mrs. -Beebe, the old Royal Ranger, resigned three months ago, and Miss Homer, -the new one, ain’t giving satisfaction. She don’t seem to be capable of -learning the ritual. She got the meeting open last night, and forgot -what came next, and had to send for Mrs. Beebe to get it shut. If you -have any memory for rituals, Barbara, maybe I could get you in for -office.” - -Barbara murmured her thanks. “I haven’t much time for club-work, -though, now,” she said. - -“I have,” said a small voice. Gassy’s fist, inclosing an imaginary -missile, shook in the direction of the unconscious visitor. - -“I expect that your literary work takes up most of your time.” - -Barbara caught her breath sharply. How much had that dreadful woman -heard? - -“Of course you may not _be_ writing, but I have had my suspicions -about it, since I met you with that fat envelope with the Century -Company’s stamp, a week ago. I knew that you had done a bit of writing -at school, and I put two and two together, and said to myself, ‘Barbara -Grafton’s gone to writing.’ I couldn’t help wondering if the ‘Century’ -had taken it, or sent it back. Of course, being an author myself, I’m -always interested in budding genius. What is it, Barbara, poetry or -fiction?” - -Out of the shadow of the porch vines came Gassy’s sharp little voice. -“Jack cut _your_ poetry out of the paper this morning, Miss Bates,” she -said. - -“Did he?” said Miss Bates, delightedly. “I didn’t know Jack was so -appreciative as that. I’m afraid the poetry wasn’t as good as some I -have written. But I felt it—every word of it—when I wrote it. And I -suppose Jack liked its tone of sincerity. That is my highest ambition: -not to win fame or money, but to be cut out and carried in the -vest-pocket.” - -“He said,” giggled Gassy, from behind the vines, “that he couldn’t have -the sanctity of the home invaded,”—the imitation of Jack’s inflection -was perfect,—“an’ that he wouldn’t suffer our minds,—David’s and mine, -he meant,—to be c’rrupted, so he cut it out; but I think he sent it to -mother. We always save all the funny things for her, to cheer her up, -now she’s sick.” - -The darkness hid the terrible expression upon Miss Bates’s face, but it -did not conceal the frigidity of her tones as she took her elbows from -the doctor’s gate. “Your sister’s got a job in giving you some of her -college culture, Gassy Grafton,” she said to the small fold of light -gingham which showed alongside the vine-clad porch post. She looked -back over her shoulder to fire her last volley of ammunition. - -“I hope it will _amuse_ your mother,” she said. “If you’d all been a -little less selfish about using her like a hack-horse when she was at -home, you wouldn’t have to be sending jokes to her at a sanitarium, -now.” - -“What on earth did you tell her that for?” asked Barbara, as Miss Bates -swept around the corner. - -“She deserved it. She needn’t pick on you!” - -“But you can’t give people all they deserve, in this world, little -sister.” - -“No, not always,” said Gassy. “But I always do when I can.” - - * * * * * - -Miss Bates’s opinion about the value of newspaper advertising seemed -to be well founded. A week passed without an applicant for the vacant -position in the Grafton kitchen. Barbara grew tired and cross and -discouraged. The weather turned hot, and the sunny kitchen on the -east side of the house seemed to harbor all the humidity of the day. -The nurse at the sanitarium wrote that Mrs. Grafton was not improving -as rapidly as she could wish. David’s hay fever began, and he went -wheezing around the house in a state of discomfort that wrung Barbara’s -sympathetic heart. The writing and the precious study-hour had to be -abandoned. So it was with a feeling of relief that the over-worked -girl saw a strange woman come through the office gate one morning. The -newcomer was not at all prepossessing. Hair, eyes, and skin were of the -uncertain whity-yellow of a peeled banana. Her shirt-waist bloused in -the back as well as the front, and she had yet to learn the æsthetic -value of sufficient petticoats. She stared uncertainly at Barbara as -the latter opened the side door. - -“Did you wish to see any one?” asked Barbara, after a painful silence. - -“Yes, mam,” said the girl. - -“Whom do you want?” - -There was another long pause, during which the girl shifted her weight -from one foot to the other. Then she said, “The lady, mam.” - -“Did you come to inquire about a position?” - -The young woman evidently concentrated her energy upon the question. -Her mind moved so slowly and jerkily that Barbara, watching the -process, was reminded of the working of an ouija board. She would not -have been surprised to hear the girl squeak. But the query was beyond -the newcomer. It was plain that vernacular must be tried. - -“Do you want a place?” - -The girl brightened a shade. “Yes, mam.” - -“Can you cook?” - -“No, mam.” - -“Wait upon the table?” - -“No, mam.” - -“Sweep and dust?” - -“No, mam.” - -“Can’t you bake at all?” - -“No, mam.” - -“Have you never cooked?” - -“No, mam.” - -“Well, what can you do?” - -The whity-yellow girl brightened again. It was evident that this time -she was to vary her reply. - -“I kin milk, mam.” - - * * * * * - -Two hours later, Jack surveyed the new acquisition through the porch -window. “I see we have an Angel of the House,” he said to Barbara, who -had stretched her weary length in the hammock. “How came she here?” - -“She just blew in.” - -“In answer to your advertisement?” - -“No, she had never seen it.” - -Jack took another critical look through the window. “She doesn’t give -the impression of being overweighted with intelligence. And she’s -certainly not beautiful. Has her color run in the wash, or was she -always of that gentle hue? But appearances must be deceitful; she’s a -paragon of cleverness, if she fills the bill for you. I suppose she is -a wonderful cook?” - -Barbara shook her head. - -“Neat?” - -“She doesn’t look so.” - -“Well, willing?” - -“I haven’t discovered yet.” - -“Honest, anyway?” - -“I don’t know anything about her morals.” - -Jack assumed a momentary air of distress. Then he drew a long sigh of -relief as he remarked, “Well, I _know_ she’s experienced. You said no -others need apply!” - -The hammock’s motion stopped, and Barbara lay ominously silent for a -minute. Then the pent-up feeling of the past week burst forth in her -reply:— - -“John Grafton, I don’t know one earthly thing about that girl! She’s -done farm-work all her life. She doesn’t know how to cook. She never -heard of rice or celery. She never has seen a refrigerator! She’s -afraid of the gas-stove. She wouldn’t know what I meant if I asked her -about references. She can’t do anything but milk. She isn’t one single -thing that I advertised for, or hoped for, or wanted! But maybe she can -learn. And I’m so tired, and hot, and discouraged, and I’ve spoiled so -many things!” - -And for once in his life Jack understood, and forbore. - - * * * * * - -“I’ve seen a good many kinds of imbecility in my life,” said Jack, a -week later. “But never one to equal hers. - - She is willing, she is active, - She is sober, she is kind, - But she _never_ looks attractive, - And she _hasn’t_ any mind. - -She was born stupid, achieved stupidness, and had stupidity thrust upon -her,—all three. I found her pouring water on the gas-stove to put out -the burner, the other day. She’ll have us all gas-fixiated, if we don’t -watch out.” - -“That was several days ago,” laughed Barbara. “She’s developed a stage -beyond that, now. In fact, she’s devoted to the gas-stove. I can hardly -prevail upon her to turn it off at all. She announced to me yesterday -that it was the handiest thing she ever saw,—that you ‘only had to -light it once a day, and fire all the time.’ Think what our gas-bill is -likely to be under her tender ministrations!” - -“Her awe of it is evidently great,” said Jack. “She asked Gassy this -morning if she was named after the stove. ‘I don’t wonder they named -you that,’ she said; ‘I ain’t never seen nothing like it. W’y, if I wuz -to go home and tell ’em I turned on a spit, and there wuz the fire, -they’d say I wuz a liar!’” - -“She’s an idgit!” ejaculated Gassy; “a born idgit!” - -Gassy’s epithet clung. It was used by the family with bated breath -and apprehensive glance, but still it was used. No other title seemed -appropriate after that was once heard, and her Christian name sank into -oblivion from disuse. It was never employed except in her presence. -And the Idgit certainly earned her title. She put onions in the -rice-pudding; she melted the base off of the silver teapot by setting -it on the stove; she cut up potatoes peeling and all, for creamed -potatoes, explaining that “some liked ’em skinned, an’ some didn’t”; -she left the receiver of the telephone hanging by its cord for hours, -until the doctor’s patients were desperate, and so many complaints -poured in at the central office that a man was sent to repair damages; -she turned the hose on the walls and floor of the kitchen to facilitate -scrubbing, until the whole room was deluged, and overflowed like the -Johnstown flood; she answered the doorbell by calling through the -dining-room and the front hall that “no one’s to home”; she put the -bread sponge in the oven of the range, and then built a fire above it -to “raise it quick” (the oven was full of burned paste before Barbara -discovered the time-saving device); she ladled the gold-fish out of the -aquarium to feed them, and left the four red, dead little corpses on -the library mantel. “They’re too pretty to sling out,” she said. - -Barbara wavered between exasperation and amusement during the -twenty-four hours of the day. “I don’t know what I’m going to do -with her,” she confided to her father one evening. “I thought that -intelligence was a part of the make-up of every human being; but Addie -either has no place for it in her identity, or else the place that is -there is empty. I gave her a recipe yesterday,—how she ever learned -to read is beyond my comprehension,—that called for ‘six eggs beaten -separately.’ Addie emptied one from its shell, beat it, emptied -another, beat that, and followed the same proceeding with the whole -six.” - -“I can tell something funnier than that,” said Dr. Grafton. “I -telephoned over here from the livery stable this afternoon, and asked -Addie to ‘hold the phone’ until I could read a message to her. Central -rang off before I could read it, and then I couldn’t get connections -again. So I came over home to give it to her, twenty minutes later, and -found her obediently still holding the receiver.” - -“The last teller of tales has the best chance,” chuckled Jack. “What -message did you give the Idgit to give Miss Bates when she called here -yesterday?” - -Barbara considered. “That I was in, but that I was engaged, I think,” -she said finally. - -“She gave it, all right! She told Miss Bates that you _were_ at home, -but that you were going to be married. Thanks to Miss Bates’s activity -and interest, the report is widely circulated throughout Auburn.” - -Barbara groaned. - -“Don’t worry over it,” said her father. “The fact that Miss Bates is -standing sponsor for the story will destroy its danger.” - -“Oh, I’m not worrying about that,” responded Barbara. “What is the -report of my betrothal to an unknown, and therefore harmless, man, as -compared with the problem of the Idgit? I don’t _want_ her, I can’t -_keep_ her, and yet how am I to get rid of her?” - -“Maybe she’ll leave; she told me her family wanted her back,” said -Gassy, hopefully. - -“I can’t see what for,” said Barbara, “unless it is to kill chickens. -That is the one thing she has done without blunder or assistance, since -she stepped over our threshold. And unless Addie’s family are given -over wholly to a diet of fowl, I fail to see how she could be of any -use to them.” - -But relief from the Idgit came sooner than was expected. In the middle -of an afternoon of canning raspberries, Mrs. Willowby came to inquire -about Mrs. Grafton’s health. Barbara slipped off her berry-stained -apron, sighed over the fruit-stained nails that no amount of -manicuring would whiten, and dabbed some powder on her shiny face. Then -she went into the living-room to greet her guest. - -Mrs. Willowby was one of the few residents who reconciled Barbara to -Auburn. Refinement was her birthright, and in her gentle voice, simple -manner, and fine breeding were combined all the aristocracy of old -Auburn, and none of its pettiness; all the progress of new Auburn, and -none of its crudeness. The miseries of kitchen-work were forgotten, as -the two dropped into the dear familiar talk of the college world, that -partook of neither servants nor weather, recipes nor house-cleaning. - -“It’s a hundred years since I have talked Matthew Arnold with any one,” -sighed Barbara. “No, perhaps two months would be nearer the truth. But -it _seems_ like a hundred years.” - -“Why _don’t_ you?” asked Mrs. Willowby. - -“Just now, I haven’t time,” said Barbara; “but if I had all the time in -the world, there wouldn’t be any one to talk to.” - -“Why not your father and mother?” - -“Father and mother! Why, father doesn’t know poetry,—except Riley and -Bret Harte; and mother doesn’t care for it.” - -Mrs. Willowby’s sweet brown eyes twinkled. “You’re joking with me, -Barbara.” - -“No, I’m in earnest.” - -“You dear little girl! Are you such a stranger to your own home people? -I don’t believe that Matthew Arnold ever wrote anything that your -mother doesn’t know. Where she gets time, with all her multitudinous -duties, to love Shelley, and live Browning, and keep abreast of Stephen -Phillips and Yeats, I don’t see; but she does it, somehow. She is one -of the few true poetry-lovers I know. As for your father, I have heard -him quote Riley and Harte to you children, because, I always supposed, -he thought you could understand them. But he himself doesn’t stop -there. He isn’t so widely read as your mother, but the old poets he has -made his own. He knows his yellow Shakespeare from cover to cover. How -have you ever lived in the same house with them and yet been such a -stranger? Your father and mother, dear, are the cultivated people of -Auburn.” - -Surprise was written strongly on every feature of Barbara’s face. - -“That’s the trouble with college life. You young people never get the -opportunity to know your own families, nowadays. At the time when you -are just beginning to be old enough to appreciate your parents, you -are sent away. Then you go to work, or marry, and leave home without -knowing the real wealth that often lies at your own doors. Did you ever -read Emerson’s ‘Days’?” - -Barbara shook her head. Mrs. Willowby turned to the open book-shelves, -and took down a shabby green volume. “It has your mother’s own marks,” -she said, as she turned to the page, where a lead pencil had traced a -delicate line about the words,— - - “Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, - Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, - And marching single in an endless file, - Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. - To each they offer gifts after his will, - Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all - I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp, - Forgot my morning wishes, hastily - Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day - Turned and departed silent. I, too late, - Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.” - -There was a moment’s pause after the stately lines were finished. - -“I understand,” said Barbara, finding her voice. “But I never -knew,—before. It _is_ true, Mrs. Willowby, about losing some things by -college life. I’m beginning to think that there are lots of things to -be learned at home.” - -The gentle brown eyes smiled at the new tone of humility. “My dear -little girl,” began Mrs. Willowby, “if you have discovered that, you -have learned the very thing for which you were sent to college. The -most important lessons in the word are not learned from textbooks, and -all—Goodness, Barbara, what on earth was that?” - -Somewhere from the back regions of the house had come the sound of a -mighty explosion. It was followed by the sound of breaking glass, and -a shrill shriek. - -[Illustration: IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR SAT THE IDGIT] - -“The Idgit!” breathed Barbara. The Emerson slid to the floor, and the -hostess and guest rushed to the kitchen. - -In the middle of the floor sat the Idgit, a whity-yellow island in a -sea of raspberry juice and broken glass. From the oven of the gas-stove -came a volume of flame and smoke. The stove-lids lay on the floor, and -the kitchen was full of flying flecks of soot. Barbara rushed to the -stove, and turned off the burners, one by one. Then she lifted the -huddled heap from the floor. - -“What is the matter, Addie?” she asked. - -The ouija board in the Idgit’s brain was unusually stubborn and -unmanageable. It was fully three minutes before anything intelligible -came from her lips. Then the inarticulate sounds resolved themselves -into the words, “Oh, gol, mam!” - -“What happened?” - -“I dunno, mam.” - -“What did you do to the stove?” - -“I dunno, mam.” - -“Did you light it? How did the burners come to be turned on?” - -“I was cleaning the stove, mam. I must ’a’ turned ’em on when I washed -the knobs.” - -“Then did you light it?” - -“No, mam. I left it to carry the fruit down cellar; an’ I lit a match -to see by.” - -“Oh!” said Barbara. - -For the first and last time in her career the Idgit uttered a voluntary -sentence. “I’m going to quit to-night. Gol! that gas-stove!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE DUCHESS - - -IT was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Barbara threw herself into -the hammock on the porch, every nerve in her body tingling with -fatigue. In a chair near by sat the Kid, driving imaginary horses along -Main Street, and politely removing his hat to every one he met on the -way. He inquired whether Barbara desired to ride on the front seat -with him, but she was so tired that she scarcely answered the little -boy, and wearily closed her eyes to avoid seeing David’s book and -Jack’s racket lying on the piazza floor. She felt that to rise from the -hammock and pick up that racket was a task requiring the strength and -energy of a Titan. - -She was gradually succumbing to the influence of the swaying hammock, -and the tension of her nerves was relaxing, so that the sudden stampede -of the horses on the porch was dimly associated in her mind with -thunder, when she felt a sudden touch on her shoulder, and opened her -eyes to see the Kid standing near. - -“There’s a lady at the gate, Barb’ra,” he said. - -Barbara peered over the edge of the hammock. Coming up the path, with -a stately stride and a majestic swing that allowed her skirts to sweep -first one edge of the path and then the other, advanced a Being whose -presence immediately inspired Barbara with a sense of approaching -royalty. It was not that the visitor was fashionably attired, for -her faded black garments and dejected-looking bonnet, even in their -palmiest days, could not have been called stylish. Yet, resting in -serenity upon the thin, tall form of their wearer, they seemed calmly -self-satisfied and distinguished. As the visitor approached, she shed -kindly critical and affable glances about her, and rewarded Barbara’s -inquiring gaze with a cheerful smile. - -“You’re Barbara Grafton, I s’pose,” she said in a brisk voice. “I’m -Mrs. ’Arris, an’ I’ve come to ’elp you hout.” - -[Illustration: I’M MRS. ’ARRIS, AN’ I’VE COME TO ’ELP YOU HOUT] - -Barbara sat up quickly. “Oh!” she said. “Do you wish a position as cook -here?” - -Mrs. Harris’s eyes rested upon her with amiable condescension. “I come -to ’elp you hout,” she repeated. “I’m Mrs. Brown’s widder sister, and -when she told me as ’ow you was left alone and the ’ouse agoin’ to rack -and ruin—” - -Barbara suddenly stiffened in the hammock. - -“Why, she says to me, she says, ‘’Ilda, I’m awful fond of Dr. Grafton, -an’ I can’t let ’im starve without proper care while ’is wife’s gone. -Now you jest put on your things an’ go up there an’ ’elp hout.’ So I -come,” concluded Mrs. Harris, composedly; and she sat down. - -The Kid drew nearer, and stared at her from under his mass of tawny -hair. “You goin’ to stay here?” he inquired. - -“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Harris, with a sweeping glance at the -little fellow, that took in the holes in the knees of his stockings. - -“Then please get out o’ that chair,” said the Kid, promptly. “It’s my -black Arabian horse.” - -“Charles!” cried Barbara. - -“You take another chair, or play somewheres else,” said Mrs. Harris, -calmly. “Runnin’ wild sence ’is mother left, I s’pose,” she remarked, -turning to Barbara. - -Barbara choked back her astonished resentment at this speech, and -returned to the subject at hand. - -“It may be that you will not suit,” she said coldly, rising. “Can you -cook well, and do you understand gas-ranges?” - -Mrs. Harris laughed complacently, eyeing the slender girl before her -with amused condescension. “I ’ave cooked for the finest families o’ -Hengland,” she announced. “I’ll settle with your father about wages. -Now you jest show me the kitchen, an’ then I’ll let you go, as I see -this porch ain’t tidy, an’ that there child needs to be attended to, -an’ probably the rest o’ the ’ouse wants cleanin’.” - -The Kid slunk off the porch as the words “needs to be attended to” -pierced his small cranium. He thought it meant chastisement for his -last speech, poor child, and saw, with joy, Barbara following this new -and surprising person into the house. In Barbara’s mind a sense of -resentment and defeat was conflicting with a feeling of relief at the -prospect of help. She rejoiced to herself as they passed through the -hall, for she had just swept it with her own hands. - -“Dreadful dusty mopboards,” said Mrs. Harris, nonchalantly. Barbara’s -spirits sank. - -As they entered the kitchen, she suddenly remembered that she had left -some dishes piled in the sink, to be washed with the dinner things. -In her absence, moreover, some hungry boy had been rummaging in the -cake-box, and had left crumbs and morsels of food scattered over the -table. Mrs. Harris paused on the threshold, and untied her bonnet, -while her roving black eyes quickly took in the scene before her. Clean -enough it had seemed to Barbara an hour before, but now many things, -hitherto unnoticed, suddenly sprang into prominence. She saw that the -white sash-curtain at the window was disreputably dirty; that the stove -was actually rusty on top; that cobwebs lurked in the corners; and she -remembered, with a pang, that the ice-box had not been cleaned since -her mother left. - -“My!” ejaculated Mrs. Harris. “Well, I’ll get dinner first, then I’ll -tackle this lookin’ room. You set the table, Barbara,—ain’t that your -name?—an’ I’ll do the cookin’. What meat ’ave you ordered?” - -“None,” answered Barbara; “I don’t approve of eating meat, and have not -allowed the children to have any for some time. Father has been taking -his dinners down-town lately.” - -“Land alive!” ejaculated Mrs. Harris, turning shocked eyes upon -Barbara. “The poor children! An’ your paw,—druv from ’is ’ome! Well! -You jest go to the telephone, an’ horder a good piece of steak before -it’s too late.” - -“I prefer not to have meat,” said Barbara, stiffly. - -Mrs. Harris’s face settled into stubborn lines. “I’ve never ’eard of -anything so foolish,” she declared. “Growin’ children need meat, an’ -you run right along an’ horder that steak.” - -It was at this point that Barbara’s sense of diplomacy came to her aid. -This woman had indeed forced herself into the kitchen, but she was -very welcome, nevertheless. She must not prejudice her at the outset, -but must gradually accustom Mrs. Harris to her views. Barbara turned -away to the telephone. Immediately Mrs. Harris’s manner changed, and -she became affable again as she bustled capably about the kitchen, and -assigned small jobs to her young mistress. - -“Hello!” cried Jack, joyfully, as he took his seat in his father’s -place, and viewed the well-cooked steak. “Is the embargo off? Is this -a carving-knife that I see before me? Why, Barbara! Didst do this -thyself, lass?” - -“Jack,” said Barbara, nervously, “I have engaged a new maid and—” - -A decided voice from the kitchen interrupted her. - -“Barbara, you come an’ git the bread. I’m busy.” - -The children seated around the table stared at one another. - -“Whew!” whispered Jack to Gassy; “now, by my halidame, there goes -Barbara. Is Petruchio in the kitchen?” - -Barbara reëntered with scarlet cheeks. There was something in her -manner which warned even the Kid not to comment The meal began in -absolute silence, another cause of which may have been the perfectly -cooked dinner, which descended like manna into the loyal but empty -stomachs of the Grafton offspring. The Kid ate his steak voraciously, -and eagerly extended his plate for more. - -“See ’ow ’e’s ben pinin’,” remarked a voice from the open doorway. - -The children started, and looking up, for the first time saw the -dignified figure of Mrs. Harris surveying them with a condescendingly -satisfied gaze. “These are all the children, I s’pose, Barbara. Well, -now, there’s a nice rice puddin’ for dessert, an’ then you an’ that -little girl can ’elp me clear away to-day, ’cause there’s so much to do -to clean up this ’ouse.” - -“I don’t want any pudding,” declared Jack, in haste, longing to get -away to some nook where he could laugh unseen. - -“Set right where you are,” said Mrs. Harris, calmly. “You don’t get no -more to eat till supper, so you’d better fill up now.” - -Jack gasped and obeyed. - -Even when dinner was over, and the dishes washed with the surprised -help of a subdued Gassy, there was no diminution of Mrs. Harris’s -energy. She cleaned the kitchen thoroughly; she scrubbed the bathroom; -she charged upon the children’s rooms, and the dust and dirt retreated -in confusion before her vigorous onslaught. She accompanied the -performances with a running fire of ejaculatory comment. Barbara, with -set lips, kept just behind her, and followed directions with an injured -determination to die in her tracks before giving up. - -“I am glad to have such capable help,” she said, observing Jack in the -next room. - -“’Eh?” returned Mrs. Harris, looking up from her dustpan. “Wish I could -say the same! But never mind, you’ll learn in time, I dare say. O’ -course you’ve ben in school an’ can’t be expected to know much yet.” - -Barbara heard a chuckle and subdued applause from the next room. - -“Who’s that?” inquired Mrs. Harris, abruptly. “Oh, it’s your brother. I -was lookin’ for ’im. What’s ’is name? Jack? Well, Jack, you jest take -these rugs out to the back yard an’ beat ’em a little. They need it.” - -Jack advanced, hesitating. “I don’t know how to beat rugs,” he muttered. - -“Well, I’ll show you,” said Mrs. Harris, serenely. “Lend a hand with -this big one.” - -Barbara surveyed with joy the sullen droop of Jack’s back, as he -followed his instructor down the hall. - -“Let well enough alone,” she called impersonally. - -“Don’t you do it!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “You beat ’em thorough.” - -“I think we won’t do any more,” declared Barbara to Mrs. Harris, as -the clock struck four. “We have been at this all the afternoon, and -I’ll let you leave Jack’s room until to-morrow. We have done enough for -to-day.” - -Mrs. Harris put her hands on her hips and surveyed Barbara quizzically. -“Well, you ain’t used to work, be you?” she said. “Tired, I s’pose.” - -Barbara’s face flushed. She was so weary that she lost the dignity to -which she had been clinging desperately all day. - -“Yes, I am tired!” she burst out. “I worked all the morning before -you came. Besides, it’s absurd to fly around like this, trying to do -everything at once. My time is too valuable to waste so much of it upon -such things as these.” - -A queer expression settled upon the features of Mrs. Harris. She looked -amused, indulgent, and vastly superior. - -“Your time too valuable?” she said slowly and calmly; “your time too -valuable? Well, young lady, I don’t know jest what things you’ve got to -do besides taking care of your brothers and your sister, but I reckon -there ain’t nothing better.” - -Barbara drew a long breath of anger and walked away. - - * * * * * - -“It wouldn’t be so bad,” she said ruefully to her father, a few days -later, “if only she didn’t assume all the powers and prerogatives of -a sovereign. But she has actually reduced the children to the most -subdued state you can imagine. Jack never ravages the pantry now, since -Mrs. Harris caught him that first afternoon, and asked him kindly if he -would mind leaving enough for the rest of us. Even Gassy never answers -her saucily, and David goes about the house like a crushed piece of -nothing. And yet she isn’t a bit cross or unkind. It’s something in her -manner that admits of no disputation. Jack has named her the Duchess, -and it just suits her.” - -The Doctor laughed. “You mustn’t allow yourself to be so easily -impressed, my dear,” he said. “I notice, however, that she takes -a great deal of responsibility off your hands, and that ought to -reconcile you to any drawbacks. I have just sent word to Mrs. Harris to -have dinner at one instead of twelve, as I shall be busy at the office, -and can’t get away so soon.” - -The words were scarcely out of his mouth when they saw David returning -down the hall in haste, followed by a tall figure advancing with -majestic tread. The doctor coughed uneasily. - -“Dr. Grafton!” proclaimed the Duchess; “David says as ’ow you wants the -dinner put off till one!” - -There was an accent of such injury in her voice that the Doctor found -himself saying hastily:— - -“Why, yes, Mrs. Harris, I did send that message, but—” - -“I thought it best to tell you as ’ow it can’t be done,” replied the -Duchess, with finality, turning to depart. - -Dr. Grafton caught the smile on Barbara’s face. - -“What’s that?” he said peremptorily; “can’t be done? Why not?” - -The Duchess turned back with surprise written in her large, serene -countenance. “Why not? Why not?” she repeated. “Why, because it ain’t -convenient to change, sir.” - -Dr. Grafton found himself following her down the hall. “I’m going to -be very busy and can’t get away,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps -half-past twelve—” - -The Duchess turned again, and contemplated him calmly. “Any reason why -the rest must wait for you?” she inquired with uplifted eyebrows. - -“Why, no,” said the Doctor. - -“Well, then,” answered the Duchess, “come any time you want. You’ll -find your dinner kep’ nice an’ warm on a plate in the oven.” - -Dr. Grafton meekly returned to the living-room, to find his daughter -considerately averting her face from him. His hearty laugh brought her -back to his side. He threw himself on the couch by the window. - -“Well, I give up!” he announced. “Was there ever such a martinet!” - -Barbara laughed with him, but her face quickly sobered. “I really don’t -think I shall stand it much longer,” she said. “She has absolutely no -regard for my ideas, and pays no attention to any orders or requests. -She even tells me what she ‘desires’ for meals.” - -“They are very good meals,” put in the Doctor, hastily. His mind -reviewed the gastronomic comforts of the last few days, and the -uncertainty and scantiness of those meals before the arrival of the -Duchess. - -“Don’t give Mrs. Harris up, my dear,” he said, as he rose to depart. -“You are forgetting the state of things before she came, just as it -is hard to remember the tooth-ache when it has finally succumbed to -treatment.” - -A drawling voice from the library broke the ensuing silence. - -“‘It feels so nice when it stops aching,’” quoted Jack. “Remember -those green-apple pies, Miss Babbie?” - -“Remember those rugs that you beat so happily?” retorted Barbara. - -“Well, I am going to try to accustom the Duchess gradually to those -regulations which are necessary; and if she won’t fall into line, she -can—” - -“Fall out!” said Jack, promptly. “Only in that case, my dear, you will -not find the poet truthful in those charming lines,— - - The falling out of faithful friends - Renewing is of love. - -You will find it a renewal of—Idgits, I’m thinking.” - -But it was another week before the clash came. A few preliminary -skirmishes marked the passage of time, but Barbara might have -overthrown theories and plans, however “necessary,” if matters had not -been precipitated by a morning visitor. - -“I just thought I’d drop in,” said Miss Bates, coming up to the porch -where Barbara was sitting shelling peas and Gassy was reading. “I -wanted to see how you were getting on. Where you goin’, Gassy?” - -“To read where people aren’t talking,” answered the little girl as she -left the porch. - -Miss Bates shook her head sorrowfully. “It’s awful to see how those -children act without their mama,” she said. “I don’t like to complain, -Barbara, but Cecilia’s conduct to me is almost beyond parallel! An’ -Charles called me a real naughty name yesterday, when I took his toy -reins off of my gate-posts.” - -“I’m sorry,” said Barbara, mechanically, putting some peas in with the -pods. “I’ll speak to Charles—” - -She was interrupted by the voice of one who called with authority, -“Barbara, ain’t them peas done? It’s time to put them on.” - -Barbara excused herself, and carried in the dish. When she returned, -with flaming cheeks, Miss Bates was watching for her with open -curiosity. - -“I heard you quarreling about the potatoes,” she said. “They say you’re -completely changed now, an’ that you haven’t the say about anything -any more, since that Englishwoman came; but I didn’t believe it until I -heard you give up about havin’ the potatoes mashed.” - -They had forgotten the presence of David, who had been reading in a -corner of the porch all morning. - -“You always have your say about everything, don’t you?” he inquired -dreamily. “I wonder how you know so many things people say. Barbara -never does.” - -“I must go,” said Miss Bates, rising abruptly. “Barbara, since things -_are_ all took off your hands, why don’t you spend some time teaching -them children manners?” - -Barbara ate her appetizing dinner in almost complete silence. The -comfort of sitting down to a well-set table and of staying there -throughout the meal, without rising half a hundred times for forgotten -articles, had no power to soothe her injured feelings. So all Auburn -was talking about her, and calling her incompetent, and imposed upon -by a woman who was only a kitchen “help”! It was intolerable, and she -would endure it no longer. She would take the initiative, and once for -all convince Mrs. Harris of the necessity of subordination. - -After dinner, Barbara wiped the dishes, a task which Mrs. Harris -exacted on ironing-day. Her resentful silence was lost entirely on -the Duchess, whose good-humor was almost startlingly displayed in -conversation. - -“I’ve ben hironin’ like a fiend to-day,” she said in a self-satisfied -tone, “an’ there’ll be plenty o’ time this afternoon to finish, an’ to -put up them tomatoes as ’as ben waiting to be put up. You’ll ’ave to -’elp, Barbara, if we’re to get them done in time.” - -“That will be impossible, I’m afraid,” said Barbara, endeavoring to -keep her voice calm. “Susan Hunt is coming over this afternoon for a -lesson.” - -“Oh, well, put ’er off,” replied the Duchess. - -Barbara moved uneasily. “No,” she answered steadily. “I don’t wish to -put her off. The tomatoes can be put up to-morrow.” - -“Them tomatoes is just right now, an’ it’s so warm, lots O’ them will -spoil afore mornin’,” the Duchess answered, the smile dying out of her -face. “Go to the telephone, Barbara, an’ tell that ’Unt girl she can’t -come. She’s ben runnin’ ’ere enough lately, an’ I can’t get through -them tomatoes alone.” - -For a moment Barbara wavered. Insufferable as she felt this dictation -to be, she thought of the comfort and order of the house, and her heart -sank at the thought of losing them. Then Miss Bates’s words suddenly -came back to her: “You haven’t the say about anything any more; they -say you’re completely changed.” - -She turned on the unsuspecting Duchess. “Mrs. Harris,” she said -determinedly, “you ordered those tomatoes yesterday, when I had decided -that it was best not to have them until later, because of the ironing. -Now you want to put them up when it is inconvenient to me to do so, -because you have them on your hands, and they may spoil. I cannot help -you this afternoon. If you cannot attend to them alone, let them go -until to-morrow, when I shall be at leisure. We shall simply have to -throw away those tomatoes which are not good.” - -Auburn should have seen the expression of the Duchess. Good-humor -gave way to surprise, which was succeeded by disapproval, in turn to -be routed by annoyance. It was not until the last sentence that a -Jove-like rage sat upon her reddening countenance. - -“You _won’t_ do them tomatoes?” she inquired in a queer voice. - -“No,” said Barbara. - -“You’ll let ’em spoil?” incredulously. - -“Yes, if necessary.” - -Mrs. Harris stopped ironing. She reached out a strong brown hand, and -turned out the gas under the irons. She unrolled the sleeves of her -brown calico dress. Then she turned slowly toward her resolute mistress. - -“Barbara Grafton,” she said with an awful calmness of manner, “you’re -an ungrateful, ’ard-’eaded girl, an’ I’m sorry for your family. I come -’ere to ’elp you hout in your trouble,—I ain’t no common ’elp,—an’ -you flies in my face whenever you can, an’ goes agin me every chanct -you get. What does I do about that? Nothin’. You try to make me spend -my time in frills, an’ fussin’ over things as the finest families in -Hengland never ’as. What does I do? Nothin’. I goes on my way an’ -swallers insults from a chit of a girl. I seen lots o’ things sence I -come which ’urt my sensitive disposition, but I passes ’em by. Now it -comes to tomatoes, an’ I guess we’ll part. You’re an ungrateful girl, -an’ I washes my hands of you.” - -Mrs. Harris crossed over to the sink, and solemnly washed and wiped her -hands. Then she put on her faded black bonnet, which always hung by its -rusty strings from a hook behind the door. She stood a minute, on the -threshold, and looked at Barbara in Olympic sorrow. - -“Onct more,” she said almost entreatingly, “will you ’elp with them -tomatoes?” - -“No,” said Barbara. - -The screen-door banged loudly. Barbara was alone again. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -“THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS” - - -THE Kid stamped loudly up the piazza steps, and trotted through the -house to find Barbara. His infant intellect, assisted by the pangs of -his stomach, assured him that it was past the dinner-hour. And yet no -loud-tongued bell, energetically operated upon by the Duchess, had -summoned him from his play in the dusty street. On such a dire occasion -the Kid always reported to headquarters; and passing through the empty -dining-room, he came upon Barbara alone in the kitchen, desperately -struggling with a can of salmon. The Kid stopped on the threshold and -stared. - -Barbara, with the can in one hand and the opener in the other, was -hotly endeavoring to effect a combination of the two, with a notable -lack of success. At first she held the can in the air, and attempted to -punch a hole in it with the can-opener; but as this seemed an entirely -futile course, she gave it up, and adopted a new method of attack. -When Charles arrived upon the scene of action, she placed the can -firmly on the table, and gave it a vicious stab with her knife. The tin -yielded; Barbara smiled, and all was proceeding merrily, when a sudden, -inexplicable twist jerked can and can-opener out of her hand and landed -them both on the floor. Barbara forgot herself, and stamped her foot -forcibly. - -“Where’s Mrs. Harris?” inquired the Kid, with a look of fearful -anticipation gathering in his eyes. - -No reply. His sister picked up the can, and succeeded in boring a small -hole in its top. - -“Say, where’s Mrs. Harris?” repeated the little boy, anxiously. - -“Charles,” said Barbara, looking at the child for the first -time,—“mercy, how dirty you are!—Charles, dinner will be ready soon. -Mrs. Harris has left us—” - -She stopped short in astonishment. The Kid had thrown himself prone -upon the floor, and had broken into loud wails. - -“What is it? What is it?” she cried, running to him and trying to pull -him up from the floor. - -The Kid held his tough little body down, and wept copiously. - -Barbara tried sternness. “Charles, get up this minute,” she commanded, -“and tell me what is the matter.” - -The Kid lifted a woe-begone face to his sister. - -“She’s gone,” he said, “and we can’t ever have any more beefsteak, or -lamb with gravy.” - -“Was that what you were crying for?” asked Barbara, coldly. “Charles, I -am disgusted with you. Now you get up and wash your hands, and dinner -will soon be ready.” - -She sighed as she carried in the salmon, extracted from the hole in the -can in minute sections, so that it resembled a pile of sawdust rather -than the body of a fish. She found herself wishing that it had been -possible to reconcile her desires and Mrs. Harris’s commands. - -It was a melancholy family that partook of the pulverized fish, fried -potatoes, bread, butter, and bananas, which constituted Barbara’s -effort. - -“Oh dear!” sighed Jack, as he took his seat. “Variety is the spice of -life; we certainly have that, so I suppose you think we don’t care for -the other spices, having left the pepper-cellar in the pantry. I always -did like pepper on fried potatoes.” - -David lifted his large blue eyes and let them rest on his elder sister. - -“You must be like Cinderella’s sisters,” he said reflectively. “Had -such an awful temper,—couldn’t anybody live with ’em.” - -Barbara looked angrily at the little boy, but his face was so innocent -that her heart softened. She did not answer him, but began to explain -matters to her father, who looked grave and rather preoccupied. Her -story did not seem to impress him, for some reason, and Barbara found -herself faltering over her account, and justifying herself in every -other sentence. - -“Yes—yes,” said the Doctor, abstractedly, as she finished. “Of course -you ought not to have to put up tomatoes if you don’t want to. Mrs. -Harris was a very capable woman, though, and you are in for another -siege, I’m afraid. It’s too bad. You will have to try to get some one -else.” And, looking at his watch, he left the table. - -Gassy had been quiet during the whole meal, her elfish locks, bright -eyes, and silence making her more conspicuous than if she had shouted. -After dinner, she soberly enveloped herself in her large apron, and -took her place at Barbara’s side, ready to help her sister. - -“I hate dishes,” she remarked conversationally, as she took the first -plate in hand. “They are never over, and they never change. I must have -wiped this Robinson Crusoe plate of the Kid’s at least a million times -since mama went—There! Oh my, Barbara, I’ve broken it!” - -“Cecilia! Why don’t you hold on to the things you take in your hands?” -cried Barbara. “I never saw such a child! You break everything you -touch!” - -The child’s face flushed. She stood quietly a moment, and wiped two -plates with deftness and precision. The next moment, Barbara at the -sink suddenly felt as if a whirlwind had struck the room. A dishcloth -went whizzing upwards until it clung to the clock on the shelf, a -wriggling figure freed itself from a blue-checked apron, which was -flung tumultuously on the floor, and an agitated, retreating voice -exclaimed, “I’ll never—_never_—NEVER wipe for you again! There!” - -Barbara finished the work alone, and went to the porch, with a struggle -going on in her mind. She felt that she was failing, in spite of her -best efforts,—failing with the children, failing to do the “simple” -household tasks, and to manage the household machinery that had never -been so startlingly in evidence before. What was the cause of it all? - -“Of course I am not very experienced,” Barbara said to herself, “but -still, with a moderately good servant, I am sure I could manage very -well. The trouble has been with the frightful maids we have had. And -the children are demoralized by the frequent changes, and are hard to -control. Oh, for one good cook, so that I could show myself to be the -capable girl that a college girl ought to be!” - -She felt so cheered by her soliloquy, which she did not realize to be -unconscious self-justification, that she sat down almost happily to -write the daily report that went to brighten her mother’s exile. In -spite of all domestic accidents and crises, this letter was always -written; and the more lugubrious Barbara’s state of mind, the harder -she strove for a merry report. She had nearly finished the last sheet, -with flying fingers, when a chuckle caused her to look up, and discover -that Jack had been reading page after page, as she had discarded it. - -“Bab,” he said, “you certainly do write the funniest letters I ever -read. If you should try to write a story instead of ‘The Absolute -In-ness of the Internal Entity,’ you would make your fortune -immediately. I don’t see how you can write one way and feel another, as -you do.” - -Barbara’s reply was checked by the appearance of Susan, and Jack -disappeared, carrying the letter with him. - -“I’m so glad to see you!” said Barbara, cordially. “Did you bring your -Browning with you?” - -“Yes,” answered Susan, sitting down in the big cane rocker. “Yes, I -brought him, and a basket of mending besides. I am awfully behind in -it, and I can talk and darn at the same time.” - -The glad light faded out of Barbara’s eyes. “Why, Sue dear!” she -said, “that’s impossible. No one could possibly study Browning and do -anything else at the same time. He absorbs all the energy and attention -that one has.” - -“Oh dear!” sighed Susan. “I did want to begin our lessons to-day, but -we’ll have to put it off till to-morrow, then. Bob leaves for New York -to-night, you know, and he must have all the socks that I can muster.” - -“Are you really going to mend those things now, instead of reading the -‘Ring’ with me?” - -Susan looked up quickly. “Why, what else can I do?” she said. “Bob must -have decent clothes, and we can begin the ‘Ring’ to-morrow.” - -“Very well,” responded Barbara, icily. “Of course Browning doesn’t -mean so much to you as he does to me. But I considered our engagement -to read this afternoon so binding that I have just lost Mrs. Harris in -consequence.” - -“Lost Mrs. Harris in consequence?” repeated Susan. “Why, Barbara, how?” - -“She insisted upon putting up tomatoes this afternoon when I couldn’t -help her, because of our engagement, and—well, she wouldn’t stay when -I was firm,” replied Barbara, wishing that the subject of disagreement -had been a little more dignified. “Really, Susan, that woman was -insufferable.” - -“And you let her go for that?” cried Susan, in a surprised voice. - -“Yes,” answered Barbara. - -Susan jabbed her big needle into a large sock, with energy. Her friend -watched her with uninterested gaze. Suddenly Susan stopped, and looked -at Barbara with an expression of determination. - -“Babbie,” she said with an air of having summoned up her -courage,—“Babbie, I hope you won’t think me officious, but I feel that -I must tell you some things. Even if I am not a college girl, I have -learned a good deal about common things in these four quiet years at -home. You are having a hard time, my dear, as everybody knows. Of -course every one talks about it. But I don’t know _what_ people will -say when they find out why Mrs. Harris left,—for of course they will -find out.” - -Susan stopped her incoherent outburst, and eyed Barbara doubtfully. -Then she went on. - -“It was dreadful of you to let Mrs. Harris go, when she had been so -kind. What if she _did_ go contrary to your ideas! Some of them are -queer, you know, and why did you care, anyway, so long as your poor -family were taken care of comfortably? You can’t get along without a -maid, Barbara,—it’s all too much for you. But I’m afraid you’ll find it -hard to get any one to come, now.” - -Susan stopped uncertainly. - -“Do finish,” said a cold voice from the hammock. - -Susan looked at the motionless figure lying in an attitude of superior -attentiveness, and her color rose. - -“Barbara, I can’t let it go on,” she broke out. “If no one suffered -but yourself, it would be different But the children are affected, -too. David never looked so really ill as he does now; and if you are -not careful, you will find him sick on your hands. Your father is worn -and worried all the time, and you yourself are as thin as a rail. -It’s because you don’t accommodate yourself to circumstances. You -insist upon carrying out some absurd theoretical ideas in the face of -practical difficulties. And I hate to have people talk about you as -they do.” - -As these last words fell upon her ears, Barbara sprang up from -the hammock. Her eyes were flashing, and her dignity had utterly -disappeared. - -“Don’t ever say that to me again!” she cried excitedly. “I don’t care a -continental what people say about me! Just because I have been away all -these years and have had superior advantages, all the people of Auburn -discuss me and criticise me, and are—well, jealous!” - -“Do you mean that I am jealous?” asked Susan, an unusual light in her -soft blue eyes. - -“That makes no difference,” retorted Barbara. “The truth of the -matter is, that you have stayed here, and have had some experience in -housekeeping, and you have grown to think that it is so important that -nothing else is of value to you—none of the higher things. If that is -what you and Auburn mean,—that I care more for,—yes, Browning, and -literature, and the real issues of life, than for housekeeping,—then -you are quite right I do. And I always shall. And I must say that I -resent any interference whatever.” - -There was a long silence. Then Susan rose, biting her lips, to hide -their trembling. “I must go,” she said. - -“Can’t you stay longer?” asked Barbara, politely. - -“No, I’m afraid not,” replied Susan. - -To both girls, the very air was full of constraint. Barbara accompanied -her visitor to the gate, where they parted with scarcely a word. Then -she turned back swiftly to the porch, and sat down in the chair just -vacated by Susan. She pressed her hand to her temples. - -“I must think this out,” she said aloud. “Could I have been wrong?” - -Some time later, the Kid cantered up to the porch. He went straight to -a bowed figure in the big chair, and pulled down the hands from the -hidden face. - -“I’m hungry, Barb’ra,” he said. “Isn’t supper ready?” - -Barbara put her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. - -“_You_ like me, little brother, don’t you?” she said. - -“Of course,” answered the Kid, nonchalantly; “and I’m hungry.” - -Barbara took him by the hand, and led him gently into the house. - -“I think I can find something for hungry little boys,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -APPLIED PHILANTHROPY - - -“DADDY, please fasten me up,” said Barbara. - -The doctor thrust two large hands inside of her gown, in the man’s -way, using them as fulcrums over which to pull the fragile fabric with -all the force of two strong thumbs. “Pretty snug, isn’t it?” he said. -“Where are you going in your Sunday best?—mill or meeting?” - -Barbara shook out the folds of her violet gown. “Meeting,” she -responded. “The Woman’s Club has asked me to give them a paper to-day.” - -“The Woman’s Club! What has become of the A. L. L. A.?” - -“The Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association is still in existence, -unfortunately. But it isn’t going to be long.” - -“Why not?” asked her father. - -“It’s going to have its name changed, if I have any influence with its -members,” said Barbara. “Isn’t it absurd for it to go on calling itself -‘_Ladies’_ Literary Association,’ just because it has been used to -the title for thirty years, when every other women’s organization in -the country is ‘Woman’s Club’? And ‘_Literary_’! Did you ever hear of -anything so pretentious! Nobody is literary nowadays, but Tolstoi and -Maeterlinck. Besides, the name debars the members from philanthropic -and civic work, which are the moving factors in all club life. I shall -certainly make an effort to have the other members change the name, -this very day.” - -“You’d better keep your hands off,” laughed the doctor. “The A. L. -L. A. is Auburn’s Holy of Holies. What are you going to ‘stand and -deliver’ before it?” - -“One of my college papers. I haven’t had time to write anything new -since the Duchess left. It’s on the ‘Psychology of the Child in -Relation to Club Work.’ I had to piece on half the title to make it -appropriate.” - -The suspicion of a twinkle lurked about the doctor’s eyes. “Well, good -luck to you,” he said; “the Literary Association may not approve of -your paper, but it can’t find fault with your dress.” - -“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jack. “That garb -is like all the rest of Barbara,—it’s too irritatingly new to pass -unscathed in Auburn. Is that churn effect the Umpire Style, Barb?” - -“It can’t rouse any more criticism than it has already had,” said his -sister. “I shan’t care what they say about the gown, if they only hear -my message.” - - * * * * * - -With subdued swish of black silk skirts, and a decorous silencing -of whispers, the Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association came to order. -Barbara, with veiled amusement, looked about the familiar “parlors” -of the Presbyterian church. The standard and banner, with the legend -“Honor Class,” had been moved into a corner, the melodeon, stripped -of its green cover, stood in walnut nakedness on the platform, -and a sprawling bunch of carnations and a gavel ornamented the -superintendent’s desk. The map of Palestine, done in colored chalk, had -been partially erased from the blackboard at the head of the room, and -beneath it was written the following - - -PROGRAM - - _Roll Call._ Answered by quotations from Shakespeare. - - _Instrumental Solo._ “Murmuring Zephyrs.” - MISS MARTHA CRARY. - - _Recitation._ “Queen of the Flowers.” - MISS HYPATIA HARRISON. - - _Paper._ “Geo. Eliot’s Life, Character, and Position as a Novelist.” - MRS. ABBIE PENFOLD. - - _Vocal Solo._ “Night Sinks on the Wave.” - MISS LIBBIE DARWIN. - - _Address._ “The Literary Atmosphere of Our Club.” - MRS. ANGIE BANKSON. - - _Readings._ { _a._ Macbeth. - { _b._ Daisy’s Daisies. - MISS COLEMAN. - - _Paper._ “Psychology of the Child in Relation to Club Work.” - MISS BARBARA PRENTICE GRAFTON. - -“It’s to be hoped that Abbie’s and Angie’s are not so long as mine,” -thought Barbara, irreverently, “or there’ll be no one to put the -Grafton mackerel to soak to-night; to say nothing of all the winds and -waves that must be passed through before they come to me.” - -It was the “wind and wave” part of the program that appealed to the -audience. The papers were accorded polite attention, as befitted -Auburn manners, but the musical numbers and readings were followed by -the subdued hum that is an expression of club delight. For Barbara, -the entire entertainment of the day was not furnished by the program. -Between the swaying fans she caught glimpses of Mrs. Enderby’s placid -face, relaxed in sleep; from the church kitchen came the rattle of -paper napkins and the clink of Miss Pettibone’s tray, and from the -rear of the room sounded, at intervals, the cough of Mrs. Crampton, a -genteel warning to speakers that their voices did not “carry.” - -“Was there ever a human being more frightfully out of her element than -I am here!” thought Barbara. “If the House-Plant could only see Mrs. -Enderby! But she’s no more asleep than all the rest of them. What _am_ -I going to do to wake them up!” - -This thought was uppermost in her mind as the afternoon was tinkled -and applauded away. It was more than ever prominent as the precise, -ladylike voice of Mrs. Bankson was raised a half-tone higher in her -closing paragraph:— - -“But, however, after all is said and done, it is the _literary_ -atmosphere that makes our club what it is. The dearly-loved paths -that we have followed for many years have led us to lofty summits -and ever-widening vistas, but never away from our original goal. The -Ever-Womanly has always been our aim, and, while less substantial -ambitions have fluttered by on airy wing, and the thunder of the new -woman has rolled even upon our peaceful horizon, we have never faltered -in our footsteps. - -“On, on we go in our devotion to literature. And, as one of the most -notable of our lady poets has so aptly expressed it,— - - Still forever yawns before our eyes - An Utmost, that is veiled.” - -A ladylike patter of applause, and a more active flutter of fans, -greeted the end of the speech. The back door creaked violently, and -Miss Pettibone’s round face appeared in the opening to see if time for -refreshment had come. It disappeared suddenly as Miss Coleman mounted -the platform to impersonate, first a bloody Macbeth, and then a swaying -field daisy. And, finally, Barbara Prentice Grafton and the Empire gown -faced the Literary Association. - -Later, when she recalled the afternoon, Barbara was surprised to -remember how little of her original paper she had used. The triviality -of the program had supplied her with text enough, and the “Psychology -of the Child” was partially diverted into a sermon upon the aimlessness -of a purely literary club. In her earnestness she was carried beyond -caution. - -“I call you to new things,” rang out her resolute voice, in conclusion. -“Literary effort in club life is outworn. You _can_ read your Homer -alone, but it takes concentrated, combined interest to accomplish the -_vital_ things of living. You have read too long. It is philanthropy we -need in Auburn,—civic improvement, educational effort that shall be for -the masses rather than our selfish selves. I call you to this. I ask -you to work with me for the good of our town and our people.” - -The effect of Barbara’s personal magnetism was never more strongly -evidenced than by the genuine applause that greeted her effort. The -Literary Association might disapprove her theories and her violet -gown, but her sincerity was inspiring. The Auburn mothers caught the -contagion in her voice, and were interested, if not convinced. - -There was a momentary pause as the applause subsided. Then Barbara said -earnestly: “I’m afraid I may have been too abstract in my statements. -But I have very definite ideas of what might be done in Auburn that -would be most beneficial to our children and ourselves. The crêche that -I spoke of is one of them. If any of you care to ask any questions, I -shall be glad to answer them. If I can,” she added more modestly. - -Mrs. Enderby, who had been aroused from her nap just in time to hear -Barbara’s ringing close, rose to the occasion. To her a question was -a question. “Miss Barbara,” she inquired, an interested expression on -her rested face, “do you believe in children going barefoot this hot -weather?” - -Barbara looked surprised. “W-why, n-no,” she said. - -“Oh,” said Mrs. Enderby, conversationally, “I was wondering.” - -There was another pause. Then Mrs. Bellows rose in her place. “Did I -understand you to say _Kreysh_?” - -“Yes,” said Barbara. “A day-nursery would be the first form of -philanthropy I should advise for Auburn.” - -“What need, if I may ask,” inquired Mrs. Bellows, impressively, “has -Auburn for a day-nursery?” - -Barbara explained the relief to the mother and the good to the child. - -“It seems to me,” remarked Mrs. Bellows, “that a Kretch is about as -necessary here as two tails to a cat. If there’s a death or sickness in -the family, I send the children over to Lib’s. Otherwise, I’d rather -have them at home. They gad enough as it is.” - -“Do you mean that the mothers are to take turns in taking care of all -the children in town?” asked Mrs. Penfold. - -“My goodness!” murmured Mrs. Enderby. - -“It saves the children from the moving-picture shows and the cheap -theatres that are among the most pernicious of evil influences,” said -Barbara. “It keeps them off the street and out of bad company”— - -“Not if she lets that Charles attend,” whispered Mrs. Bellows to the -woman in the next chair. “I’ve forbidden Sydney to play with him.” - -“And gives the mothers a vacation. Instead of the care of their little -ones every day, they have charge of them possibly two afternoons a -summer.” - -“I’d hate to trust my boys to Bertha Enderby,” whispered Mrs. Bellows -again. - -In the discussion that followed, Barbara offered her most convincing -inducement. “I’m not a mother,” she said, “but I am willing to do my -part toward furthering the work. If I can have coöperation in the -establishment of the nursery, I’ll give my time, in turn, to it. And I -think—I’m not certain about it, but I think I may be able to furnish -the room for the purpose.” - -The novelty of the idea carried the day with the younger members of the -club, and when Barbara took her place again, the seed of the enterprise -had been planted. But her second mission to the Association met with -less favorable result. The suggestion for the change of name met with -decided opposition. - -“It doesn’t seem ladylike to call it _Woman’s_ Club,” objected Mrs. -Angie Bankson. - -“The name has been good enough for us for thirty years,” said Mrs. -Bellows, with acerbity. - -“A. L. L. A. makes such a good monogram,” sighed Miss Lillie Beckett, -who designed the programs for the club on state occasions. - -Mrs. Enderby’s sleep had filled her with good-will toward the world, -and she amiably proposed a compromise. “Why not keep our old initials,” -she said, “and take another name, each word beginning with the same -letter as the old one?” - -“What, for instance?” demanded Mrs. Bellows. “Do you happen to think of -any?” - -The sarcasm of the speech was lost on Mrs. Enderby. - -“Well, Auburn for the first word,” she suggested mildly. - -But when put to vote, the motion was lost. The Auburn Ladies’ Literary -Association triumphed, and the “Woman’s Club” died before it was born. - -“That snip of a Barbara Grafton!” said Mrs. Bellows to her neighbor, as -the pink sherbet and the paper napkins went around. “The idea of her -being invited to address us, and then giving that fool advice to women -that knew her when she should have been spanked! I’d never send a child -of mine to college, if I had all the money in the world. Normal school -can do enough harm. I didn’t know she could be such a fool! _Kretch!_” - -Susan leaned over from the next chair. “Barbara isn’t a fool, Mrs. -Bellows,” she said warmly; “she’s the cleverest girl I ever knew.” - -“In books, maybe,” sniffed Mrs. Bellows. - -“No, in everything,” said Susan. “It is in books that she’s had the -most training, but she is just as clever in other things. She’s had an -awful time this summer with sickness, and poor help, and housework, and -no experience in any of them. Any one else would have been discouraged -long ago. But she has stuck it out, and been big and brave and cheerful -about it, to give her mother a chance to get well. I can’t let any one -say anything against Barbara.” - -The two women looked their surprise at the warm defense from quiet -Susan. - -“It’s her theories I object to, not her,” said Mrs. Bellows. - -“She won’t keep them all,” said Susan. “She’ll always be loyal to her -own convictions, just as she is now; but she’ll find out later that -some of them are not so worth while as she is herself. Then she’ll sift -them out.” - -“I wish she’d hurry up with her sifting, then,” said Mrs. Bellows. - -Barbara, in the meantime, had not waited for her sherbet but had -hurried home to prepare the meal. In the evening she laid the matter of -the nursery before her father, and was surprised to be met with some of -the same objections that had been advanced at the woman’s club. - -“But mayn’t I _try_?” she pleaded finally. - -“I see your heart is set on it,” said the doctor. “I’m not going to -refuse you the carriage-house for the use of your children, though I -do think you won’t need it more than once. Auburn has no real _poor_, -you know. Only, Barbara, _don’t_ take any more upon yourself this hot -weather! The Kid is a whole day-nursery, himself.” - -It took all Barbara’s leisure time from Monday until Thursday, which -was the appointed day for the opening, to get the deserted, dusty -carriage-house in order; to coax sulky Sam, the stable-boy, to move -the accumulation of broken-down sleighs and phaetons into a corner; to -hire two women to sweep, scrub, and dust floors, windows, and walls, -in order to make the carriage-house fit for an afternoon’s habitation -by the many clean, starched children whom she hoped to see. But it -was worth it,—oh, yes, it was worth it!—and Barbara’s heart glowed -with enthusiasm at the idea of driving the entering wedge of civic -improvement into the flinty heart of staid Auburn. - -Meanwhile the house suffered. Dr. Grafton was called away at meal-times -with conspicuous frequency. Gassy, David, and the Kid did not -object greatly, for their imaginations were fired by the elaborate -preparations for the “party,” which the Kid firmly believed to be -held in honor of his birthday, three months past. But Jack protested -bitterly. - -“Another ‘walk-around’!” he ejaculated, coming in at six o’clock -Wednesday evening, and gazing blankly at the bare dining-room. “Say, -Barb, a fellow that’s been canoeing all afternoon has an appetite that -reaches from Dan to Beersheba. I don’t want to make you mad, but I feel -mighty like Mother Hubbard’s dog.” - -Barbara looked up nervously. “Now, Jack, what difference does it make -to you whether you sit at table with the others and use up hundreds of -dishes, or eat in the kitchen and save my time? The bread is in the -pantry with butter and raspberries, and there is some cold meat in the -ice-box. Cut all you want. Besides, I have sent Charles over to Miss -Pettibone’s for a blueberry pie.” - -Jack looked unwontedly cross. “Sometimes I think you are the camel -that edged himself into the tent and crowded out his master,” he said. -“These walk-arounds on Sunday nights were pleasant enough at first with -everything piled on the kitchen table, so that we walked around with a -sandwich in each hand; but it comes so often now that it seems as if -‘every day’ll be Sunday by and by.’” - -Barbara’s reply was checked by the sudden appearance of the Kid, -bearing a disk in both hands. The paper covering was torn and spotted -with blue patches, and a broad stain extended the full length of -his blouse. He put his burden carefully on the table, and turned -apologetically to Barbara. - -“I may have dropped that pie; I don’t remember,” he said. - -“N. P., no pie for me!” declared Jack. “Au revoir, Miss Grafton. Peter -asked me over to supper, and there’s still time to overtake him.” - -Away went Jack, lustily chanting “The Roast Beef of Old England.” -Barbara fed the Kid to the brim, feeling somewhat guilty when she met -his clear young eyes full of affectionate trust in his big sister. It -was too bad to offer up the family on the altar of philanthropy. The -Infant’s cruel prediction as to a Jellyby future came back to her, but -the ends justified the means in this case. - -The next morning was so clear, warm, and bright, that Barbara’s spirits -rose to fever heat. This was the day of her opportunity to loosen the -bondage of Auburn mothers, and to take the first step toward raising -them to higher standards of ease and culture. Her face beamed as she -sped downstairs to do the daily tasks which awaited her. Breakfast was -ready long before any one appeared to partake of it; dishes were washed -in haste, beds made in a trice,—just this once!—and dusting passed over -entirely. - -All Barbara’s morning was spent in planning games, in decorating the -carriage-house with flags, in going to Miss Pettibone’s for the dozens -of cookies which she had ordered, and in finding cool space in the -refrigerator for twelve bottles of milk. The children were to come at -two; and at half-past one Barbara sat on the porch, dressed in a simple -white gown, waiting for the first arrival and for her assistant, Mrs. -Enderby. - -At five minutes after two, there were no children. At ten minutes past, -still no children. At fifteen minutes after two, Mrs. Enderby’s fat, -placid self waddled up to the doctor’s gate. - -“My children are coming along,” she said. “It’s awful warm. I’ve -brought a palm-leaf fan. I can fan the children, if you want me to. Any -come yet?” - -“No, not yet,” replied Barbara. She had been awaiting the arrival of -Mrs. Enderby with that desire for moral support which a new undertaking -always brings upon its authors. Mrs. Enderby, as the mother of six -children, might well be expected to furnish any amount of support -derived from experience; but somehow, as Barbara looked at her, she -felt that she had made a great mistake. A cushion cannot serve as a -propelling-board; and poor Mrs. Enderby looked very cushiony. - -She sat rocking slowly and evenly on the porch. “If no one comes by -three o’clock,” she said, “I think I’ll leave and go over to Main -Street to see the new moving pictures. I forgot about them when I -promised to help.” - -“Oh, I am sure some children will come,” Barbara replied hastily. “It -is such a fine chance for the mothers to rest.” - -At quarter of three, it seemed to the confused girl that all Auburn -was invading her lawn in a body. Streams of small children, dragged -along by elder brothers, sisters, nurses, and mothers, descended upon -the house like a flood. The air resounded with the shrieks of suddenly -deserted youngsters, with the threats and warnings of their departing -guardians, with the consolations of Barbara, Mrs. Enderby, and Gassy -herself. Just as suddenly as they had come, all the natural protectors -left, with singular unanimity, Barbara thought. It was not at all -as she had planned. There had been no grateful approach of a mother -at a time to meet the white-robed, calm hostess; no pleasant chat, -no graceful reassurance of a child’s safety. But an enormous wave -had broken upon the Grafton house and as quickly retreated, leaving -thirty-nine pebbles of assorted sizes on the shore. Thirty-nine! -Barbara gasped. - -Her first step was to sweep the children to the carriage-house in a -body. Mrs. Enderby led the procession, waddling along like a very fat -hen, with innumerable little chickens running after. Barbara brought -up the rear, anxiously counting thirty-nine over and over to herself. -Loyal little Gassy kept her eyes upon the children as if she had been -transformed into a faithful watch-dog. And the Kid himself seemed to -exercise a remarkable amount of oversight; he was waiting for the -presents which were, of course, the object of a birthday party. - -Barbara’s whole subsequent recollection of the afternoon lay in -a picture,—the one which greeted her as she stepped into the -carriage-house, gently pushing the last of the flock before her. -The large room seemed to her bewildered eyes fairly decorated with -children. Every broken-down buggy and sleigh was filled with more than -its quota, and prancing steeds were tugging at the ancient shafts in -vain. In a corner of the room, ten boys were fighting for possession of -a dilapidated harness. Shrieks of delight were rising from the hay-mow -above her head, and thin little legs were running up and down the -upright ladder with spider-like agility. - -Barbara gasped. “Mrs. Enderby!” she exclaimed. “How shall we ever get -them together again!” - -Mrs. Enderby did not answer. She stood in the middle of the room with -her fan idle in her hand and her head turned backward as far as it -would go. Involuntarily following her gaze, Barbara looked up and saw a -sight which haunted her in dreams forever after. - -Fifteen feet above the floor, a long, narrow beam extended horizontally -from one edge of the hay-mow to the opposite wall. Sitting on the beam, -with legs dangling down, sat seventeen children, one behind another, -so tightly wedged that there would not have been space for even half a -child more. Wriggling, twisting, turning upon one another,—and at any -instant the slender beam might break! - -It was little Gassy who saw the look of frozen horror on Barbara’s -face, and took action first. Without a word she sprang up the ladder -and out to the edge of the hay-mow. There she called out:— - -“Each kid that comes back _now_, slowly and carefully, gets a cookie!” - -No one moved. Mrs. Enderby down below dropped her fan and began walking -up and down beneath the beam, with her ample skirts outspread to catch -any child overcome by dizziness. - -“A raisin cookie!” cried Gassy. - -No one stirred. - -“With nuts in it!” - -The child nearest the hay-loft began to wriggle backwards. “I get first -choice!” she said. - -“Second!” - -“Third!” - -The line took up the slow wriggle, and Barbara below watched, with her -skirts also extended. She could think of nothing else to do. - -“Slowly!” shouted Gassy militantly. “Keep below there, Mrs. Enderby. -Each kid has to go down the ladder to Barbara for the cookie, an’ -_stay_ down. Then we’ll play down there.” - -Children respond quickly to an appeal to the stomach. In less than -five minutes, seventeen children were munching seventeen cookies, -and a rousing game of “Drop the Handkerchief” had been started by a -now thoroughly alert Barbara. Most of the children joined in with -gusto. Mrs. Enderby picked up her palm-leaf, and tapped Gassy with it -approvingly. - -“Now you can just keep on helping by counting thirty-nine over and over -again,” she said. - -Game succeeded game. London Bridge fell down in weary repetition for -Barbara. The players assured themselves unto seventy times seven times -that “King Willyum was King George’s Son.” A trousers button had to -be pressed into each child’s hand as a hiding-place. Six children -at different times were hurt, and cried. Mrs. Enderby, now that the -danger was over, took her chair into a corner and went to sleep behind -her fan. But faithful Gassy remained at the front, singing with rare -abandon and helping to lead each game. - -Barbara herself was so engrossed in wiping away youthful tears, and in -singing, that she did not notice the gradual diminution of her forces -until Gassy suddenly took her aside. - -“Barbara,” she said anxiously, “there are only twenty-seven kids in -this room; where are the others?” - -Barbara counted hastily; looked up in the hay-mow; gave a wild glance -into the abandoned vehicles. It was true; the Kid himself was missing. -Then she crossed over to Mrs. Enderby and touched her shoulder. - -“Mrs. Enderby,” she said, “I am afraid you will have to take ‘King -William’ with Gassy, while I look for twelve children who seem to be -missing.” - -She flung open the door, and looked around. No children. Some odd -instinct led her towards her own house. As she approached, the -dining-room door facing the carriage-house suddenly opened, and a -swarm of little boys issued forth. Little boys they were, but little -goblins they looked to be, so impish were their faces, so bedraggled -their appearance. Each boy held in one hand a milk-bottle, which he -was applying to his lips in infant fashion; each blouse was bulging -with rapidly disappearing cookies. Barbara’s refreshments were almost a -thing of the past. - -As she rushed over to the group, it disintegrated, and in the centre, -deserted by all his fellows in crime, stood the guilty Kid. - -There were no words suitable for the occasion, and therefore Barbara -said nothing. Under her stern gaze, the Kid visibly shrunk. His -milk-bottle dropped from his hand and splashed them both. He began to -weep most violently. - -“Oh, I don’t like birthday parties,” he sobbed. “They didn’t bring -any presents this time; I asked ’em. An’ we got tired o’ games, so we -went wading in the creek an’ got all wet. An’ nen we were hungry an’ I -thought you did forget the supper—” - -Wading! Barbara glanced around at the little boys, and at the rest -of the troop which had filtered from the carriage-house. Were these -the children that had come to her house several hours before—these -unrecognizable _gamins_? The boys were the most torn; but even the -girls seemed lost in dirt and disorder. - -Mrs. Enderby made her leisurely way up to Barbara, and began to fan -her placidly. “They’re all here,” she said; “I’ve just counted the -thirty-nine of ’em. And here comes the mothers again, so our labors are -over.” - -Again the strange influx of parents and guardians, which had so puzzled -Barbara before. Again the receding wave, carrying the pebbles back this -time. - -Barbara was vaguely conscious of choruses of remarks singularly alike -in character. “James Greenleaf, _where_ is your hat?”—“Robbie, you -dirty boy, come here”—“Martha, how did you tear your apron so?” She -realized that she was not being thanked as much as was her proper -due. But all she wished to do on earth was to get to her own room to -rest—not to think. - -It was not until next morning, however, that the final blow fell. A -very relaxed Barbara sat at the head of the breakfast-table, and -around its corner Jack was looking at her quizzically. - -“What beats me,” he said, “is why you should have been willing to do -all that work in order that the mothers of the enlightened A. L. L. A. -should be enabled to go almost in a body to see the opening of the new -moving-picture theatre. Do you believe so heartily in the ‘culchah’ of -those things?” - -“Jack!” cried Barbara, starting from her seat. “Jack, they _didn’t_ do -that, did they?” - -“They sure did,” responded her cruel brother. “Nineteen maternal -parents of the thirty-nine were visible to me from my seat in the back -row. They had the time of their lives.” - -Barbara’s eyes filled with tears at this disappointment of her hopes. -As she struggled hard to keep them back, she caught the glance of her -father,—so apprehensive, so tender, and yet so amused, that, although -the tears came from her eyes, laughter also sounded from her lips. - -“‘Here endeth the first lesson,’” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -“WITHOUT” - - -THE alarm-clock under Barbara’s pillow sent forth a muffled rattle, -like a querulous old woman with tooth-ache, complaining from beneath -her bandages. The girl turned over in bed and sighed. A moment later -the town-clock struck six, with insistent note, and after a sympathetic -delay of a minute more, the living-room clock below sounded its -admonition. Sleepily and reluctantly Barbara drew forth the alarm-clock -to make sure of the worst. - -“It’s _always_ six o’clock,” she said crossly. Then she slammed the -offender down upon the bed, and set her bare feet upon the floor -with a thud that betokened no happy morning spirit. Oh, for those -luxurious days at college when a closed transom and an “engaged” sign -upon the door insured sufficient slumber after a night of school-girl -dissipation! Not since the nightmare of housekeeping had attacked her -rest, two months before, had “Babbie the Nap-kin,” as she was jocularly -known at college, had enough sleep. This starting the day with heavy -eyes, and body that sighed for rest, was a new thing. How had her -mother done it, all these years? Probably as she, Barbara, was doing it -now;—there was no one else to share it with her. - -The same old routine,—Barbara wearily went over it: Unlock the doors, -open the windows; light the fire, put the kettle on, take the food out -of the ice-box, skim the milk, grind the coffee, make the toast, set -the table, rouse the sleepers. Every one of the mornings in the year -her mother had done it, or superintended the doing of it. Three hundred -and sixty-five mornings, for twenty-three years. 8395 times! Barbara -shuddered. - -It was hot and stuffy downstairs. The chairs were set about at untidy -angles, and the sun blazed in fiercely at the window. The kitchen -door-knob was sticky to the touch, and a bold cockroach ran across -the back porch as she opened the door. Was this summer hotter and more -disagreeable than usual, or was it possible that Mrs. Grafton had been -responsible for the cool, shaded rooms and the fresh morning air that -had always greeted Barbara when she arrived upon the scene of action? -For the third time in her experience the girl considered herself with -misgiving. Was it possible that housekeeping was a science, instead -of merely an occupation,—to be learned by study, and experiment, and -experience, just like philosophy? Was it even possible that she, -Barbara Grafton, called “The Shark” at college, was, for the first time -in her life, to fail miserably in a “course”? - -Dr. Grafton and David were the only members of the family who responded -to the breakfast-bell. The doctor drank his under-done coffee and ate -his over-done toast without comment; the small boy bent contentedly -over a bowl of bread and milk. Barbara herself ate nothing. - -“What’s the matter, girl?” asked her father. “Aren’t you well?” - -“I’m all right, only not hungry.” - -“I’m afraid you’re working too hard. I can’t have you losing your -appetite and looking like a ghost. Don’t you hear of a cook?” - -Barbara shook her head. - -“I’m afraid we’ll have to make other sort of arrangement, then. Perhaps -Mrs. Clemens will take us all to board until we hear of some help. I’ll -try to see her to-day. I don’t mind the meals,—my stomach is proof -against anything!—but I can’t have you sick.” - -Her father laid a tender hand on her shoulder, and gave her a playful -little pat as he left the room. But Barbara felt anything but playful. -Her eyes flashed, and her lips set in a hard, bitter line. “My stomach -is proof against anything!” Such a stupid joke,—such a cruel bit of -pleasantry! There were unshed tears in her voice, as well as her eyes, -as she went to the stairway and called up, crossly: “Jack, Cecil—ia!” - -There was no answer. Repeated calls brought forth an angry response -from Gassy, and a lazy one from Jack. - -“Breakfast is all over. If you’re not down in five minutes, there’ll be -nothing for you; I’m not going to let my dishes stand all morning!” - -Gassy deigned no answer. Dangerously near the time-limit, Jack appeared. - -“The wind seems to be from the east this morning,” he remarked casually. - -Barbara did not answer. - -“Was there anything special requiring my attendance at this witching -hour of the morn?” - -“The lawn-mower,” said his sister, sharply. - -“Ah, I thought it must be a telegram or a fire,—judging from your -agonized voice.” - -“If it _had_ been a fire, you would have had to be roused! When you -haven’t an earthly thing to do about the house, Jack, I do think that -you might get up in time for breakfast.” - -“You have some new theories since you began housekeeping. I have some -faint recollections about your being the last man in the house to -rise, a few weeks ago. I’m sorry, though, I overslept, Barb. I got up -the minute you called. - - I roused me from my slumbers, - I hied me from my bed. - If I had known what breakfast was, - I would have slept, instead. - -Excuse me for turning up my trousers. The coffee seems to be somewhat -muddy.” - -The storm that had been threatening all the morning came at last. -College dignity was forgotten, and Barbara became a cross, over-worked, -over-heated child, with a strong sense of grievance. - -“Jack Grafton, you are a lazy, selfish, inconsiderate _beast_! If you -had to do anything but _eat_ the meals, you wouldn’t criticise them so -sharply. You _know_ I’m doing the best I can,—you know it!—and it’s so -hot, and there’s so much work—” - -David’s serious brown eyes looked reproach at his older brother. - -“I’m sorry, Barb,” said Jack, penitently. “I exaggerated about the -coffee,—it’s not muddy, only riley. You mustn’t get so fussed up about -things that are said in fun. You always _used_ to be able to take a -joke. As for the grass, I’ll hie me hence at once. It needs a cutting -as badly as Gassy’s hair.” - -In spite of herself, Barbara smiled at the comparison. “Poor Cecilia,” -she sighed. “I don’t know what on earth to do with that hair of hers. -It is so stiff and rebellious that it won’t lie smooth, and yet so thin -and straight that it won’t fluff out, like other children’s. I want -her to have it cut, but she objects, and pins her faith to that row of -curl-papers that makes her look like a Circassian Lady. It is such an -ugly shade of red, too. If the child only knew how she looked—” - -“She’d never have another happy moment,” interrupted Jack, pushing back -his coffee-cup. “Well, to work, to work! My, it looks hot out there in -the sunshine!” - -An hour later, Barbara raised a flushed face from the ironing-board -to greet the Vegetable Man. The Vegetable Man was fat and red, and -wheezed as he walked. He was an old patient of the doctor’s, and his -bi-weekly trips to the Grafton house were partially of a social nature. -His face wore the blank expression of a sheet of sticky fly-paper, and -he was equally hard to get rid of. He sat down on one of the kitchen -chairs and fanned himself with his hat. - -“This is a scorcher!” he remarked. - -No one appreciated the truth of this statement more strongly than -Barbara. But she feared the result of an enthusiastic response to the -Vegetable Man. “Yes,” she assented. “It is.” - -“Ninety-three, accordin’ to the official thermometer on the weather -bureau’s porch. My thermometer’s three degrees higher, an’ when I’m out -in the sun, I believe mine’s right. Even the guv’ment’s likely to make -mistakes on a day like this.” - -Barbara nodded. - -“Want any vegetables this morning?” - -“No, I have already ordered my meals to-day.” - -“Got some nice corn out there in my wagon. An’ some prime cauliflower.” - -“I don’t want either, to-day.” - -“All right; only you know you save money by buyin’ from me instead of -the grocery-store. Your ma would tell you that, if she wuz here. How -_is_ your ma?” - -“Getting better, slowly.” - -“That’s good; give her my respects when you write. Leander Hopkins’s -respects, an’ hopes you will soon be in your accustomed health again. -How are you gettin’ on while she’s gone? Are you just helpin’ in the -kitchen, or are you without?” - -“Without?” - -“Yes, without.” - -“I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. Hopkins.” - -“Why, without a gurrl—a kitchen gurrl.” - -“We have no cook at present. Do you know where I can get one?” - -“No, I can’t say as I do. Gurrls are pretty scarce in kitchens, -nowadays, though there seems to be plenty of them in parlors. Maybe my -Libbie would come in and help you out, though she ain’t never worked -out, regular.” - -“Oh, would she?” exclaimed Barbara. - -“Can’t say fer sure. I’ll ast her when I go home. She’s got steady -company, now,—he’s a brakeman on the Southern Limited,—an’ he always -gits back fer Sunday night. I dunno as she’d like to engage herself fer -Sunday nights. But I’ll ast her. You ain’t got that waist sprinkled -enough; it’s too dry to iron well.” - -Barbara only thumped her iron a little harder. - -“Don’t like to be told, do ye? Guess you must be a little like my -wife,—set in your ways. I know a good deal about ironin’; seen the -women-folks do it fer thirty years.” - -“You must have had a good deal of time to sit and watch.” - -“Wal, no, not so much as you might think; they’s a good deal of work on -my place. I’ve been sickly, though, a good bit of my life, an’ had to -sit by an’ let others do it. I know, Miss Barb’ry, that I’ve got the -reputation of bein’ lazy, but it ain’t true: I ain’t lazy; I don’t -mind workin’, but I don’t like to _have_ to work. That’s what I like -about vegetablin’: I can rest a little as I go along.” - -“You are fortunate!” - -There was a pause as the stubborn iron squeaked its way over the -half-dry linen. - -“Wal, I guess I must be goin’. You wouldn’t like no egg-plant, would -ye?” - -“No, I think not.” - -“Shell I bring in a little pie-plant before I go? Ye might change your -mind if you was to see it.” - -“No, I won’t trouble you.” - -“No trouble at all, even if it is a hot day. You’re sure you don’t want -it?” - -“Yes, I’m sure.” - -“Wal, good-day, then. Don’t fergit my respects to your ma.” - -Out of the kitchen door waddled Mr. Hopkins. In at the same door he -waddled a few seconds later. “Hate to int’rupt ye, Miss Barb’ry,” he -said mysteriously, “but jest look a’ here.” - -“What is it?” inquired Barbara, suspiciously, fearing she was being -enticed to the vegetable wagon. - -“That’s what I don’t know,” said Mr. Hopkins. - -The Vegetable Man led the way around the walk at the side of the house. -He stopped at the turn, where the syringa and the lilac mingled their -branches in a leafy roof. The sun and the leaves made a checkerboard of -light and shade below, and here in the dancing flecks of sunshine lay a -grotesque little figure, asleep. It was Gassy, but such a sadly changed -Gassy! Reckless hands and a pair of scissors had worked havoc with the -hair that had been “too stiff to lie smooth, and too thin to fluff.” -Except for the crown of the head, where a few locks stood erect, like -faithful sentinels on a battle-swept field, the scalp was almost as -bare as a billiard ball. Not content with devastating her enemy, -Gassy had concealed the last sign of the hated color by covering the -remains with a coating of black. Perspiration and tears had aided its -extension, and two streaks of the dark fluid had found their way down -her cheeks. There were traces of recent crying about the closed eyes, -and a damp handkerchief was tightly clutched in one of the thin little -hands. - -[Illustration: SUCH A SADLY CHANGED GASSY] - -Barbara dismissed the Vegetable Man with a few whispered words of -explanation, walking with him to the gate to insure his departure. Then -she returned to the syringa-bush, and took the shorn little head in her -lap. Gassy started, and sat erect. For a moment she looked bewildered; -then she remembered, and her proud little voice said defiantly:— - -“I guess I won’t look like a Circassian Lady, now!” - -Barbara hesitated; words seemed so futile, and any explanation -was impossible. Then she did the very best thing, under the -circumstances,—caught the small sister in her arms, and held her close. -Gassy struggled for a second, then her thin little body relaxed, and -the hot tears drenched Barbara’s shoulder. - -“You needn’t think I didn’t know about my hair, before!” she said -fiercely, between sobs. “I’ve always hated it, long before I heard -what you and Jack said. But I’ve got it fixed now. It ain’t stiff, or -thin, or red, any more!” - -Barbara waited until the first shower was over. “How did you do it, -dear?” she asked, at last. - -“Manicure scissors and liquid blacking,” said Gassy, with a fresh storm -of sobs. “I don’t care if I _do_ look awful! I looked just as bad -before. Jack said I’d never have another happy moment if I knew how I -looked. And I do. I’m the ugliest girl in Auburn,—the very homeliest!” - -Barbara’s quick thoughts flew to the sanitarium at Chariton. Was it -possible that tragedies like this were of common occurrence in her -mother’s life? It was only a child’s tragedy, but it was a very real -one; and the tenderest wisdom and the wisest tenderness were needed to -dispel it. Her mind went back to the sweet lips and the loving arms -that had soothed so many of her own baby griefs. Housekeeping had been -such a small part of her mother’s life; was she, Barbara, capable of -being a substitute in a case like this? - -“I’m sorry you heard what we said,” she replied, tenderly stroking the -sticky head. “Of course you know that we always exaggerate when we -joke,—Jack and I,—and we said what we did in fun. Your hair isn’t as -pretty now as it will be when you get a little older; then it will turn -dark,—red hair always does,—and you may have real auburn, which is the -prettiest shade in the world.” - -“It isn’t just my hair,—it’s all of me,” sobbed Gassy. “I’m so dang -homely!” - -Barbara laughed, a merry, hearty laugh, that carried more comfort than -a million words to the aching little heart. “You blessed chicken! -You’re not so homely.” - -“But I want to be pretty like you; not skinny, and awkward, and tight -little pig-tails of hair! I’d just love to shake curls out of my neck, -the way the other girls do.” - -“Well, not _every_body can have curly hair; I’m not that lucky, either. -But I was thinner than you when I was your age, and far more awkward. -You’ll grow fatter in a year or two. And in the meantime, dear, be glad -of the pretty things about yourself,—your clear, wide-open eyes, your -dainty little ears, your high-arched instep. You have a very sweet -mouth, too, when you are happy.” - -Gassy snuggled a shade closer to her sister. “I like you, Barbara,” she -said, her proud little voice strangely softened. - -“I know you do, dear. And I love _you_, so much that I want you to like -yourself. Don’t think about how you look; you’re always pretty when -you’re merry. Let’s go in and shampoo that head of yours. You won’t -mind it short during this hot weather, and it will probably grow in -thicker and darker because of this cutting.” - -The half-ironed waist had dried when they returned to the house, and -Barbara, as she re-sprinkled the garment and laid it back in the -ironing basket, was reminded of her frequent admonitions to her mother -about “systematizing the housework.” “A mother is a composite of cook, -laundress, seamstress, waitress, nurse, and kindergartner,” she said -to herself. “And yet that isn’t what keeps her busiest; it’s the -unforeseen happenings, and the interruptions, that eat up the time. I -don’t wonder she never finished her work. What next, I’d like to know?” - -Her wish was soon gratified by the appearance of Jack at the door. “Gee -whiz! but this day is a scorcher,” said the boy, mopping his forehead -with his handkerchief, as he threw himself upon the lounge in the next -room. “It is ninety in the shade in the yard,—that is, it would be if -there was any shade to get under. If I ever said anything derogatory -unto the snow-shovel, I take it all back. Here’s a letter, Barb; -mail-man left it.” - -Barbara, reaching for the envelope, stumbled over the prostrate form of -David, who lay on his stomach on the floor, reading his well-worn copy -of the “Greek Heroes.” - -“Goodness, David, do get out of the way! There isn’t room to step in -this house when you lie on the floor. And please don’t read aloud -until I finish this letter.” She tore open the envelope, and her eyes -eagerly ran over the words, as her mind hungrily took them up:— - - VASSAR COLLEGE, August 6, 1907. - - MY DEAR MISS GRAFTON,—It gives us much pleasure to - notify you that the Eastman Scholarship will fall into - your hands this year. Miss Culver, who ranked slightly - above you in the competitive examination, writes us - that circumstances make it impossible for her to enjoy - its advantages. You, as second in rank of scholarship, - fall heir to her place and her honors. - - We heartily congratulate you upon the attainment of - what you so richly deserve, and beg that you will - notify us of your acceptance this week. It is so - late in the season now that an immediate decision is - necessary. - - Cordially yours, - Eastman Scholarship Committee, - E. C. BEDFORD, _Chairman_. - -Jack, glancing up from the lounge, caught a glimpse of Barbara’s face, -“What’s the matter? Is mother worse?” he demanded, sitting bolt upright -on the sofa. - -“No,—oh, no. It’s just a letter from college,” said Barbara. She got up -from her chair suddenly, and made her way back to the kitchen. - -“If you’re through with it, may I read aloud now?” called David; but -his sister did not hear him. She stepped inside the pantry and sat down -on a tin cracker-box to think it over. - -The Eastman Scholarship! The highest honor which Vassar had to offer, -and which carried with it a year of post-graduate study, had been the -ambition of Barbara’s life. Nobody but herself could dream what that -letter meant to her. Nobody but herself ever suspected how bitter the -disappointment had been the spring before, when Miss Culver, who was -less brilliant, but more of a student than Barbara, had taken the -scholarship almost out of her hands. Every one in college had expected -her to win it, and though she had been outwardly dubious about her -prospects, she had been inwardly self-confident. It had taken courage -to offer congratulations to Miss Culver, on that dreadful day when -the decision had been announced. _Everybody_—that is, everybody but -the faculty—knew that it belonged, by right, to her. She had made -light of her defeat at home,—she had never dared think much about it, -herself,—and nobody had suspected how deep a tragedy it was. - -And now the chance had come, _now_, when everything in the world was -upside down; when a sick mother and a forlorn household needed her; -when an empty kitchen called her; and when a pair of hands, awkward -though they were, meant as much to her family as a brilliant brain -meant to her college. Barbara closed her eyes, and tried to think. - -David, in the next room, had taken up his reading again, at the Isle of -the Sirens:— - - “And all things stayed around and listened; the gulls - sat in white lines along the rocks; on the beach great - seals lay basking and kept time with lazy heads; while - silver shoals of fish came up to hearken, and whispered - as they broke the shining calm. The wind overhead - hushed his whistling as he shepherded his clouds - toward the west; and the clouds stood in mid-blue, and - listened dreaming, like a flock of golden sheep. - - “And as the heroes listened, the oars fell from their - hands and their heads drooped on their breasts, and - they closed their heavy eyes; and they dreamed of - bright, still gardens, and of slumbers under murmuring - pines, till all of their toil seemed foolishness, and - they thought of their renown no more.” - -[Illustration: BARBARA SANK DOWN WEARILY] - -“I’ve been asleep,” thought Barbara, bitterly, “asleep and dreaming.” - - “Then Medea clapped her hands together, and cried, - ‘Sing louder, Orpheus; sing a bolder strain; wake up - these hapless sluggards, or none of them will see the - land of Hellas more.’ - - “Then Orpheus lifted his harp, and crashed his cunning - hand across the strings, and his music and his voice - rang like a trumpet through the still evening air: into - the air it rushed like thunder, till the rocks rang, - and the sea, and into their souls it rushed like wine, - till all hearts beat fast within their breasts.” - -“Every dream I had at college—every hope, every aspiration—has gone,” -interrupted Barbara’s thoughts. “Surely I left school with plenty of -ambition. But here I am, a drudge of a housekeeper, and a poor one at -that! I can’t even cook a meal or iron a waist. And I haven’t the -chance to do anything else, with mother sick. Oh, I would like to! I -would, I would! Because this is my last opportunity. If I don’t take -this, _I_ shall never, never, see the land of Hellas more.” - -David lost his place in the story. But the new page he turned was just -as sweet to him, and he went on reading in his child’s voice, made -hoarse by hay fever, and yet sweet with love of the words:— - - “And a dream came to Æetes, and filled his heart with - fear. He thought he saw a shining star which fell into - his daughter’s lap; and that Medea his daughter took it - gladly, and carried it to the river-side and cast it - in, and there the whirling river bore it down, and out - into the Euxine Sea.” - -It was nine o’clock that evening before the last dish was washed, -David’s throat-wash prepared, Gassy’s head anointed, and a letter -written. After these things were done, Barbara went out to the -mail-box. She posted her letter, and came back through the moonlight -that seemed to heat the breathless night. Mosquitoes hummed about the -porch, a cricket creaked in the grass, and the voices of innumerable -locusts nicked the silence of the evening. The house was dark and -lonely, and still. Barbara sank down on the porch, wearily, and laid -her head against the railing. - -“I’ve cast in my star,” she said to herself. - -The homely words of the Vegetable Man came back to her with new meaning. - -“Yes, it’s true, I _am_ without,” she added; “that’s just the word for -it!” - -She put both hands before her eyes, and burst into tears. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE VEGETABLE MAN’S DAUGHTER - - - CHARITON SANITARIUM, August 23, 1907. - - DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,—You don’t know how nice it is to - be able to write a letter all by one’s self. Dictating - a letter to your home people is like eating by proxy. - - I am getting better every day. Am sleeping without - opiates, and am actually hungry for my meals. Those - trying periods of faintness appear far less often, and - my temperature is so normal that I am losing prestige - with the nurses. It won’t be long now until I shall be - home again. - - I feel guilty every minute I stay away. Those - cheery letters of yours tell only the funny side of - housekeeping, but I know that there is another side, - too, and that inexperience and hot weather and hard - work are a serious combination. It is too big a load - for one pair of shoulders. I was sorry to hear that - the Duchess had gone; she promised so well that I - felt relieved about my motherless children and my - wifeless husband. I hope you will be able to get Mr. - Hopkins’s daughter. If not, you had better go to the - boarding-house for dinner and supper during the hot - weather. - - How is David? I think of him so often these torrid - days. If his hay fever is bad, he ought to be sent - nearer the lake. Watch him carefully, dear, won’t you? - - There is little for me to write you. No news is - sanitarium news, and I see no one but my doctor - and nurse and a few people whose illness is the - most interesting thing about them. I live on your - letters,—the dear, funny letters that you must steal - time from recreation to write. I read scraps of them to - the doctor and a few friends I have made here, and they - never fail to ask me daily if I have “heard from the - clever daughter.” The cleverness I knew all about, long - ago, but I am finding out new things every day about - the sweetness and usefulness of that same daughter. Try - to save yourself all you can, dearie. Why, oh, why, - when you were choosing, didn’t you select a mother that - didn’t “prostrate”? - - Kiss the babes for me, and tell your father that I - can’t and won’t stay away much longer. Much love from - - MOTHER. - -Barbara read the letter aloud to Gassy on one of the hottest of the -August days. Then she drew the little sister into her arms and kissed -her,—a long-drawn kiss in which was expressed relief and joy and -gratitude. Gassy understood, and nestled close with a happy little -croon. - -“Won’t it be nice to have her back, Barbara?” she whispered. “It’s been -awful lonesome without her! If it hadn’t been for you, I couldn’t have -stood it.” Then, ashamed of her unwonted show of affection, she drew -herself out of her sister’s lap, saying in her stiff little voice, -which had been heard less frequently of late, “It’s too hot to kiss!” - -“There’s another letter, too,” said Barbara; “I don’t know whether I’d -better open it or not. It’s addressed to mother, but I think it is from -Aunt Sarah.” - -Gassy made a grimace. “Better open it, then. It won’t hold any good -news.” - -“I’m afraid I must; Aunt Sarah doesn’t know that mother is away from -home. I hope it isn’t descriptive of any more family broils. If it is, -I shan’t forward it.” - -“Prob’ly she’s going to make us a visit,” said Gassy. - -A horrible foreboding of what Gassy’s prediction would mean swept over -Barbara. It was succeeded by a still more horrible sensation as she -read the letter:— - - MY DEAR NIECE,—I am about to start for the shore on - my annual trip, and intend to stop and see you on the - way. I leave here Thursday, and expect to arrive in - Auburn some time Friday. I intended to let you know - before, but I have been very busy attending to my - wardrobe, and have neglected less important things. You - never make much fuss over me when I come, so I knew I - could break the monotony of the long trip east without - inconveniencing you. - - Your last letter said you were not very well. Of course - I regret to hear that, but you cannot expect me to - express sympathy for what is obviously your own fault. - New Thought stands ready to help you, and until you are - willing to accept its teachings, you cannot hope to - have peace of either mind or body. I shall do my best - to convince you of this when I come. - - I understand that Barbara is with you. I am anxious to - see that college life, of which I never approved, has - improved her. I shall telegraph you later when to meet - me. - - Your affectionate aunt, - SARAH T. BOSSALL. - - P.S.—I neglected to say that I shall bring Edward’s - boys with me. - -Barbara laid down the sheet of paper, and sat looking at it with -troubled eyes. - -“What’s the matter?” asked Gassy. - -“She’s coming, _to-morrow_!” groaned Barbara; “and she’s going to -bring those awful grandchildren of hers. That means that one of us -will have to give up a room, and sleep in the attic. And to-morrow is -sweeping-day, and not a thing baked in the house, and father away, and -David half-sick, and only me to do the cooking for nine people! And -Mrs. Clemens can’t take us to board; father asked her before he left.” - -Gassy looked equally disconsolate. “I just hate those Bossall boys,” -she said; “they fight all the time, and grab the best pieces, and call -you red-head, and brag about living in the city. Archie’s the biggest -cry-baby I ever saw, and Nelson’s an awful liar, and that Freddy -hasn’t even sense enough to keep his stockings up; they’re always in -rolls about his ankles.” - -Barbara listened unhearingly. “Aunt Sarah always expects to be -‘entertained.’ And she’s so particular that I just dread to have her -come inside the house. During this hot weather I’ve been letting things -go a little, and I know she’ll comment on the way they look. It doesn’t -seem as though I _could_ do any more work than I have been doing! What -_shall_ I do, Gassy?” - -“We might go out and see the Vegetable Man’s daughter,” suggested -Gassy, flattered at being taken into consultation. - -“I think that’s the only thing left,” agreed Barbara; “ask Sam to -harness Maud S., and I’ll put on my hat while you’re gone. You may go -with me, if you want to.” - -Grassy looked wistful. “I s’pose if I stayed, I could pare the potatoes -for you,” she said hesitatingly. - -“You dear little chicken, you,” said Barbara. “Never mind the -potatoes; we can fix them together when we come back. I’d rather have -you with me, now.” - -Maud S. jogged slowly along the road that led to the Vegetable Man’s. -It was a winding road that twisted its way uphill like a yellow shaving -curl. Midsummer lay heavy on the farm-lands stretching away on either -side. The corn-fields gleamed yellow in the sunshine, the locusts -filled the air with their incessant drone, and goldenrod and wild -asters, covered with a veil of dust, flaunted in every corner of the -rail-fences. Barbara loved those rail-fences, built in the days when -time was the farmer’s chief asset, and now rapidly giving way to the -ugly, prosaic barbed-wire that is so symbolic of the present age of -commercialism. Something of this thought she expressed to Gassy. - -“It keeps the cows out of the corn, though,” was the small sister’s -response. - -Barbara mused over the words as she urged on Maud S. They, too, were -characteristic of this Western country, the new world that was so -busy at money-making that it had no time to think of beauty; the world -that lived alone to keep the cows out of the corn. She loved the long, -rich stretches of rolling prairie lands; she was proud of the miles -of waving yellow corn-fields; at college she had felt a tender sort -of thrill every time she claimed ownership with the middle West. But -planted in that same prairie land, like a stalk of corn, herself, -her beauty-loving soul revolted at its materialism, and pride in its -productiveness seemed a sort of vulgar greed. The beautiful middle West -was peopled by men with souls so dead, that to keep the cows out of the -corn was their ambition in life. Live-stock and grain bounded their -existence on four sides. Was it possible that people could grow so deaf -to the voice of loveliness that a midsummer day could fail to speak of -beauty to them? The strident clatter of a harvesting-machine seemed to -assent to the question. - -At the top of the hill, Maud S. stopped for a rest. And looking down -from the summit, Barbara was answered. Into the hazy, blue distance -stretched the corn-fields, so far away that the tasseled tops became -but an indistinct, waving sea. Eyes could not see where the sea ended -and the hills began; the two met, blended, melted into each other; -every sign of industry was a part of the wonderful landscape, and -utilitarianism became beauty itself. - -At the third curl of the shaving stood the Vegetable Man’s large red -barn. Back of it, and hidden from the road, stood his small white house. - -“I should think his wife would rather live in the stable,” said Gassy, -as the two girls went up the narrow walk with the grass growing -untidily through the broken planks. - -Leander Hopkins himself answered their knock at the door, and to him -Barbara explained her errand. - -“Wal, I dunno. She’s got steady company now, and her mind seems to be -set on him. She’d like to do it fer yer ma, though, I’m sure. Ye’d best -ast her.” - -He led the way through an uncarpeted hall into the kitchen, where -a tired-faced woman and a slatternly girl were at work. Barbara -cast a quick look at the latter, and her heart sank. The Vegetable -Man’s daughter was thirty-odd years old. She was thin and sallow and -stupid-looking. Her eyes were crossed, and a pair of large glasses, -apparently worn to hide the defect, succeeded only in making it more -prominent. She listened to Barbara’s recital with little show of -interest. - -“I dunno,” she said finally, “as there’s any need I should work out.” - -Again Barbara offered inducements. - -“Do you let your girls have company?” asked the Vegetable Man’s -daughter, with a simper. - -“Oh, yes, certainly,” answered Barbara. - -“Steady company, I mean,” said the girl. - -“If they prefer that kind,” said Barbara, smiling in spite of herself. - -“And all their evenings?” - -“Yes,” replied Barbara. - -“And Sunday afternoons to supper?” - -Barbara hesitated. “Yes,” she agreed, finally. - -“Well, I dunno,” said the girl. The tired-faced woman put in a word:— - -“You might go and help her out a bit, Libbie. Then you could buy those -white shoes you’ve been wanting.” - -“Well, maybe,” assented the girl. “When do you want me?” - -“Right now,” said Barbara. - -Ten minutes later, Mr. Hopkins accompanied the three girls to the -gate, lending his presence while Barbara untied the horse and cramped -the buggy. “Good-by, Libbie,” he said; “write us frequent, and don’t -work too hard. Give my regards to yer pa, Miss Barb’ry. I ain’t never -forgot the time he pulled me out of noomonia. There ain’t nothing too -big fer me to do fer him; tell him to come out some time, and pick -gooseberries.” - - * * * * * - -Great-Aunt Sarah reached Auburn the next day. No telegram had heralded -the hour of her coming, and consequently there was no one at the -station to meet her on arrival. At noon on Friday, while Barbara was -convincing the Vegetable Man’s daughter that steak should be broiled -instead of fried, a carriage rolled up to the door. Peanuts Barker, -still in Banker Willowby’s top hat, deposited a trunk on the front -walk, and a stout lady, with two methodical puffs of shiny black hair -in under her bonnet, and three small boys dismounted. - -At the sound of the wheels there was a general scattering of the clan. -Gassy, whose hatred for Aunt Sarah was general, and for the boys -specific, retired to the coal-cellar, David hurried to put his dear -books out of reach of marauding hands, and Jack meanly abandoned the -scene of action for an upstairs window. Barbara and the Kid were the -only members of the family to greet the guests. - -“How do you do, my dears?” said Aunt Sarah, majestically. “I was -surprised to find no one at the station when I arrived. I am not -accustomed to the care of my own baggage. Barbara, how sallow you are! -Don’t set my trunk down there, sir; my fee to you includes payment for -carrying it upstairs. Archie, let the dressing-case alone; I don’t -want to have to speak to you about it again! I suppose I am to have -the east room, as usual. I hope the morning light won’t wake me up at -day-break.” - -“The same old Great Sahara!” whispered Jack, appearing in the hall to -shoulder the luggage. “Age cannot wither, or custom stale her infinite -arrive-ity. If I should hear that voice in the heart of the Hartz -Mountains, I should say, ’Tis she! ’Tis she!” - -It was true that the three years that had passed since aunt and niece -had met had done little to change Aunt Sarah. At the table that noon, -Barbara, who had sacrificed her vegetarian theories to the comfort of -her visitors, hospitably inquired about the result:— - -“How is your steak, Aunt Sarah?” - -Mrs. Bossall plied her knife vigorously for a moment, then replied to -her niece’s question with a single word:— - -“Tough!” - -Barbara’s housekeeping, Jack’s idleness, Gassy’s disposition, David’s -dreaminess, and the Kid’s table-manners were all criticised with -impartiality. Even the Vegetable Man’s daughter was not spared. - -“If that girl were working for _me_, she wouldn’t sit up with her young -man until half-past ten o’clock,” she announced, on the second morning -after her arrival. - -She commented on the hardness of her bed, the crack in her window, -the quality of her food; Barbara’s theories, the doctor’s weakness -for charity cases, the lack of economy in the household, and the -extravagance of sanitarium life, all came in for her condemnation. -Barbara’s temper was held by a single airy thread, that threatened -daily to snap, and was kept in place only by exertion of much -will-power, and the comforting thought that Aunt Sarah’s visit could -not last forever. - -“Edward’s children” had inherited some of the most striking of their -grandmother’s characteristics. Moreover, added to her aggressiveness -and her domineering qualities, they possessed a fertility of resource -and an ingenuity for mischief that filled the Kid with envy, Barbara -with horror, and Jack with amusement. - -“They have imbibed some of their beloved grandmother’s theories,” said -Jack to Barbara, on the third day of the visit. “Talk about the ‘New -Thought’! Those kids have more new and original thoughts in ten seconds -than her whole sect has in ten years. What idea do you suppose they -conceived this morning? I came up the back walk in time to see a bundle -of white linen dangling in the air at the barn window. Those little -fiends were up in the loft working the hay pulley, and hanging from the -rope below was the youngest Wemott baby, the hook of the rope caught -through the band of its little apron. There was only a button between -that infant and eternity when I rescued it.” - -“They are the worst children I ever saw,” said Barbara. “Cecilia is -hard to manage, but she is as nothing compared with the Bossall boys. -You can’t appeal to their better natures, for there is nothing there -to appeal to. And as for punishing them, I don’t believe that they are -afraid of anything in this whole world.” - -“Except Gassy,” suggested Jack. - -“Yes, they seem to hold her in wholesome respect I can’t understand the -cause of their consideration for her, unless it is fear. Cecilia isn’t -mighty in the flesh, but her tongue is a power.” - - * * * * * - -The reason for this respect came to light the next day. It _was_ fear: -but fear of something besides Gassy’s tongue. Before daylight, Aunt -Sarah creaked her way up the attic stairs to the little, hot room in -which Barbara had slept since the arrival of the guests. Aunt Sarah was -addicted to black silk nightgowns, and the long, dark robe, a lighted -candle, and curling-pins, rolled so tightly that they lifted her -eyebrows, gave her a decidedly Lady Macbethian appearance. - -“Are you awake, Barbara?” she inquired, in an angry stage whisper. - -By that time Barbara could truthfully answer that she was. “What is -it?” she asked. - -“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Aunt Sarah, in a voice that betokened -anything but regret. “But I am in such a state of mind that even New -Thought fails to calm me. I was never so insulted in my life as by the -treatment that has been accorded me and mine while in my own niece’s -home.” - -“What do you mean, Aunt Sarah?” cried Barbara, now thoroughly aroused. - -“I mean just this: Cecilia has been according Edward’s children a -system of torture that has nearly robbed them of their sanity.” - -Even in her worry and bewilderment, a wicked thought, reflecting upon -the _present_ mental condition of Edward’s children flashed through -Barbara’s mind. But she checked the desire to give utterance to it. - -Aunt Sarah set down the candle, and faced Barbara severely. “I was -aroused from sleep a few moments ago by a noise in the next room,” -she said. “It sounded like a scream from Archie, and I sat up in bed -and listened. I heard a deep voice in the children’s room, saying, -‘I am the Holy Ghost,’ and other irreverent things which I cannot, -at this moment, recall. I knew that no burglar would stop for that -announcement, so I quietly opened the door and looked in. A figure in -a sheet was standing between the two beds, with arms outstretched over -the two boys.” - -“What!” exclaimed Barbara. - -“It was Cecilia, of course,” continued Aunt Sarah. “The dear little -lads were speechless with fright and horror, and that bad child was -claiming to be the Holy Ghost, and threatening all sorts of terrible -things to them if they tore David’s books again. I sent her back to bed -at once, and tried to reassure the boys, but they were in a sad state -of terror. They tell me that this has gone on from night to night. They -know, of course, that it _is_ Cecilia, but they are timid by nature, -and they have been in a pitiable frame of mind. I have noticed, ever -since our arrival, that they have been slightly unmanageable, and this -explains it all; New Thought cannot work against a supernatural fear. -Now, the question is, what are you going to do with Gassy?” - -Wicked Barbara suppressed a chuckle as she debated. “Well, I think I’ll -let her sleep till morning, Aunt Sarah,” she said aloud, soberly. -“Then I’ll see what I can do with her. It was very wrong of her, of -course, and I’m sorry that you and the boys have been put to so much -distress. It isn’t like Cecilia to be cruel.” - -“It is exactly what I should expect of her,” was the sharp reply. -“Cecilia I like the least of any of my niece’s children. She is -_naturally_ an inhuman sort of child, without the slightest trace of -affection for any one; and then she has always been allowed to have -her own way, until she is most unmanageable. Elizabeth and your father -have spoiled all of their children, but the result is most obvious in -Cecilia. She ought to be severely dealt with for a trick of this kind. -Reverence, if not simple humanity, should have deterred her. But none -of you children seem to have any reverence for anything. I think I -shall speak to Cecilia, myself, this morning.” - -“Oh, please don’t, Aunt Sarah,” exclaimed Barbara, impulsively. “You -know how sensitive Cecilia is, and how hard to handle! I think that if -I talk to her first, I can make her sorry for frightening the boys. -But she doesn’t li—” - -Aunt Sarah took up her candle with as much dignity as it is possible -to assume in curling-pins. “I understand that Cecilia doesn’t like -me,” she said stiffly, “and I assure you that the feeling is mutual. I -shall not speak to her, of course, if you prefer that I shall hold no -communication with her. But I shall write your mother a full account -of the whole affair as soon as I leave, which will be this morning, if -possible. I must say, Barbara, that I never expected that you would -condone wrongdoing, even in your own household. I shall telephone for -an expressman to take my trunk to the station at ten this morning. If -there was ever a home and a family where New Thought is needed, this is -the one!” - - * * * * * - -Aunt Sarah was as good as her word. During the entire breakfast hour, -she deigned not so much as a glance at her guilty great-niece. Upon her -departure, she ostentatiously kissed every other member of the family, -including Jack, who presented a cheek gingerly for the salute. Barbara -accompanied her to the station, but she was not to be mollified, and -the farewell was enlivened only by Edward’s boys, whose parting act was -to open a coop of chickens in the Auburn baggage-room, and give the -fowls their freedom. Barbara, as well as the station-master, heaved a -sigh of relief as her relatives boarded the train. - -Upon her return to the disorderly home, the big sister sought out the -little one. It was hard to find fault with the punishment that had been -meted out to Edward’s boys, but it must be done. Barbara took the small -girl on her lap. “Why did you do it, Chicken?” she asked. - -Gassy’s lips set in a decided line. “Because they deserved it,” she -said. “I ain’t one bit sorry, Barbara Grafton, not one single bit! -Those are the meanest, sneakiest boys that ever lived! They didn’t -dare torment Jack,—he was too big; they were afraid of me because -I could beat them running. So they took it all out on David and -the Kid, ’specially David. He ain’t strong enough to fight, and, -besides, he’s too gentle; and they knew it, and took advantage of -it all the time. First they used to hit him, and tease him, but he’d -never answer back,—just look at them kind of sad and slow, like Mary, -Queen of Scots, on the scaffold. And that spoiled all their fun; the -scratch-back kind are the only ones who are ever really teased, you -know.” - -Barbara put this bit of philosophy away for future reference. - -“But after awhile,” the child continued, “they found out that it -hurt him lots worse to meddle with his books, so they did that, -just to worry him. You _know_ how he loves that King Arthur book of -his! Yesterday they cut out every single picture in it with their -jackknives,—just hacked it all up! You can’t _hurt_ those boys,—they’re -too tough; but they’re awful ’fraid-cats, and you can scare ’em easy. -So I just put on a sheet, and went in and warned ’em that they dasn’t -touch David’s books again. He cries every time they do, and that makes -his hay fever worse.” - -“But, dear,” Barbara said quietly, “it wasn’t nice to do it. They were -in your own house, you know—” - -“We didn’t invite them,” interrupted Gassy. - -“And, besides, you must never scare people. It’s a very dangerous thing -to do. If they had been frightened into brain fever, you would never -forgive yourself. And one thing more, dear, I don’t like your calling -yourself the Holy Ghost.” - -“That was because my sheet was torn. The hole-y ghost, you know.” - -“I know, but it isn’t a reverent thing to say.” - -“But, Barbara, it doesn’t seem wicked to me to say that. I never could -even imagine the Holy Ghost. It just seems like words, and nothing -else. Every time I go to church they talk about the Holy Ghost, and the -Spirit, and the Life Infinite, and I can’t understand ’em. Even Jehovah -sounds awful big and far off. But when they say Jesus,—Baby Jesus, I -mean, or Little Boy Jesus, or Man Jesus,—that is easy and sweet. I -always like best to think of Him that way; not like a God, so far off, -and with so many things to manage, that it’s hard to believe that He -cares, but like a man, that made mistakes, and had to try over again.” - -“Yes,” said Barbara, understandingly. - -“I like to think,” went on Gassy, “that He did just the same things -that we do, and loved the same things, and wanted the same things. -It wouldn’t help me any to have Him be _glad_ to die and go up in a -chariot of fire, with people hollering, like Elijah did. But it does -help me to know that He _wanted_ to live, just like I do, and cried -about leaving everything, at first, and then was big and brave enough -to stand it. You know I wouldn’t be irreverent about _Him_, Barbara!” - -“No, and it would hurt you to have any one else irreverent about Him. -And that is why I don’t like to have you say what you did about the -Holy Ghost; you may hurt some one else.” - -“Well, I won’t do it again; that is, I won’t be irreverent,” promised -Gassy. “But about scaring them, Barbara Grafton, you mustn’t try to -make me be sorry about that, for I’d be telling a lie if I said I was. -They deserved it, and there wasn’t any other way of making them let -David alone. I’m glad I frightened some of the bad out of them.” - -And with this Barbara was forced to be satisfied. - - * * * * * - -The path was straightened for Barbara after the departure of her -guests. The Vegetable Man’s daughter was incompetent, but she was -good-natured and cheerful. Her shrill soprano voice rose at all hours -of the day in the request to be waltzed around again, Willie, around, -and around, and around. Her “Steady Company” made regular calls at the -kitchen every evening that he was off his run, and sat on the back -porch, with his feet on the railing and his pipe in his mouth, scarcely -uttering a word during the call. The Vegetable Man’s daughter proved -to be a fluent conversationalist, and judging from the scraps of sound -that floated around to the front porch, now and then, the evening -visits seemed to consist of monologue, sandwiched in between a kiss -of greeting and one of parting. Promptly at half-past ten the Steady -Company would withdraw, and the Vegetable Man’s daughter would renew -her request to be waltzed around again, Willie, all the way up the back -stairs. - -Perhaps it was the thought of her absent lover that prevented her -success as a cook, for it was certain that the day after one of -his calls the bread was apt to be unsalted, the napkins forgotten, -and the milk left to sour. But she was strong and willing, patient -with Barbara’s theories, and fond of the children. Something of the -old-time comfort returned to the house, and Barbara found time to -mingle with the young people of Auburn, and to enjoy the first youthful -companionship she had had since her return from college. On some of -these occasions she met Susan, who greeted her with a stiff smile, in -which wistfulness was scarcely hidden. There was nothing of regret in -Barbara’s cool nod. Susan was not as necessary to her as she was to -Susan, and in the popularity which came to her as readily with the -young people at home as at school, she easily forgot the quiet girl on -the outskirts of the jolly crowd. - -Gayeties began to thicken upon the approach of school-days, and Barbara -took active part in all of them. In the relief about her mother’s -condition, all serious thoughts took wing, and Barbara played the -butterfly with light heart. “The Infinite of the Ego” lay untouched -in a pigeon-hole of her desk, and she felt no inclination to write -anything heavier than the semi-weekly letters that merrily told the -life at home to her mother. The taste of play-time was very sweet after -the hard summer; and tennis and boating and driving filled the days of -early autumn to the brim. - -But the recess was of short duration. Barbara, coming in from an -afternoon tea, was met in the hall by the Vegetable Man’s daughter. -“I’ve something to tell you, Miss Barbara,” she said. - -“What is it, Libbie? Are we out of eggs? I remembered, after I had -gone, that I had forgotten to order more.” - -“No’m, it ain’t eggs; it’s me. We eloped this afternoon.” - -“What!” - -“Yes’m; me and my Steady Company. He got off his run this afternoon, -and we thought we might as well do it now and be done with it.” - -“So you’re married?” - -“Yes’m; we went to the justice’s office. They said it was the prettiest -wedding that had been there in a month. I wore my white shoes, and I -flush up so when I get excited.” - -“But how did you _elope_? Didn’t your family ever know that you were -going to be married?” - -“Oh, yes, they knew that for two months already, but we didn’t say -nothing to them about this. We wanted a piece in the paper about it, -and they always write it up when a couple elope. So we told the justice -we was running away, and we wanted it wrote up, and he said he’d see -to it. Besides, we didn’t have time to let ’em know, out home; we just -decided it ourselves this afternoon.” - -“Well, I hope you’ll be happy, Libbie,” Barbara recovered herself -enough to say. “I suppose this means that I shall lose you?” - -“Yes’m. I’m just back for my clothes. We’re going out to his mother’s -to-night. She’s got the harvesters at her house this week, and will -want me to come out and help her cook for them. After that, we’re going -to housekeeping in town.” - -“Aren’t you going to have any wedding-trip?” - -“We had it already. We took the trolley-car out to the cemetery after -the wedding, and set there two good hours, till it was time to come -in and get supper. I knew you wouldn’t get home in time. I’m sorry to -leave you this way, without warning, Miss Barbara, but it can’t be -helped. That’s what an elopement is.” - -Barbara’s pretty reception gown was laid aside for a shirt-waist and -skirt and a kitchen apron. And as she and Gassy “cleared up” the -dishes, the Vegetable Man’s daughter and her Steady Company passed away -in a cloud of romance and tobacco smoke. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -REAL TROUBLE - - - “THE lion is the beast to fight, - He leaps along the plain: - And if you run with all your might, - He runs with all his mane. - I’m glad I’m not a Hottentot, - But if I were, with outward cal-lum - I’d either faint upon the spot, - Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum,” - -sang Jack, in a clear baritone that made up in volume what it lacked in -quality. “I don’t know but I’ll _have_ to take to the tall timber, if -I don’t find my school-books. Barberry, have you seen anything of my -Greek since the twenty-sixth of last June?” - -“All the school-books are piled on the rubber-box in the vestibule,” -said Barbara. “I suppose your Greek is among them. Hurry, David; you’ll -have to put on a clean blouse before you start, and it’s after eight, -now.” - -David’s voice came from the pillows of the couch, where he had curled -himself into a disconsolate little ball,—“I’m not going to school -to-day, Barbara.” - -“Why not?” asked his sister. - -“I’ve got a headache, and my shoulders are tired.” - -“First symptoms of the nine o’clock disease,” commented Jack; “David -has it every year.” - -“I don’t think you feel so very bad,” said Barbara. “You’ve been so -much better lately. And you’ll have to make up all the lessons that you -miss, you know.” - -“Wish I didn’t have to go to school,” said David, in a petulant voice -that was most unusual with him; “I hate it.” - -“I can’t understand why you don’t like to study when you so love to -read,” remarked Barbara. “You ought to do much better work in school; -you’re not a bit stupid at home.” - -“I have ideas in my head,” said David, plaintively. “But when I get -them out, they aren’t ideas.” - -“You do too much dreaming and too little studying. I can’t pull you -away from books at home, but you don’t seem to be able to concentrate -your mind on your school work.” - -“Lessons are so unint’resting,” said David. “If I was in history or -mythology, now, I’d like those; but I only have reading and ’rithmetic -and language and g’ography. I’ve read everything in my reader a million -times, and every time we come to a beauteous sentence in our language -lesson we have to chop it up into old parts of speech. I can’t do -numbers at all, and I just hate g’ography!” - -“You like to read it at home.” - -“Yes, but that’s diff’runt. I always read about the people, and the -animals, and what’s in the country, and what the inhabitants do, and -how they live. But at school they make you tell all the mountain ranges -from the northeast to the southwest of Asia, and the names are awful -hard to learn. They’re just like eight times seven, and seven times -nine: there doesn’t seem to be anything to make you remember them, but -there’s a whole lot of things to make you forget them!” - -“Wait until you get into fractions,” said Gassy. “_Then_ you’ll see! -’Rithmetic is just planned to keep you guessing. When I was beginning -addition, I thought that was all there was to learn, but afterwards I -found that I’d only learned it so I could do subtraction. Everything -you find out about just makes more things for you to study. I wish I’d -stayed with my mind a blank,—like the Everett baby.” - -“Don’t worry about that,” said Jack, consolingly. “You haven’t strayed -so far from that condition that you can’t find your way back.” - -There was a crackle of stiff white apron, a flash of thin, black legs, -and Whiting’s Language Lessons went sailing through the air, its pages -falling as it struck Jack’s head. - -“Now see what you’ve done, Spitfire!” said Jack. - -Two months before, this exhibition of temper would have been made the -subject of a moral lecture from Barbara. Now she only looked sober -as she bent to help Gassy pick up the leaves. “Poor book,” she said; -“you’ve given it what Jack deserved. That’s hardly fair, is it? Come, -Boy, help repair the damage that you caused. No, David, you needn’t -help; I want you to go and get ready for school.” - -“Must I?” pleaded David. - -“I think you had better.” - -The little boy raised himself from the couch with a long-drawn sigh -that Barbara remembered days afterward. “All right, if you say so,” he -said: “I’ll change my waist now.” - -The house seemed very still after the children had trooped out to -swell the procession of young people headed toward the school. Barbara -reflected with relief that their departure would lighten her labors. -With the Kid at kindergarten, and the others away from home, she could -count on a tidy house and an unbroken opportunity for work. - -“It doesn’t seem very affectionate to be glad that they are gone,” she -said to herself. “Mother always seemed to be sorry when our vacation -was over. But it _is_ a relief to have a quiet house, and a chance to -work without a dozen interruptions an hour. Perhaps, after I get things -into running order, I shall have time to do a little writing every -morning while they are out of the way. Then—” - -The thought of the pile of rejected manuscripts lying upstairs in the -corner of her desk stopped her dreams. “I can’t even write any more,” -she thought bitterly. “This kitchen drudgery takes the life out of my -brain as well as my body. I _must_ find time to put the early morning -freshness into something besides dishes.” - -It was with this idea that she carried a writing-pad and her fountain -pen out to the side porch an hour later. An orderly house and an -undistracted mind seemed to make conditions favorable for writing, -and the scanty bits of philosophy that had sifted their way into the -gayeties of the past fortnight began to find utterance in best college -rhetoric. The lust of writing stole over the girl, and for two hours -she wrote steadily, utterly oblivious to everything. - -The sound of the opening of the gate roused her. It was Jack, coming up -the gravel walk with David in his arms,—an inert little David, whose -arm hung heavily over his brother’s, and whose hand swung limply at the -end. The fountain pen rolled unheeded off the porch. - -“What is it?” breathed Barbara. - -“Where’s father?” asked Jack. - -“Gone to see the Wemott baby. What’s the matter with David?” - -“I wish I knew,” said Jack, hoarsely. “He’s sick, though. Call father -by ’phone, and then help me to get him to bed. I’ll tell you about it -when you come upstairs.” - -Barbara’s heart stood still, but her feet flew. “Wemott’s residence,” -she said at the telephone. “Oh, I don’t _know_ the number, Central; -hurry, please, do hurry!” - -It seemed hours before the answer came. “Is Dr. Grafton still -there? . . . No, don’t call him. . . . Tell him to come home at once.” -Even in her excitement she found thought to add the words that should -save him ten minutes of worry,—“There has been a hurry call.” - -The limp little body lay stretched out on David’s bed. “I can’t find -his night-shirt,” said Jack, in the same hoarse voice. “Where do you -keep it, Barbara? He was taken sick at school. Bob Needham came running -over to the High School to tell me to come at once,—that David was -acting strangely. By the time I got there, he was lying just like this -across one of the recitation benches, and his teacher was trying to -make him swallow a little brandy. She told me that she had noticed -that he was not himself during a recitation; he began to talk loudly -and rather wildly, and to insist that his head _did_ ache; that”—Jack -seemed to force out the words—“that it _wasn’t_ the nine o’clock -disease. She tried to quiet him, and had just succeeded in getting him -to agree to go home, when he toppled over on the floor. Don’t wait to -unfasten that shoe-string, Barbara; cut it. Of course I brought him -right home. Willowby’s driver was just passing the school, and I hailed -him. When will father be here?” - -Between the disjointed sentences brother and sister put the sick child -to bed. Then Jack hurried to call Dr. Curtis by telephone, while -Barbara hovered over the still form until her father’s step was heard -on the stair. In the ten minutes’ interval the girl learned what four -years of college had failed to teach,—the hardest lesson that Time -brings to Youth,—how to wait. - -The two physicians arrived almost simultaneously. Then Barbara and Jack -were sent downstairs on errands that both felt were manufactured for -the occasion. When they came back, the bedroom door was shut and they -sat down in the hall outside, silent and aloof, and yet drawn together -by the same fear which struggled at each heart. After what seemed to -be hours, the door opened, and Dr. Curtis came out. Two white faces -questioned his. - -“Probably brain fever,” said the doctor. “We hope that it won’t be -very serious,—if we’ve caught it in time. Jack, you come along to the -drug-store with me. Miss Barbara, you might go in and see your father -now.” - -But the girl had not waited for his instructions, to push past him -into the bedroom. Dr. Grafton stood looking down at the little figure -outlined by the bed-clothes. He turned as Barbara came in, and the girl -received no encouragement from his face. When he spoke, however, it was -reassuringly. “Come in, Barbara; you can’t disturb him now. He’s had -some medicine, and he won’t rouse for some time. I want to talk with -you.” - -“Is he dangerously sick?” - -“We can’t tell just how sick he is, but we won’t think about danger -yet. His fever is pretty high. Has he complained about not feeling well -lately?” - -“Not until this morning, and then not much. David never does really -complain. He wanted to stay away from school, though.” - -“He ought never to have gone,” said her father. - -Barbara winced as though she had been struck. “That was my fault, -father; I told him that I thought he had better go.” - -Dr. Grafton did not seem to hear. “I’ve been trying to think what is -the best thing for us to do. I don’t dare to let your mother know yet. -I’ve sent for a nurse for the boy, but it’s going to make extra care -for you to have sickness in the house. I don’t know just what we’ll do -with the children; we must try to find some haven for Cecilia and the -Kid. You and Jack and I must hold the fort. Do you think we can manage -it? It may be a long siege.” - -Barbara’s eyes overflowed, but her voice was steady as she answered -her father with a slang phrase that seemed, somehow, to carry more -assurance with it than college English would have done,—“Sure thing!” - -“That’s all, then. The nurse will be here in twenty minutes. Try to -keep the children still when they get home from school. I know that I -can depend on you to keep things running, downstairs.” - -“Yes, father.” - -News traveled fast in Auburn, and before the children had returned -from school, two visitors had cleared some of the difficulties from -Barbara’s path. The first was Mrs. Willowby, who stopped at the door -to tell Barbara that Gassy and the Kid were to be provided with a -temporary home. “I am on my way to school now,” she said; “and I’ll -explain it to them, and will take them home with me this noon. If you -can get together what clothing they will need, I’ll send Michael over -for it this afternoon. You know what a happiness it will be to me to do -anything for your mother’s children, and I’ll try to mother them enough -to keep them contented. In the mean time, dear, we are all at your -service.” - -As Mrs. Willowby’s carriage left the door, Susan came hurrying up the -walk, a covered plate in her hand, and her face alive with sympathy. -She caught Barbara’s face and drew it down to her own, using the -childish name for her which had been dropped since college days. “Dear -old Bobby,” she said. “I’ve just heard about.” - -Barbara’s face relaxed and the tears began to gather. - -“I’ve come to stay,” said Susan, in a practical voice, which brought -more relief than pity would have done. “That is, to stay as long as you -need me. David may be all right in a day or two, and then I’ll only be -in the way. But in the mean time, I’m going to be Bridget.” - -“Oh, no,” protested Barbara. - -“Oh, yes,” mocked Susan. “You’ll have enough on your hands with all the -extra cares, let alone the cooking. You must save a part of yourself -for David, if he needs you. I don’t expect to do as well as you have -been doing, if Auburn gossip is to be trusted, but I shan’t poison your -family during your absence from the kitchen.” - -“I can’t let you do it,” said Barbara. “You ought not to take so much -time away from home. What would your family do without you?” - -“I have them trained so that they could get along without me for a -year,” answered Susan. “Brother Frank is as handy about the kitchen -as a woman, and he is not at work, now. Besides, I shan’t be away all -the time; I shall run back and forth, enough to have my fingers in -both pies. And speaking of pie, Barbara, here is a cherry one that I -had standing idle in my pantry; I felt sure that you hadn’t made any -dessert, yet.” - -Barbara took the plate unsteadily. The two girls seemed to have changed -natures, and something of Susan’s former stiffness had fallen upon -Barbara. Of the two, Susan was far more at ease. “But I can’t take -favors from you,—now,” said Barbara, awkwardly, “after what—” - -“Look here, Barbara Grafton,” answered Susan. “You’ve always been doing -favors for me,—all your life,—favors that I couldn’t return. It wasn’t -that I didn’t want to, but that I didn’t know how. You could always -_do_ things,—write, and draw, and sing, and entertain, and teach,—and -I’ve reaped the benefit. Don’t you suppose I’ve ever wished that I -could return the favors? Now there’s only one thing in all this world -that I can do for you, and that is cook. Do you mean to say that you’re -not going to let me do it?” - -Over the little brown pie the two girls clasped hands. “Where do you -keep your potatoes?” said Susan. “It’s so late that I’ll have to boil -them.” - - * * * * * - -Somehow the long hours of the day dragged by, and ten o’clock at night -found Barbara in her room. - -“Go to bed, now,” her father had said. “David’s stupor will last all -night, and I want you to be ready for to-morrow, when we shall need -you. Miss Graves can take care of him better than either of us, just -now. Our turn will come later.” - -It was hard to stay in the sick-room, where the deathly silence was -broken only by the little invalid’s heavy breathing and the swish of -Miss Graves’s stiffly starched petticoats; harder still to go away, -beyond these sounds. Barbara went reluctantly, dreading the long night -when hands must lie idle, and feet still. Jack, too, had decided to -“turn in early,” and the house seemed very silent without the usual -uproar of the children’s bedtime. She had just fallen into an uneasy -sleep, when she was roused by a step upon the stair. In a moment she -was wide awake. Was it her father with bad news, or Miss Graves in -search of something? By the familiar squeak Barbara knew that the top -stair had been reached. The step sounded in the hallway, and the girl -sat up in bed as her door was pushed open and a shadowy little figure -entered the room. - -“Cecilia Grafton!” exclaimed Barbara. - -Gassy tiptoed toward the bed. “How’s David?” she demanded, in a whisper. - -“How on earth did you get here?” - -“Walked. How’s David?” - -“Just about the same. Father says he is not suffering any pain. Did you -come alone at this time of night?” - -“Yes,” said Gassy, defiantly, “I did. Mrs. Willowby thought we ought -to go to bed early. So we did. She let me sleep in the rose room, only -I couldn’t. Mr. Willowby went to bed early, too, in the room just -across the hall, and he snored awful. I stayed awake about two hours. I -knew I couldn’t get to sleep unless I knew, myself, how David was, so -I dressed and came. Is he going to be awful sick, Barbara? Tell me the -truth; please don’t fool me!” A pair of cold little hands found their -way to Barbara’s shoulders. - -“We hope not, dear.” - -“I wish I could sleep here to-night. I hate to be sent away.” - -“But Mrs. Willowby will worry, if she finds that you have gone.” - -“Can’t you telephone her that I’m here? I’ll go back to-morrow, -Barbara, and I’ll be awful good if you’ll just let me sleep with you -to-night. I always thought heaven was like that rose room, but I can’t -sleep in it. Please let me stay here.” - -Barbara slipped on her bath-robe and tiptoed down to the telephone. -All was quiet in the sick-room as she passed. When she reached her own -chamber, Gassy was cuddled down between the sheets. She snuggled close -to her older sister with a little sob. “Even rose rooms can’t keep you -from worrying, can they?” she said. - - * * * * * - -In the three weeks that followed, Barbara discovered that nothing can -“keep you from worrying” when the dark shadow that men call Dread of -Death stands on the threshold. She marveled constantly that one frail -little body could withstand such desperate onslaughts of fever and -pain. David’s illness was quick of development: the drowsiness was -followed by days of high fever, and these were succeeded by nights of -unconsciousness which plainly showed the strain to which the little -frame was being subjected. He wasted greatly under the suffering, and -although her father and Dr. Curtis said, “About the same,” each day, -it seemed to Barbara’s eyes that the little brother grew less human -and more shadowy with every succeeding twenty-four hours. Mrs. Grafton -had not been told, both physicians deciding that the shock might cause -a relapse, and Barbara’s hardest duty was to keep the news from her -mother. In the cheery letters that continued to go to the sanitarium at -regular intervals, there was not a word of the tragedy at home, but the -writing was more of a strain than the watching in the sick-room. - -As Dr. Grafton had predicted to Barbara, her turn came later. David -took a most unaccountable dislike to Miss Graves, whose devotion -to starch was the only thing in her disfavor, and he objected to -her presence in the sick-room with the unreasoning vehemence of the -delirious. It was impossible to dismiss Miss Graves without some valid -excuse, and equally impossible to secure another nurse in Auburn. So -most of the care devolved upon Barbara, much to David’s satisfaction, -for he called constantly for his sister, and seemed most contented when -her hands smoothed the hot pillow or gave the sleeping-draught. - -To the management of the housework, Barbara gave little thought. Meals -were scarcely an incident in those days of waiting. Little by little, -as conditions grew graver in the invalid’s room, Barbara gave up more -and more of her household duties, yet she was vaguely aware that things -went on like clockwork downstairs. The meals that appeared upon the -table were delicious, and yet Susan’s part in them was not obvious. She -slipped in and out of the house at all hours, always bringing comfort -with her, and yet bestowing it so quietly that it seemed the gift of a -beneficent fairy. - -Every critical thing that Barbara had ever said of the provincialism -and officiousness of Auburn folk came back to her during these days of -trouble. When Mrs. Willowby came with advice or encouragement, when the -Enderby children brought home David’s school-books, when Miss Pettibone -came running “across lots” with beef tea or a plate of doughnuts, when -Mr. Ritter pressed his telephone into service, and agreed to carry all -messages, that the sick child might not be disturbed, when even Miss -Bates stopped at the door to inquire affectionately about the invalid, -and when all the town combined to keep the news from Mrs. Grafton, -Barbara’s conscience was stricken. Her heart warmed with gratitude, -and the meaning of the word neighborliness was, for the first time, -made clear to her. - -And yet, with all the kindliness and helpfulness that Auburn could -bestow, there was plenty left for the girl to do. It was Barbara who -answered the door, who took the messages, who encouraged the children, -who cheered Jack, who comforted her father, who assisted the nurse, who -was brave when conditions were most discouraging, and sunny when the -clouds hung lowest. And it was Barbara, too, who sat beside the bed, -ready to rub the aching side or smooth the feverish brow, and who met, -with a sinking heart, the discouragement that each day brought. - - * * * * * - -It was the middle of October before the crisis came. An early frost had -stripped the flower beds, withered the vines, and left the yard bare. -Barbara, looking out of the window through a blur of rain, on the day -when David’s fever was highest, was vaguely relieved by the desolation -outside. Sunshine out of doors would have been a mockery. She stood -with her back toward the bed and her face toward the street, but her -eyes saw nothing but the wasted little form that tossed restlessly to -and fro, and her ears heard only the heavy breathing, broken, now and -then, by a moan. Miss Graves had gone to get a few hours’ sleep to -fortify herself for the vigil of the night, and Dr. Grafton, in the -next room, was consulting with Dr. Curtis. The house was so still that -their low voices were plainly audible. The words were not distinct, -but the discouraged note in her father’s speech fell heavily upon the -girl’s heart. “_They_ are afraid,” she said to herself. - -She turned from the desolate window to the bed, and with pale lips and -dry eyes gazed down at the little brother. David tossed restlessly upon -his pillow, and called aloud for Barbara. - -“I’m here, dear,” said the girl, taking the small, hot hand in hers; -but the boy flung it away with a strange strength. - -“I want _Barbara_,” he cried. - -At the sound of the hoarse voice, Dr. Grafton hurried back into the -room, followed by Dr. Curtis. And then began a fight with death that -Barbara never forgot. Pushed aside as merely an onlooker, the girl -watched, with a sort of curiosity, the man that she saw for the first -time in her life. The father she had always known had vanished; in -his place was the skilled physician, who seemed to have thought for -the patient rather than the son. The two doctors worked like one -machine,—fighting the fever back step by step, beating it, choking it, -quenching it; pitting against it strength and science and skill. And -when it finally succumbed, and David was snatched from the burning, a -poor little wasted wraith of life, Barbara understood the worship that -Dr. Grafton’s patients gave him. - -“We’ve won out,” he said. “The fever’s left the boy. Now if we can only -keep him alive to-night—” - - * * * * * - -The shadows of evening were heavy in the room as Miss Graves’s -starchiness sounded along the hall. She went at once to the bedside, -and laid her hand on the boy’s forehead. Then she looked quickly up -at the doctor. In that glance Barbara read the whole story,—it was a -question, now, of vitality. - -Susan herself brought up the tray of supper to Barbara, who tried to -eat it in order to seem appreciative. But the rolls and the creamed -chicken were sent back untasted, and she could not even find words to -reply to the unworded sympathy in Susan’s good-night. The old habit -of gesture comes back in times of deepest emotion, and both girls -understood, without need of words, Susan’s reassuring pat of the -shoulder, and Barbara’s tight grasp of the hand. - -“Go to bed, children,” said Dr. Grafton, as he came out of the -sick-room to the hall where Barbara and Jack stood together. “We need -absolute quiet and plenty of air for the boy. There’ll be no change for -several hours, and you want all the sleep you can get.” - -“I can’t sleep,” protested Jack. - -“But you can _rest_, and you must do it,” answered his father. “We may -need you both—later.” - -“You’ll call us,” said Jack, “if—” - -“Yes,” said his father, “I will.” - -Jack turned, without a word, to his own room, and Barbara heard him -throw himself on the bed with a half-stifled moan. She herself opened -her bedroom door and went in. Sleep was out of the question. She fell -upon her knees beside her couch and prayed,—an inarticulate, broken cry -for the help that is beyond human power. Then she lighted her little -night lamp, and sat down before her desk with a volume of Emerson in -her hand. She turned to the essay on Compensation, and read, her eyes -seeking and finding the detached sentences that seemed written for her:— - - We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our - angels go. We do not see that they only go out that - archangels may come in. . . . We cannot again find - aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit - and weep in vain. . . . The death of a dear . . . - brother . . . breaks up a wonted occupation, or a - household. . . . But . . . the man or woman who would - have remained a sunny garden flower with no room for - its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the - falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is - made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit - to wide neighborhoods of men. - -Barbara dropped the book hastily. “There’s no compensation in that!” -she said bitterly. Then she picked up a bit of paper, and put the cry -of her heart into a few crude words. - -Her father, coming into the room two hours later, found her there at -her desk, her tear-stained face bowed on her arms. The pencil was still -in her hand. Dr. Grafton touched her shoulder gently, but the girl did -not waken. He hesitated for a moment, hoping for the right words to -tell her, and as he did so his eyes fell upon the crumpled paper before -him. It read:— - - THE BANIAN TREE - - The flower grows beside the wall,— - A little, sheltered thing, - And over it the sunbeams fall - And merry linnets sing. - No usefulness it has in life - So weak it is, and small, - And yet how happily it grows - Beside the shielding wall. - - The banian tree grows tall and straight, - It sends its branches wide; - Beneath its shade the pilgrims wait, - The travelers abide. - They praise it, lying on the sward; - But what is that to me? - Forgive me, Lord; but it is hard - To be a banian tree! - -The doctor’s eyes filled. “Thank God,” he said, “she won’t have to be, -this time!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE END OF THE INTERREGNUM - - -THE Grafton children stood in a row, watching their father and Barbara -establish David in the big Morris chair, on the occasion of his first -trip downstairs. Joy and awe were struggling for supremacy in their -hearts, but were carefully concealed after the fashion of young America. - -“Well, David,” said Jack, jocularly, “you look just exactly like a -collapsed balloon. Remember how nice and round you used to be? Now, -hurry up and get there again. It was becoming.” - -“He reminds me of the pictures of the famine-sufferers in India,” -remarked Gassy. “How their ribs did stick out, and how funny their -hands were,—like claws.” - -“David looks to me like the sweetest small boy ever made,” said -Barbara, quietly, as she bent down to kiss the pale lips of the little -fellow, and tucked the afghan around him more closely. - -“Puzzle,—find David!” called Jack. And indeed, the child seemed lost -in the huge chair, his wasted little face wearing a faint smile of -contentment at being the centre of so much attention. - -“If you children continue to talk so loudly, you will have to leave,” -said Dr. Grafton, as he prepared to depart. “Barbara, you will see that -David has all the quiet he needs, of course.” - -The Kid raised himself from the floor, where he had been wriggling in -the imaginary likeness of a boa constrictor. - -“Everybody talks about David,” he said jealously. “Aren’t I the baby -any more?” - -“You’ll always be a baby,” consoled Jack; “a great big baby, even when -you are as old as I am. So don’t worry.” - -Gassy laughed, and the Kid looked puzzled. “Babies always cry,” he said -reflectively. - -“Yes?” said Jack. - -“Then you must be a baby too,” added the Kid, with triumph, “’cause I -saw you cry when we first saw David. I didn’t cry at all.” - -“No, you young sinner,” returned his elder brother. “You’ve made a -picnic of the whole thing. I’ll bet a cookie you’ve had a good half of -every bit of food that has been sent to David. Hasn’t he, Barbara?” - -“People have been very kind,” said his sister, disregarding his -question. “But really, if Miss Bates brings another installment of -preserved plums, I don’t know what I shall do. David can’t eat them, -and I’ve explained it to her; but she insists that they are the -best things possible for him, and brings them every other day, with -unvarying regularity.” - -“Let them come,” said Jack, “and Charles and I will advance to the -onslaught, and deliver David from the attacks of the enemy. Plums, -chicken-broth—even quail—let them continue to flow in abundantly, and -fail to mention to Auburn that David is not an ostrich.” - -“I guess Mrs. Willowby understands,” observed Gassy, impersonally. -“She asked me if David enjoyed the wine jelly she sent yesterday, and -I said I didn’t know, but that Jack said it was the best he had ever -tasted.” - -“Thunder!” exclaimed Jack, turning very red. “Gassy, you do bear away -the palm for unpalatable honesty. Why is it, I wonder, that every -really honest person is disagreeable, too?” - -“Letters!” said Dr. Grafton, reappearing opportunely. “Two for you, -Barbara, one from your mother, marked ‘Personal,’ and the other -postmarked New York. David, how would you like to see your mother -again?” - -The little boy looked up and smiled at his father. “I wish she’d come,” -he said. “She’s never seen me since I was a sufferer from India. I was -a balloon when she left.” - -“Well, you will soon have a chance to show her how fast you are getting -well,” replied the doctor, smiling. “I wrote her the whole story of -last month, the other day, since she is so much stronger, and here is -her answer. She will be at home at six o’clock this very afternoon.” - -The children all exclaimed at once, even Gassy, who threw her -arms around Jack’s neck and hugged him, quite forgetting her usual -self-repression, and his recent thrust at her honesty. - -“Hurray!” cried Jack, joyfully, escaping from Gassy and twirling a -small chair in air. “It seems too good to be true.” - -Barbara said nothing. She glanced at her father, who returned her look -with one of understanding. They were both thinking of the home-coming -as it might have been. - -“I forget about mother, some,” remarked the Kid. “Was she as nice as -Barbara?” - -David answered him. “They’re both the same kind,” he said quaintly, -“but mother’s mother. That’s all the difference.” - -“We must have a house clean and pretty enough for mother to come back -to,” said Barbara, smiling at the invalid. “Gassy, you will have to -help a little; there will be so much to do. Jack, take care of David -for a little while, please.” - -“I don’t mind helping,” said Gassy, as they left the room together. -“I’d sweep the whole house, if it would bring mother back. I wonder -how she’ll think I look, with my hair bobbity. Mercy, Barbara; you -dropped one of your letters. Here it is.” - -“I’ll open it now,” said Barbara, sitting down on the stairs. “Why, -it’s from the Infant.” - -The Infant’s letter was short and to the point. - -“You haven’t written me or the other girls for three months,” it -began; “and I shall punish you. I shan’t tell you that Atalanta is -engaged, and that the Sphinx is too, though how it happened, I don’t -see. The man must have been able to answer some of her mathematical -riddles, or he never could have reached her heart. And I won’t tell -you about my summer abroad,—not a word,—nor how Knowledge is going to -be a post-grad. at Columbia, and visit me at the end of every week. -You don’t deserve a line, Barbara Grafton! But I am writing to tell -you that I just heard—no matter how—that you refused the Eastman -Scholarship, and to ask you mildly whether you are insane. With all -your talent and ability, Babbie, how could you refuse it? Every one -always knew that you should have had it in the first place. Now you -surely are not going to stay in that little town of yours that you have -so often ridiculed. There is only one reason by which I can account for -it, and I don’t think you can be in love.” - -Barbara laughed aloud, and folded up the letter. “To think that I -wanted it so much,” she said aloud, unconsciously. “What if I had not -been here this autumn!” - -“Hadn’t been here?” repeated Gassy. “Why, Barbara! Did you ever think -of leaving us?” - -Barbara threw an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave -you for anything,” she said. - -They had reached the kitchen, and had fallen to work together. “It’s -too bad we haven’t a servant,” said Gassy, “though you do cook very -well now, Barbara. Only I’d like mother to come home and find a girl in -the kitchen.” - -“It’s too bad, indeed,” returned Barbara, cheerfully. “But remember how -we were helped when David was ill; and think how Mrs. Willowby gave -up her own maid to us for so long, and of all that Susan did. I’m so -happy over David that I don’t mind cooking nowadays. And you are a nice -little assistant, Gassy.” - -The nice little assistant glowed with pleasure. “Know why?” she -inquired. - -“No; why?” - -“Hair!” replied Gassy, laconically. “Hair and clothes. You were pretty -good to me that dreadful day when the hair went, and you make me look -so much nicer. I like you very much, Barbara,”—Gassy never used the -word “love,”—“and I don’t think college has hurt you one bit, no matter -what Miss Bates says. It’s just as Jack says,—your A. B. stands for A -Brick, instead of A Bachelor.” - -“Did he say that?” said Barbara, laughing at the unexpected conclusion, -as she leaned over and patted the stiff little shoulder near her. - -“You’re a dear little sister,” she said. “Who’s that?” - -A loud knock had sounded at the door. - -“Come in!” called Barbara. - -The door opened slowly; a puffing man, carrying a small trunk, entered, -and dropped it heavily on the floor. It was the Vegetable Man. - -“Why—what—” began Barbara. - -The Vegetable Man smiled at her serenely. “She’s comin’,” he said, -and disappeared, leaving Barbara and Gassy staring at each other in -astonishment. - -Suddenly the door reopened, and there appeared the Vegetable Man’s -daughter, as untidy and breezy as ever. - -“I’ve come back,” she said. “I heerd you was wantin’ help, so I come -over. Guess I’ll _stay, this_ time. Shall I hang my hat here?” - -“But—your husband—” began Barbara. - -“_Him? Why_, don’t you know?” returned the Vegetable Man’s daughter, -serenely. “I didn’t like ’im after we was married. He drank. So I come -home.” - -“Drank!” cried Gassy, in horror. - -The Vegetable Man’s daughter nodded. “Like a fish!” she added. “’Twan’t -a day before he began. Stood it two months, I did, an’ then I lit out. -Come home, an’ it wasn’t excitin’ enough for me, so when I heerd you -was still without, I come over ag’in. Miss Barbara, if you don’t tell -me what to git for dinner, there won’t be no time for gittin’.” - -Barbara started. “You took me so by surprise, Libbie,” she said, “that -I can scarcely think. I’m delighted to have you back, especially since -mother is coming home to-day.” - -“Want to know!” ejaculated the girl. “Landed right in the middle of -excitement, didn’t I?” - -“Yes; and we’re going to celebrate with a grand supper,” put in Gassy, -thinking it best to break the news at once. - -“You bet!” cried the Vegetable Man’s daughter, cheerfully. “Nothing’s -too good for your ma. Now, Miss Barbara, what meat? Or do you still go -without?” - -Barbara hesitated. In that moment’s hesitation there was involved -more than the ordering of a dinner. Theory had its last battle with -Practicality, and came out with drooping colors. But Dr. Grafton would -have been relieved in regard to the stability of Barbara’s sense of -humor, if he could have heard the laugh with which she admitted her own -defeat. “I will order some steak,” she said. - -“It’s too good to be true,” she said joyfully to Gassy, as they left -the kitchen. “I declare, I scarcely know where I am, I am so glad. -Isn’t it beautiful when things unexpectedly work out right?” - -“Glad the Vegetable Man’s daughter’s husband drank?” inquired Gassy. - -Barbara laughed again, and did not answer. - -The morning flew by as if Father Time had suddenly borrowed the -wings of Mercury. Barbara dusted and straightened the rooms, putting -everything in immaculate order. Many little duties, which had been -disregarded during David’s illness, suddenly came to her recollection, -and the girl essayed to finish them all. She resolved that her reign -should end in a blaze of glory, and that her mother should see that -the Interregnum had not been entirely discreditable to the House of -Grafton. Gassy, a willing assistant, performed unwonted miracles in -the way of dusting, at the same time keeping up an unending flow of -conversation. - -They were putting the finishing touches to the living-room, where David -still sat, waited upon cheerfully by the Kid, when the doorbell rang -vigorously. The door opened without ceremony and a strident voice in -the hall called, “Barbara Grafton!” - -“It’s Miss Bates!” exclaimed Barbara, in a low tone. “Run and take her -into the library, Gassy.” - -But it was too late. - -“Oh, here you are!” said Miss Bates, appearing in the doorway. “I came -right in because I thought you were probably not dressed to answer the -bell. Barbara, I brought in some more plums because I know David ought -to eat ’em to build him up.” - -“I am so sorry,” said Barbara. “But father says they are still too much -for him.” - -“Your father don’t know, Barbara; no, he don’t. Men never know about -such things. Now there ain’t much sugar in ’em—” - -“Never mind!” interposed the Kid, courageously. “Never mind, Miss -Bates, I’ll eat ’em. Jack says”— - -“Hey?” ejaculated the spinster. - -“Charles,” warned Barbara, “you—” - -“Jack says to let you give ’em and we’ll eat ’em,” continued the Kid, -determined to finish his sentence. - -Miss Bates glared at him. “Barbara,” she said, “I don’t know why it -is, but I get insulted by these children every time I put my nose into -this house. Now I don’t want to complain, but I’ve a mind to tell you -what Charles did to me last night. I was laying the table for supper, -and I’d left the window open for air, and all of a sudden that child’s -head was in the window, and he says, ‘Mercy on us, Birdine, is that all -you’ve got for supper?’” - -The Kid disappeared under the sofa like a whipped dog. Barbara closed -her lips tight, to keep from smiling. - -“Well, of course,” put in Gassy, “the Kid is always used to plenty of -food, you see.” - -Miss Bates glared again. “Is that why he wants to eat up my plums?” she -inquired. “No, Barbara, I’ll take ’em back, since you won’t let David -eat ’em. And I want to tell you now, that I don’t intend to come to -this house again under any circumstances, since these children are so -rude, till your ma comes home, no matter _how_ long it is!” - -“But she’s coming home to-day!” burst from both David and Gassy, in -dismayed unison. - -Miss Bates gave them a queer look, flashed a disdainful glance at -Barbara, and left the house. - -“It’s no use to scold you, Charles,” said Barbara, as she extricated -the child from his hiding-place. “But I am glad that mother is coming -to take the burden of your dreadful speeches. Now see if you _can_ stay -good until supper-time.” - -She left the room to arrange the details of the feast, and as she -passed through the hall, she came upon the letter marked “Personal” -which she had left forgotten on the table. - -“I declare!” said she, sitting down on the stairs again. “I believe -I am going crazy with joy to-day. I have forgotten one thing after -another.” - -She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did so, stray words caught -her eye,—“undoubted talent,”—“unquestionable success,” etc. She turned -to the first page and read:— - - DEAR LITTLE GIRL,—For you are a little girl to me, and - always will be, in spite of your twenty-one years,—I - have something to tell you which cannot wait until I - reach home. It is also somewhat of a confession, and - I am sure that you will absolve me when you have read - this. - - I wonder if you have realized how very entertaining - your letters have been, and what a godsend they were - to me in this tedious place. They were so clever that - I could not help reading them to a few of the friends - whom I have made here. One of them is Hugh S. Black, - whom I have often mentioned, you remember, and who - has been slowly recovering from an attack of nervous - prostration. He grew very much interested in your - letters,—so much so, that I had not the heart to refuse - to read them. I told him of your desire to write, and - of the piles of rejected psychological studies which - have been mounting up on your desk. In fact, you told - him, yourself, although you were not aware of it. We - have often talked you over, and he thinks that you have - undoubted talent, and can gain unquestionable success - in writing for publication, if you will be willing to - attempt the kind of things that lie within your own - experience. Mr. Black said the other day, “Your girl - has wit, humor, an excellent power of description, the - faculty of seeing things as they are, and of describing - them from an original point of view. Why won’t she - write stories or sketches dealing with every-day life, - instead of such nonsense as ‘The Effect of Imagination - on the Habits of the Child’?” - - This morning, Mr. Black asked me if I would not - request you to read over your letters and change them - into proper form for a story, which he will be glad - to publish serially in his magazine, if the finished - product meets with his approval. This is a splendid - opportunity for you, little daughter, and I advise you - to grasp it. - - Are you disappointed to find that your talents do - not lie along the psychological paths of lofty, - intellectual labor? Does this story of your experiences - of one summer seem too trivial for your effort? I think - not, my dear, if the change in the tone of your letters - can be depended upon for inference. We shall talk this - over when I am once more at home, and can relieve my - brave, strong girl of the burdens which she has borne - for four long months. - -There was more in the letter, but Barbara did not read it. She danced -about the hall with such abandon that her father opened his office -door, and regarded her with amazement. - -“Has my housekeeper taken leave of her senses?” he asked affectionately. - -“On the contrary,” returned Barbara, saucily, “she has just regained -them. Father dear, I realize that we must not all aspire to high -tragedy or classic sublimity. High comedy seems to be more in my line.” - -Her father looked at her with his eyes softening more and more. “Come -in here,” he said, and closed the door behind them. - -“Barbara, my dear,” he began, looking at her over his spectacles, “I -have a kind of confession to make to you.” - -“Another one!” thought Barbara. - -“When you came home last June, things were a little hard for you, and -seemed still harder, didn’t they?” - -“Well, rather!” said Barbara, slangily. - -“Your point of view was young and uncompromising, and—yes—rather -toploftical.” - -“I know it.” - -Her father smiled. “You surveyed the world from a collegiate summit, -and found it woefully lacking. Well, so it is lacking, but all the -advice from all the lofty heights in the world will never make it -better. We must come down into the plain, and struggle with the common -herd, and help to raise it by our individual effort; glad to be a -living, toiling part of great humanity, like every one else; never the -isolated, censorious onlooker who does not share the common lot. This -is one of the hardest lessons for youth to learn, and I have watched -you learn it, during all these long, hard months.” - -“If I only have really learned it!” put in Barbara. - -“I have stood aside,” her father continued. “Sometimes I did not help -you, even when I might, and you thought me undiscerning or abstracted. -Barbara, my dear, you have done it all yourself, and I am very, very -proud of my firstborn.” - -Barbara crimsoned with pleasure. “I’ve made awfully silly mistakes,” -she said, “and you have been _so_ dear and patient.” - -She kissed her father gratefully. As she went upstairs, her mind -was filled with wonder that she should ever have misunderstood him -so completely, and have complacently ascribed to herself intellect -and culture and knowledge superior to his. She found herself feeling -actually grateful for the events of her life since June. - -“What if I had never known his darlingness!” she said. - -It was not many hours before Auburn knew of the expected arrival of -Mrs. Grafton. Miss Bates had constituted herself an information -bureau, and had flitted hither and thither with an alacrity not at all -hindered by her rage against the younger Graftons. - -About four o’clock in the afternoon, as Barbara was giving capable -directions in the kitchen, a knock sounded on the door. - -“I just ran in this way,” said Susan, “because I wanted to congratulate -you, and to see if you don’t want this chocolate cake for supper. -Barbara, what are you laughing at?” - -“This is the third cake I have received to-day for mother,” giggled -Barbara, “and four chickens are waiting to be consumed. But put it -down, Sue dear, and Jack will make a hole in it very soon.” - -“Well, anyway,” Susan declared, “it’s because every one loves your -mother so much! And it is also because every one recognizes your pluck.” - -“Everybody in this whole town is lovely!” answered Barbara. - -Susan smiled. But there was no triumph in her face, only joy that her -friend had come into her own. - -“It is half-past five!” announced Barbara from the window-seat of the -living-room. “Father has gone to the train almost an hour ahead of -time. Everything in the house is in perfect order; supper is nearly -ready; David isn’t tired; and we are all ‘neatly and tastefully -attired’ for the occasion. Won’t mother be impressed!” - -“Not by Gassy,” answered Jack. “Gassy has a hole in her stocking above -her shoe, and I don’t know how many below. Her waist has two buttons -missing in the back; still, her hair is somewhat improved, and that’s -one comfort.” - -“I look as well as you,” retorted Gassy, carrying the work-basket over -to her sister. “You have some soot on your face, and I won’t tell you -where, and nobody else shall, either.” - -“Am I clean?” asked David, plaintively. - -“Clean!” exclaimed Jack. “Why, David, you’re as clean as a piece of -blank paper, and just as thin. Turn your face to mother when she comes -in, for she won’t be able to see you if she catches a glimpse of you -sideways.” - -“How tiresome you are, Jack!” observed Gassy, condescendingly. “I—” - -She was interrupted by a series of bumps and scrapings in the cellar -below, followed by a strange wailing moan. - -“Hark from the tombs a doleful sound!” cried Jack, rising. “I’ll bet a -quarter it’s the Kid.” - -It was the Kid. Clad in a clean white sailor suit, and finding time -pressing heavily on his hands, he had bethought himself of a gift with -which to meet his mother,—none other than one of the new kittens which -had been born two weeks before and were now passing their infancy on -an old rug at the bottom of a barrel in the cellar. Having made an -expedition to the barrel, the Kid had endeavored to gain one of the -feline offspring by reaching over into the dark depths, with a logical -result of falling headlong into the barrel. The muffled shrieks which -the family heard, and the sounds of scraping, were such as would -naturally proceed from the attempts of a small boy to rescue himself -from an uncomfortable posture. When Jack arrived upon the scene, the -Kid had just succeeded in freeing himself by tipping over the barrel -and crawling out. Being blinded and confused by the length of time in -which he had been standing on his head, he had made a wild dive for the -door, and found himself prone on the piles of coal on the cellar floor. - -“Well, here’s a mess!” cried Jack, with disgust, picking him up and -dragging him along to the upper regions. “Look at this, Barbara; and -there are only ten minutes to change his clothes.” - -Barbara hurried the little boy upstairs without a word of reproach. She -washed him quickly, and was struggling with a stiff new linen suit, -when the sound of a carriage came to her ears. - -“I love you, Barbara, for changing me,” the Kid said humbly. - -She kissed him affectionately. “Now your tie,—there!” - -The carriage had stopped. She heard Jack’s excited voice downstairs. -The Kid made a desperate wriggle from her and fled down the steps, -shouting for his mother. Barbara felt a sudden pang as he left her,—a -pang of loneliness and desertion. She stood still a moment, and then, -almost before she had time to move, a quick step sounded on the stairs, -a new, fresh mother came swiftly into the room, and two strong, firm -arms held her close. - -“Barbara, my brave, splendid daughter!” said the most motherly voice in -the world. - -Barbara’s reign was over. - - - The Riverside Press - CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS - U . S . 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