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Title: Across the Years
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<h1>Across the Years</h1>
<p style='text-align: center'>by</p>
<h2>Eleanor H. Porter</h2>
<h1>Contents</h1>
<ul>
<li><a href="#chap_01">When Father and Mother Rebelled</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_02">Jupiter Ann</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_03">The Axminster Path</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_04">Phineas and the Motor Car</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_05">The Most Wonderful Woman</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_06">The Price of a Pair of Shoes</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_07">The Long Road</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_08">A Couple of Capitalists</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_09">In the Footsteps of Katy</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_10">The Bridge Across the Years</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_11">For Jimmy</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_12">A Summons Home</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_13">The Black Silk Gowns</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_14">A Belated Honeymoon</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_15">When Aunt Abby Waked Up</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_16">Wristers for Three</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_17">The Giving THanks of Cyrus and Huldah</a></li>
<li><a href="#chap_18">A New England Idol</a></li>
</ul>
<p>The stories in this volume are here reprinted by the
courteous
permission of the publishers of the periodicals in
which they first
appeared,--The Ladies’ Home Journal, Ainslee’s
Magazine, The Scrap
Book, The New England Magazine, The Pictorial Review,
The Housewife,
The Pacific Monthly, The Arena, Lippincott’s
Magazine, Harper’s Bazar,
The Century Magazine, Woman, Holland’s Magazine,
The Designer.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_01"></a>When Father and Mother Rebelled</h1>
<p>“’Tain’t more ’n a month ter
Christmas, Lyddy Ann; did ye know it?” said
the old man, settling back in his chair with a curiously
resigned sigh.</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, Samuel,” returned his wife,
sending a swift glance over the top of her glasses.</p>
<p>If Samuel Bertram noticed the glance he made no sign.
“Hm!” he murmured. “I’ve got
ten neckerchiefs now. How many crocheted bed-slippers
you got?--eh?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Samuel!” remonstrated Lydia Ann feebly.</p>
<p>“I don’t care,” asserted Samuel
with sudden vehemence, sitting erect in his chair.
“Seems as if we might get somethin’ for
Christmas ’sides slippers an’ neckerchiefs.
Jest ’cause we ain’t so young as we once
was ain’t no sign that we’ve lost all
our faculty for enj’yment!”</p>
<p>“But, Samuel, they’re good an’ kind,
an’ want ter give us somethin’,”
faltered Lydia Ann; “and--”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know they’re good an’ kind,”
cut in Samuel wrathfully. “We’ve got three
children, an’ each one brings us a Christmas
present ev’ry year. They’ve got so they
do it reg’lar now, jest the same as they--they
go ter bed ev’ry night,” he finished, groping
a little for his simile. “An’ they put
jest about as much thought into it, too,” he
added grimly.</p>
<p>“My grief an’ conscience, Samuel,--how
can you talk so!” gasped the little woman opposite.</p>
<p>“Well, they do,” persisted Samuel. “They
buy a pair o’ slippers an’ a neckerchief,
an’ tuck ’em into their bag for us--an’
that’s done; an’ next year they do the
same--an’ it’s done again. Oh, I know I’m
ongrateful, an’ all that,” acknowledged
Samuel testily, “but I can’t help it.
I’ve been jest ready to bile over ever since
last Christmas, an’ now I have biled over. Look
a-here, Lyddy Ann, we ain’t so awful old. You’re
seventy-three an’ I’m seventy-six, an’
we’re pert as sparrers, both of us. Don’t
we live here by ourselves, an’ do most all the
work inside an’ outside the house?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” nodded Lydia Ann timidly.</p>
<p>“Well, ain’t there somethin’ you
can think of sides slippers you’d like for Christmas--’specially
as you never wear crocheted bed-slippers?”</p>
<p>Lydia Ann stirred uneasily. “Why, of course,
Samuel,” she began hesitatingly, “bed-slippers
are very nice, an’--”</p>
<p>“So’s codfish!” interrupted Samuel
in open scorn. “Come,” he coaxed, “jest
supposin’ we was youngsters again, a-tellin’
Santa Claus what we wanted. What would you ask for?”</p>
<p>Lydia Ann laughed. Her cheeks grew pink, and the lost
spirit of her youth sent a sudden sparkle to her eyes.
“You’d laugh, dearie. I ain’t a-goin’
ter tell.”</p>
<p>“I won’t--’pon honor!”</p>
<p>“But it’s so silly,” faltered Lydia
Ann, her cheeks a deeper pink. “Me-- an old
woman!”</p>
<p>“Of course,” agreed Samuel promptly. “It’s
bound ter be silly, ye know, if we want anythin’
but slippers an’ neckerchiefs,” he added
with a chuckle. “Come--out with it, Lyddy Ann.”</p>
<p>“It’s--it’s a tree.”</p>
<p>“Dampers and doughnuts!” ejaculated Samuel,
his jaw dropping. “A tree!”</p>
<p>“There, I knew you’d laugh,” quavered
Lydia Ann, catching up her knitting.</p>
<p>“Laugh? Not a bit of it!” averred Samuel
stoutly. “I--I want a tree myself!”</p>
<p>“Ye see, it’s just this,” apologized
Lydia Ann feverishly. “They give us things,
of course, but they never make anythin’ of doin’
it, not even ter tyin’ ’em up with a piece
of red ribbon. They just slip into our bedroom an’
leave ’em all done up in brown paper an’
we find ’em after they’re gone. They mean
it all kind, but I’m so tired of gray worsted
and sensible things. Of course I can’t have a
tree, an’ I don’t suppose I really want
it; but I’d like somethin’ all pretty an’
sparkly an’--an’ silly, you know. An’
there’s another thing I want--ice cream. An’
I want to make myself sick eatin’ it, too,--if
I want to; an’ I want little pink-an’-white
sugar pep’mints hung in bags. Samuel, can’t
you see how pretty a bag o’ pink pep’mints
’d be on that green tree? An’--dearie
me!” broke off the little old woman breathlessly,
falling back in her chair. “How I’m runnin’
on! I reckon I <i>am</i> in my dotage.”</p>
<p>For a moment Samuel did not reply. His brow was puckered
into a prodigious frown, and his right hand had sought
the back of his head--as was always the case when
in deep thought. Suddenly his face cleared.</p>
<p>“Ye ain’t in yer dotage--by gum, ye ain’t!”
he cried excitedly. “An’ I ain’t,
neither. An’ what’s more, you’re
a-goin’ ter have that tree--ice cream, pink
pep’mints, an’ all!”</p>
<p>“Oh, my grief an’ conscience--Samuel!”
quavered Lydia Ann.</p>
<p>“Well, ye be. We can do it easy, too. We’ll
have it the night ’fore Christmas. The children
don’t get here until Christmas day, ever, ye
know, so ‘t won’t interfere a mite with
their visit, an’ ’twill be all over ‘fore
they get here. An’ we’ll make a party of
it, too,” went on Samuel gleefully. “There’s
the Hopkinses an’ old Mis’ Newcomb, an’
Uncle Tim, an’ Grandpa Gowin’--they’ll
all come an’ be glad to.”</p>
<p>“Samuel, could we?” cried Lydia Ann, incredulous
but joyous. “Could we, really?”</p>
<p>“I’ll get the tree myself,” murmured
Samuel, aloud, “an’ we can buy some o’
that shiny stuff up ter the store ter trim it.”</p>
<p>“An’ I’ll get some of that pink-an’-white
tarl’tan for bags,” chimed in Lydia Ann
happily: “the pink for the white pep’mints,
an’ the white for the pink. Samuel, won’t
it be fun?” And to hear her one would have thought
her seventeen instead of seventy-three.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>A week before Christmas Samuel Bertram’s only
daughter, Ella, wrote this letter to each of her brothers:</p>
<p>It has occurred to me that it might be an excellent
idea if we would plan to spend a little more time
this year with Father and Mother when we go for our
usual Christmas visit; and what kind of a scheme do
you think it would be for us to take the children,
and make a real family reunion of it?</p>
<p>I figure that we could all get there by four o’clock
the day before Christmas, if we planned for it; and
by staying perhaps two days after Christmas we could
make quite a visit. What do you say? You see Father
and Mother are getting old, and we can’t have
them with us many more years, anyway; and I’m
sure this would please them--only we must be very
careful not to make it too exciting for them.</p>
<p>The letters were dispatched with haste, and almost
by return mail came the answers; an emphatic approval,
and a promise of hearty cooperation signed “Frank”
and “Ned.” What is every one’s business
is apt to be no one’s business, however, and
no one notified Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bertram of the
change of plan, each thinking that one of the others
would attend to it.</p>
<p>“As for presents,” mused Ella, as she
hurried downtown two days before Christmas, “I
never can think what to give them; but, after all,
there’s nothing better than bed-slippers for
Mother, and a warm neckerchief for Father’s
throat. Those are always good.”</p>
<p>The day before Christmas dawned clear and cold. It
had been expected that Ella, her husband, and her
twin boys would arrive at the little village station
a full hour before the train from the north bringing
Ned, Mrs. Ned, and little Mabel, together with Frank
and his wife and son; but Ella’s train was late--so
late that it came in a scant five minutes ahead of
the other one, and thus brought about a joyous greeting
between the reunited families on the station platform
itself.</p>
<p>“Why, it’s not so bad we were late, after
all,” cried Ella. “This is fine--now we
can all go together!”</p>
<p>“Jove! but we’re a cheery sight!”
exclaimed Ned, as he counted off on his fingers the
blooming faces of those about him. “There are
ten of us!”</p>
<p>“Only fancy what they’ll say at the house
when they catch their first glimpse of us!”
chuckled Frank. “The dear old souls! How Father’s
eyes will shine and Mother’s cap-strings bob!
By the way, of course they know we’re coming
to-day?”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s silence; then Ella flushed.
“Why! didn’t--didn’t you tell them?”
she stammered.</p>
<p>“I? Why, of course not!” cried Frank.
“I supposed you were going to. But maybe Ned-”
He paused and turned questioning eyes on his brother.</p>
<p>Ned shook his head. “Not I,” he said.</p>
<p>“Why, then--then they don’t know,”
cried Ella, aghast. “They don’t know a
thing!”</p>
<p>“Never mind, come on,” laughed Ned. “What
difference does it make?”</p>
<p>“’What difference does it make’!”
retorted Ella indignantly. “Ned Bertram, do
you suppose I’d take the risk of ten of us pouncing
down on those two poor dears like this by surprise?
Certainly not!”</p>
<p>“But, Ella, they’re expecting six of us
tomorrow,” remonstrated Frank.</p>
<p>“Very true. But that’s not ten of us today.”</p>
<p>“I know; but so far as the work is concerned,
you girls always do the most of that,” cut in
Ned.</p>
<p>“Work! It isn’t the work,” almost
groaned Ella. “Don’t you see, boys? It’s
the excitement--’twouldn’t do for them
at all. We must fix it some way. Come, let’s
go into the waiting-room and talk it up.”</p>
<p>It was not until after considerable discussion that
their plans were finally made and their line of march
decided upon. To advance in the open and take the
house by storm was clearly out of the question, though
Ned remarked that in all probability the dear old creatures
would be dozing before the fire, and would not discover
their approach. Still, it would be wiser to be on
the safe side; and it was unanimously voted that Frank
should go ahead alone and reconnoiter, preparing the
way for the rest, who could wait, meanwhile, at the
little hotel not far from the house.</p>
<p>The short winter day had drawn almost to a close when
Frank turned in at the familiar gate of the Bertram
homestead. His hand had not reached the white knob
of the bell, however, when the eager expectancy of
his face gave way to incredulous amazement; from within,
clear and distinct, had come the sound of a violin.</p>
<p>“Why, what--” he cried under his breath,
and softly pushed open the door.</p>
<p>The hall was almost dark, but the room beyond was
a blaze of light, with the curtains drawn, and apparently
every lamp the house contained trimmed and burning.
He himself stood in the shadow, and his entrance had
been unnoticed, though almost the entire expanse of
the room before him was visible through the half-open
doorway.</p>
<p>In the farther corner of the room a large evergreen
tree, sparkling with candles and tinsel stars, was
hung with bags of pink and white tarletan and festoons
of puffy popcorn. Near it sat an old man playing the
violin; and his whole wiry self seemed to quiver with
joy to the tune of his merry “Money Musk.”
In the center of the room two gray-haired men were
dancing an old-time jig, bobbing, bowing, and twisting
about in a gleeful attempt to outdo each other. Watching
them were three old women and another old man, eating
ice cream and contentedly munching peppermints. And
here, there, and everywhere was the mistress of the
house, Lydia Ann herself, cheeks flushed and cap-strings
flying, but plainly in her element and joyously content.</p>
<p>For a time the man by the hall door watched in silent
amazement; then with a low ejaculation he softly let
himself out of the house, and hurried back to the
hotel.</p>
<p>“Well?” greeted half a dozen voices; and
one added: “What did they say?”</p>
<p>Frank shook his head and dropped into the nearest
chair. “I--I didn’t tell them,”
he stammered faintly.</p>
<p>“Didn’t tell them!” exclaimed Ella.
“Why, Frank, what was the trouble? Were they
sick? Surely, they were not upset by just seeing you!”
Frank’s eyes twinkled “Well, hardly!”
he retorted. “They--they’re having a party.”</p>
<p>“A party!” shrieked half a dozen voices.</p>
<p>“Yes; and a tree, and a dance, and ice cream,
and pink peppermints,” Frank enumerated in one
breath.</p>
<p>There was a chorus of expostulation; then Ella’s
voice rose dominant. “Frank Bertram, what on
earth do you mean?” she demanded. “Who
is having all this?”</p>
<p>“Father and Mother,” returned Frank, his
lips twitching a little. “And they’ve
got old Uncle Tim and half a dozen others for guests.”</p>
<p>“But, Frank, how can they be having all this?”
faltered Ella. “Why, Father’s not so very
far from eighty years old, and--Mabel, Mabel, my dear!”
she broke off in sudden reproof to her young niece,
who had come under her glance at that moment. “Those
are presents for Grandpa and Grandma. I wouldn’t
play with them.”</p>
<p>Mabel hesitated, plainly rebellious. In each hand
was a gray worsted bed-slipper; atop of her yellow
curls was a brown neckerchief, cap fashion.</p>
<p>There were exclamations from two men, and Ned came
forward hurriedly. “Oh, I say, Ella,”
he remonstrated, “you didn’t get those
for presents, did you?”</p>
<p>“But I did. Why not?” questioned Ella.</p>
<p>“Why, I got slippers, you see. I never can think
of anything else. Besides, they’re always good,
anyhow. But I should think <i>you</i>, a <i>woman</i>,
could think of something--”</p>
<p>“Never mind,” interrupted Ella airily.
“Mother’s a dear, and she won’t
care if she does get two pairs.”</p>
<p>“But she won’t want three pairs,”
groaned Frank; “and I got slippers too!”</p>
<p>There was a moment of dismayed silence, then everybody
laughed.</p>
<p>Ella was the first to speak. “It’s too
bad, of course, but never mind. Mother’ll see
the joke of it just as we do. You know she never seems
to care what we give her. Old people don’t have
many wants, I fancy.”</p>
<p>Frank stirred suddenly and walked the length of the
room. Then he wheeled about.</p>
<p>“Do you know,” he said, a little unsteadily,
“I believe that’s a mistake?”</p>
<p>“A mistake? What’s a mistake?”</p>
<p>“The notion that old people don’t have
any--wants. See here. They’re having a party
down there--a party, and they must have got it up
themselves. Such being the case, of course they had
what they wanted for entertainment--and they aren’t
drinking tea or knitting socks. They’re dancing
jigs and eating pink peppermints and ice cream! Their
eyes are like stars, and Mother’s cheeks are
like a girl’s; and if you think I’m going
to offer those spry young things a brown neckerchief
and a pair of bed-slippers you’re much mistaken--because
I’m not!”</p>
<p>“But what--can--we do?” stammered Ella.</p>
<p>“We can buy something else here--to-night--in
the village,” declared Frank; “and to-morrow
morning we can go and give it to them.”</p>
<p>“But--buy what?”</p>
<p>“I haven’t the least idea,” retorted
Frank, with an airy wave of his hands. “Maybe
’twill be a diamond tiara and a polo pony. Anyway,
I know what ’twon’t be--’twon’t
be slippers or a neckerchief!”</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>It was later than usual that Christmas morning when
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bertram arose. If the old stomachs
had rebelled a little at the pink peppermints and
ice cream, and if the old feet had charged toll for
their unaccustomed activity of the night before, neither
Samuel nor Lydia Ann would acknowledge it.</p>
<p>“Well, we had it--that tree!” chuckled
Samuel, as he somewhat stiffly thrust himself into
his clothes.</p>
<p>“We did, Samuel,--we did,” quavered Lydia
Ann joyfully, “an’ wa’n’t it
nice? Mis’ Hopkins said she never had such a
good time in all her life before.”</p>
<p>“An’ Uncle Tim an’ Grandpa Gowin’--they
was as spry as crickets, an’ they made old Pete
tune up that ‘Money Musk’ three times ’fore
they’d quit”</p>
<p>“Yes; an’--my grief an’ conscience,
Samuel! ’tis late, ain’t it?” broke
off Lydia Ann, anxiously peering at the clock. “Come,
come, dear, you’ll have ter hurry ‘bout
gettin’ that tree out of the front room ’fore
the children get here. I wouldn’t have ’em
know for the world how silly we’ve been--not
for the world!”</p>
<p>Samuel bridled, but his movements showed a perceptible
increase of speed.</p>
<p>“Well, I do’ know,” he chuckled.</p>
<p>“‘T wa’n’t anythin’
so awful, after all. But, say,” he called triumphantly
a moment later, as he stooped and picked up a small
object from the floor, “they will find out if
you don’t hide these ’ere pep’mints!”</p>
<p>The tree and the peppermints had scarcely disappeared
from the “front room” when Frank arrived.</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re all coming in a minute,”
he laughed gayly in response to the surprised questions
that greeted him. “And we’ve brought the
children, too. You’ll have a houseful, all right!”</p>
<p>A houseful it certainly proved to be, and a lively
one, too. In the kitchen “the girls” as
usual reigned supreme, and bundled off the little
mother to “visit with the boys and the children”
during the process of dinner-getting, and after dinner
they all gathered around the fireplace for games and
stories.</p>
<p>“And now,” said Frank when darkness came
and the lamps were lighted, “I’ve got
a new game, but it’s a very mysterious game,
and you, Father and Mother, must not know a thing
about it until it’s all ready.” And forthwith
he conducted the little old man and the little old
woman out into the kitchen with great ceremony.</p>
<p>“Say, Samuel, seems as if this was ’most
as good as the party,” whispered Lydia Ann excitedly,
as they waited in the dark. “I know it; an’
they hain’t asked us once if we was gettin’
too tired! Did ye notice, Lyddy Ann?”</p>
<p>“Yes, an’ they didn’t make us take
naps, either. Ain’t it nice? Why, Samuel, I--I
shan’t mind even the bed-slippers now,”
she laughed.</p>
<p>“Ready!” called Frank, and the dining-room
door was thrown wide open.</p>
<p>The old eyes blinked a little at the sudden light,
then widened in amazement. Before the fireplace was
a low sewing-table with a chair at each end. The table
itself was covered with a white cloth which lay in
fascinating little ridges and hillocks indicating concealed
treasures beneath. About the table were grouped the
four eager-eyed grandchildren and their no less eager-eyed
parents. With still another ceremonious bow Frank
escorted the little old man and the little old woman
to the waiting chairs, and with a merry “One,
two, three!” whisked off the cloth.</p>
<p>For one amazed instant there was absolute silence;
then Lydia Ann drew a long breath.</p>
<p>“Samuel, Samuel, they’re presents--an’
for us!” she quavered joyously. “It’s
the bed-slippers and the neckerchiefs, an’ they
did ’em all up in white paper an’ red
ribbons just for us.”</p>
<p>At the corner of the mantelpiece a woman choked suddenly
and felt for her handkerchief. Behind her two men
turned sharply and walked toward the window; but the
little old man and the little old woman did not notice
it. They had forgotten everything but the enchanting
array of mysteries before them.</p>
<p>Trembling old hands hovered over the many-sized, many-shaped
packages, and gently patted the perky red bows; but
not until the grandchildren impatiently demanded,
“Why don’t you look at ’em?”
did they venture to untie a single ribbon. Then the
old eyes shone, indeed, at sight of the wonderful
things disclosed; a fine lace tie and a bottle of perfume;
a reading-glass and a basket of figs; some dates,
raisins, nuts, and candies, and a little electric
pocket lantern which would, at the pressure of a thumb,
bring to light all the secrets of the darkest of rooms.
There were books, too, such as Ella and Frank themselves
liked to read; and there was a handsome little clock
for the mantel--but there was not anywhere a pair
of bed-slippers or a neckerchief.</p>
<p>At last they were all opened, and there remained not
one little red bow to untie. On the table, in all
their pristine glory, lay the presents, and half-buried
in bits of paper and red ribbon sat the amazed, but
blissfully happy, little old man and little old woman.
Lydia Ann’s lips parted, but the trembling words
of thanks froze on her tongue--her eyes had fallen
on a small pink peppermint on the floor.</p>
<p>“No, no, we can’t take ’em,”
she cried agitatedly. “We hadn’t ought
to. We was wicked and ongrateful, and last night we--we--”
She paused helplessly, her eyes on her husband’s
face. “Samuel, you--you tell,” she faltered.</p>
<p>Samuel cleared his throat.</p>
<p>“Well, ye see, we--yes, last night, we--we--”
He could say no more.</p>
<p>“We--we had a party to--to make up for things,”
blurted out Lydia Ann. “And so ye see we--we
hadn’t ought ter take these--all these!”</p>
<p>Frank winced. His face grew a little white as he threw
a quick glance into his sister’s eyes; but his
voice, when he spoke, was clear and strong from sheer
force of will.</p>
<p>“A party? Good! I’m glad of it. Did you
enjoy it?” he asked.</p>
<p>Samuel’s jaw dropped. Lydia Ann stared speechlessly.
This cordial approval of their folly was more incomprehensible
than had been the failure to relegate them to naps
and knitting earlier in the afternoon.</p>
<p>“And you’ve got another party to-night,
too; haven’t you?” went on Frank smoothly.
“As for those things there”--he waved his
hand toward the table--“of course you’ll
take them. Why, we picked them out on purpose for
you,--every single one of them,--and only think how
we’d feel if you didn’t take them! Don’t
you--like them?”</p>
<p>“’Like them’!” cried Lydia
Ann, and at the stifled sob in her voice three men
and three women caught their breath sharply and tried
to swallow the lumps in their throats. “We--we
just love them!”</p>
<p>No one spoke. The grandchildren stared silently, a
little awed. Ella, Frank, and Ned stirred restlessly
and looked anywhere but at each other.</p>
<p>Lydia Ann flushed, then paled. “Of course, if--if
you picked ’em out ’specially for us--”
she began hesitatingly, her eyes anxiously scanning
the perturbed faces of her children.</p>
<p>“We did--especially,” came the prompt
reply.</p>
<p>Lydia Ann’s gaze drifted to the table and lingered
upon the clock, the tie, and the bottle of perfume.
“’Specially for us,” she murmured
softly. Then her face suddenly cleared. “Why,
then we’ll have to take them, won’t we?”
she cried, her voice tremulous with ecstasy. “We’ll
just have to--whether we ought to or not!”</p>
<p>“You certainly will!” declared Frank.
And this time he did not even try to hide the shake
in his voice.</p>
<p>“Oh!” breathed Lydia Ann blissfully. “Samuel,
I--I think I’ll take a fig, please!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_02"></a>Jupiter Ann</h1>
<p>It was only after serious consideration that Miss
Prue had bought the little horse, Jupiter, and then
she changed the name at once. For a respectable spinster
to drive any sort of horse was bad enough in Miss
Prue’s opinion; but to drive a heathen one! To
replace “Jupiter” she considered “Ann”
a sensible, dignified, and proper name, and “Ann”
she named him, regardless of age, sex, or “previous
condition of servitude.” The villagers accepted
the change--though with modifications; the horse was
known thereafter as “Miss Prue’s Jupiter
Ann.”</p>
<p>Miss Prue had said that she wanted a safe, steady
horse; one that would not run, balk, or kick. She
would not have bought any horse, indeed, had it not
been that the way to the post office, the store, the
church, and everywhere else, had grown so unaccountably
long--Miss Prue was approaching her sixtieth birthday.
The horse had been hers now a month, and thus far
it had been everything that a dignified, somewhat timid
spinster could wish it to be. Fortunately--or unfortunately,
as one may choose to look at it--Miss Prue did not
know that in the dim recesses of Jupiter’s memory
there lurked the smell of the turf, the feel of the
jockey’s coaxing touch, and the sound of a triumphant
multitude shouting his name; in Miss Prue’s
estimation the next deadly sin to treason and murder
was horse racing.</p>
<p>There was no one in the town, perhaps, who did not
know of Miss Prue’s abhorrence of horse racing.
On all occasions she freed her mind concerning it;
and there was a report that the only lover of her youth
had lost his suit through his passion for driving fast
horses. Even the county fair Miss Prue had refused
all her life to attend--there was the horse racing.
It was because of all this that she had been so loath
to buy a horse, if only the way to everywhere had
not grown so long!</p>
<p>For four weeks--indeed, for five--the new horse, Ann,
was a treasure; then, one day, Jupiter remembered.</p>
<p>Miss Prue was driving home from the post office. The
wide, smooth road led straight ahead under an arch
of flaming gold and scarlet. The October air was crisp
and bracing, and unconsciously Miss Prue lifted her
chin and drew a long breath. Almost at once, however,
she frowned. From behind her had come the sound of
a horse’s hoofs, and reluctantly Miss Prue pulled
the right-hand rein.</p>
<p>Jupiter Ann quickened his gait perceptibly, and lifted
his head. His ears came erect.</p>
<p>“Whoa, Ann, whoa!” stammered Miss Prue
nervously.</p>
<p>The hoof beats were almost abreast now, and hurriedly
Miss Prue turned her head. At once she gave the reins
an angry jerk; in the other light carriage sat Rupert
Joyce, the young man who for weeks had been unsuccessfully
trying to find favor in her eyes because he had already
found it in the eyes of her ward and niece, Mary Belle.</p>
<p>“Good-morning, Miss Prue,” called a boyish
voice.</p>
<p>“Good-morning,” snapped the woman, and
jerked the reins again.</p>
<p>Miss Prue awoke then to the sudden realization that
if the other’s speed had accelerated, so, too,
had her own.</p>
<p>“Ann, Ann, whoa!” she commanded. Then
she turned angry eyes on the young man. “Go
by--go by! Why don’t you go by?” she called
sharply.</p>
<p>In obedience, young Joyce touched the whip to his
gray mare: but he did not go by. With a curious little
shake, as if casting off years of dull propriety,
Jupiter Ann thrust forward his nose and got down to
business.</p>
<p>Miss Prue grew white, then red. Her hands shook on
the reins.</p>
<p>“Ann, Ann, whoa! You mustn’t--you can’t!
Ann, please whoa!” she supplicated wildly. She
might as well have besought the wind not to blow.</p>
<p>On and on, neck and neck, the horses raced. Miss Prue’s
bonnet slipped and hung rakishly above one ear. Her
hair loosened and fell in straggling wisps of gray
to her shoulders. Her eyeglasses dropped from her
nose and swayed dizzily on their slender chain. Her
gloves split across the back and showed the white,
tense knuckles. Her breath came in gasps, and only
a moaning “whoa--whoa” fell in jerky rhythm
from her white lips. Ashamed, frightened, and dismayed,
Miss Prue clung to the reins and kept her straining
eyes on the road ahead.</p>
<p>On and on down the long straight road flew Jupiter
Ann and the little gray mare. At door and window of
the scudding houses appeared men and women with startled
faces and upraised hands. Miss Prue knew that they
were there, and shuddered. The shame of it--she, in
a horse-race, and with Rupert Joyce! Hurriedly she
threw a look at the young man’s face to catch
its expression; and then she saw something else: the
little gray mare was a full half-head in the lead
of Jupiter Ann!</p>
<p>It was then that a strange something awoke in Miss
Prue--a fierce new something that she had never felt
before. Her lips set hard, and her eyes flashed a
sudden fire. Her moaning “whoa--whoa” fell
silent, and her hands loosened instinctively on the
reins. She was leaning forward now, eagerly, anxiously,
her eyes on the head of the other horse. Suddenly
her tense muscles relaxed, and a look that was perilously
near to triumphant joy crossed her face--Jupiter Ann
was ahead once more!</p>
<p>By the time the wide sweep of the driveway leading
to Miss Prue’s home was reached, there was no
question of the result, and well in the lead of the
little gray mare Jupiter Ann trotted proudly up the
driveway and came to a panting stop.</p>
<p>Flushed, disheveled, and palpitating, Miss Prue picked
her way to the ground. Behind her Rupert Joyce was
just driving into the yard. He, too, was flushed and
palpitating--though not for the same reason.</p>
<p>“I--I just thought I’d drive out and see
Mary Belle,” he blurted out airily, assuming
a bold front to meet the wrath which he felt was sure
to come. At once, however, his jaw dropped in amazement.</p>
<p>“Mary Belle? I left her down in the orchard
gathering apples,” Miss Prue was saying cheerfully.
“You might look for her there.” And she
smiled-- the gracious smile of the victor for the
vanquished.</p>
<p>Incredulously the youth stared; then, emboldened,
he plunged on recklessly:</p>
<p>“I say, you know, Miss Prue, that little horse
of yours can run!”</p>
<p>Miss Prue stiffened. With a jerk she straightened
her bonnet and thrust her glasses on her nose.</p>
<p>“Ann has been bad--very bad,” she said
severely. “We’ll not talk of it, if you
please. I am ashamed of her!” And he turned haughtily
away.</p>
<p>And yet--</p>
<p>In the barn two minutes later, Miss Prue patted Jupiter
Ann on the neck --a thing she had never done before.</p>
<p>“We beat ’em, anyhow, Ann,” she
whispered. “And, after all, he’s a pleasant-spoken
chap, and if Mary Belle wants him--why--let’s
let her have him!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_03"></a>The Axminster Path</h1>
<p>“There, dear, here we are, all dressed for the
day!” said the girl gayly, as she led the frail
little woman along the strip of Axminster carpet that
led to the big chair.</p>
<p>“And Kathie?” asked the woman, turning
her head with the groping uncertainty of the blind.</p>
<p>“Here, mother,” answered a cheery voice.
“I’m right here by the window.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” And the woman smiled happily. “Painting,
I suppose, as usual.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m working, as usual,” returned
the same cheery voice, its owner changing the position
of the garment in her lap and reaching for a spool
of silk.</p>
<p>“There!” breathed the blind woman, as
she sank into the great chair. “Now I am all
ready for my breakfast. Tell cook, please, Margaret,
that I will have tea this morning, and just a roll
besides my orange.” And she smoothed the folds
of her black silk gown and picked daintily at the
lace in her sleeves.</p>
<p>“Very well, dearie,” returned her daughter.
“You shall have it right away,” she added
over her shoulder as she left the room.</p>
<p>In the tiny kitchen beyond the sitting-room Margaret
Whitmore lighted the gas-stove and set the water on
to boil. Then she arranged a small tray with a bit
of worn damask and the only cup and saucer of delicate
china that the shelves contained. Some minutes later
she went back to her mother, tray in hand.</p>
<p>“’Most starved to death?” she demanded
merrily, as she set the tray upon the table Katherine
had made ready before the blind woman. “You have
your roll, your tea, your orange, as you ordered, dear,
and just a bit of currant jelly besides.”</p>
<p>“Currant jelly? Well, I don’t know,--perhaps
it will taste good. ’T was so like Nora to send
it up; she’s always trying to tempt my appetite,
you know. Dear me, girls, I wonder if you realize what
a treasure we have in that cook!”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear, I know,” murmured Margaret
hastily. “And now the tea, Mother--it’s
getting colder every minute. Will you have the orange
first?”</p>
<p>The slender hands of the blind woman hovered for a
moment over the table, then dropped slowly and found
by touch the position of spoons, plates, and the cup
of tea.</p>
<p>“Yes, I have everything. I don’t need
you any longer, Meg. I don’t like to take so
much of your time, dear--you should let Betty do for
me.”</p>
<p>“But I want to do it,” laughed Margaret.
“Don’t you want me?”</p>
<p>“Want you! That isn’t the question, dear,”
objected Mrs. Whitmore gently. “Of course, a
maid’s service can’t be compared for an
instant with a daughter’s love and care; but
I don’t want to be selfish--and you and Kathie
never let Betty do a thing for me. There, there! I
won’t scold any more. What are you going to
do to-day, Meg?”</p>
<p>Margaret hesitated. She was sitting by the window
now, in a low chair near her sister’s. In her
hands was a garment similar to that upon which Katherine
was still at work.</p>
<p>“Why, I thought,” she began slowly, “I’d
stay here with you and Katherine a while.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Whitmore set down her empty cup and turned a
troubled face toward the sound of her daughter’s
voice.</p>
<p>“Meg, dear,” she remonstrated, “is
it that fancy-work?”</p>
<p>“Well, isn’t fancy-work all right?”
The girl’s voice shook a little.</p>
<p>Mrs. Whitmore stirred uneasily.</p>
<p>“No, it--it isn’t--in this case,”
she protested. “Meg, Kathie, I don’t like
it. You are young; you should go out more--both of
you. I understand, of course; it’s your unselfishness.
You stay with me lest I get lonely; and you play at
painting and fancy-work for an excuse. Now, dearies,
there must be a change. You must go out. You must take
your place in society. I will not have you waste your
young lives.”</p>
<p>“Mother!” Margaret was on her feet, and
Katherine had dropped her work. “Mother!”
they cried again.</p>
<p>“I--I shan’t even listen,” faltered
Margaret. “I shall go and leave you right away,”
she finished tremulously, picking up the tray and hurrying
from the room.</p>
<p>It was hours later, after the little woman had trailed
once more along the Axminster path to the bed in the
room beyond and had dropped asleep, that Margaret
Whitmore faced her sister with despairing eyes.</p>
<p>“Katherine, what shall we do? This thing is
killing me!”</p>
<p>The elder girl’s lips tightened. For an instant
she paused in her work-- but for only an instant.</p>
<p>“I know,” she said feverishly; “but
we mustn’t give up--we mustn’t!”</p>
<p>“But how can we help it? It grows worse and
worse. She wants us to go out--to sing, dance, and
make merry as we used to.”</p>
<p>“Then we’ll go out and--tell her we dance.”</p>
<p>“But there’s the work.”</p>
<p>“We’ll take it with us. We can’t
both leave at once, of course, but old Mrs. Austin,
downstairs, will be glad to have one or the other of
us sit with her an occasional afternoon or evening.”</p>
<p>Margaret sprang to her feet and walked twice the length
of the room.</p>
<p>“But I’ve--lied so much already!”
she moaned, pausing before her sister. “It’s
all a lie--my whole life!”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, I know,” murmured the other,
with a hurried glance toward the bedroom door. “But,
Meg, we mustn’t give up--’twould kill her
to know now. And, after all, it’s only a little
while!--such a little while!”</p>
<p>Her voice broke with a half-stifled sob. The younger
girl shivered, but did not speak. She walked again
the length of the room and back; then she sat down
to her work, her lips a tense line of determination,
and her thoughts delving into the few past years for
a strength that might help her to bear the burden
of the days to come.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore’s
death, Mrs. James Whitmore had been thrown from her
carriage, striking on her head and back.</p>
<p>When she came to consciousness, hours afterward, she
opened her eyes on midnight darkness, though the room
was flooded with sunlight. The optic nerve had been
injured, the doctor said. It was doubtful if she would
ever be able to see again.</p>
<p>Nor was this all. There were breaks and bruises, and
a bad injury to the spine. It was doubtful if she
would ever walk again. To the little woman lying back
on the pillow it seemed a living death--this thing
that had come to her.</p>
<p>It was then that Margaret and Katherine constituted
themselves a veritable wall of defense between their
mother and the world. Nothing that was not inspected
and approved by one or the other was allowed to pass
Mrs. Whitmore’s chamber door.</p>
<p>For young women only seventeen and nineteen, whose
greatest responsibility hitherto had been the selection
of a gown or a ribbon, this was a new experience.</p>
<p>At first the question of expense did not enter into
consideration. Accustomed all their lives to luxury,
they unhesitatingly demanded it now; and doctors,
nurses, wines, fruits, flowers, and delicacies were
summoned as a matter of course.</p>
<p>Then came the crash. The estate of the supposedly
rich James Whitmore was found to be deeply involved,
and in the end there was only a pittance for the widow
and her two daughters.</p>
<p>Mrs. Whitmore was not told of this at once. She was
so ill and helpless that a more convenient season
was awaited. That was nearly ten years ago--and she
had not been told yet.</p>
<p>Concealment had not been difficult at first. The girls
had, indeed, drifted into the deception almost unconsciously,
as it certainly was not necessary to burden the ears
of the already sorely afflicted woman with the petty
details of the economy and retrenchment on the other
side of her door.</p>
<p>If her own luxuries grew fewer, the change was so
gradual that the invalid did not notice it, and always
her blindness made easy the deception of those about
her.</p>
<p>Even the move to another home was accomplished without
her realizing it --she was taken to the hospital for
a month’s treatment, and when the month was
ended she was tenderly carried home and laid on her
own bed; and she did not know that “home”
now was a cheap little flat in Harlem instead of the
luxurious house on the avenue where her children were
born.</p>
<p>She was too ill to receive visitors, and was therefore
all the more dependent on her daughters for entertainment.</p>
<p>She pitied them openly for the grief and care she
had brought upon them, and in the next breath congratulated
them and herself that at least they had all that money
could do to smooth the difficult way. In the face of
this, it naturally did not grow any easier for the
girls to tell the truth--and they kept silent.</p>
<p>For six years Mrs. Whitmore did not step; then her
limbs and back grew stronger, and she began to sit
up, and to stand for a moment on her feet. Her daughters
now bought the strip of Axminster carpet and laid a
path across the bedroom, and another one from the bedroom
door to the great chair in the sitting-room, so that
her feet might not note the straw matting on the floor
and question its being there.</p>
<p>In her own sitting-room at home--which had opened,
like this, out of her bedroom--the rugs were soft
and the chairs sumptuous with springs and satin damask.
One such chair had been saved from the wreck--the one
at the end of the strip of carpet.</p>
<p>Day by day and month by month the years passed. The
frail little woman walked the Axminster path and sat
in the tufted chair. For her there were a china cup
and plate, and a cook and maids below to serve. For
her the endless sewing over which Katherine and Margaret
bent their backs to eke out their scanty income was
a picture or a bit of embriodery, designed to while
away the time.</p>
<p>As Margaret thought of it it seemed incredible--this
tissue of fabrications that enmeshed them; but even
as she wondered she knew that the very years that
marked its gradual growth made now its strength.</p>
<p>And in a little while would come the end--a very little
while, the doctor said.</p>
<p>Margaret tightened her lips and echoed her sister’s
words: “We mustn’t give up--we mustn’t!”</p>
<p>Two days later the doctor called. He was a bit out
of the old life.</p>
<p>His home, too, had been--and was now, for that matter--on
the avenue. He lived with his aunt, whose heir he
was, and he was the only one outside of the Whitmore
family that knew the house of illusions in which Mrs.
Whitmore lived.</p>
<p>His visits to the little Harlem flat had long ceased
to have more than a semblance of being professional,
and it was an open secret that he wished to make Margaret
his wife. Margaret said no, though with a heightened
color and a quickened breath--which told at least herself
how easily the “no” might have been a
“yes.”</p>
<p>Dr. Littlejohn was young and poor, and he had only
his profession, for all he was heir to one of the
richest women on the avenue; and Margaret refused
to burden him with what she knew it would mean to marry
her. In spite of argument, therefore, and a pair of
earnest brown eyes that pleaded even more powerfully,
she held to her convictions and continued to say no.</p>
<p>All this, however, did not prevent Dr. Littlejohn
from making frequent visits to the Whitmore home,
and always his coming meant joy to three weary, troubled
hearts. To-day he brought a great handful of pink
carnations and dropped them into the lap of the blind
woman.</p>
<p>“Sweets to the sweet!” he cried gayly,
as he patted the slim hand on the arm of the chair.</p>
<p>“Doctor Ned--you dear boy! Oh, how lovely!”
exclaimed Mrs. Whitmore, burying her face in the fragrant
flowers. “And, doctor, I want to speak to you,”
she broke off earnestly. “I want you to talk
to Meg and Kathie. Perhaps they will listen to you.
I want them to go out more. Tell them, please, that
I don’t need them all the time now.”</p>
<p>“Dear me, how independent we are going to be!”
laughed the doctor. “And so we don’t need
any more attention now, eh?”</p>
<p>“Betty will do.”</p>
<p>“Betty?” It was hard, sometimes, for the
doctor to remember.</p>
<p>“The maid,” explained Mrs. Whitmore; “though,
for that matter, there might as well be no maid--the
girls never let her do a thing for me.”</p>
<p>“No?” returned the doctor easily, sure
now of where he stood. “But you don’t
expect me to interfere in this housekeeping business!”</p>
<p>“Somebody must,” urged Mrs. Whitmore.
“The girls must leave me more. It isn’t
as if we were poor and couldn’t hire nurses and
maids. I should die if it were like that, and I were
such a burden.”</p>
<p>“Mother, <i>dearest!</i>” broke in
Margaret feverishly, with an imploring glance toward
her sister and the doctor.</p>
<p>“Oh, by the way,” interposed the doctor
airily, “it has occurred to me that the very
object of my visit to-day is right along the lines
of what you ask. I want Miss Margaret to go driving
with me. I have a call to make out Washington Heights
way.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but--” began Margaret, and paused
at a gesture from her mother.</p>
<p>“There aren’t any ‘buts’ about
it,” declared Mrs. Whitmore. “Meg shall
go.”</p>
<p>“Of course she’ll go!” echoed Katherine.
And with three against her, Margaret’s protests
were in vain.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>Mrs. Whitmore was nervous that night. She could not
sleep.</p>
<p>It seemed to her that if she could get up and walk,
back and forth, back and forth, she could rest afterward.
She had not stepped alone yet, to be sure, since the
accident, but, after all, the girls did little more
than guide her feet, and she was sure that she could
walk alone if she tried.</p>
<p>The more she thought of it the more she longed to
test her strength. Just a few steps back and forth,
back and forth--then sleep. She was sure she could
sleep then. Very quietly, that she might not disturb
the sleepers in the bedroom beyond, the blind woman
sat up in bed and slipped her feet to the floor.</p>
<p>Within reach were her knit slippers and the heavy
shawl always kept at the head of her bed. With trembling
hands she put them on and rose upright.</p>
<p>At last she was on her feet, and alone. To a woman
who for ten years had depended on others for almost
everything but the mere act of breathing, it was joy
unspeakable. She stepped once, twice, and again along
the side of her bed; then she stopped with a puzzled
frown--under her feet was the unyielding, unfamiliar
straw matting. She took four more steps, hesitatingly,
and with her arms outstretched at full length before
her. The next instant she recoiled and caught her
breath sharply; her hands had encountered a wall and
a window--<i>and there should have been no wall
or windows there</i>!</p>
<p>The joy was gone now.</p>
<p>Shaking with fear and weakness, the little woman crept
along the wall and felt for something that would tell
her that she was still at home. Her feet made no sound,
and only her hurried breathing broke the silence.</p>
<p>Through the open door to the sitting-room, and down
the wall to the right-on and on she crept.</p>
<p>Here and there a familiar chair or stand met her groping
hands and held them hesitatingly for a moment, only
to release them to the terror of an unfamiliar corner
or window-sill.</p>
<p>The blind woman herself had long since lost all realization
of what she was doing. There was only the frenzied
longing to find her own. She did not hesitate even
at the outer door of the apartment, but turned the
key with shaking hands and stepped fearlessly into
the hall. The next moment there came a scream and
a heavy fall. The Whitmore apartment was just at the
head of the stairs, and almost the first step of the
blind woman had been off into space.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>When Mrs. Whitmore regained consciousness she was
alone in her own bed.</p>
<p>Out in the sitting-room, Margaret, Katherine, and
the doctor talked together in low tones. At last the
girls hurried into the kitchen, and the doctor turned
and entered the bedroom. With a low ejaculation he
hurried forward.</p>
<p>Mrs. Whitmore flung out her arm and clutched his hand;
then she lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes.</p>
<p>“Doctor,” she whispered, “where
am I?”</p>
<p>“At home, in your own bed.” “Where
is this place?”</p>
<p>Dr. Littlejohn paled. He sent an anxious glance toward
the sitting-room door, though he knew very well that
Margaret and Katherine were in the kitchen and could
not hear.</p>
<p>“Where is this place?” begged the woman
again.</p>
<p>“Why, it--it--is--” The man paused helplessly.</p>
<p>Five thin fingers tightened their clasp on his hand,
and the low voice again broke the silence.</p>
<p>“Doctor, did you ever know--did you ever hear
that a fall could give back--sight?”</p>
<p>Dr. Littlejohn started and peered into the wan face
lying back on the pillow. Its impassiveness reassured
him.</p>
<p>“Why, perhaps--once or twice,” he returned
slowly, falling back into his old position, “though
rarely--very rarely.”</p>
<p>“But it has happened?”</p>
<p>“Yes, it has happened. There was a case recently
in England. The shock and blow released the pressure
on the optic nerve; but--”</p>
<p>Something in the face he was watching brought him
suddenly forward in his chair. “My dear woman,
you don’t mean--you can’t--”</p>
<p>He did not finish his sentence. Mrs. Whitmore opened
her eyes and met his gaze unflinchingly. Then she
turned her head.</p>
<p>“Doctor,” she said, “that picture
on the wall there at the foot of the bed--it doesn’t
hang quite straight.”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Whitmore!” breathed the man incredulously,
half rising from his chair.</p>
<p>“Hush! Not yet!” The woman’s insistent
hand had pulled him back. “Why am I here? Where
is this place?”</p>
<p>There was no answer.</p>
<p>“Doctor, you must tell me. I must know.”</p>
<p>Again the man hesitated. He noted the flushed cheeks
and shaking hands of the woman before him. It was
true, she must know; and perhaps, after all, it was
best she should know through him. He drew a long breath
and plunged straight into the heart of the story.</p>
<p>Five minutes later a glad voice came from the doorway.</p>
<p>“Mother, dearest--then you’re awake!”
The doctor was conscious of a low-breathed “Hush,
don’t tell her!” in his ears; then, to
his amazement, he saw the woman on the bed turn her
head and hold out her hand with the old groping uncertainty
of the blind.</p>
<p>“Margaret! It is Margaret, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Days afterward, when the weary, painracked body of
the little mother was forever at rest, Margaret lifted
her head from her lover’s shoulder, where she
had been sobbing out her grief.</p>
<p>“Ned, I can’t be thankful enough,”
she cried, “that we kept it from Mother to the
end. It’s my only comfort. She didn’t know.”</p>
<p>“And I’m sure she would wish that thought
to be a comfort to you, dear,” said the doctor
gently. “I am sure she would.”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_04"></a>Phineas and the Motor Car</h1>
<p>Phineas used to wonder, sometimes, just when it was
that he began to court Diantha Bowman, the rosy-cheeked,
golden-haired idol of his boyhood. Diantha’s
cheeks were not rosy now, and her hair was more silver
than gold, but she was not yet his wife.</p>
<p>And he had tried so hard to win her! Year after year
the rosiest apples from his orchard and the choicest
honey from his apiary had found their way to Diantha’s
table; and year after year the county fair and the
village picnic had found him at Diantha’s door
with his old mare and his buggy, ready to be her devoted
slave for the day. Nor was Diantha unmindful of all
these attentions. She ate the apples and the honey,
and spent long contented hours in the buggy; but she
still answered his pleadings with her gentle: “I
hain’t no call to marry yet, Phineas,”
and nothing he could do seemed to hasten her decision
in the least. It was the mare and the buggy, however,
that proved to be responsible for what was the beginning
of the end.</p>
<p>They were on their way home from the county fair.
The mare, head hanging, was plodding through the dust
when around the curve of the road ahead shot the one
automobile that the town boasted. The next moment the
whizzing thing had passed, and left a superannuated
old mare looming through a cloud of dust and dancing
on two wabbly hind legs.</p>
<p>“Plague take them autymobiles!” snarled
Phineas through set teeth, as he sawed at the reins.
“I ax yer pardon, I’m sure, Dianthy,”
he added shamefacedly, when the mare had dropped to
a position more nearly normal; “but I hain’t
no use fur them ’ere contraptions!”</p>
<p>Diantha frowned. She was frightened--and because she
was frightened she was angry. She said the first thing
that came into her head--and never had she spoken
to Phineas so sharply.</p>
<p>“If you did have some use for ’em, Phineas
Hopkins, you wouldn’t be crawlin’ along
in a shiftless old rig like this; you’d have
one yourself an’ be somebody! For my part, I
like ’em, an’ I’m jest achin’
ter ride in ’em, too!”</p>
<p>Phineas almost dropped the reins in his amazement.
“Achin’ ter ride in ’em,”
she had said--and all that he could give her was this
“shiftless old rig” that she so scorned.
He remembered something else, too, and his face flamed
suddenly red. It was Colonel Smith who owned and drove
that automobile, and Colonel Smith, too, was a bachelor.
What if--Instantly in Phineas’s soul rose a
fierce jealousy.</p>
<p>“I like a hoss, myself,” he said then,
with some dignity. “I want somethin’ that’s
alive!”</p>
<p>Diantha laughed slyly. The danger was past, and she
could afford to be merry.</p>
<p>“Well, it strikes me that you come pretty near
havin’ somethin’ that <i>wa’n’t</i>
alive jest ‘cause you had somethin’ that
was!” she retorted. “Really, Phineas,
I didn’t s’pose Dolly could move so fast!”</p>
<p>Phineas bridled.</p>
<p>“Dolly knew how ter move--once,” he rejoined
grimly. “’Course nobody pretends ter say
she’s young now, any more ’n we be,”
he finished with some defiance. But he drooped visibly
at Diantha’s next words.</p>
<p>“Why, I don’t feel old, Phineas, an’
I ain’t old, either. Look at Colonel Smith;
he’s jest my age, an’ he’s got a
autymobile. Mebbe I’ll have one some day.”</p>
<p>To Phineas it seemed that a cold hand clutched his
heart.</p>
<p>“Dianthy, you wouldn’t really--ride in
one!” he faltered.</p>
<p>Until that moment Diantha had not been sure that she
would, but the quaver in Phineas’s voice decided
her.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t I? You jest wait an’ see!”</p>
<p>And Phineas did wait--and he did see. He saw Diantha,
not a week later, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, sitting
by the side of Colonel Smith in that hated automobile.
Nor did he stop to consider that Diantha was only
one of a dozen upon whom Colonel Smith, in the enthusiasm
of his new possession, was pleased to bestow that
attention. To Phineas it could mean but one thing;
and he did not change his opinion when he heard Diantha’s
account of the ride.</p>
<p>“It was perfectly lovely,” she breathed.
“Oh, Phineas, it was jest like flyin’!”</p>
<p>“‘Flyin’!’” Phineas
could say no more. He felt as if he were choking,--choking with the dust raised by Dolly’s plodding
hoofs.</p>
<p>“An’ the trees an’ the houses swept
by like ghosts,” continued Diantha. “Why,
Phineas, I could ‘a’ rode on an’
on furever!”</p>
<p>Before the ecstatic rapture in Diantha’s face
Phineas went down in defeat. Without one word he turned
away--but in his heart he registered a solemn vow:
he, too, would have an automobile; he, too, would make
Diantha wish to ride on and on forever!</p>
<p>Arduous days came then to Phineas. Phineas was not
a rich man. He had enough for his modest wants, but
until now those wants had not included an automobile--until
now he had not known that Diantha wished to fly. All
through the autumn and winter Phineas pinched and economized
until he had lopped off all of the luxuries and most
of the pleasures of living. Even then it is doubtful
if he would have accomplished his purpose had he not,
in the spring, fallen heir to a modest legacy of a
few thousand dollars. The news of his good fortune
was not two hours old when he sought Diantha.</p>
<p>“I cal’late mebbe I’ll be gettin’
me one o’ them ’ere autymobiles this spring,”
he said, as if casually filling a pause in the conversation.</p>
<p>“<i>Phineas</i>!”</p>
<p>At the awed joy in Diantha’s voice the man’s
heart glowed within him. This one moment of triumph
was worth all the long miserable winter with its butterless
bread and tobaccoless pipes. But he carefully hid his
joy when he spoke.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said nonchalantly. “I’m
goin’ ter Boston next week ter pick one out.
I cal’late on gettin’ a purty good one.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Phineas! But how--how you goin’ ter
run it?”</p>
<p>Phineas’s chin came up.</p>
<p>“Run it!” he scoffed. “Well, I hain’t
had no trouble yet steerin’ a hoss, an’
I cal’late I won’t have any more steerin’
a mess o’ senseless metal what hain’t
got no eyes ter be seein’ things an’ gittin’
scared! I don’t worry none ‘bout runnin’
it.”</p>
<p>“But, Phineas, it ain’t all steerin’,”
ventured Diantha, timidly. “There’s lots
of little handles and things ter turn, an’ there’s
some things you do with your feet. Colonel Smith did.”</p>
<p>The name Smith to Phineas was like a match to gunpowder.
He flamed instantly into wrath.</p>
<p>“Well, I cal’late what Colonel Smith does,
I can,” he snapped. “Besides”--airily--“mebbe
I shan’t git the feet kind, anyhow; I want the
best. There’s as much as four or five kinds,
Jim Blair says, an’ I cal’late ter try
’em all.”</p>
<p>“Oh-h!” breathed Diantha, falling back
in her chair with an ecstatic sigh. “Oh, Phineas,
won’t it be grand!” And Phineas, seeing
the joyous light in her eyes, gazed straight down
a vista of happiness that led to wedding bells and
bliss.</p>
<p>Phineas was gone some time on his Boston trip. When
he returned he looked thin and worried. He started
nervously at trivial noises, and his eyes showed a
furtive restlessness that quickly caused remark.</p>
<p>“Why, Phineas, you don’t look well!”
Diantha exclaimed when she saw him.</p>
<p>“Well? Oh, I’m well.”</p>
<p>“An’ did you buy it--that autymobile?”</p>
<p>“I did.” Phineas’s voice was triumphant.
Diantha’s eyes sparkled.</p>
<p>“Where is it?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“Comin’--next week.”</p>
<p>“An’ did you try ’em all, as you
said you would?”</p>
<p>Phineas stirred; then he sighed.</p>
<p>“Well, I dunno,” he acknowledged. “I
hain’t done nothin’ but ride in ’em
since I went down--I know that. But there’s such
a powerful lot of ’em, Dianthy; an’ when
they found out I wanted one, they all took hold an’
showed off their best p’ints--’demonstatin’,’
they called it. They raced me up hill an’ down
hill, an’ scooted me round corners till I didn’t
know where I was. I didn’t have a minute ter
myself. An’ they went fast, Dianthy-powerful
fast. I ain’t real sure yet that I’m breathin’
natural.”</p>
<p>“But it must have been grand, Phineas! I should
have loved it!”</p>
<p>“Oh, it was, ’course!” assured Phineas,
hastily.</p>
<p>“An’ you’ll take me ter ride, right
away?” If Phineas hesitated it was for only
a moment.</p>
<p>“‘Course,” he promised. “Er--there’s
a man, he’s comin’ with it, an’
he’s goin’ ter stay a little, jest ter--ter
make sure everything’s all right. After he goes
I’ll come. An’ ye want ter be ready--I’ll
show ye a thing or two!” he finished with a
swagger that was meant to hide the shake in his voice.</p>
<p>In due time the man and the automobile arrived, but
Diantha did not have her ride at once. It must have
taken some time to make sure that “everything
was all right,” for the man stayed many days,
and while he was there, of course Phineas was occupied
with him. Colonel Smith was unkind enough to observe
that he hoped it was taking Phineas Hopkins long enough
to learn to run the thing; but his remark did not reach
Diantha’s ears. She knew only that Phineas, together
with the man and the automobile, started off early
every morning for some unfrequented road, and did
not return until night.</p>
<p>There came a day, however, when the man left town,
and not twenty-four hours later, Phineas, with a gleaming
thing of paint and polish, stood at Diantha’s
door.</p>
<p>“Now ain’t that pretty,” quavered
Diantha excitedly. “Ain’t that awful pretty!”</p>
<p>Phineas beamed.</p>
<p>“Purty slick, I think myself,” he acknowledged.</p>
<p>“An’ green is so much nicer than red,”
cooed Diantha.</p>
<p>Phineas quite glowed with joy--Colonel Smith’s
car was red. “Oh, green’s the thing,”
he retorted airily; “an’ see!” he
added; and forthwith he burst into a paean of praise,
in which tires, horns, lamps, pumps, baskets, brakes,
and mud-guards were the dominant notes. It almost
seemed, indeed, that he had bought the gorgeous thing
before him to look at and talk about rather than to
use, so loath was he to stop talking and set the wheels
to moving. Not until Diantha had twice reminded him
that she was longing to ride in it did he help her
into the car and make ready to start.</p>
<p>It was not an entire success--that start. There were
several false moves on Phineas’s part, and Diantha
could not repress a slight scream and a nervous jump
at sundry unexpected puffs and snorts and snaps from
the throbbing thing beneath her. She gave a louder
scream when Phineas, in his nervousness, sounded the
siren, and a wail like a cry from the spirit world
shrieked in her ears.</p>
<p>“Phineas, what was that?” she shivered,
when the voice had moaned into silence.</p>
<p>Phineas’s lips were dry, and his hands and knees
were shaking; but his pride marched boldly to the
front.</p>
<p>“Why, that’s the siren whistle, ’course,”
he chattered. “Ain’t it great? I thought
you’d like it!” And to hear him one would
suppose that to sound the siren was always a necessary
preliminary to starting the wheels.</p>
<p>They were off at last. There was a slight indecision,
to be sure, whether they would go backward or forward,
and there was some hesitation as to whether Diantha’s
geranium bed or the driveway would make the best thoroughfare.
But these little matters having been settled to the
apparent satisfaction of all concerned, the automobile
rolled down the driveway and out on to the main highway.</p>
<p>“Oh, ain’t this grand!” murmured
Diantha, drawing a long but somewhat tremulous breath.</p>
<p>Phineas did not answer. His lips were tense, and his
eyes were fixed on the road ahead. For days now he
had run the car himself, and he had been given official
assurance that he was quite capable of handling it;
yet here he was on his first ride with Diantha almost
making a failure of the whole thing at the start.
Was he to be beaten--beaten by a senseless motor car
and Colonel Smith? At the thought Phineas lifted his
chin and put on more power.</p>
<p>“Oh, my! How f-fast we’re goin’!”
cried Diantha, close to his ear.</p>
<p>Phineas nodded.</p>
<p>“Who wants ter crawl?” he shouted; and
the car leaped again at the touch of his hand.</p>
<p>They were out of the town now, on a wide road that
had few turns. Occasionally they met a carriage or
a wagon, but the frightened horses and the no less
frightened drivers gave the automobile a wide berth--which was well; for the parallel tracks behind Phineas
showed that the car still had its moments of indecision
as to the course to pursue.</p>
<p>The town was four miles behind them when Diantha,
who had been for some time vainly clutching at the
flying ends of her veil, called to Phineas to stop.</p>
<p>The request took Phineas by surprise. For one awful
moment his mind was a blank--he had forgotten how
to stop! In frantic haste he turned and twisted and
shoved and pulled, ending with so sudden an application
of the brakes that Diantha nearly shot head first
out of the car as it stopped.</p>
<p>“Why, why--Phineas!” she cried a little
sharply.</p>
<p>Phineas swallowed the lump in his throat and steadied
himself in his seat.</p>
<p>“Ye see I--I can stop her real quick if I want
to,” he explained jauntily. “Ye can do
‘most anythin’ with these ’ere things
if ye only know how, Dianthy. Didn’t we come
slick?”</p>
<p>“Yes, indeed,” stammered Diantha, hastily
smoothing out the frown on her face and summoning
a smile to her lips--not for her best black silk gown
would she have had Phineas know that she was wishing
herself safe at home and the automobile back where
it came from.</p>
<p>“We’ll go home through the Holler,”
said Phineas, after she had retied her veil and they
were ready to start. “It’s the long way
round, ye know. I ain’t goin’ ter give
ye no snippy little two-mile run, Dianthy, like Colonel
Smith did,” he finished gleefully.</p>
<p>“No, of course not,” murmured Diantha,
smothering a sigh as the automobile started with a
jerk.</p>
<p>An hour later, tired, frightened, a little breathless,
but valiantly declaring that she had had a “beautiful
time,” Diantha was set down at her own door.</p>
<p>That was but the first of many such trips. Ever sounding
in Phineas Hopkins’s ears and spurring him to
fresh endeavor, were Diantha’s words, “I
could ‘a’ rode on an’ on furever”;
and deep in his heart was the determination that if
it was automobile rides that she wanted, it was automobile
rides that she should have! His small farm on the edge
of the town--once the pride of his heart--began to
look forlorn and deserted; for Phineas, when not actually
driving his automobile, was usually to be found hanging
over it with wrench and polishing cloth. He bought
little food and less clothing, but always--gasolene.
And he talked to any one who would listen about automobiles
in general and his own in particular, learnedly dropping
in frequent references to cylinders, speed, horse
power, vibrators, carburetors, and spark plugs.</p>
<p>As for Diantha--she went to bed every night with thankfulness
that she possessed her complement of limbs and senses,
and she rose every morning with a fear that the coming
night would find some of them missing. To Phineas
and the town in general she appeared to be devoted
to this breathless whizzing over the country roads;
and wild horses could not have dragged from her the
truth: that she was longing with an overwhelming longing
for the old days of Dolly, dawdling, and peace.</p>
<p>Just where it all would have ended it is difficult
to say had not the automobile itself taken a hand
in the game--as automobiles will sometimes--and played
trumps.</p>
<p>It was the first day of the county fair again, and
Phineas and Diantha were on their way home. Straight
ahead the road ran between clumps of green, then unwound
in a white ribbon of dust across wide fields and open
meadows.</p>
<p>“Tain’t much like last year, is it, Dianthy?”
crowed Phineas, shrilly, in her ear--then something
went wrong.</p>
<p>Phineas knew it instantly. The quivering thing beneath
them leaped into new life--but a life of its own.
It was no longer a slave, but a master. Phineas’s
face grew white. Thus far he had been able to keep
to the road, but just ahead there was a sharp curve,
and he knew he could not make the turn--something
was the matter with the steering-gear.</p>
<p>“Look out--she’s got the bits in her teeth!”
he shouted. “She’s bolted!”</p>
<p>There came a scream, a sharp report, and a grinding
crash--then silence.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>From away off in the dim distance Phineas heard a
voice.</p>
<p>“Phineas! Phineas!”</p>
<p>Something snapped, and he seemed to be floating up,
up, up, out of the black oblivion of nothingness.
He tried to speak, but he knew that he made no sound.</p>
<p>“Phineas! Phineas!”</p>
<p>The voice was nearer now, so near that it seemed just
above him. It sounded like--With a mighty effort he
opened his eyes; then full consciousness came. He
was on the ground, his head in Diantha’s lap.
Diantha, bonnet crushed, neck-bow askew, and coat torn,
was bending over him, calling him frantically by name.
Ten feet away the wrecked automobile, tip-tilted against
a large maple tree, completed the picture.</p>
<p>With a groan Phineas closed his eyes and turned away
his head.</p>
<p>“She’s all stove up--an’ now you
won’t ever say yes,” he moaned. “You
wanted ter ride on an’ on furever!”</p>
<p>“But I will--I don’t--I didn’t mean
it,” sobbed Diantha incoherently. “I’d
rather have Dolly twice over. I <i>like</i> ter
crawl. Oh, Phineas, I hate that thing--I’ve
always hated it! I’ll say yes next week--to-morrow--to-day
if you’ll only open your eyes and tell me you
ain’t a-dyin’!”</p>
<p>Phineas was not dying, and he proved it promptly and
effectually, even to the doubting Diantha’s
blushing content. And there their rescuers found them
a long half-hour later--a blissful old man and a happy
old woman sitting hand in hand by the wrecked automobile.</p>
<p>“I cal’lated somebody’d be along
purty soon,” said Phineas, rising stiffly. “Ye
see, we’ve each got a foot that don’t go,
so we couldn’t git help; but we hain’t
minded the wait--not a mite!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_05"></a>The Most Wonderful Woman</h1>
<p><b>And a Great Man who proves himself truly great</b></p>
<p>It was Old Home Week in the little village, and this
was to be the biggest day. From a distant city was
to come the town’s one really Great Man, to
speak in the huge tent erected on the Common for just
that purpose. From end to end the village was aflame
with bunting and astir with excitement, so that even
I, merely a weary sojourner in the place, felt the
thrill and tingled pleasantly.</p>
<p>When the Honorable Jonas Whitermore entered the tent
at two o’clock that afternoon I had a good view
of him, for my seat was next the broad aisle. Behind
him on the arm of an usher came a small, frightened-looking
little woman in a plain brown suit and a plainer brown
bonnet set askew above thin gray hair. The materials
of both suit and bonnet were manifestly good, but
all distinction of line and cut was hopelessly lost
in the wearing. Who she was I did not know; but I soon
learned, for one of the two young women in front of
me said a low something to which the other gave back
a swift retort, woefully audible: “<i>His wife</i>?
That little dowdy thing in brown? Oh, what a pity!
Such an ordinary woman!”</p>
<p>My cheeks grew hot in sympathy with the painful red
that swept to the roots of the thin gray hair under
the tip-tilted bonnet. Then I glanced at the man.</p>
<p>Had he heard? I was not quite sure. His chin, I fancied,
was a trifle higher. I could not see his eyes, but
I did see his right hand; and it was clenched so tightly
that the knuckles were white with the strain. I thought
I knew then. He had heard. The next minute he had passed
on up the aisle and the usher was seating the more-frightened-than-ever
little wife in the roped-off section reserved for
important guests.</p>
<p>It was then that I became aware that the man on my
right was saying something.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon, but-did you speak--to me?”
I asked, turning to him hesitatingly.</p>
<p>The old man met my eyes with an abashed smile.</p>
<p>“I guess I’m the party what had ought
to be askin’ pardon, stranger,” he apologized.
“I talk to myself so much I kinder furgit sometimes,
and do it when folks is round. I was only sayin’
that I wondered why ’twas the good Lord give
folks tongues and forgot to give ’em brains to
run ’em with. But maybe you didn’t hear
what she said,” he hazarded, with a jerk of
his thumb toward the young woman in front.</p>
<p>“About Mrs. Whitermore? Yes, I heard.”</p>
<p>His face darkened.</p>
<p>“Then you know. And she heard, too! ‘Ordinary
woman,’ indeed! Humph! To think that Betty Tillington
should ever live to hear herself called an ‘ordinary
woman’! You see, I knew her when she <i>was</i>
Betty Tillington.”</p>
<p>“Did you?” I smiled encouragingly. I was
getting interested, and I hoped he would keep on talking.
On the platform the guest of honor was holding a miniature
reception. He was the picture of polite attention and
punctilious responsiveness; but I thought I detected
a quick glance now and then toward the roped-off section
where sat his wife and I wondered again--had he heard
that thoughtless comment?</p>
<p>From somewhere had come the rumor that the man who
was to introduce the Honorable Jonas Whitermore had
been delayed by a washout “down the road,”
but was now speeding toward us by automobile. For my
part, I fear I wished the absentee a punctured tire
so that I might hear more of the heart-history of
the faded little woman with the bonnet askew.</p>
<p>“Yes, I knew her,” nodded my neighbor,
“and she didn’t look much then like she
does now. She was as pretty as a picture and there
wa’n’t a chap within sight of her what
wa’n’t head over heels in love with her.
But there wa’n’t never a chance for but
two of us and we knew it: Joe Whitermore and a chap
named Fred Farrell. So, after a time, we just sort
of stood off and watched the race--as pretty a race
as ever you see. Farrell had the money and the good
looks, while Whitermore was poor as a church mouse,
and he was homely, too. But Whitermore must have had
somethin’--maybe somethin’ we didn’t
see, for she took <i>him</i>.</p>
<p>“Well, they married and settled down happy as
two twitterin’ birds, but poor as Job’s
turkey. For a year or so she was as pretty and gay
as ever she was and into every good time goin’;
then the babies came, one after another, some of ’em
livin’ and some dyin’ soon after they came.</p>
<p>“Of course, things was different then. What
with the babies and the housework, Betty couldn’t
get out much, and we didn’t see much of her.
When we did see her, though, she’d smile and
toss her head in the old way and say how happy she
was and didn’t we think her babies was the prettiest
things ever, and all that. And we did, of course, and
told her so.</p>
<p>“But we couldn’t help seein’ that
she was gettin’ thin and white and that no matter
how she tossed her head, there wa’n’t any
curls there to bob like they used to, ’cause
her hair was pulled straight back and twisted up into
a little hard knot just like as if she had done it
up when some one was callin’ her to come quick.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I can imagine it,” I nodded.</p>
<p>“Well, that’s the way things went at the
first, while he was gettin’ his start, and I
guess they was happy then. You see, they was pullin’
even them days and runnin’ neck and neck. Even
when Fred Farrell, her old beau, married a girl she
knew and built a fine house all piazzas and bow-winders
right in sight of their shabby little rented cottage,
I don’t think she minded it; even if Mis’
Farrell didn’t have anythin’ to do from
mornin’ till night only set in a white dress
on her piazza, and rock, and give parties, Betty didn’t
seem to mind. She had her Joe.</p>
<p>“But by and by she didn’t have her Joe.
Other folks had him and his business had him. I mean,
he’d got up where the big folks in town begun
to take notice of him; and when he wa’n’t
tendin’ to business, he was hobnobbin’
with them, so’s to bring <i>more</i> business.
And--of course she, with her babies and housework,
didn’t have no time for that.</p>
<p>“Well, next they moved away. When they went
they took my oldest girl, Mary, to help Betty; and
so we still kept track of ’em. Mary said it was
worse than ever in the new place. It was quite a big
city and just livin’ cost a lot. Mr. Whitermore,
of course, had to look decent, out among folks as
he was, so he had to be ’tended to first. Then
what was left of money and time went to the children.
It wa’n’t long, too, before the big folks
<i>there</i> begun to take notice, and Mr. Whitermore
would come home all excited and tell about what was
said to him and what fine things he was bein’
asked to do. He said ‘twas goin’ to mean
everythin’ to his career.</p>
<p>“Then come the folks to call, ladies in fine
carriages with dressed-up men to hold the door open
and all that; but always, after they’d gone,
Mary’d find Betty cryin’ somewhere, or
else tryin’ to fix a bit of old lace or ribbon
on to some old dress. Mary said Betty’s clo’s
were awful, then. You see, there wa’n’t
never any money left for <i>her</i> things. But
all this didn’t last long, for very soon the
fine ladies stopped comin’ and Betty just settled
down to the children and didn’t try to fix her
clo’s any more.</p>
<p>“But by and by, of course, the money begun to
come in--lots of it--and that meant more changes,
naturally. They moved into a bigger house, and got
two more hired girls and a man, besides Mary. Mr. Whitermore
said he didn’t want his wife to work so hard
now, and that, besides, his position demanded it.
He was always talkin’ about his position those
days, tryin’ to get his wife to go callin’
and go to parties and take her place as his wife,
as he put it.</p>
<p>“And Mary said Betty did try, and try hard.
Of course she had nice clo’s now, lots of ’em;
but somehow they never seemed to look just right. And
when she did go to parties, she never knew what to
talk about, she told Mary. She didn’t know a
thing about the books and pictures and the plays and
quantities of other things that everybody else seemed
to know about; and so she just had to sit still and
say nothin’.</p>
<p>“Mary said she could see it plagued her and
she wa’n’t surprised when, after a time,
Betty begun to have headaches and be sick party nights,
and beg Mr. Whitermore to go alone--and then cry because
he did go alone. You see, she’d got it into
her head then that her husband was ashamed of her.”</p>
<p>“And was--he?” demanded I.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Mary said she couldn’t
tell exactly. He seemed worried, sometimes, and quite
put out at the way his wife acted about goin’
to places. Then, other times, he didn’t seem
to notice or care if he did have to go alone. It wa’n’t
that he was unkind to her. It was just that he was
so busy lookin’ after himself that he forgot
all about her. But Betty took it all as bein’
ashamed of her, no matter what he did; and for a while
she just seemed to pine away under it. They’d
moved to Washington by that time and, of course, with
him in the President’s Cabinet, it was pretty
hard for her.</p>
<p>“Then, all of a sudden, she took a new turn
and begun to study and to try to learn things--everything:
how to talk and dress and act, besides stuff that
was just book-learnin’. She’s been doin’
that for quite a spell and Mary says she thinks she’d
do pretty well now, in lots of ways, if only she had
half a chance--somethin’ to encourage her, you
know. But her husband don’t seem to take no notice,
now, just as if he’s got tired expectin’
anythin’ of her and that’s made her so
scared and discouraged she’s too nervous to
act as if she <i>did</i> know anythin’.
An’ there ’t is.</p>
<p>“Well, maybe she is just an ordinary woman,”
sighed the old man, a little sternly, “if bein’
‘ordinary’ means she’s like lots
of others. For I suspect, stranger, that, if the truth
was told, lots of other big men have got wives just
like her--women what have been workin’ so tarnal
hard to help their husbands get ahead that they hain’t
had time to see where they themselves was goin’.
And by and by they wake up to the fact that they hain’t
got nowhere. They’ve just stayed still, ’way
behind.</p>
<p>“Mary says she don’t believe Betty would
mind even that, if her husband only seemed to care--to--to
understand, you know, how it had been with her and
how--Crickey! I guess they’ve come,” broke
off the old man suddenly, craning his neck for a better
view of the door.</p>
<p>From outside had sounded the honk of an automobile
horn and the wild cheering of men and boys. A few
minutes later the long-delayed programme began.</p>
<p>It was the usual thing. Before the Speaker of the
Day came other speakers, and each of them, no matter
what his subject, failed not to refer to “our
illustrious fellow townsman” in terms of highest
eulogy. One told of his humble birth, his poverty-driven
boyhood, his strenuous youth. Another drew a vivid
picture of his rise to fame. A third dilated upon
the extraordinary qualities of brain and body which
had made such achievement possible and which would
one day land him in the White House itself.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, close to the speaker’s stand sat
the Honorable Jonas Whitermore himself, for the most
part grim and motionless, though I thought I detected
once or twice a repetition of the half-troubled, half-questioning
glances directed toward his wife that I had seen before.
Perhaps it was because I was watching him so closely
that I saw the sudden change come to his face. The
lips lost their perfunctory smile and settled into
determined lines. The eyes, under their shaggy brows,
glowed with sudden fire. The entire pose and air of
the man became curiously alert, as if with the eager
impatience of one who has determined upon a certain
course of action and is anxious only to be up and
doing. Very soon after that he was introduced, and,
amid deafening cheers, rose to his feet. Then, very
quietly, he began to speak.</p>
<p>We had heard he was an orator. Doubtless many of us
were familiar with his famous nickname “Silver-tongued
Joe.” We had expected great things of him--a
brilliant discourse on the tariff, perhaps, or on our
foreign relations, or yet on the Hague Tribunal. But
we got none of these. We got first a few quiet words
of thanks and appreciation for the welcome extended
him; then we got the picture of an everyday home just
like ours, with all its petty cares and joys so vividly
drawn that we thought we were seeing it, not hearing
about it. He told us it was a little home of forty
years ago, and we began to realize, some way, that
he was speaking of himself.</p>
<p>“I may, you know, here,” he said, “for
I am among my own people. I am at home.”</p>
<p>Even then I didn’t see what he was coming to.
Like the rest I sat slightly confused, wondering what
it all meant. Then, suddenly, into his voice there
crept a tense something that made me sit more erect
in my seat.</p>
<p>“<i>My</i> indomitable will-power? <i>My</i>
superb courage? <i>My</i> stupendous strength
of character? <i>My</i> undaunted persistence
and marvelous capacity for hard work?” he was
saying. “Do you think it’s to that I owe
what I am? Never! Come back with me to that little
home of forty years ago and I’ll show you to
what and to whom I do owe it. First and foremost I
owe it to a woman--no ordinary woman, I want you to
understand--but to the most wonderful woman in the
world.”</p>
<p>I knew then. So did my neighbor, the old man at my
side. He jogged my elbow frantically and whispered:--</p>
<p>“He’s goin’ to--he’s goin’
to! He’s goin’ to show her he <i>does</i>
care and understand! He <i>did</i> hear that girl.
Crickey! But ain’t he the cute one to pay her
back like that, for what she said?”</p>
<p>The little wife down front did not know--yet, however.
I realized that, the minute I looked at her and saw
her drawn face and her frightened, staring eyes fixed
on her husband up there on the platform--her husband,
who was going to tell all these people about some wonderful
woman whom even she had never heard of before, but
who had been the making of him, it seemed.</p>
<p>“<i>My</i> will-power?” the Honorable
Jonas Whitermore was saying then. “Not mine,
but the will-power of a woman who did not know the
meaning of the word ‘fail.’ Not my superb
courage, but the courage of one who, day in and day
out, could work for a victory whose crown was to go,
not to herself, but to another. Not my stupendous
strength of character, but that of a beautiful young
girl who could see youth and beauty and opportunity
nod farewell, and yet smile as she saw them go. Not
my undaunted persistence, but the persistence of one
to whom the goal is always just ahead, but never reached.
And last, not my marvelous capacity for hard work,
but that of the wife and mother who bends her back
each morning to a multitude of tasks and cares that
she knows night will only interrupt--not finish.”</p>
<p>My eyes were still on the little brown-clad woman
down in front, so I saw the change come to her face
as her husband talked. I saw the terror give way to
puzzled questioning, and that, in turn, become surprise,
incredulity, then overwhelming joy as the full meaning
came to her that she herself was that most wonderful
woman in the world who had been the making of him.
I looked then for just a touch of the old frightened,
self-consciousness at finding herself thus so conspicuous;
but it did not come. The little woman plainly had
forgotten us. She was no longer Mrs. Jonas Whitermore
among a crowd of strangers listening to a great man’s
Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry,
tired, all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first
time from the lips of her husband that he knew and
cared and understood.</p>
<p>“Through storm and sunshine, she was always
there at her post, aiding, encouraging, that I might
be helped,” the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was
saying. “Week in and week out she fought poverty,
sickness, and disappointments, and all without a murmur,
lest her complaints distract me for one precious moment
from my work. Even the nights brought her no rest,
for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and
from cradle to crib, covering outflung little legs
and arms, cooling parched little throats with water,
quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threatening
outcries with a low ’Hush, darling, mother’s
here. Don’t cry! You’ll wake father--and
father must have his sleep.’ And father had it--that
sleep, just as he had the best of everything else in
the house: food, clothing, care, attention--everything.</p>
<p>“What mattered it if her hands did grow rough
and toil-worn? Mine were left white and smooth--for
my work. What mattered it if her back and her head
and her feet did ache? Mine were left strong and painless--for
my work. What mattered her wakefulness if I slept?
What mattered her weariness if I was rested? What
mattered her disappointments if my aims were accomplished?
Nothing!”</p>
<p>The Honorable Jonas Whitermore paused for breath,
and I caught mine and held it. It seemed, for a minute,
as if everybody all over the house was doing the same
thing, too, so absolutely still was it, after that
one word--“nothing.” They were beginning
to understand--a little. I could tell that. They were
beginning to see this big thing that was taking place
right before their eyes. I glanced at the little woman
down in front. The tender glow on her face had grown
and deepened and broadened until her whole little
brown-clad self seemed transfigured. My own eyes dimmed
as I looked. Then, suddenly I became aware that the
Honorable Jonas Whitermore was speaking again.</p>
<p>“And not for one year only, nor two, nor ten,
has this quintessence of devotion been mine,”
he was saying, “but for twice ten and then a
score more--for forty years. For forty years! Did
you ever stop to think how long forty years could
be--forty years of striving and straining, of pinching
and economizing, of serving and sacrificing? Forty
years of just loving somebody else better than yourself,
and doing this every day, and every hour of the day
for the whole of those long forty years? It isn’t
easy to love somebody else <i>always</i> better
than yourself, you know! It means the giving up of
lots of things that <i>you</i> want. You might
do it for a day, for a month, for a year even--but
for forty years! Yet she has done it--that most wonderful
woman. Do you wonder that I say it is to her, and
to her alone, under God, that I owe all that I am,
all that I hope to be?”</p>
<p>Once more he paused. Then, in a voice that shook a
little at the first, but that rang out clear and strong
and powerful at the end, he said:</p>
<p>“Ladies, gentlemen, I understand this will close
your programme. It will give me great pleasure, therefore,
if at the adjournment of this meeting you will allow
me to present you to the most wonderful woman in the
world--my wife.”</p>
<p>I wish I could tell you what happened then. The words--oh,
yes, I could tell you in words what happened. For
that matter, the reporters at the little stand down
in front told it in words, and the press of the whole
country blazoned it forth on the front page the next
morning. But really to know what happened, you should
have heard it and seen it, and felt the tremendous
power of it deep in your soul, as we did who did see
it.</p>
<p>There was a moment’s breathless hush, then to
the canvas roof there rose a mighty cheer and a thunderous
clapping of hands as by common impulse the entire
audience leaped to its feet.</p>
<p>For one moment only did I catch a glimpse of Mrs.
Jonas Whitermore, blushing, laughing, and wiping teary
eyes in which the wondrous glow still lingered; then
the eager crowd swept down the aisle toward her.</p>
<p>“Crickey!” breathed the red-faced old
man at my side. “Well, stranger, even if it
does seem sometimes as if the good Lord give some folks
tongues and forgot to give ’em brains to run
’em with, I guess maybe He kinder makes up for
it, once in a while, by givin’ other folks the
brains to use their tongues so powerful well!”</p>
<p>I nodded dumbly. I could not speak just then--but
the young woman in front of me could. Very distinctly
as I passed her I heard her say:</p>
<p>“Well, now, ain’t that the limit, Sue?
And her such an ordinary woman, too!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_06"></a>The Price of a Pair of Shoes</h1>
<p>For fifty years the meadow lot had been mowed and
the side hill ploughed at the nod of Jeremiah’s
head; and for the same fifty years the plums had been
preserved and the mince-meat chopped at the nod of
his wife’s-- and now the whole farm from the
meadowlot to the mince-meat was to pass into the hands
of William, the only son, and William’s wife,
Sarah Ellen.</p>
<p>“It’ll be so much nicer, mother,--no care
for you!” Sarah Ellen had declared.</p>
<p>“And so much easier for you, father, too,”
William had added. “It’s time you rested.
As for money--of course you’ll have plenty in
the savings-bank for clothes and such things. You
won’t need much, anyhow,” he finished,
“for you’ll get your living off the farm
just as you always have.”</p>
<p>So the matter was settled, and the papers were made
out. There was no one to be considered, after all,
but themselves, for William was the only living son,
and there had been no daughters.</p>
<p>For a time it was delightful. Jeremiah and Hester
Whipple were like children let out of school. They
told themselves that they were people of leisure now,
and they forced themselves to lie abed half an hour
later than usual each day. They spent long hours in
the attic looking over old treasures, and they loitered
about the garden and the barn with no fear that it
might be time to get dinner or to feed the stock.</p>
<p>Gradually, however, there came a change. A new restlessness
entered their lives, a restlessness that speedily
became the worst kind of homesickness--the homesickness
of one who is already at home.</p>
<p>The extra half-hour was spent in bed as before--but
now Hester lay with one ear listening to make sure
that Sarah Ellen <i>did</i> let the cat in for
her early breakfast; and Jeremiah lay with his ear
listening for the squeak of the barn door which would
tell him whether William was early or, late that morning.
There were the same long hours in the attic and the
garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her
treasured wax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and
in the garden Jeremiah found more weeds than <i>he</i>
had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure.</p>
<p>The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah
Ellen just six months when the Huntersville Savings
Bank closed its doors. It was the old story of dishonesty
and disaster, and when the smoke of Treasurer Hilton’s
revolver cleared away there was found to be practically
nothing for the depositors. Perhaps on no one did
the blow fall with more staggering force than on Jeremiah
Whipple.</p>
<p>“Why, Hester,” he moaned, when he found
himself alone with his wife, “here I’m
seventy-eight years old--an’ no money! What am
I goin’ ter do?”</p>
<p>“I know, dear,” soothed Hester; “but
’t ain’t as bad for us as ’tis for
some. We’ve got the farm, you know; an’--”</p>
<p>“We hain’t got the farm,” cut in
her husband sharply. “William an’ Sarah
Ellen’s got it.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, but they--why, they’re <i>us</i>,
Jeremiah,” reminded Hester, trying to keep the
quaver out of her voice.</p>
<p>“Mebbe, Hester, mebbe,” conceded Jeremiah;
but he turned and looked out of the window with gloomy
eyes.</p>
<p>There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this
from Nathan Banks, a favorite nephew, suggesting that
“uncle and aunt” pay them a little visit.</p>
<p>“Just the thing, father!” cried William.
“Go--it’ll do you both good!” And
after some little talk it was decided that the invitation
should be accepted.</p>
<p>Nathan Banks lived thirty miles away, but not until
the night before the Whipples were to start did it
suddenly occur to Jeremiah that he had now no money
for railroad tickets. With a heightened color on his
old cheeks he mentioned the fact to William.</p>
<p>“Ye see, I--I s’pose I’ll have ter
come ter you,” he apologized. “Them won’t
take us!” And he looked ruefully at a few coins
he had pulled from his pocket. “They’re
all the cash I’ve got left.”</p>
<p>William frowned a little and stroked his beard.</p>
<p>“Sure enough!” he muttered. “I forgot
the tickets, too, father. ’T is awkward--that
bank blowing up; isn’t it? Oh, I’ll let
you have it all right, of course, and glad to, only
it so happens that just now I--er, how much is it,
anyway?” he broke off abruptly.</p>
<p>“Why, I reckon a couple of dollars’ll
take us down, an’ more, mebbe,” stammered
the old man, “only, of course, there’s
comin’ back, and--”</p>
<p>“Oh, we don’t have to reckon on that part
now,” interrupted William impatiently, as he
thrust his hands into his pockets and brought out a
bill and some change. “I can send you down some
more when that time comes. There, here’s a two;
if it doesn’t take it all, what’s left
can go toward bringing you back.”</p>
<p>And he handed out the bill, and dropped the change
into his pocket.</p>
<p>“Thank you, William,” stammered the old
man. “I--I’m sorry--”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” cut in William
cheerfully, with a wave of his two hands. “Glad
to do it, father; glad to do it!”</p>
<p>Mr. and Mrs. Whipple stayed some weeks with their
nephew. But, much as they enjoyed their visit, there
came a day when home--regardless of weeds that were
present and wax wreaths that were absent--seemed to
them the one place in the world; and they would have
gone there at once had it not been for the railroad
fares.</p>
<p>William had not sent down any more money, though his
letters had been kind, and had always spoken of the
warm welcome that awaited them any time they wished
to come home.</p>
<p>Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came
to Jeremiah.</p>
<p>“We’ll go to Cousin Abby’s,”
he announced gleefully to his wife. “Nathan
said last night he’d drive us over there any
time. We’ll go to-morrow, an’ we won’t
come back here at all--it’ll be ten miles nearer
home there, an’ it won’t cost us a cent
ter get there,” he finished triumphantly. And
to Cousin Abby’s they went.</p>
<p>So elated was Jeremiah with the result of his scheming
that he set his wits to work in good earnest, and
in less than a week he had formulated an itinerary
that embraced the homes of two other cousins, an aunt
of Sarah Ellen’s, and the niece of a brother-in-law,
the latter being only three miles from ’his
own farmhouse--or rather William’s farmhouse,
as he corrected himself bitterly. Before another month
had passed, the round of visits was accomplished,
and the little old man and the little old woman--having
been carried to their destination in each case by
their latest host--finally arrived at the farmhouse
door. They were weary, penniless, and half-sick from
being feasted and fêted at every turn, but they were
blissfully conscious that of no one had they been
obliged to beg the price of their journey home.</p>
<p>“We didn’t write we were comin’,”
apologized Jeremiah faintly, as he stumbled across
the threshold and dropped into the nearest chair. “We
were goin’ ter write from Keziah’s, but
we were so tired we hurried right up an’ come
home. ’Tis nice ter get here; ain’t it,
Hester?” he finished, settling back in his chair.</p>
<p>“’Nice’!” cried Hester tremulously,
tugging at her bonnet strings. “‘Nice’
ain’t no name for it, Jeremiah. Why, Sarah Ellen,
seems if I don’t want to do nothin’ for
a whole month but set in my own room an’ jest
look ’round all day!”</p>
<p>“You poor dear--and that’s all you shall
do!” soothed Sarah Ellen; and Hester sighed,
content. For so many, many weeks now she had sat upon
strange chairs and looked out upon an unfamiliar world!</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>It was midwinter when Jeremiah’s last pair of
shoes gave out. “An’ there ain’t
a cent ter get any new ones, Hester,” he exclaimed,
ruefully eying the ominously thin place in the sole.</p>
<p>“I know, Jeremiah, but there’s William,”
murmured Hester. “I’m sure he--”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course, he’d give it to me,”
cried Jeremiah quickly; “but--I--I sort of hate
to ask.”</p>
<p>“Pooh! I wouldn’t think of that,”
declared Hester stoutly, but even as she spoke, she
tucked her own feet farther under her chair. “We
gave them the farm, and they understood they was to
take care of us, of course.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m, yes, I know, I know. I’ll ask him,”
murmured Jeremiah--but he did not ask him until the
ominously thin place in the sole had become a hole,
large, round, and unmistakable.</p>
<p>“Well, William,” he began jocosely, trying
to steady his shaking voice, “guess them won’t
stand for it much longer!” And he held up the
shoe, sole uppermost.</p>
<p>“Well, I should say not!” laughed William;
then his face changed. “Oh, and you’ll
have to have the money for some new ones, of course.
By George! It does beat all how I keep forgetting
about that bank!”</p>
<p>“I know, William, I’m sorry,” stammered
the old man miserably.</p>
<p>“Oh, I can let you have it all right, father,
and glad to,” assured William, still frowning.
“It’s only that just at this time I’m
a little short, and--” He stopped abruptly and
thrust his hands into his pockets. “Hm-m,”
he vouchsafed after a minute. “Well, I’ll
tell you what--I haven’t got any now, but in
a day or two I’ll take you over to the village
and see what Skinner’s got that will fit you.
Oh, we’ll have some shoes, father, never fear!”
he laughed. “You don’t suppose I’m
going to let my father go barefoot!--eh?” And
he laughed again.</p>
<p>Things wore out that winter in the most unaccountable
fashion--at least those belonging to Jeremiah and
Hester did, especially undergarments. One by one they
came to mending, and one by one Hester mended them,
patch upon patch, until sometimes there was left scarcely
a thread of the original garment. Once she asked William
for money to buy new ones, but it happened that William
was again short, and though the money she had asked
for came later, Hester did not make that same request
again.</p>
<p>There were two things that Hester could not patch
very successfully--her shoes. She fried to patch them
to be sure, but the coarse thread knotted in her shaking
old hands, and the bits of leather--cut from still
older shoes--slipped about and left her poor old thumb
exposed to the sharp prick of the needle, so that
she finally gave it up in despair. She tucked her
feet still farther under her chair these days when
Jeremiah was near, and she pieced down two of her
dress skirts so that they might touch the floor all
round. In spite of all this, however, Jeremiah saw,
one day--and understood.</p>
<p>“Hester,” he cried sharply, “put
out your foot.”</p>
<p>Hester did not hear--apparently. She lowered the paper
she was reading and laughed a little hysterically.</p>
<p>“Such a good joke, Jeremiah!” she quavered.
“Just let me read it. A man--”</p>
<p>“Hester, be them the best shoes you’ve
got?” demanded Jeremiah.</p>
<p>And Hester, with a wisdom born of fifty years’
experience of that particular tone of voice, dropped
her paper and her subterfuge, and said gently: “Yes,
Jeremiah.”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s pause; then Jeremiah sprang
to his feet, thrust his hands into his pockets, and
paced the tiny bedroom from end to end.</p>
<p>“Hester, this thing’s a-killin’
me!” he blurted out at last. “Here I’m
seventy-eight years old--an’ I hain’t got
money enough ter buy my wife a pair of shoes!”</p>
<p>“But the farm, Jeremiah--”</p>
<p>“I tell ye the farm ain’t mine,”
cut in Jeremiah savagely. “Look a-here, Hester,
how do you s’pose it feels to a man who’s
paid his own way since he was a boy, bought a farm
with his own money an’ run it, brought up his
boys an’ edyercated ’em--how do ye s’pose
it feels fur that man ter go ter his own son an’
say: ’Please, sir, can’t I have a nickel
ter buy me a pair o’ shoestrings?’ How
do ye s’pose it feels? I tell ye, Hester, I
can’t stand it--I jest can’t! I’m
goin’ ter work.”</p>
<p>“Jere-mi-ah!”</p>
<p>“Well, I am,” repeated the old man doggedly.
“You’re goin’ ter have some shoes,
an’ I’m goin’ ter earn ’em.
See if I don’t!” And he squared his shoulders,
and straightened his bent back as if already he felt
the weight of a welcome burden.</p>
<p>Spring came, and with it long sunny days and the smell
of green things growing. Jeremiah began to be absent
day after day from the farmhouse. The few tasks that
he performed each morning were soon finished, and
after that he disappeared, not to return until night.
William wondered a little, but said nothing. Other
and more important matters filled his mind.</p>
<p>Only Hester noticed that the old man’s step
grew more languid and his eye more dull; and only
Hester knew that at night he was sometimes too tired
to sleep--that he could not “seem ter hit the
bed,” as he expressed it.</p>
<p>It was at about this time that Hester began to make
frequent visits to the half-dozen farmhouses in the
settlement about them. She began to be wonderfully
busy these days, too, knitting socks and mittens, or
piecing up quilts. Sarah Ellen asked her sometimes
what she was doing, but Hester’s answers were
always so cheery and bright that Sarah Ellen did not
realize that the point was always evaded and the subject
changed.</p>
<p>It was in May that the inevitable happened. William
came home one day to find an excited, weeping wife
who hurried him into the seclusion of their own room.</p>
<p>“William, William,” she moaned, “what
shall we do? It’s father and mother; they’ve--oh,
William, how can I tell you!” and she covered
her face with her hands.</p>
<p>William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his
wife’s arm with fingers that hurt.</p>
<p>“What is it--what’s happened?” he
asked hoarsely. “They aren’t hurt or--dead?”</p>
<p>“No, no,” choked Sarah Ellen. “I
didn’t mean to frighten you. They’re all
right that way. They--they’ve <i>gone to work</i>!
William, what <i>shall</i> we do?”</p>
<p>Again William Whipple gripped his wife’s arm
with fingers that hurt.</p>
<p>“Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven’s
sake! What does this mean? What are you talking about?”
he demanded.</p>
<p>Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief
and lifted her head.</p>
<p>“It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston’s,”
she explained brokenly. “Maria dropped something
about a quilt mother was piecing for her, and when
I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked
queer, and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried
to change the subject; but I wouldn’t let her,
and finally I got the whole story out of her.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, go on,” urged William impatiently,
as Sarah Ellen paused for breath.</p>
<p>“It seems mother came to her a while ago, and--and
she went to others, too. She asked if there wasn’t
some knitting or patchwork she could do for them.
She said she--she wanted to earn some money.”
Sarah Ellen’s voice broke over the last word,
and William muttered something under his breath. “She
said they’d lost all they had in the bank,”
went on Sarah Ellen hurriedly, “and that they
didn’t like to ask you for money.”</p>
<p>“Why, I always let them have--” began
William defensively; then he stopped short, a slow
red staining his face.</p>
<p>“Yes, I know you have,” interposed Sarah
Ellen eagerly; “and I said so to Maria. But
mother had already told her that, it seems. She said
that mother said you were always glad to give it to
them when they asked for it, but that it hurt father’s
pride to beg, so he’d gone to work to earn some
of his own.”</p>
<p>“Father!” exclaimed William. “But
I thought you said ’twas mother. Surely father
isn’t knitting socks and mittens, is he?”</p>
<p>“No, no,” cried Sarah Ellen. “I’m
coming to that as fast as I can. You see, ’twas
father who went to work first. He’s been doing
all sorts of little odd jobs, even to staying with
the Snow children while their folks went to town,
and spading up Nancy Howe’s flower beds for her.
But it’s been wearing on him, and he was getting
all tired out. Only think of it, William--<i>working
out--father and mother!</i> I just can’t ever
hold up my head again! What <i>shall</i> we do?”</p>
<p>“Do? Why, we’ll stop it, of course,”
declared William savagely. “I guess I can support
my own father and mother without their working for
a living!”</p>
<p>“But it’s money, William, that they want.
Don’t you see?”</p>
<p>“Well, we’ll give them money, then. I
always have, anyway,--when they asked for it,”
finished William in an aggrieved voice.</p>
<p>Sarah Ellen shook her head.</p>
<p>“It won’t do,” she sighed. “It
might have done once--but not now. They’ve got
to the point where they just can’t accept money
doled out to them like that. Why, just think, ’t
was all theirs once!”</p>
<p>“Well, ’tis now--in a way.”</p>
<p>“I know--but we haven’t acted as if it
were. I can see that now, when it’s too late.”</p>
<p>“We’ll give it back, then,” cried
William, his face clearing; “the whole blamed
farm!”</p>
<p>Sarah Ellen frowned. She shook her head slowly, then
paused, a dawning question in her eyes.</p>
<p>“You don’t suppose--William, could we?”
she cried with sudden eagerness.</p>
<p>“Well, we can try mighty hard,” retorted
the man grimly. “But we’ve got to go easy,
Sarah Ellen,--no bungling. We’ve got to spin
some sort of a yarn that won’t break, nor have
any weak places; and of course, as far as the real
work of the farm is concerned, we’ll still do
the most of it. But the place’ll be theirs.
See?--theirs! <i>Working out</i>--good Heavens!”</p>
<p>It must have been a week later that Jeremiah burst
into his wife’s room. Hester sat by the window,
bending over numberless scraps of blue, red, and pink
calico.</p>
<p>“Put it up, put it up, Hester,” he panted
joyously. “Ye hain’t got to sew no more,
an’ I hain’t neither. The farm is ours!”</p>
<p>“Why, Jeremiah, what--how--”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Hester, no more than you
do,” laughed Jeremiah happily; “only William
says he’s tired of runnin’ things all alone,
an’ he wants me to take hold again. They’re
goin’ ter make out the papers right away; an’
say, Hester,”--the bent shoulders drew themselves
erect with an air of pride,--“I thought mebbe
this afternoon we’d drive over ter Huntersville
an’ get some shoes for you. Ye know you’re
always needin’ shoes!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_07"></a>The Long Road</h1>
<p>“Jane!”</p>
<p>“Yes, father.”</p>
<p>“Is the house locked up?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Are ye sure, now?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, dear; I just did it.”</p>
<p>“Well, won’t ye see?”</p>
<p>“But I have seen, father.” Jane did not
often make so many words about this little matter,
but she was particularly tired to-night.</p>
<p>The old man fell back wearily.</p>
<p>“Seems ter me, Jane, ye might jest see,”
he fretted. “’T ain’t much I’m
askin’ of ye, an’ ye know them spoons--”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll go,” interrupted
the woman hurriedly.</p>
<p>“And, Jane!”</p>
<p>“Yes.” The woman turned and waited. She
knew quite well what was coming, but it was the very
exquisiteness of her patient care that allowed her
to give no sign that she had waited in that same spot
to hear those same words every night for long years
past.</p>
<p>“An’ ye might count ’em--them spoons,”
said the old man.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“An’ the forks.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“An’ them photygraph pictures in the parlor.”</p>
<p>“All right, father.” The woman turned
away. Her step was slow, but confident--the last word
had been said.</p>
<p>To Jane Pendergast her father had gone with the going
of his keen, clear mind, twenty years before. This
fretful, childish, exacting old man that pottered
about the house all day was but the shell that had
held the kernel--the casket that had held the jewel.
But because of what it had held, Jane guarded it tenderly,
laying at its feet her life as a willing sacrifice.</p>
<p>There had been four children: Edgar, the eldest; Jane,
Mary, and Fred. Edgar had left home early, and was
a successful business man in Boston. Mary had married
a wealthy lawyer of the same city; and Fred had opened
a real estate office in a thriving Southern town.</p>
<p>Jane had stayed at home. There had been a time, it
is true, when she had planned to go away to school;
but the death of Mrs. Pendergast left no one at home
to care for Mary and Fred, so Jane had abandoned the
idea. Later, after Mary had married and Fred had gone
away, there was still her father to be cared for,
though at this time he was well and strong.</p>
<p>Jane had passed her thirty-fifth birthday, when she
became palpitatingly aware of a pair of blue-gray
eyes, and a determined, smooth-shaven chin belonging
to the recently arrived principal of the village school.
In spite of her stern admonition to herself to remember
her years and not quite lose her head, she was fast
drifting into a rosy dream of romance that was all
the more enthralling because so belated, when the summons
of a small boy brought her sharply back to the realities.</p>
<p>“It’s yer father, miss. They want ye ter
come,” he panted. “Somethin’ has
took him. He’s in Mackey’s drug store,
talkin’ awful queer. He ain’t his self,
ye know. They thought maybe you could--do somethin’.”</p>
<p>Jane went at once--but she could do nothing except
to lead gently home the chattering, shifting-eyed
thing that had once been her father. One after another
the village physicians shook their heads--they could
do nothing. Skilled alienists from the city--they,
too, could do nothing. There was nothing that could
be done, they said, except to care for him as one
would for a child. He would live years, probably. His
constitution was wonderfully good. He would not be
violent--just foolish and childish, with perhaps a
growing irritability as the years passed and his physical
strength failed.</p>
<p>Mary and Edgar had come home at once. Mary had stayed
two days and Edgar five hours. They were shocked and
dismayed at their father’s condition. So overwhelmed
with grief were they, indeed, that they fled from the
room almost immediately upon seeing him, and Edgar
took the first train out of town.</p>
<p>Mary, shiveringly, crept from room to room, trying
to find a place where the cackling laugh and the fretful
voice would not reach her. But the old man, like a
child with a new toy, was pleased at his daughter’s
arrival, and followed her about the house with unfailing
persistence.</p>
<p>“But, Mary, he won’t hurt you. Why do
you run?” remonstrated Jane.</p>
<p>Mary shuddered and covered her face with her hands.</p>
<p>“Jane, Jane, how can you take it so calmly!”
she moaned. “How can you bear it?”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s pause. A curious expression
had come to Jane’s face.</p>
<p>“Some one--has to,” she said at last,
quietly.</p>
<p>Jane went down to the village the next afternoon,
leaving her sister in charge at home. When she returned,
an hour later, Mary met her at the gate, crying and
wringing her hands.</p>
<p>“Jane, Jane, I thought you would never come!
I can’t do a thing with him. He insists that
he isn’t at home, and that he wants to go there.
I told him, over and over again, that he <i>was</i>
at home already, but it didn’t do a bit of good.
I’ve had a perfectly awful time.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know. Where is he?”</p>
<p>“In the kitchen. I--I tied him. He just would
go, and I couldn’t hold him.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>Mary!</i>” And Jane fairly
flew up the walk to the kitchen door. A minute later
she appeared, leading an old man, who was whimpering
pitifully.</p>
<p>“Home, Jane. I want ter go home.”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear, I know. We’ll go.” And
Mary watched with wondering eyes while the two walked
down the path, through the gate and across the street
to the next corner, then slowly crossed again and came
back through the familiar doorway.</p>
<p>“Home!” chuckled the old man gleefully.</p>
<p>“We’ve come home!”</p>
<p>Mary went back to Boston the next day. She said it
was fortunate, indeed, that Jane’s nerves were
so strong. For her part, she could not have stood
it another day.</p>
<p>The days slipped into weeks, and the weeks into months.
Jane took the entire care of her father, except that
she hired a woman to come in for an hour or two once
or twice a week, when she herself was obliged to leave
the house.</p>
<p>The owner of the blue-gray eyes did not belie the
determination of his chin, but made a valiant effort
to establish himself on the basis of the old intimacy;
but Miss Pendergast held herself sternly aloof, and
refused to listen to him. In a year he had left town--but
it was not his fault that he was obliged to go away
alone, as Jane Pendergast well knew.</p>
<p>One by one the years passed. Twenty had gone by now
since the small boy came with his fateful summons
that June day. Jane was fifty-five now, a thin-faced,
stoop-shouldered, tired woman--but a woman to whom
release from this constant care was soon to come,
for she was not yet fifty-six when her father died.</p>
<p>All the children and some of the grandchildren came
to the funeral. In the evening the family, with the
exception of Jane, gathered in the sitting-room and
discussed the future, while upstairs the woman whose
fate was most concerned laid herself wearily in bed
with almost a pang that she need not now first be
doubly sure that doors were locked and spoons were
counted.</p>
<p>In the sitting-room below, discussion waxed warm.</p>
<p>“But what shall we do with her?” demanded
Mary. “I had meant to give her my share of the
property,” she added with an air of great generosity,
“but it seems there’s nothing to give.”</p>
<p>“No, there’s nothing to give,” returned
Edgar. “The house had to be mortgaged long ago
to pay their living expenses, and it will have to be
sold.”</p>
<p>“But she’s got to live somewhere!”
Mary’s voice was fretful, questioning.</p>
<p>For a moment there was silence; then Edgar stirrad
in his chair.</p>
<p>“Well, why can’t she go to you, Mary?”
he asked.</p>
<p>“Me!” Mary almost screamed the word.</p>
<p>“Why, Edgar!--when you know how much I have
on my hands with my great house and all my social
duties, to say nothing of Belle’s engagement!”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe Jane could help.”</p>
<p>“Help! How. pray?--to entertain my guests?”
And even Edgar smiled as he thought of Jane, in her
five-year-old bonnet and her ten-year-old black gown,
standing in the receiving line at an exclusive Commonwealth
Avenue reception.</p>
<p>“Well, but--” Edgar paused impotently.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you take her?” It was
Mary who made the suggestion.</p>
<p>“I? Oh, but I--” Edgar stopped and glanced
uneasily at his wife.</p>
<p>“Why, of course, if it’s <i>necessary</i>,”
murmured Mrs. Edgar, with a resigned air. “I
should certainly never wish it said that I refused
a home to any of my husband’s poor relations.”</p>
<p>“Oh, good Heavens! Let her come to us,”
cut in Fred sharply. “I reckon we can take care
of our ‘poor relations’ for a spell yet;
eh, Sally?”</p>
<p>“Why, sure we can,” retorted. Fred’s
wife, in her soft Southern drawl. “We’ll
be right glad to take her, I reckon.” And there
the matter ended.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>Jane Pendergast had been South two months, when one
day Edgar received a letter from his brother Fred.</p>
<p>Jane’s going North [wrote Fred]. Sally says
she can’t have her in the house another week.
’Course, we don’t want to tell Jane exactly
that-- but we’ve fixed it so she’s going
to leave.</p>
<p>I’m sorry if this move causes you folks any
trouble, but there just wasn’t any other way
out of it. You see, Sally is Southern and easy-going,
and I suppose not over-particular in the eyes of you
stiff Northerners. I don’t mind things, either,
and I suppose I’m easy, too.</p>
<p>Well, great Scott!--Jane hadn’t been down here
five minutes before she began to “slick up,”
as she called it--and she’s been “slickin’
up” ever since. Sally always left things round
handy, and so’ve the children; but since Jane
came, we haven’t been able to find a thing when
we wanted it. All our boots and shoes are put away,
turned toes out, and all our hats and coats are snatched
up and hung on pegs the minute we toss them off.</p>
<p>Maybe this don’t seem much to you, but it’s
lots to us. Anyhow, Jane’s going North. She
says she’s going to visit Edgar a little while,
and I told her I’d write and tell you she’s
coming. She’ll be there about the 2Oth. Will
wire you what train.</p>
<p>Your affectionate brother</p>
<p style="font-variant: small-caps; text-align: right">Fred</p>
<p>As gently as possible Edgar broke to his wife the
news of the prospective guest. Julia Pendergast was
a good woman. At least she often said that she was,
adding, at the same time, that she never knowingly
refused to do her duty. She said the same thing now
to her husband, and she immediately made some very
elaborate and very apparent changes in her home and
in her plans, all with an eye to the expected guest.
At four o’clock Wednesday afternoon Edgar met
his sister at the station.</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t see as you’ve changed
much,” he said kindly.</p>
<p>“Haven’t I? Why, seems as if I must look
changed a lot,” chirruped Jane. “I’m
so rested, and Fred and Sally were so good to me! Why,
they tried not to have me do a thing--and I didn’t
do much, only a little puttering around just to help
out with the work.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m,” murmured Edgar. “Well, I’m
glad to see you’re--rested.”</p>
<p>Julia met them in the hall of the beautiful Brookline
residence. Lined up with her were the four younger
children, who lived at home. They made an imposing
array, and Jane was visibly affected.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s so good of you--to meet me--like
this!” she faltered.</p>
<p>“Why, we wished to, I’m sure,” returned
Mrs. Pendergast, with a half-stifled sigh. “I
hope I understand my duty to my guest and my sister-in-law
sufficiently to know what is her due. I did not allow
anything--not even my committee meeting to-day--to
interfere with this call for duty at home.”</p>
<p>Jane fell back. All the glow fled from her face.</p>
<p>“Oh, then you did stay at home--and for me!
I’m so sorry,” she stammered.</p>
<p>But Mrs. Pendergast raised a deprecatory hand.</p>
<p>“Say no more. It was nothing. Now come, let
me show you to your room. I’ve given you Ella’s
room, and put Ella in Tom’s, and Tom in Bert’s,
and moved Bert upstairs to the little room over--”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t!” interrupted Jane, in
quick distress. “I don’t want to put people
out so! Let me go upstairs.” Mrs. Pendergast
frowned and sighed. She had the air of one whose kindest
efforts are misunderstood.</p>
<p>“My dear Jane, I am sorry, but I shall have
to ask you to be as satisfied as you can be with the
arrangements I am able to make for you. You see, even
though this house is large, I am, in a way, cramped
for room. I always have to keep three guest-rooms
ready for immediate occupancy. I am a member of four
clubs and six charitable and religious organizations,
besides the church, and there are always ministers
and delegates whom I feel it my duty to entertain.”</p>
<p>“But that is all the more reason why I should
go upstairs, and not put all those children out of
their rooms,” begged Jane.</p>
<p>Mrs. Pendergast shook her head.</p>
<p>“It does them good,” she said decidely,
“to learn to be self-sacrificing. That is a
virtue we all must learn to practice.”</p>
<p>Jane flushed again; then she turned abruptly. “Julia,
did you want me to--to come to see you?” she
asked.</p>
<p>“Why, certainly; what a question!” returned
Mrs. Pendergast, in a properly shocked tone of voice.
“As if I could do otherwise than to want my
husband’s sister to come to us.”</p>
<p>Jane smiled faintly, but her eyes were troubled.</p>
<p>“Thank you; I’m glad you feel--that way.
You see, at Fred’s--I wouldn’t have them
know it for the world, they were <i>so</i> good
to me--but I thought, lately, that maybe they didn’t
want--But it wasn’t so, of course. It couldn’t
have been. I--I ought not even to think it.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m; no,” returned Mrs. Pendergast,
with noncommittal briefness.</p>
<p>Not six weeks later Mary, in her beautiful Commonwealth
Avenue home, received a call from a little, thin-faced
woman, who curtsied to the butler and asked him to
please tell her sister that she wished to speak to
her.</p>
<p>Mary looked worried and not over-cordial when she
rustled into the room.</p>
<p>“Why, Jane, did you find your way here all alone?”
she cried.</p>
<p>“Yes--no--well, I asked a man at the last; but,
you know, I’ve been here twice before with the
others.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know,” said Mary.</p>
<p>There was a pause; then Jane cleared her throat timidly.</p>
<p>“Mary, I--I’ve been thinking. You see,
just as soon as I’m strong enough, I--I’m
going to take care of myself, and then I won’t
be a burden to--to anybody.” Jane was talking
very fast now. Her words came tremulously between
short, broken breaths. “But until I get well
enough to earn money, I can’t, you see. And
I’ve been thinking;--would you be willing to
take me until--until I can? I’m lots better,
already, and getting stronger every day. It wouldn’t
be for--long.”</p>
<p>“Why, of course, Jane!” Mary spoke cheerfully,
and in a tone a little higher than her ordinary voice.
“I should have asked you to come here before,
only I feared you wouldn’t be happy here--such
a different life for you, and so much noise and confusion
with Belle’s wedding coming on, and all!”</p>
<p>Jane gave her a grateful glance.</p>
<p>“I know, of course,--you’d think that,--and
it isn’t that I’m finding fault with Julia
and Edgar. I couldn’t do that--they’re
so good to me. But, you see, I put them out so. Now,
there’s my room, for one thing. ’T was
Ella’s, and Ella has to keep running in for things
she’s left, and she says it’s the same
with the others. You see, I’ve got Ella’s
room, and Ella’s got Tom’s, and Tom’s
got Bert’s. It’s a regular ’house
that Jack built’--and I’m the’Jack’!”</p>
<p>“I see,” laughed Mary constrainedly. “And
you want to come here? Well, you shall. You--you may
come a week from Saturday,” she added, after
a pause. “I have a reception and a dinner here
the first of the week, and --you’d better stay
away until after that.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you,” sighed Jane. “You
are so good. I shall tell Julia that I’m invited
here, so she won’t think I’m dissatisfied.
They’re so good to me--I wouldn’t want
to hurt their feelings!”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” murmured Mary.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>The big, fat tire of the touring-car popped like a
pistol shot directly in front of the large white house
with the green blinds.</p>
<p>“This is the time we’re in luck, Belle,”
laughed the good-natured young fellow who had been
driving the car. “Do you see that big piazza
just aching for you to come and sit on it?”</p>
<p>“Are we really stalled, Will?” asked the
girl.</p>
<p>“Looks like it--for a while. I’ll have
to telephone Peters to bring down a tire. Of course,
to-day is the day we <i>didn’t</i> take
it!”</p>
<p>Some minutes later the girl found herself on the cool
piazza, in charge of a wonderfully hospitable old
lady, while down the road the good-looking young
fellow was making long strides toward the next house
and a telephone.</p>
<p>“We are staying at the Lindsays’, in North
Belton,” explained the girl, when he was gone,
“and we came out for a little spin before dinner.
Isn’t this Belton? I have an aunt who used to
live here somewhere--Aunt Jane Pendergast”</p>
<p>The old lady sat suddenly erect in her chair.</p>
<p>“My dear,” she cried, “you don’t
mean to say that you’re Jane Pendergast’s
niece! Now, that is queer! Why, this was her very house--we
bought it when the old gentleman died last year. But,
come, we’ll go inside. You’ll want to
see everything, of course!”</p>
<p>It was some time before the young man came back from
telephoning, and it was longer still before Peters
came with the new tire, and helped get the touring-car
ready for the road. The girl was very quiet when they
finally left the house, and there was a troubled look
deep in her eyes.</p>
<p>“Why, Belle, what’s the matter?”
asked the young fellow concernedly, as he slackened
speed in the cool twilight of the woods, some minutes
later. “What’s troubling you, dear?”</p>
<p>“Will”--the girl’s voice shook--“Will,
that was Aunt Jane’s house. That old lady--told
me.”</p>
<p>“Aunt Jane?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes--the little gray-haired woman that
came to live with us two months ago. You know her.”</p>
<p>“Why, y-yes; I think I’ve--seen her.”</p>
<p>The girl winced, as from a blow.</p>
<p>“Will, don’t! I can’t bear it,”
she choked. “It only shows how we’ve treated
her--how little we’ve made of her, when we ought
to have done everything--everything to make her happy.
Instead of that, we were brutes--all of us!”</p>
<p>“Belle!”--the tone was an indignant protest.</p>
<p>“But we were--listen! She lived in that house
all her life till last year. She never went anywhere
or did anything. For twenty years she lived with an
old man who had lost his mind, and she tended him like
a baby--only a baby grows older all the time and more
interesting, while he--oh, Will, it was awful! That
old lady--told me.”</p>
<p>“By Jove!” exclaimed the young fellow,
under his breath.</p>
<p>“And there were other things,” hurried
on the girl, tremulously. “Some way, I never
thought of Aunt Jane only as old and timid; but she
was young like us, once. She wanted to go away to
school--but she couldn’t go; and there was some
one who--loved her--once--later, and she sent him--away.
That was after--after grandfather lost his mind. Mother
and Uncle Edgar and Uncle Fred--they all went away
and lived their own lives, but she stayed on. Then
last year grandfather died.”</p>
<p>The girl paused and moistened her lips. The man did
not speak. His eyes were on the road ahead of the
slow-moving car.</p>
<p>“I heard to-day--how--how proud and happy Aunt
Jane was that Uncle Fred had asked her to come and
live with him,” resumed the girl, after a minute.
“That old lady told me how Aunt Jane talked and
talked about it before she went away, and how she
said that all her life she had taken care of others,
and it would be so good to feel that now some one was
going to look out for her, though, of course, she should
do everything she could to help, and she hoped she
could still be of some use.”</p>
<p>“Well, she has been, hasn’t she?”</p>
<p>The girl shook her head.</p>
<p>“That’s the worst of it. We haven’t
made her think she was. She stayed at Uncle Fred’s
for a while, and then he sent her to Uncle Edgar’s.
Something must have been wrong there, for she asked
mother two months ago if she might come to us.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sure you’ve been--good
to her.”</p>
<p>“But we haven’t!” cried the girl.
“Mother meant all right, I know, but she didn’t
think. And I’ve been--horrid. Aunt Jane tried
to show her interest in my wedding plans, but I only
laughed at her and said she wouldn’t understand.
We’ve pushed her aside, always,--we’ve
never made her one of us; and--we’ve always
made her feel her dependence.”</p>
<p>“But you’ll do differently now, dear,--now
that you understand.”</p>
<p>Again the girl shook her head.</p>
<p>“We can’t,” she moaned. “It’s
too late. I had a letter from mother last night. Aunt
Jane’s sick--awfully sick. Mother said I might
expect to--to hear of the end any day.”</p>
<p>“But there’s some time left--a little!”--his
voice broke and choked into silence. Suddenly he made
a quick movement, and the car beneath them leaped
forward like a charger that feels the prick of the
spur.</p>
<p>The girl gave a frightened cry, then a tremulous little
sob of joy. The man had cried in her ear, in response
to her questioning eyes:</p>
<p>“We’re--going--to--Aunt Jane!”</p>
<p>And to them both, at the moment, there seemed to be
waiting at the end of the road a little bent old woman,
into whose wistful eyes they were to bring the light
of joy and peace.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_08"></a>A Couple of Capitalists</h1>
<p>On the top of the hill stood the big brick house--a
mansion, compared to the other houses of the New England
village. At the foot of the hill nestled the tiny
brown farmhouse, half buried in lilacs, climbing roses,
and hollyhocks.</p>
<p>Years ago, when Reuben had first brought Emily to
that little brown cottage, he had said to her, ruefully:
“Sweetheart, ’tain’t much of a place,
I know, but we’ll save and save, every cent we
can get, an’ by an’ by we’ll go
up to live in the big house on the hill!” And
he kissed so tenderly the pretty little woman he had
married only that morning that she smiled brightly
and declared that the small brown house was the very
nicest place in the world.</p>
<p>But, as time passed, the “big house” came
to be the Mecca of all their hopes, and penny by penny
the savings grew. It was slow work, though, and to
hearts less courageous the thing would have seemed
an impossibility. No luxuries--and scarcely the bare
necessities of life-- came to the little house under
the hill, but every month a tiny sum found its way
into the savings bank. Fortunately, air and sunshine
were cheap, and, if inside the house there was lack
of beauty and cheer, outside there was a riotous wealth
of color and bloom--the flowers under Emily’s
loving care flourished and multiplied.</p>
<p>The few gowns in the modest trousseau had been turned
inside out and upside down, only to be dyed and turned
and twisted all over again. But what was a dyed gown,
when one had all that money in the bank and the big
house on the hill in prospect! Reuben’s best
suit grew rusty and seedy, but the man patiently,
even gleefully, wore it as long as it would hang together;
and when the time came that new garments must be bought
for both husband and wife, only the cheapest and flimsiest
of material was purchased--but the money in the bank
grew.</p>
<p>Reuben never smoked. While other men used the fragrant
weed to calm their weary brains and bodies, Reuben--ate
peanuts. It had been a curious passion of his, from
the time when as a boy he was first presented with
a penny for his very own, to spend all his spare cash
on this peculiar luxury; and the slow munching of
this plebeian delicacy had the same soothing effect
on him that a good cigar or an old clay pipe had upon
his brother-man. But from the day of his marriage all
this was changed; the dimes and the nickels bought
no more peanuts, but went to swell the common fund.</p>
<p>It is doubtful if even this heroic economy would have
accomplished the desired end had not a certain railroad
company cast envious eyes upon the level valley and
forthwith sent long arms of steel bearing a puffing
engine up through the quiet village. A large tract
of waste land belonging to Reuben Gray suddenly became
surprisingly valuable, and a sum that trebled twice
over the scanty savings of years grew all in a night.</p>
<p>One crisp October day, Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Gray awoke
to the fact that they were a little under sixty years
of age, and in possession of more than the big sum
of money necessary to enable them to carry out the
dreams of their youth. They began joyous preparations
at once.</p>
<p>The big brick house at the top of the hill had changed
hands twice during the last forty years, and the present
owner expressed himself as nothing loath to part,
not only with the house itself, but with many of its
furnishings; and before the winter snow fell the little
brown cottage was sold to a thrifty young couple from
the neighboring village, and the Grays took up their
abode in their new home.</p>
<p>“Well, Em’ly, this is livin’, now,
ain’t it?” said Reuben, as he carefully
let himself down into the depths of a velvet-covered
chair in the great parlor. “My! ain’t
this nice!”</p>
<p>“Just perfectly lovely,” quavered the
thin voice of his wife, as she threw a surreptitious
glance at Reuben’s shoes to see if they were
quite clean enough for such sacred precincts.</p>
<p>It was their first evening in their new abode, and
they were a little weary, for they had spent the entire
day in exploring every room, peering into every closet,
and trying every chair that the establishment contained.
It was still quite early when they trudged anxiously
about the house, intent on fastening the numerous
doors and windows.</p>
<p>“Dear me!” exclaimed the little woman
nervously, “I’m ’most afraid to go
to bed, Reuben, for fear some one will break in an’
steal all these nice things.”</p>
<p>“Well, you can sit up if you want to,”
replied her husband dryly, “but I shall go to
bed. Most of these things have been here nigh on to
twenty years, an’ I guess they’ll last
the night through.” And he marched solemnly
upstairs to the big east chamber, meekly followed by
his wife.</p>
<p>It was the next morning when Mrs. Gray was washing
the breakfast dishes that her husband came in at the
kitchen door and stood looking thoughtfully at her.</p>
<p>“Say, Emily,” said he, “you’d
oughter have a hired girl. ’T ain’t your
place to be doin’ work like this now.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Gray gasped--half terrified, half pleased--and
shook her head; but her husband was not to be silenced.</p>
<p>“Well, you had--an’ you’ve got to,
too. An’ you must buy some new clothes--lots
of ’em! Why, Em’ly, we’ve got heaps
of money now, an’ we hadn’t oughter wear
such lookin’ things.”</p>
<p>Emily nodded; she had thought of this before. And
the hired-girl hint must have found a warm spot in
her heart in which to grow, for that very afternoon
she sallied forth, intent on a visit to her counselor
on all occasions--the doctor’s wife.</p>
<p>“Well, Mis’ Steele, I don’t know
what to do. Reuben says I ought to have a hired girl;
but I hain’t no more idea where to get one than
anything, an’ I don’t know’s I want
one, if I did.”</p>
<p>And Mrs. Gray sat back in her chair and rocked violently
to and fro, eying her hostess with the evident consciousness
of having presented a poser. That resourceful woman,
however, was far from being nonplussed; she beamed
upon her visitor with a joyful smile.</p>
<p>“Just the thing, my dear Mrs. Gray! You know
I am to go South with May for the winter. The house
will be closed and the doctor at the hotel. I had
just been wondering what to do with Nancy, for I want
her again in the spring. Now, you can have her until
then, and by that time you will know how you like
the idea of keeping a girl. She is a perfect treasure,
capable of carrying along the entire work of the household,
only”--and Mrs. Steele paused long enough to
look doubtfully at her friend--“she is a little
independent, and won’t stand much interference.”</p>
<p>Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Gray departed, well pleased
though withal a little frightened. She spent the rest
of the afternoon in trying to decide between a black
alpaca and a green cashmere dress.</p>
<p>That night Reuben brought home a large bag of peanuts
and put them down in triumph on the kitchen table.</p>
<p>“There!” he announced in high glee, “I’m
goin’ to have a bang-up good time!”</p>
<p>“Why, Reuben,” remonstrated his wife gently,
“you can’t eat them things-- you hain’t
got no teeth to chew ’em with!”</p>
<p>The man’s lower jaw dropped.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m a-goin’ to try it, anyhow,”
he insisted. And try he did; but the way his poor
old stomach rebelled against the half-masticated things
effectually prevented a repetition of the feast.</p>
<p>Early on Monday morning Nancy appeared. Mrs. Gray
assumed a brave aspect, but she quaked in her shoes
as she showed the big strapping girl to her room.
Five minutes later Nancy came into the kitchen to find
Mrs. Gray bending over an obstinate coal fire in the
range--with neither coal nor range was the little
woman in the least familiar.</p>
<p>“There, now,” said Nancy briskly, “I’ll
fix that. You just tell me what you want for dinner,
and I can find the things myself.” And she attacked
the stove with such a clatter and din that Mrs. Gray
retreated in terror, murmuring “ham and eggs,
if you please,” as she fled through the door.
Once in the parlor, she seated herself in the middle
of the room and thought how nice it was not to get
dinner; but she jumped nervously at every sound from
the kitchen.</p>
<p>On Tuesday she had mastered her fear sufficiently
to go into the kitchen and make a cottage cheese.
She did not notice the unfavorable glances of her
maid-of-all-work. Wednesday morning she spent happily
puttering over “doing up” some handkerchiefs,
and she wondered why Nancy kept banging the oven door
so often. Thursday she made a special kind of pie that
Reuben liked, and remarked pointedly to Nancy that
she herself never washed dishes without wearing an
extra apron; furthermore, she always placed the pans
the other way in the sink. Friday she rearranged the
tins on the pantry shelves, that Nancy had so unaccountably
mussed up. On Saturday the inevitable explosion came:</p>
<p>“If you please, mum, I’m willin’
to do your work, but seems to me it don’t make
no difference to you whether I wear one apron or six,
or whether I hang my dish-towels on a string or on
the bars, or whether I wash goblets or kittles first;
and I ain’t in the habit of havin’ folks
spyin’ round on me. If you want me to go, I’ll
go; but if I stay, I want to be let alone!”</p>
<p>Poor little Mrs. Gray fled to her seat in the parlor,
and for the rest of that winter she did not dare to
call her soul her own; but her table was beautifully
set and served, and her house was as neat as wax.</p>
<p>The weeks passed and Reuben began to be restless.
One day he came in from the postoffice fairly bubbling
over with excitement.</p>
<p>“Say, Em’ly, when folks have money they
travel. Let’s go somewhere!”</p>
<p>“Why, Reuben--where?” quavered his wife,
dropping into the nearest chair.</p>
<p>“Oh, I dunno,” with cheerful vagueness;
then, suddenly animated, “Let’s go to
Boston and see the sights!”</p>
<p>“But, Reuben, we don’t know no one there,”
ventured his wife doubtfully.</p>
<p>“Pooh! What if we don’t? Hain’t
we got money? Can’t we stay at a hotel? Well,
I guess we can!”</p>
<p>And his overwhelming courage put some semblance of
confidence into the more timid heart of his wife,
until by the end of the week she was as eager as he.</p>
<p>Nancy was tremblingly requested to take a two weeks’
vacation, and great was the rejoicing when she graciously
acquiesced.</p>
<p>On a bright February morning the journey began. It
was not a long one-- four hours only--and the time
flew by as on wings of the wind. Reuben assumed an
air of worldly wisdom, quite awe-inspiring to his wife.
He had visited Boston as a boy, and so had a dim idea
of what to expect; moreover, he had sold stock and
produce in the large towns near his home, and on the
whole felt quite self-sufficient.</p>
<p>As the long train drew into the station, and they
alighted and followed the crowd, Mrs. Gray looked
with round eyes of wonder at the people--she had not
realized that there were so many in the world, and
she clung closer and closer to Reuben, who was marching
along with a fine show of indifference.</p>
<p>“There,” said he, as he deposited his
wife and his bags in a seat in the huge waiting-room;
“now you stay right here, an’ don’t
you move. I’m goin’ to find out about
hotels and things.”</p>
<p>He was gone so long that she was nearly fainting from
fright before she spied his dear form coming toward
her. His thin, plain face looked wonderfully beautiful
to her, and she almost hugged him right before all
those people.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ve got a hotel all right; but
I hain’t been here for so long I’ve kinder
forgot about the streets, so the man said we’d
better have a team to take us there.” And he
picked up the bags and trudged off, closely followed
by Emily.</p>
<p>His shrewd Yankee wit carried him safely through a
bargain with the driver, and they were soon jolting
and rumbling along to their destination. He had asked
the man behind the news-stand about a hotel, casually
mentioning that he had money--plenty of it--and wanted
a “bang-up good place.” The spirit of
mischief had entered the heart of the news-man, and
he had given Reuben the name of one of the very highest-priced,
most luxurious hotels in the city.</p>
<p>As the carriage stopped, Reuben marched boldly up
the broad steps and entered the palatial office, with
Emily close at his heels. Two bell-boys sprang forward--the
one to take the bags, the other to offer to show Mrs.
Gray to the reception-room.</p>
<p>“No, thank you, I ain’t particular,”
said she sweetly; “I’ll wait for Reuben
here.” And she dropped into the nearest chair,
while her husband advanced toward the desk. She noticed
that men were looking curiously at her, and she felt
relieved when Reuben and the pretty boy came back and
said they would go up to their room.</p>
<p>She stood the elevator pretty well, though she gave
a little gasp (which she tried to choke into a cough)
as it started. Reuben turned to the boy.</p>
<p>“Where can I get somethin’ to eat?”</p>
<p>“Luncheon is being served in the main dining-room
on the first floor, sir.”</p>
<p>Visions of a lunch as he knew it in Emily’s
pantry came to him, and he looked a little dubious.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m pretty hungry; but if that’s
all I can get I suppose it will have to do.”</p>
<p>Ten minutes later an officious head waiter, whom Emily
looked upon with timid awe, was seating them in a
superbly appointed dining-room. Reuben looked at the
menu doubtfully, while an attentive, soft-voiced man
at his elbow bent low to catch his order. Few of the
strange-looking words conveyed any sort of meaning
to the poor hungry man. At length spying “chicken”
halfway down the card, he pointed to it in relief.</p>
<p>“I guess I’ll take some of that,”
he said, briefly; then he added, “I don’t
know how much it costs--you hain’t got no price
after it.”</p>
<p>The waiter comprehended at once.</p>
<p>“The luncheon is served in courses, sir; you
pay for the whole--whether you eat it or not,”
he added shrewdly. “If you will let me serve
you according to my judgment, sir, I think I can please
you.”</p>
<p>And there the forlorn little couple sat, amazed and
hungry, through six courses, each one of which seemed
to their uneducated palate one degree worse than the
last.</p>
<p>Two hours later they started for a long walk down
the wonderful, fascinating street. Each marvelous
window display came in for its full share of attention,
but they stood longest before bakeries and restaurants.
Finally, upon coming to one of the latter, where an
enticing sign announced “<i>Boiled Dinner To-day,
Served Hot at All Hours</i>,” Reuben could
endure it no longer.</p>
<p>“By Jinks, Em’ly, I’ve just got
to have some of that. That stodged-up mess I ate at
the hotel didn’t go to the spot at all. Come
on, let’s have a good square meal.”</p>
<p>The hotel knew them just one night. The next morning
before breakfast Reuben manfully paid his--to him
astounding--bill and departed for more congenial quarters,
which they soon found on a neighboring side street.</p>
<p>The rest of the visit was, of course, delightful,
only the streets were pretty crowded and noisy, and
they couldn’t sleep very well at night; moreover,
Reuben lost his pocketbook with a small sum of money
in it; so, on the whole, they concluded to go home
a little before the two weeks ended.</p>
<p>When spring came Nancy returned to her former mistress,
and her vacant throne remained unoccupied. Little
by little the dust gathered on the big velvet chairs
in the parlor, and the room was opened less and less.
When the first green things commenced to send tender
shoots up through the wet, brown earth, Reuben’s
restlessness was very noticeable. By and by he began
to go off very early in the morning, returning at noon
for a hasty dinner, then away again till night. To
his wife’s repeated questioning he would reply,
sheepishly, “Oh, just loafin’, that’s
all.”</p>
<p>And Emily was nervous, too. Of late she had taken
a great fancy to a daily walk, and it always led in
one direction--down past the little brown house. Of
course, she glanced over the fence at the roses and
lilacs, and she couldn’t help seeing that they
all looked sadly neglected. By and by the weeds came,
grew, and multiplied; and every time she passed the
gate her throat fairly choked in sympathy with her
old pets.</p>
<p>Evenings, she and Reuben spent very happily on the
back stoop, talking of their great good fortune in
being able to live in such a fine large house. Somehow
they said more than usual about it this spring, and
Reuben often mentioned how glad he was that his wife
didn’t have to dig in the garden any more; and
Emily would reply that she, too, was glad that he
was having so easy a time. Then they would look down
at the little brown farmhouse and wonder how they
ever managed to get along in so tiny a place.</p>
<p>One day, in passing this same little house, Emily
stopped a moment and leaned over the gate, that she
might gain a better view of her favorite rosebush.</p>
<p>She evinced the same interest the next two mornings,
and on the third she timidly opened the gate and walked
up the old path to the door. A buxom woman with a
big baby in her arms, and a bigger one hanging to her
skirts, answered her knock.</p>
<p>“How do you do, Mis’ Gray. Won’t
you come in?” said she civilly, looking mildly
surprised.</p>
<p>“No, thank you--yes--I mean--I came to see you,”
stammered Emily confusedly.</p>
<p>“You’re very good,” murmured the
woman, still standing in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Your flowers are so pretty,” ventured
Mrs. Gray, unable to keep the wistfulness out of her
voice.</p>
<p>“Do you think so?” carelessly; “I
s’pose they need weedin’. What with my
babies an’ all, I don’t get much time for
posies.”</p>
<p>“Oh, please,--would it be too much trouble to
let me come an’ putter around in the beds?”
queried the little woman eagerly. “Oh, I would
like it so much!”</p>
<p>The other laughed heartily.</p>
<p>“Well, I really don’t see how it’s
goin’ to trouble me to have you weedin’
my flowers; in fact, I should think the shoe would
be on the other foot.” Then the red showed in
her face a little. “You’re welcome to
do whatever you want, Mis’ Gray.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Emily, as she
quickly pulled up an enormous weed at her feet.</p>
<p>It took but a few hours’ work to bring about
a wonderfully happy change in that forlorn garden,
and then Mrs. Gray found that she had a big pile of
weeds to dispose of. Filling her apron with a portion
of them, she started to go behind the house in search
of a garbage heap. Around the corner she came face
to face with her husband, hoe in hand.</p>
<p>“Why, Reuben Gray! Whatever in the world are
<i>you</i> doing?”</p>
<p>For a moment the man was crushed with the enormity
of his crime; then he caught sight of his wife’s
dirt-stained fingers.</p>
<p>“Well, I guess I ain’t doin’ no
worse than you be!” And he turned his back and
began to hoe vigorously.</p>
<p>Emily dropped the weeds where she stood, turned about,
and walked through the garden and up the hill, pondering
many things.</p>
<p>Supper was strangely quiet that night. Mrs. Gray had
asked a single question: “Reuben, do you want
the little house back?”</p>
<p>A glad light leaped into the old man’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Em’ly--would you be willin’ to?”</p>
<p>After the supper dishes were put away, Mrs. Gray,
with a light shawl over her head, came to her husband
on the back stoop.</p>
<p>“Come, dear; I think we’d better go down
to-night.”</p>
<p>A few minutes later they sat stiffly in the best room
of the farmhouse, while the buxom woman and her husband
looked wonderingly at them.</p>
<p>“You wan’t thinkin’ of sellin’,
was ye?” began Reuben insinuatingly.</p>
<p>The younger man’s eyelid quivered a little.
“Well, no,--I can’t hardly say that I
was. I hain’t but just bought.”</p>
<p>Reuben hitched his chair a bit and glanced at Emily.</p>
<p>“Well, me and my wife have concluded that we’re
too old to transplant-- we don’t seem to take
root very easy--and we’ve been thinkin’--would
you swap even, now?”</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>It must have been a month later that Reuben Gray and
his wife were contentedly sitting in the old familiar
kitchen of the little brown house.</p>
<p>“I’ve been wondering, Reuben,” said
his wife--“I’ve been wondering if ’twouldn’t
have been just as well if we’d taken some of
the good things while they was goin’--before
we got too old to enjoy ’em.”</p>
<p>“Yes--peanuts, for instance,” acquiesced
her husband ruefully.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_09"></a>In the Footsteps of Katy</h1>
<p>Only Alma had lived--Alma, the last born. The other
five, one after another, had slipped from loving,
clinging arms into the great Silence, leaving worse
than a silence behind them; and neither Nathan Kelsey
nor his wife Mary could have told you which hurt the
more,--the saying of a last good-bye to a stalwart,
grown lad of twenty, or the folding of tiny, waxen
hands over a heart that had not counted a year of beating.
Yet both had fallen to their lot.</p>
<p>As for Alma--Alma carried in her dainty self all the
love, hopes, tenderness, ambitions, and prayers that
otherwise would have been bestowed upon six. And Alma
was coming home.</p>
<p>“Mary,” said Nathan one June evening,
as he and his wife sat on the back porch, “I
saw Jim Hopkins ter-day. Katy’s got home.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m,”--the low rocker swayed gently
to and fro,--“Katy’s been ter college,
same as Alma, ye know.”</p>
<p>“Yes; an’--an’ that’s what
Jim was talkin’ ‘bout He was feelin’
bad-powerful bad.”</p>
<p>“Bad!”--the rocker stopped abruptly. “Why,
Nathan!”</p>
<p>“Yes; he--” There was a pause, then the
words came with the rush of desperation. “He
said home wan’t like home no more. That Katy
was as good as gold, an’ they was proud of her;
but she was turrible upsettin’. Jim has ter
rig up nights now ter eat supper--put on his coat an’
a b’iled collar; an’ he says he’s
got so he don’t dast ter open his head. They’re
all so, too--Mis’ Hopkins, an’ Sue, an’
Aunt Jane--don’t none of ’em dast ter
speak.”</p>
<p>“Why, Nathan!--why not?” “‘Cause
of--Katy. Jim says there don’t nothin’
they say suit Katy--’bout its wordin’,
I mean. She changes it an’ tells ’em what
they’d orter said.”</p>
<p>“Why, the saucy little baggage!”--the
rocker resumed its swaying, and Mary Kelsey’s
foot came down on the porch floor with decided, rhythmic
pats.</p>
<p>The man stirred restlessly.</p>
<p>“But she ain’t sassy, Mary,” he
demurred. “Jim says Katy’s that sweet
an’ pleasant about it that ye can’t do
nothin’. She tells ’em she’s kerrectin’
’em fur their own good, an’ that they need
culturin’. An’ Jim says she spends all
o’ meal-time tellin’ ’bout the things
on the table, --salt, an’ where folks git it,
an’ pepper, an’ tumblers, an’ how
folks make ’em. He says at first ‘twas
kind o’ nice an’ he liked ter hear it;
but now, seems as if he hain’t got no appetite
left ev’ry time he sets down ter the table.
He don’t relish eatin’ such big words an’
queer names.</p>
<p>“An’ that ain’t all,” resumed
Nathan, after a pause for breath. “Jim can’t
go hoein’ nor diggin’ but she’ll
foller him an’ tell ’bout the bugs an’
worms he turns up,--how many legs they’ve got,
an’ all that. An’ the moon ain’t
jest a moon no more, an’ the stars ain’t
stars. They’re sp’eres an’ planets
with heathenish names an’ rings an’ orbits.
Jim feels bad--powerful bad--’bout it, an’
he says he can’t see no way out of it. He knows
they hain’t had much schooling any of ’em,
only Katy, an’ he says that sometimes he ’most
wishes that--that she hadn’t, neither.”</p>
<p>Nathan Kelsey’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper,
and with the last words his eyes sent a furtive glance
toward the stoop-shouldered little figure in the low
rocker. The chair was motionless now, and its occupant
sat picking at a loose thread in the gingham apron.</p>
<p>“I--I wouldn’t ‘a’ spoke of
it,” stammered the man, with painful hesitation,
“only--well, ye see, I--you-” he stopped
helplessly.</p>
<p>“I know,” faltered the little woman. “You
was thinkin’ of--Alma.”</p>
<p>“She wouldn’t do it--Alma wouldn’t!”
retorted the man sharply, almost before his wife had
ceased speaking.</p>
<p>“No, no, of course not; but--Nahtan, ye <i>don’t</i>
think Alma’d ever be--<i>ashamed</i> of
us, do ye?”</p>
<p>“’Course not!” asserted Nathan,
but his voice shook. “Don’t ye worry,
Mary,” he comforted. “Alma ain’t
a-goin’ ter do no kerrectin’ of us.”</p>
<p>“Nathan, I--I think that’s ‘co-rectin’,’”
suggested the woman, a little breathlessly.</p>
<p>The man turned and gazed at his wife without speaking.
Then his jaw fell.</p>
<p>“Well, by sugar, Mary! <i>You</i> ain’t
a-goin’ ter begin it, be ye?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“Why, no, ‘course not!” she laughed
confusedly. “An’--an’ Alma wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“’Course Alma wouldn’t,” echoed
her husband. “Come, it’s time ter shut
up the house.”</p>
<p>The date of Alma’s expected arrival was yet
a week ahead.</p>
<p>As the days passed, there came a curious restlessness
to the movements of both Nathan and his wife. It was
on the last night of that week of waiting that Mrs.
Kelsey spoke.</p>
<p>“Nathan,” she began, with forced courage,
“I’ve been over to Mis’ Hopkins’s--an’
asked her what special things ’twas that Katy
set such store by. I thought mebbe if we knew ’em
beforehand, an’ could do ’em, an’--”</p>
<p>“That’s jest what I asked Jim ter-day,
Mary,” cut in Nathan excitedly.</p>
<p>“Nathan, you didn’t, now! Oh, I’m
so glad! An’ we’ll do ’em, won’t
we?-- jest ter please her?”</p>
<p>“’Course we will!”</p>
<p>“Ye see it’s four years since she was
here, Nathan, what with her teachin’ summers.”</p>
<p>“Sugar, now! Is it? It hain’t seemed so
long.”</p>
<p>“Nathan,” interposed Mrs. Kelsey, anxiously,
“I think that ‘hain’t’ ain’t--I
mean <i>aren’t</i> right. I think you’d
orter say, ’It haven’t seemed so long.’”</p>
<p>The man frowned, and made an impatient gesture.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, I know,” soothed his wife;
“but,--well, we might jest as well begin now
an’ git used to it. Mis’ Hopkins said that
them two words, ‘hain’t an’ ’ain’t,
was what Katy hated most of anythin’.”</p>
<p>“Yes; Jim mentioned ’em, too,” acknowledged
Nathan gloomily. “But he said that even them
wan’t half so bad as his riggin’ up nights.
He said that Katy said that after the ‘toil
of the day’ they must ’don fresh garments
an’ come ter the evenin’ meal with minds
an’ bodies refreshed.’”</p>
<p>“Yes; an’, Nathan, ain’t my black
silk--”</p>
<p>“Ahem! I’m a-thinkin’ it wa’n’t
me that said ‘ain’t’ that time,”
interposed Nathan.</p>
<p>“Dear, dear, Nathan!--did I? Oh, dear, what
<i>will</i> Alma say?”</p>
<p>“It don’t make no diff’rence what
Alma says, Mary. Don’t ye fret,” returned
the man with sudden sharpness, as he rose to his feet.
“I guess Alma’ll have ter take us ’bout
as we be--’bout as we be.”</p>
<p>Yet it was Nathan who asked, just as his wife was
dropping off to sleep that night:--</p>
<p>“Mary, is it three o’ them collars I’ve
got, or four?--b’iled ones, I mean.”</p>
<p>At five o’clock the next afternoon Mrs. Kelsey
put on the treasured black silk dress, sacred for
a dozen years to church, weddings, and funerals. Nathan,
warm and uncomfortable in his Sunday suit and stiff
collar, had long since driven to the station for Alma.
The house, brushed and scrubbed into a state of speckless
order, was thrown wide open to welcome the returning
daughter. At a quarter before six she came.</p>
<p>“Mother, you darling!” cried a voice,
and Mrs. Kelsey found herself in the clasp of strong
young arms, and gazing into a flushed, eager face.
“Don’t you look good! And doesn’t
everything look good!” finished the girl.</p>
<p>“Does it--I mean, <i>do</i> it?”
quavered the little woman excitedly. “Oh, Alma,
I <i>am</i> glad ter see ye!”</p>
<p>Behind Alma’s back Nathan flicked a bit of dust
from his coat. The next instant he raised a furtive
hand and gave his collar and neckband a savage pull.</p>
<p>At the supper-table that night ten minutes of eager
questioning on the part of Alma had gone by before
Mrs. Kelsey realized that thus far their conversation
had been of nothing more important than Nathan’s
rheumatism, her own health, and the welfare of Rover,
Tabby, and the mare Topsy. Commensurate with the happiness
that had been hers during those ten minutes came now
her remorse. She hastened to make amends.</p>
<p>“There, there, Alma, I beg yer pardon, I’m
sure. I hain’t--er--I <i>haven’t</i>
meant ter keep ye talkin’ on such triflin’
things, dear. Now talk ter us yer self. Tell us about
things--anythin’--anythin’ on the table
or in the room,” she finished feverishly.</p>
<p>For a moment the merry-faced girl stared in frank
amazement at her mother; then she laughed gleefully.</p>
<p>“On the table? In the room?” she retorted.
“Well, it’s the dearest room ever, and
looks so good to me! As for the table--the rolls are
feathers, the coffee is nectar, and the strawberries--well,
the strawberries are just strawberries--they couldn’t
be nicer.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Alma, but I didn’t mean----”</p>
<p>“Tut, tut, tut!” interrupted Alma laughingly.
“Just as if the cook didn’t like her handiwork
praised! Why, when I draw a picture--oh, and I haven’t
told you!” she broke off excitedly. The next
instant she was on her feet. “Alma Mead Kelsey,
Illustrator; at your service,” she announced
with a low bow. Then she dropped into her seat again
and went on speaking.</p>
<p>“You see, I’ve been doing this sort of
thing for some time,” she explained, “and
have had some success in selling. My teacher has always
encouraged me, and, acting on his advice, I stayed
over in New York a week with a friend, and took some
of my work to the big publishing houses. That’s
why I didn’t get here as soon as Kate Hopkins
did. I hated to put off my coming; but now I’m
so glad I did. Only think! I sold every single thing,
and I have orders and orders ahead.”</p>
<p>“Well, by sugar!” ejaculated the man at
the head of the table.</p>
<p>“Oh-h-h!” breathed the little woman opposite.
“Oh, Alma, I’m so glad!”</p>
<p>In spite of Mrs. Kelsey’s protests that night
after supper, Alma tripped about the kitchen and pantry
wiping the dishes and putting them away. At dusk father,
mother, and daughter seated themselves on the back
porch.</p>
<p>“There!” sighed Alma. “Isn’t
this restful? And isn’t that moon glorious?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Kelsey shot a quick look at her husband; then
she cleared her throat nervously.</p>
<p>“Er--yes,” she assented. “I--I s’pose
you know what it’s made of, an’ how big
‘tis, an’--an’ what there is on it,
don’t ye, Alma?”</p>
<p>Alma raised her eyebrows.</p>
<p>“Hm-m; well, there are still a few points that
I and the astronomers haven’t quite settled,”
she returned, with a whimsical smile.</p>
<p>“An’ the stars, they’ve got names,
I s’pose--every one of ’em,” proceeded
Mrs. Kelsey, so intent on her own part that Alma’s
reply passed unnoticed.</p>
<p>Alma laughed; then she assumed an attitude of mock
rapture, and quoted:</p>
<p class="verse">  “’Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific,<br />
   Fain would I fathom thy nature specific;<br />
   Loftily poised in ether capacious,<br />
   Strongly resembling the gem carbonaceous.’”</p>
<p>There was a long silence. Alma’s eyes were on
the flying clouds.</p>
<p>“Would--would you mind saying that again, Alma?”
asked Mrs. Kelsey at last timidly.</p>
<p>Alma turned with a start.</p>
<p>“Saying what, dearie?--oh, that nonsensical
verse? Of course not! That’s only another way
of saying ‘twinkle, twinkle, little star.’
Means just the same, only uses up a few more letters
to make the words. Listen.” And she repeated
the two, line for line.</p>
<p>“Oh!” said her mother faintly. “Er--thank
you.”</p>
<p>“I--I guess I’ll go to bed,” announced
Nathan Kelsey suddenly.</p>
<p>The next morning Alma’s pleadings were in vain.
Mrs. Kelsey insisted that Alma should go about her
sketching, leaving the housework for her own hands
to perform. With a laughing protest and a playful pout,
Alma tucked her sketchbook under her arm and left
the house to go down by the river. In the field she
came upon her father.</p>
<p>“Hard at work, dad?” she called affectionately.
“Old Mother Earth won’t yield her increase
without just so much labor, will she?”</p>
<p>“That she won’t,” laughed the man.
Then he flushed a quick red and set a light foot on
a crawling thing of many legs which had emerged from
beneath an overturned stone.</p>
<p>“Oh!” cried Alma. “Your foot, father--your’re
crushing something!”</p>
<p>The flush grew deeper.</p>
<p>“Oh, I guess not,” rejoined the man, lifting
his foot, and giving a curiously resigned sigh as
he sent an apprehensive glance into the girl’s
face.</p>
<p>“Dear, dear! isn’t he funny?” murmured
the girl, bending low and giving a gentle poke with
the pencil in her hand. “Only fancy,” she
added, straightening herself, “only fancy if
we had so many feet. Just picture the size of our
shoe bill!” And she laughed and turned away.</p>
<p>“Well, by gum!” ejaculated the man, looking
after her. Then he fell to work, and his whistle,
as he worked, carried something of the song of a bird
set free from a cage.</p>
<p>A week passed.</p>
<p>The days were spent by Alma in roaming the woods and
fields, pencil and paper in hand; they were spent
by her mother in the hot kitchen over a hotter stove.
To Alma’s protests and pleadings Mrs. Kelsey
was deaf. Alma’s place was not there, her work
was not housework, declared Alma’s mother.</p>
<p>On Mrs. Kelsey the strain was beginning to tell. It
was not the work alone--though that was no light matter,
owing to her anxiety that Alma’s pleasure and
comfort should find nothing wanting--it was more than
the work.</p>
<p>Every night at six the anxious little woman, flushed
from biscuit-baking and chicken-broiling and almost
sick with fatigue, got out the black silk gown and
the white lace collar and put them on with trembling
hands. Thus robed in state she descended to the supper-table,
there to confront her husband still more miserable
in the stiff collar and black coat.</p>
<p>Nor yet was this all. Neither the work nor the black
silk dress contained for Mrs. Kelsey quite the possibilities
of soul torture that were to be found in the words
that fell from her lips. As the days passed, the task
the little woman had set for herself became more and
more hopeless, until she scarcely could bring herself
to speak at all, so stumbling and halting were her
sentences.</p>
<p>At the end of the eighth day came the culmination
of it all. Alma, her nose sniffing the air, ran into
the kitchen that night to find no one in the room,
and the biscuits burning in the oven. She removed the
biscuits, threw wide the doors and windows, then hurried
upstairs to her mother’s room.</p>
<p>“Why, mother!”</p>
<p>Mrs. Kelsey stood before the glass, a deep flush on
her cheeks and tears rolling down her face. Two trembling
hands struggled with the lace at her throat until
the sharp point of a pin found her thumb and left a
tiny crimson stain on the spotlessness of the collar.
It was then that Mrs. Kelsey covered her face with
her hands and sank into the low chair by the bed.</p>
<p>“Why, mother!” cried Alma again, hurrying
across the room and dropping on her knees at her mother’s
side.</p>
<p>“I can’t, Alma, I can’t!”
moaned the woman. “I’ve tried an’
tried; but I’ve got ter give up, I’ve
got ter give up.”</p>
<p>“Can’t what, dearie?--give up what?”
demanded Alma.</p>
<p>Mrs. Kelsey shook her head. Then she dropped her hands
and looked fearfully into her daughter’s face.</p>
<p>“An’ yer father, too, Alma--he’s
tried, an’ he can’t,” she choked.</p>
<p>“Tried what? What <i>do</i> you mean?”</p>
<p>With her eyes on Alma’s troubled, amazed face,
Mrs. Kelsey made one last effort to gain her lost
position. She raised her shaking hands to her throat
and fumbled for the pin and the collar.</p>
<p>“There, there, dear, don’t fret,”
she stammered. “I didn’t think what I
was sayin’. It ain’t nothin’--I mean,
it <i>aren’t</i> nothin’--it <i>am</i>
not--oh-h!” she sobbed; “there, ye see,
Alma, I can’t, I can’t. It ain’t
no more use ter try!” Down went the gray head
on Alma’s strong young shoulder.</p>
<p>“There, there, dear, cry away,” comforted
Alma, with loving pats. “It will do you good;
then we’ll hear what this is all about, from
the very beginning.”</p>
<p>And Mrs. Kelsey told her--and from the very beginning.
When the telling was over, and the little woman, a
bit breathless and frightened, sat awaiting what Alma
would say, there came a long silence.</p>
<p>Alma’s lips were close shut. Alma was not quite
sure, if she opened them, whether there would come
a laugh or a sob. The laugh was uppermost and almost
parted the firm-set lips, when a side glance at the
quivering face of the little woman in the big chair
turned the laugh into a half-stifled sob. Then Alma
spoke.</p>
<p>“Mother, dear, listen. Do you think a silk dress
and a stiff collar can make you and father any dearer
to me? Do you think an ‘ain’t’ or
a ‘hain’t’ can make me love either
of you any less? Do you suppose I expect you, after
fifty years’ service for others, to be as careful
in your ways and words as if you’d spent those
fifty years in training yourself instead of in training
six children? Why, mother, dear, do you suppose that
I don’t know that for twenty of those years you
have had no thoughts, no prayers, save for me?--that
I have been the very apple of your eye? Well, it’s
my turn, now, and you are the apple of my eye--you
and father. Why, dearie, you have no idea of the plans
I have for you. There’s a good strong woman
coming next week for the kitchen work. Oh, it’s
all right,” assured Alma, quickly, in response
to the look on her mother’s face. “Why,
I’m rich! Only think of those orders! And then
you shall dress in silk or velvet, or calico--anything
you like, so long as it doesn’t scratch nor
prick,” she added merrily, bending forward and
fastening the lace collar. “And you shall----”</p>
<p>“Ma-ry?” It was Nathan at the foot of
the back stairway.</p>
<p>“Yes, Nathan.”</p>
<p>“Ain’t it ’most supper-time?”</p>
<p>“Bless my soul!” cried Mrs. Kelsey, springing
to her feet.</p>
<p>“An’, Mary----”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Hain’t I got a collar--a b’iled
one, on the bureau up there?”</p>
<p>“No,” called Alma, snatching up the collar
and throwing it on the bed. “There isn’t
a sign of one there. Suppose you let it go to-night,
dad?”</p>
<p>“Well, if you don’t mind!” And a
very audible sigh of relief floated up the back stairway.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_10"></a>The Bridge Across the Years</h1>
<p>John was expected on the five o’clock stage.
Mrs. John had been there three days now, and John’s
father and mother were almost packed up--so Mrs. John
said. The auction would be to-morrow at nine o’clock,
and with John there to see that things “hustled”--which
last was really unnecessary to mention, for John’s
very presence meant “hustle”--with John
there, then, the whole thing ought to be over by one
o’clock, and they off in season to ’catch
the afternoon express.</p>
<p>And what a time it had been--those three days!</p>
<p>Mrs. John, resting in the big chair on the front porch,
thought of those days with complacency--that they
were over. Grandpa and Grandma Burton, hovering over
old treasures in the attic, thought of them with terrified
dismay--that they had ever begun.</p>
<p>I am coming up on Tuesday [Mrs. John had written].
We have been thinking for some time that you and father
ought not to be left alone up there on the farm any
longer. Now don’t worry about the packing. I
shall bring Marie, and you won’t have to lift
your finger. John will come Thursday night, and be
there for the auction on Friday. By that time we shall
have picked out what is worth saving, and everything
will be ready for him to take matters in hand. I think
he has already written to the auctioneer, so tell
father to give himself no uneasiness on that score.</p>
<p>John says he thinks we can have you back here with
us by Friday night, or Saturday at the latest. You
know John’s way, so you may be sure there will
be no tiresome delay. Your rooms here will be all ready
before I leave, so that part will be all right.</p>
<p>This may seem a bit sudden to you, but you know we
have always told you that the time was surely coming
when you couldn’t live alone any longer. John
thinks it has come now; and, as I said before, you
know John, so, after all, you won’t be surprised
at his going right ahead with things. We shall do
everything possible to make you comfortable, and I
am sure you will be very happy here.</p>
<p>Good-bye, then, until Tuesday. With love to both of
you.</p>
<p style="font-variant: small-caps;text-align: right">Edith.</p>
<p>That had been the beginning. To Grandpa and Grandma
Burton it had come like a thunderclap on a clear day.
They had known, to be sure, that son John frowned
a little at their lonely life; but that there should
come this sudden transplanting, this ruthless twisting
and tearing up of roots that for sixty years had been
burrowing deeper and deeper--it was almost beyond
one’s comprehension.</p>
<p>And there was the auction!</p>
<p>“We shan’t need that, anyway,” Grandma
Burton had said at once. “What few things we
don’t want to keep I shall give away. An auction,
indeed! Pray, what have we to sell?”</p>
<p>“Hm-m! To be sure, to be sure,” her husband
had murmured; but his face was troubled, and later
he had said, apologetically: “You see, Hannah,
there’s the farm things. We don’t need
them.”</p>
<p>On Tuesday night Mrs. John and the somewhat awesome
Maria--to whom Grandpa and Grandma Burton never could
learn not to curtsy--arrived; and almost at once Grandma
Burton discovered that not only “farm things,”
but such precious treasures as the hair wreath and
the parlor--set were auctionable. In fact, everything
the house contained, except their clothing and a few
crayon portraits, seemed to be in the same category.</p>
<p>“But, mother, dear,” Mrs. John had returned,
with a laugh, in response to Grandma Burton’s
horrified remonstrances, “just wait until you
see your rooms, and how full they are of beautiful
things, and then you’ll understand.”</p>
<p>“But they won’t be--these,” the
old voice had quavered.</p>
<p>And Mrs. John had laughed again, and had patted her
mother-in-law’s cheek, and had echoed-but with
a different shade of meaning--“No, they certainly
won’t be these!”</p>
<p>In the attic now, on a worn black trunk, sat the little
old man, and down on the floor before an antiquated
cradle knelt his wife.</p>
<p>“They was all rocked in it, Seth,” she
was saying,--“John and the twins and my two
little girls; and now there ain’t any one left
only John--and the cradle.”</p>
<p>“I know, Hannah, but you ain’t <i>usin’</i>
that nowadays, so you don’t really need it,”
comforted the old man. “But there’s my
big chair now-- seems as though we jest oughter take
that. Why, there ain’t a day goes by that I
don’t set in it!”</p>
<p>“But John’s wife says there’s better
ones there, Seth,” soothed the old woman in
her turn, “as much as four or five of ’em
right in our rooms.”</p>
<p>“So she did, so she did!” murmured the
man. “I’m an ongrateful thing; so I be.”
There was a long pause. The old man drummed with his
fingers on the trunk and watched a cloud sail across
the skylight. The woman gently swung the cradle to
and fro. “If only they wan’t goin’
ter be--sold!” she choked, after a time. “I
like ter know that they’re where I can look
at ’em, an’ feel of ’em, an’--an’
remember things. Now there’s them quilts with
all my dress pieces in ’em--a piece of most every
dress I’ve had since I was a girl; an’
there’s that hair wreath--seems as if I jest
couldn’t let that go, Seth. Why, there’s
your hair, an’ John’s, an’ some
of the twins’, an’--”</p>
<p>“There, there, dear; now I jest wouldn’t
fret,” cut in the old man quickly. “Like
enough when you get used ter them other things on the
wall you’ll like ’em even better than the
hair wreath. John’s wife says she’s taken
lots of pains an’ fixed ’em up with pictures
an’ curtains an’ everythin’ nice,”
went on Seth, talking very fast. “Why, Hannah,
it’s you that’s bein’ ongrateful
now, dear!”</p>
<p>“So ’tis, so ‘tis, Seth, an’
it ain’t right an’ I know it. I ain’t
a-goin’ ter do so no more; now see!”
And she bravely turned her back on the cradle and
walked, head erect, toward the attic stairs.</p>
<p>John came at five o’clock. He engulfed the little
old man and the little old woman in a bearlike hug,
and breezily demanded what they had been doing to
themselves to make them look so forlorn. In the very
next breath, however, he answered his own question,
and declared it was because they had been living all
cooped up alone so long--so it was; and that it was
high time it was stopped, and that he had come to do
it! Whereupon the old man and the old woman smiled
bravely and told each other what a good, good son
they had, to be sure!</p>
<p>Friday dawned clear, and not too warm--an ideal auction-day.
Long before nine o’clock the yard was full of
teams and the house of people. Among them all, however,
there was no sign of the bent old man and the erect
little old woman, the owners of the property to be
sold. John and Mrs. John were not a little disturbed--they
had lost their father and mother.</p>
<p>Nine o’clock came, and with it began the strident
call of the auctioneer. Men laughed and joked over
their bids, and women looked on and gossiped, adding
a bid of their own now and then. Everywhere was the
son of the house, and things went through with a rush.
Upstairs, in the darkest corner of the attic--which
had been cleared of goods--sat, hand in hand on an
old packing-box, a little old man and a little old
woman who winced and shrank together every time the
“Going, going, gone!” floated up to them
from the yard below.</p>
<p>At half-past one the last wagon rumbled out of the
yard, and five minutes later Mrs. John gave a relieved
cry.</p>
<p>“Oh, there you are! Why, mother, father, where
<i>have</i> you been?”</p>
<p>There was no reply. The old man choked back a cough
and bent to flick a bit of dust from his coat. The
old woman turned and crept away, her erect little
figure looking suddenly bent and old.</p>
<p>“Why, what--” began John, as his father,
too, turned away. “Why, Edith, you don’t
suppose--” He stopped with a helpless frown.</p>
<p>“Perfectly natural, my dear, perfectly natural,”
returned Mrs. John lightly. “We’ll get
them away immediately. It’ll be all right when
once they are started.”</p>
<p>Some hours later a very tired old man and a still
more tired old woman crept into a pair of sumptuous,
canopy-topped twin beds. There was only one remark.</p>
<p>“Why, Seth, mine ain’t feathers a mite!
Is yours?”</p>
<p>There was no reply. Tired nature had triumphed--Seth
was asleep.</p>
<p>They made a brave fight, those two. They told themselves
that the chairs were easier, the carpets softer, and
the pictures prettier than those that had gone under
the hammer that day as they sat hand in hand in the
attic. They assured each other that the unaccustomed
richness of window and bed hangings and the profusion
of strange vases and statuettes did not make them
afraid to stir lest they soil or break something. They
insisted to each other that they were not homesick,
and that they were perfectly satisfied as they were.
And yet--</p>
<p>When no one was looking Grandpa Burton tried chair
after chair, and wondered why there was only one particular
chair in the whole world that just exactly “fitted;”
and when the twilight hour came Grandma Burton wondered
what she would give to be able just to sit by the old
cradle and talk with the past.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>The newspapers said it was a most marvelous escape
for the whole family. They gave a detailed account
of how the beautiful residence of the Honorable John
Burton, with all its costly furnishings, had burned
to the ground, and of how the entire family was saved,
making special mention of the honorable gentleman’s
aged father and mother. No one was injured, fortunately,
and the family had taken up a temporary residence
in the nearest hotel. It was understood that Mr. Burton
would begin rebuilding at once.</p>
<p>The newspapers were right--Mr. Burton did begin rebuilding
at once; in fact, the ashes of the Burton mansion
were not cold before John Burton began to interview
architects and contractors.</p>
<p>“It’ll be ’way ahead of the old
one,” he confided to his wife enthusiastically.</p>
<p>Mrs. John sighed.</p>
<p>“I know, dear,” she began plaintively;
“but, don’t you see? it won’t be
the same--it can’t be. Why, some of those things
we’ve had ever since we were married. They seemed
a part of me, John. I was used to them. I had grown
up with some of them--those candlesticks of mamma’s,
for instance, that she had when I was a bit of a baby.
Do you think money can buy another pair that--that
were <i>hers</i>?” And Mrs. John burst into
tears.</p>
<p>“Come, come, dear,” protested her husband,
with a hasty caress and a nervous glance at the clock--he
was due at the bank in ten minutes.” Don’t
fret about what can’t be helped; besides"-and
he laughed whimsically--“you must look out or
you’ll be getting as bad as mother over her
hair wreath!” And with another hasty pat on her
shoulder he was gone.</p>
<p>Mrs. John suddenly stopped her crying. She lowered
her handkerchief and stared fixedly at an old print
on the wall opposite. The hotel--though strictly modern
in cuisine and management--was an old one, and prided
itself on the quaintness of its old-time furnishings.
Just what the print represented Mrs. John could not
have told, though her eyes did not swerve from its
face for five long minutes. What she did see was a
silent, dismantled farmhouse, and a little old man
and a little old woman with drawn faces and dumb lips.</p>
<p>Was it possible? Had she, indeed, been so blind?</p>
<p>Mrs. John rose to her feet, bathed her eyes, straightened
her neck-bow, and crossed the hall to Grandma Burton’s
room.</p>
<p>“Well, mother, and how are you getting along?”
she asked cheerily.</p>
<p>“Jest as nice as can be, daughter,--and ain’t
this room pretty?” returned the little old woman
eagerly. “Do you know, it seems kind of natural
like; mebbe it’s because of that chair there.
Seth says it’s almost like his at home.”</p>
<p>It was a good beginning, and Mrs. John made the most
of it. Under her skillful guidance Grandma Burton,
in less than five minutes, had gone from the chair
to the old clock which her father used to wind, and
from the clock to the bureau where she kept the dead
twins’ little white shoes and bonnets. She told,
too, of the cherished parlor chairs and marble-topped
table, and of how she and father had saved and saved
for years to buy them; and even now, as she talked,
her voice rang with pride of possession--though only
for a moment; it shook then with the remembrance of
loss.</p>
<p>There was no complaint, it is true, no audible longing
for lost treasures. There was only the unwonted joy
of pouring into sympathetic ears the story of things
loved and lost--things the very mention of which brought
sweet faint echoes of voices long since silent.</p>
<p>“There, there,” broke off the little old
woman at last, “how I am runnin’ on! But,
somehow, somethin’ set me to talkin’ ter-day.
Mebbe’t was that chair that’s like yer
father’s,” she hazarded.</p>
<p>“Maybe it was,” agreed Mrs. John quietly,
as she rose to her feet.</p>
<p>The new house came on apace. In a wonderfully short
time John Burton began to urge his wife to see about
rugs and hangings. It was then that Mrs. John called
him to one side and said a few hurried but very earnest
words--words that made the Honorable John open wide
his eyes.</p>
<p>“But, Edith,” he remonstrated, “are
you crazy? It simply couldn’t be done! The things
are scattered over half a dozen townships; besides,
I haven’t the least idea where the auctioneer’s
list is--if I saved it at all.”</p>
<p>“Never mind, dear; I may try, surely,”
begged Mrs. John. And her husband laughed and reached
for his check-book.</p>
<p>“Try? Of course you may try! And here’s
this by way of wishing you good luck,” he finished,
as he handed her an oblong bit of paper that would
go far toward smoothing the most difficult of ways.</p>
<p>“You dear!” cried Mrs. John. “And
now I’m going to work.”</p>
<p>It was at about this time that Mrs. John went away.
The children were at college and boarding-school;
John was absorbed in business and house-building,
and Grandpa and Grandma Burton were contented and well
cared for. There really seemed to be no reason why
Mrs. John should not go away, if she wished--and she
apparently did wish. It was at about this time, too,
that certain Vermont villages--one of which was the
Honorable John Burton’s birthplace--were stirred
to sudden interest and action. A persistent, smiling-faced
woman had dropped into their midst--a woman who drove
from house to house, and who, in every case, left behind
her a sworn ally and friend, pledged to serve her
cause.</p>
<p>Little by little, in an unused room in the village
hotel there began to accumulate a motley collection--a
clock, a marble-topped table, a cradle, a patchwork
quilt, a bureau, a hair wreath, a chair worn with
age and use. And as this collection grew in size and
fame, only that family which could not add to it counted
itself abused and unfortunate, so great was the spell
that the persistent, smiling-faced woman had cast
about her.</p>
<p>Just before the Burton house was finished Mrs. John
came back to town. She had to hurry a little about
the last of the decorations and furnishings to make
up for lost time; but there came a day when the place
was pronounced ready for occupancy.</p>
<p>It was then that Mrs. John hurried into Grandpa and
Grandma Burton’s rooms at the hotel.</p>
<p>“Come, dears,” she said gayly. “The
house is all ready, and we’re going home.”</p>
<p>“Done? So soon?” faltered Grandma Burton,
who had not been told very much concerning the new
home’s progress. “Why, how quick they have
built it!”</p>
<p>There was a note of regret in the tremulous old voice,
but Mrs. John did not seem to notice. The old man,
too, rose from his chair with a long sigh--and again
Mrs. John did not seem to notice.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>“Yes, dearie, yes, it’s all very nice
and fine,” said Grandma Burton wearily, half
an hour later as she trudged through the sumptuous
parlors and halls of the new house; “but, if
you don’t mind, I guess I’ll go to my
room, daughter. I’m tired--turrible tired.”</p>
<p>Up the stairs and along the hall trailed the little
procession--Mrs. John, John, the bent old man, and
the little old woman. At the end of the hall Mrs.
John paused a moment, then flung the door wide open.</p>
<p>There was a gasp and a quick step forward; then came
the sudden illumination of two wrinkled old faces.</p>
<p>“John! Edith!”--it was a cry of mingled
joy and wonder.</p>
<p>There was no reply. Mrs. John had closed the door
and left them there with their treasures.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_11"></a>For Jimmy</h1>
<p>Uncle Zeke’s pipe had gone out--sure sign that
Uncle Zeke’s mind was not at rest. For five
minutes the old man had occupied in frowning silence
the other of my veranda rocking-chairs. As I expected,
however, I had not long to wait.</p>
<p>“I met old Sam Hadley an’ his wife in
the cemetery just now,” he observed.</p>
<p>“Yes?” I was careful to express just enough,
and not too much, interest: one had to be circumspect
with Uncle Zeke.</p>
<p>“Hm-m; I was thinkin’--” Uncle Zeke
paused, shifted his position, and began again. This
time I had the whole story.</p>
<p>“I was thinkin’--I don’t say that
Jimmy did right, an’ I don’t say that
Jimmy did wrong. Maybe you can tell. ’Twas like
this:</p>
<p>“In a way we all claimed Jimmy Hadley. As a
little fellow, he was one of them big-eyed, curly-haired
chaps that gets inside your heart no matter how tough’t
is. An’ we was really fond of him, too,--so fond
of him that we didn’t do nothin’ but jine
in when his pa an’ ma talked as if he was the
only boy that ever was born, or ever would be--an’
you know we must have been purty daft ter stood that,
us bein’ fathers ourselves!</p>
<p>“Well, as was natural, perhaps, the Hadleys
jest lived fer Jimmy. They’d lost three, an’
he was all there was left. They wasn’t very well-to-do,
but nothin’ was too grand fer Jimmy, and when
the boy begun ter draw them little pictures of his
all over the shed an’ the barn door, they was
plumb crazy. There wan’t no doubt of it--Jimmy
was goin’ ter be famous, they said. He was goin’
ter be one o’ them painter fellows, an’
make big money.</p>
<p>“An’ Jimmy did work, even then. He stood
well in his studies, an’ worked outside, earnin’
money so’s he could take drawin’ lessons
when he got bigger. An’ by and by he did get
bigger, an’ he did take lessons down ter the
Junction twice a week.</p>
<p>“There wan’t no livin’ with Mis’
Hadley then, she was that proud; an’ when he
brought home his first picture, they say she never
went ter bed at all that night, but jest set gloatin’
over it till the sun came in an’ made her kerosene
lamp look as silly as she did when she saw ’twas
mornin’. There was one thing that plagued her,
though: ’twan’t painted-- that picture.
Jimmy called it a ‘black an’ white,’
an’ said ’twan’t paintin’
that he wanted ter do, but ’lustratin’--fer
books and magazines, you know. She felt hurt, an’
all put out at first: but Jimmy told her ‘twas
all right, an’ that there was big money in it;
so she got ’round contented again. She couldn’t
help it, anyhow, with Jimmy, he was that lovin’
an’ nice with her. He was the kind that’s
always bringin’ footstools and shawls, an’
makin’ folks comfortable. Everybody loved Jimmy.
Even the cats an’ dogs rubbed up against him
an’ wagged their tails at sight of him, an’
the kids--goodness, Jimmy couldn’t cross the
street without a dozen kids makin’ a grand rush
fer him.</p>
<p>“Well, time went on, an’ Jimmy grew tall
an’ good lookin’. Then came the girl--an’
she <i>was</i> a girl, too. ‘Course, Jimmy,
bein’ as how he’d had all the frostin’
there was goin’ on everythin’ so fur, carried
out the same idea in girls, an’ picked out the
purtiest one he could find-- rich old Townsend’s
daughter, Bessie.</p>
<p>“To the Hadleys this seemed all right--Jimmy
was merely gettin’ the best, as usual; but the
rest of us, includin’ old man Townsend, begun
ter sit up an’ take notice. The old man was mad
clean through. He had other plans fer Bessie, an’
he said so purty plain.”</p>
<p>“But it seems there didn’t any of us--only
Jimmy, maybe--take the girl herself into consideration.
For a time she was a little skittish, an’ led
Jimmy a purty chase with her dancin’ nearer an’
nearer, an’ then flyin’ off out of reach.
But at last she came out fair an’ square fur
Jimmy, an’ they was as lively a pair of lovers
as ye’d wish ter see. It looked, too, as if
she’d even wheedle the old man ’round ter
her side of thinkin’.”</p>
<p>“The next thing we knew Jimmy had gone ter New
York. He was ter study, an’ at the same time
pick up what work he could, ter turn an honest penny,
the Hadleys said. We liked that in him. He was goin’
ter make somethin’ of himself, so’s he’d
be worthy of Bessie Townsend or any other girl.”</p>
<p>“But’t was hard on the Hadleys. Jimmy’s
lessons cost a lot, an’ so did just livin’
there in New York, an’ ’course Jimmy couldn’t
pay fer it all, though I guess he worked nights an’
Sundays ter piece out. Back home here the Hadleys
scrimped an’ scrimped till they didn’t
have half enough ter eat, an’ hardly enough
ter cover their nakedness. But they didn’t mind--’t
was fer Jimmy. He wrote often, an’ told how he
was workin’, an’ the girl got letters,
too; at least, Mis’ Hadley said she did. An’
once in a while he’d tell of some picture he’d
finished, or what the teacher said.</p>
<p>“But by an’ by the letters didn’t
come so often. Sam told me about it at first, an’
he said it plagued his wife a lot. He said she thought
maybe Jimmy was gettin’ discouraged, specially
as he didn’t seem ter say much of anything about
his work now. Sam owned up that the letters wan’t
so free talkin’; an’ that worried him.
He was afraid the boy was keepin’ back somethin’.
He asked me, kind of sheepish-like, if I s’posed
such a thing could be as that Jimmy had gone wrong,
somehow. He knew cities was awful wicked an’
temptin’, he said.</p>
<p>“I laughed him out of that notion quick, an’
I was honest in it, too. I’d have as soon suspected
myself of goin’ ter the bad as Jimmy, an’
I told him so. Things didn’t look right, though.
The letters got skurser an’ skurser, an’
I began ter think myself maybe somethin’ was
up. Then come the newspaper.</p>
<p>“It was me that took it over to the Hadleys.
It was a little notice in my weekly, an’ I spied
it ’way down in the corner just as I thought
I had the paper all read. ’Twan’t so much,
but to us ’twas a powerful lot; jest a little
notice that they was glad ter see that the first prize
had gone ter the talented young illustrator, James
Hadley, an’ that he deserved it, an’ they
wished him luck.</p>
<p>“The Hadleys were purty pleased, you’d
better believe. They hadn’t seen it, ‘course,
as they wan’t wastin’ no money on weeklies
them days. Sam set right down an’ wrote, an’
so did Mis’ Hadley, right out of the fullness
of their hearts. Mis’ Hadley give me her letter
ter read, she was that proud an’ excited; an’
‘t was a good letter, all brimmin’ over
with love an’ pride an’ joy in his success.
I could see just how Jimmy’d color up an’
choke when he read it, specially where she owned up
how she’d been gettin’ purty near discouraged
’cause they didn’t hear much from him,
an’ how she’d rather die than have her
Jimmy fail.</p>
<p>“Well, they sent off the letters, an’
by an’ by come the answer. It was kind of shy
and stiff-like, an’ I think it sort of disappointed
’em; but they tried ter throw it off an’
say that Jimmy was so modest he didn’t like
ter take praise.</p>
<p>“‘Course the whole town was interested,
an’ proud, too, ter think he belonged ter us;
an’ we couldn’t hear half enough about
him. But as time went on we got worried. Things didn’t
look right. The Hadleys was still scrimpin’,
still sendin’ money when they could, an’
they owned up that Jimmy’s letters wan’t
real satisfyin’ an’ that they didn’t
come often, though they always told how hard he was
workin’.</p>
<p>“What was queerer still, every now an’
then I’d see his name in my weekly. I looked
fer it, I’ll own. I run across it once in the
‘Personals,’ an’ after that I hunted
the paper all through every week. He went ter parties
an’ theaters, an’ seemed ter be one of
a gay crowd that was always havin’ good times.
I didn’t say nothin’ ter the Hadleys about
all this, ’course, but it bothered me lots. What
with all these fine doin’s, an’ his not
sendin’ any money home, it looked as if the old
folks didn’t count much now, an’ that his
head had got turned sure.</p>
<p>“As time passed, things got worse an’
worse. Sam lost two cows, an’ Mis’ Hadley
grew thinner an’ whiter, an’ finally got
down sick in her bed. Then I wrote. I told Jimmy purty
plain how things was an’ what I thought of him.
I told him that there wouldn’t be any more money
comin’ from this direction (an’ I meant
ter see that there wan’t, too!), an’ I
hinted that if that ‘ere prize brought anythin’
but honor, I should think ’t would be a mighty
good plan ter share it with the folks that helped
him ter win it.</p>
<p>“It was a sharp letter, an’ when it was
gone I felt ’most sorry I’d sent it; an’
when the answer come, I <i>was</i> sorry. Jimmy
was all broke up, an’ he showed it. He begged
me ter tell him jest how his ma was; an’ if
they needed anythin’, ter get it and call on
him. He said he wished the prize had brought him lots
of money, but it hadn’t. He enclosed twenty-five
dollars, however, and said he should write the folks
not ter send him any more money, as he was goin’
ter send it ter them now instead.</p>
<p>“Of course I took the letter an’ the money
right over ter Sam, an’ after they’d got
over frettin’ ’cause I’d written
at all, they took the money, an’ I could see
it made ’em look ten years younger. After that
you couldn’t come near either of ’em that
you didn’t hear how good Jimmy was an’
how he was sendin’ home money every week.</p>
<p>“Well, it wan’t four months before I had
ter write Jimmy again. Sam asked me too, this time.
Mis’ Hadley was sick again, an’ Sam was
worried. He thought Jimmy ought ter come home, but
he didn’t like ter say so himself. He wondered
if I wouldn’t drop him a hint. So I wrote, an’
Jimmy wrote right away that he’d come.</p>
<p>“We was all of a twitter, ’course, then--the
whole town. He’d got another prize--so the paper
said--an’ there was a paragraph praisin’
up some pictures of his in the magazine. He was our
Jimmy, an’ we was proud of him, yet we couldn’t
help wonderin’ how he’d act. We wan’t
used ter celebrities--not near to!</p>
<p>“Well, he came. He was taller an’ thinner
than when he went away, an’ there was a tired
look in his eyes that went straight ter my heart.
‘Most the whole town was out ter meet him, an’
that seemed ter bother him. He was cordial enough,
in a way, but he seemed ter try ter avoid folks, an’
he asked me right off ter get him ‘out of it.’
I could see he wan’t hankerin’ ter be
made a lion of, so we got away soon’s we could
an’ went ter his home.</p>
<p>“You should have seen Mis’ Hadley’s
eyes when she saw him, tall an’ straight in
the doorway. And Sam--Sam cried like a baby, he was
so proud of that boy. As fer Jimmy, his eyes jest
shone, an’ the tired look was all gone from
them when he strode across the room an’ dropped
on his knees at his mother’s bedside with a
kind of choking cry. I come away then, and left them.</p>
<p>“We was kind of divided about Jimmy, after that.
We liked him, ’most all of us, but we didn’t
like his ways. He was too stand-offish, an’ queer,
an’ we was all mad at the way he treated the
girl.</p>
<p>“’Twas given out that the engagement was
broken, but we didn’t believe ’t was her
done it, ‘cause up ter the last minute she’d
been runnin’ down ter the house with posies
and goodies. Then <i>he</i> came, an’ she
stopped. He didn’t go there, neither, an’,
so far as we knew, they hadn’t seen each other
once. The whole town was put out. We didn’t
relish seein’ her thrown off like an old glove,
jest ’cause he was somebody out in the world
now, an’ could have his pick of girls with city
airs and furbelows. But we couldn’t do nothin’,
’cause he he <i>was</i> good ter his folks,
an’ no mistake, an’ we did like that.</p>
<p>“Mis’ Hadley got better in a couple of
weeks, an’ he begun ter talk of goin’
back. We wanted ter give him a banquet an’ speeches
and a serenade, but he wouldn’t hear a word
of it. He wouldn’t let us tell him how pleased
we was at his success, either. The one thing he wouldn’t
talk about was his work, an’ some got most mad,
he was so modest.</p>
<p>“He hardly ever left the house except fer long
walks, and it was on one of them that the accident
happened. It was in the road right in front of the
field where I was ploughing, so I saw it all. Bessie
Townsend, on her little gray mare, came tearin’
down the Townsend Hill like mad.</p>
<p>“Jimmy had stopped ter speak ter me, at the
fence, but the next minute he was off like a shot
up the road. He ran an’ made a flyin’ leap,
an’ I saw the mare rear and plunge. Then beast
and man came down together, and I saw Bessie slide
to the ground, landin’ on her feet.</p>
<p>“When I got there Bessie Townsend was sittin’
on the ground, with Jimmy’s head in her arms,
which I thought uncommon good of her, seein’
the mortification he’d caused her. But when I
saw the look in her eyes, an’ in his as he opened
them an’ gazed up at her, I reckoned there might
be more ter that love-story than most folks knew. What
he said ter her then I don’t know, but ter me
he said jest four words, ’Don’t--tell--the--folks,’ an’ I didn’t rightly
understand jest then what he meant, for surely an
accident like that couldn’t be kept unbeknownst.
The next minute he fell back unconscious.</p>
<p>“It was a bad business all around, an’
from the very first there wan’t no hope. In
a week ‘twas over, an’ we laid poor Jimmy
away. Two days after the funeral Sam come ter me with
a letter. It was addressed ter Jimmy, an’ the
old man couldn’t bring himself ter open it. He
wanted, too, that I should go on ter New York an’
get Jimmy’s things; an’ after I had opened
the letter I said right off that I’d go. I was
mad over that letter. It was a bill fer a suit of
clothes, an’ it asked him purty sharplike ter
pay it.</p>
<p>“I had some trouble in New York findin’
Jimmy’s boardin’-place. There had been
a fire the night before, an’ his landlady had
had ter move; but at last I found her an’ asked
anxiously fer Jimmy’s things, an’ if his
pictures had been hurt.</p>
<p>“Jimmy’s landlady was fat an’ greasy
an’ foreign-lookin’, an’ she didn’t
seem ter understand what I was talkin’ about
till I repeated a bit sharply:--</p>
<p>“’Yes, his pictures. I’ve come fer
’em.’</p>
<p>“Then she shook her head.</p>
<p>“‘Meester Hadley did not have any pictures.’</p>
<p>“’But he must have had ’em,’
says I, ‘fer them papers an’ magazines
he worked for. He made ’em!’</p>
<p>“She shook her head again; then she gave a queer
hitch to her shoulders, and a little flourish with
her hands.</p>
<p>“‘Oh--ze pictures! He did do them--once--a
leetle: months ago.’</p>
<p>“‘But the prize,’ says I. ‘The
prize ter James Hadley!’</p>
<p>“Then she laughed as if she suddenly understood.</p>
<p>“Oh, but it is ze grand mistake you are makin’,’
she cried, in her silly, outlandish way of talkin’.
‘There is a Meester James Hadley, an’
he does make pictures--beautiful pictures--but it is
not this one. This Meester Hadley did try, long ago,
but he failed to succeed, so my son said; an’
he had to--to cease. For long time he has worked for
me, for the grocer, for any one who would pay--till
a leetle while ago. Then he left. In ze new clothes
he had bought, he went away. Ze old ones-- burned.
He had nothing else.’</p>
<p>“She said more, but I didn’t even listen.
I was back with Jimmy by the roadside, and his ‘Don’t--tell--the--folks’
was ringin’ in my ears. I understood it then,
the whole thing from the beginnin’; an’
I felt dazed an’ shocked, as if some one had
struck me a blow in the face. I wan’t brought
up ter think lyin’ an’ deceivin’
was right.</p>
<p>“I got up by an’ by an’ left the
house. I paid poor Jimmy’s bill fer clothes--the
clothes that I knew he wore when he stood tall an’
straight in the doorway ter meet his mother’s
adorin’ eyes. Then I went home.</p>
<p>“I told Sam that Jimmy’s things got burned
up in the fire--which was the truth. I stopped there.
Then I went to see the girl--an’ right there
I got the surprise of my life. She knew. He had told
her the whole thing long before he come home, an’
insisted on givin’ her up. Jest what he meant
ter do in the end, an’ how he meant ter do it,
she didn’t know; an’ she said with a great
sob in her voice, that she didn’t believe he
knew either. All he did know, apparently, was that
he didn’t mean his ma should find out an’
grieve over it--how he had failed. But whatever he
was goin’ ter do, it was taken quite out of his
hands at the last.</p>
<p>“As fer Bessie, now,--it seems as if she can’t
do enough fer Sam an’ Mis’ Hadley, she’s
that good ter ’em; an’ they set the world
by her. She’s got a sad, proud look to her eyes,
but Jimmy’s secret is safe.</p>
<p>“As I said, I saw old Sam an’ his wife
in the cemetery to-night. They stopped me as usual,
an’ told me all over again what a good boy Jimmy
was, an’ how smart he was, an’ what a lot
he’d made of himself in the little time he’d
lived. The Hadleys are old an’ feeble an’
broken, an’ it’s their one comfort--Jimmy’s
success.”</p>
<p>Uncle Zeke paused, and drew a long breath. Then he
eyed me almost defiantly.</p>
<p>“I ain’t sayin’ that Jimmy did right,
of course; but I ain’t sayin’-- that Jimmy
did wrong,” he finished.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_12"></a>A Summons Home</h1>
<p>Mrs. Thaddeus Clayton came softly into the room and
looked with apprehensive eyes upon the little old
man in the rocking-chair.</p>
<p>“How be ye, dearie? Yer hain’t wanted
fer nothin’, now, have ye?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Not a thing, Harriet,” he returned cheerily.
“I’m feelin’ real pert, too. Was
there lots there? An’ did Parson Drew say a heap
o’ fine things?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Clayton dropped into a chair and pulled listlessly
at the black strings of her bonnet.</p>
<p>“’T was a beautiful fun’ral, Thaddeus--a
beautiful fun’ral. I--I ’most wished it
was mine.”</p>
<p>“Harriet!”</p>
<p>She gave a shamed-faced laugh.</p>
<p>“Well, I did--then Jehiel and Hannah Jane would
‘a’ come, an’ I could ‘a’
seen ’em.”</p>
<p>The horrified look on the old man’s face gave
way to a broad smile.</p>
<p>“Oh, Harriet--Harriet!” he chuckled, “how
could ye seen ’em if you was dead?”</p>
<p>“Huh? Well, I--Thaddeus,”--her voice rose
sharply in the silent room,-- “every single
one of them Perkins boys was there, and Annabel, too.
Only think what poor Mis’ Perkins would ‘a’
given ter seen ’em ’fore she went! But
they waited--<i>waited,</i> Thaddeus, jest as
everybody does, till their folks is dead.”</p>
<p>“But, Harriet,” demurred the old man,
“surely you’d ‘a’ had them
boys come ter their own mother’s fun’ral!”</p>
<p>“Come! I’d ‘a’ had ’em
come before, while Ella Perkins could ‘a’
feasted her eyes on ’em. Thaddeus,”--Mrs.
Clayton rose to her feet and stretched out two gaunt
hands longingly,--“Thaddeus, I get so hungry
sometimes for Jehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though
I jest couldn’t stand it!”</p>
<p>“I know--I know, dearie,” quavered the
old man, vigorously polishing his glasses.</p>
<p>“Fifty years ago my first baby came,”
resumed the woman in tremulous tones; “then
another came, and another, till I’d had six.
I loved ’em, an’ tended ’em, an’
cared fer ’em, an’ didn’t have a
thought but was fer them babies. Four died,”--her
voice broke, then went on with renewed strength,--“but
I’ve got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least,
I’ve got two bits of paper that comes mebbe
once a month, an’ one of ’em’s signed
‘your dutiful son, Jehiel,’ an’ the
other, ’from your loving daughter, Hannah Jane.’”</p>
<p>“Well, Harriet, they--they’re pretty good
ter write letters,” ventured Mr. Clayton.</p>
<p>“Letters!” wailed his wife. “I can’t
hug an’ kiss letters, though I try to, sometimes.
I want warm flesh an’ blood in my arms, Thaddeus;
I want ter look down into Jehiel’s blue eyes
an’ hear him call me ’dear old mumsey!’
as he used to. I wouldn’t ask ’em ter stay--I
ain’t unreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can’t
do that.”</p>
<p>“Well, well, wife, mebbe they’ll come--mebbe
they’ll come this summer; who knows?”</p>
<p>She shook her head dismally.</p>
<p>“You’ve said that ev’ry year for
the last fifteen summers, an’ they hain’t
come yet. Jehiel went West more than twenty years ago,
an’ he’s never been home since. Why, Thaddeus,
we’ve got a grandson ’most eighteen, that
we hain’t even seen! Hannah Jane’s been
home jest once since she was married, but that was
nigh on ter sixteen years ago. She’s always
writin’ of her Tommy and Nellie, but--I want
ter see ’em, Thaddeus; I want ter see ’em!”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes; well, we’ll ask ’em,
Harriet, again--we’ll ask ’em real urgent--like,
an’ mebbe that’ll fetch ’em,”
comforted the old man. “We’ll ask ’em
ter be here the Fourth; that’s eight weeks off
yet, an’ I shall be real smart by then.”</p>
<p>Two letters that were certainly “urgent-like”
left the New England farmhouse the next morning. One
was addressed to a thriving Western city, the other
to Chattanooga, Tennessee.</p>
<p>In course of time the answers came. Hannah Jane’s
appeared first, and was opened with shaking fingers.</p>
<p><i>Dear Mother</i> [read Mrs. Clayton aloud]:
Your letter came two or three days ago, and I have
hurried round to answer it, for you seemed to be so
anxious to hear. I’m real sorry, but I don’t
see how we can get away this summer. Nathan is real
busy at the store; and, some way, I can’t seem
to get up energy enough to even think of fixing up
the children to take them so far. Thank you for the
invitation, though, and we should enjoy the visit
very much; but I guess we can’t go just yet.
Of course if anything serious should come up that made
it necessary-- why, that would be different: but I
know you are sensible, and will understand how it
is with us.</p>
<p>Nathan is well, but business has been pretty brisk,
and he is in the store early and late. As long as
he’s making money, he don’t mind; but I
tell him I think he might rest a little sometimes,
and let some one else do the things he does.</p>
<p>Tom is a big boy now, smart in his studies and with
a good head for figures. Nellie loves her books, too;
and, for a little girl of eleven, does pretty well,
we think.</p>
<p>I must close now. We all send love, and hope you are
getting along all right. Was glad to hear father was
gaining so fast.</p>
<p>Your loving daughter</p>
<p style="font-variant: small-caps; text-align: right">Hannah Jane</p>
<p>The letter dropped from Mrs. Clayton’s fingers
and lay unheeded on the floor. The woman covered her
face with her hands and rocked her body back and forth.</p>
<p>“There, there, dearie,” soothed the old
man huskily; “mebbe Jehiel’s will be diff’rent.
I shouldn’t wonder, now, if Jehiel would come.
There, there! don’t take on so, Harriet! don’t!
I jest know Jehiel’ll come.”</p>
<p>A week later Mrs. Clayton found another letter in
the rural delivery box. She clutched it nervously,
peered at the writing with her dim old eyes, and hurried
into the house for her glasses.</p>
<p>Yes, it was from Jehiel.</p>
<p>She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost
under the flap of the envelope when she hesitated,
eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it into the
pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save
at times-- which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when
she took it from its hiding-place, pressed it to her
cheek, or gloried in every curve of the boldly written
address.</p>
<p>At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to
her husband in tones so low he could scarcely hear:</p>
<p>“Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day.”</p>
<p>“You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--”
He paused helplessly.</p>
<p>“I--I haven’t read it, Thaddeus,”
she stammered. “I couldn’t bear to, someway.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. You read
it!” She held out the letter with shaking hands.</p>
<p>He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious
eyes. As he began to read aloud she checked him.</p>
<p>“No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell
me.”</p>
<p>As he read she watched his face. The light died from
her eyes and her chin quivered as she saw the stern
lines deepen around his mouth. A minute more, and
he had finished the letter and laid it down without
a word.</p>
<p>“Thaddeus, ye don’t mean--he didn’t
say--”</p>
<p>“Read it--I--I can’t,” choked the
old man.</p>
<p>She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread
it on the table before her.</p>
<p><i>Dear Mother</i> [Jehiel had written]: Just
a word to tell you we are all O. K. and doing finely.
Your letter reminded me that it was about time I was
writing home to the old folks. I don’t mean to
let so many weeks go by without a letter from me,
but somehow the time just gets away from me before
I know it.</p>
<p>Minnie is well and deep in spring sewing and house-cleaning.
I know-- because dressmaker’s bills are beginning
to come in, and every time I go home I find a carpet
up in a new place!</p>
<p>Our boy Fred is eighteen to-morrow. You’d be
proud of him, I know, if you could see him. Business
is rushing. Glad to hear you’re all right and
that father’s rheumatism is on the gain.</p>
<p>As ever, your affectionate and dutiful son, JEHIEL</p>
<p>Oh, by the way--about that visit East. I reckon we’ll
have to call it off this year. Too bad; but can’t
seem to see my way clear.</p>
<p>Bye-bye, J.</p>
<p>Harriet Clayton did not cry this time. She stared
at the letter long minutes with wide-open, tearless
eyes, then she slowly folded it and put it back in
its envelope.</p>
<p>“Harriet, mebbe-” began the old man timidly.</p>
<p>“Don’t, Thaddeus--please don’t!”
she interrupted. “I--I don’t want ter
talk.” And she rose unsteadily to her feet and
moved toward the kitchen door.</p>
<p>For a time Mrs. Clayton went about her work in a silence
quite unusual, while her husband watched her with
troubled eyes. His heart grieved over the bowed head
and drooping shoulders, and over the blurred eyes that
were so often surreptitiously wiped on a corner of
the gingham apron. But at the end of a week the little
old woman accosted him with a face full of aggressive
yet anxious determination.</p>
<p>“Thaddeus, I want ter speak ter you about somethin’.
I’ve been thinkin’ it all out, an’
I’ve decided that I’ve got ter kill one
of us off.”</p>
<p>“Harriet!”</p>
<p>“Well, I have. A fun’ral is the only thing
that will fetch Jehiel and--”</p>
<p>“Harriet, are ye gone crazy? Have ye gone clean
mad?”</p>
<p>She looked at him appealingly.</p>
<p>“Now, Thaddeus, don’t try ter hender me,
please. You see it’s the only way. A fun’ral
is the--”</p>
<p>“A ’fun’ral’--it’s murder!”
he shuddered.</p>
<p>“Oh, not ter make believe, as I shall,”
she protested eagerly. “It’s--”</p>
<p>“Make believe!”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, of course. <i>You’ll</i>
have ter be the one ter do it, ‘cause I’m
goin’ ter be the dead one, an’--”</p>
<p>“Harriet!”</p>
<p>“There, there, <i>please,</i> Thaddeus!
I’ve jest got ter see Jehiel and Hannah Jane
’fore I die!”</p>
<p>“But--they--they’ll come if--”</p>
<p>“No, they won’t come. We’ve tried
it over an’ over again; you know we have. Hannah
Jane herself said that if anythin’ ‘serious’
came up it would be diff’rent. Well, I’m
goin’ ter have somethin’ ‘serious’
come up!”</p>
<p>“But, Harriet--”</p>
<p>“Now, Thaddeus,” begged the woman, almost
crying, “you must help me, dear. I’ve
thought it all out, an’ it’s easy as can
be. I shan’t tell any lies, of course. I cut
my finger to-day, didn’t I?”</p>
<p>“Why--yes--I believe so,” he acknowledged
dazedly; “but what has that to do--”</p>
<p>“That’s the ‘accident,’ Thaddeus.
You’re ter send two telegrams at once-- one
ter Jehiel, an’ one ter Hannah Jane. The telegrams
will say: ‘Accident to your mother. Funeral
Saturday afternoon. Come at once.’ That’s
jest ten words.”</p>
<p>The old man gasped. He could not speak.</p>
<p>“Now, that’s all true, ain’t it?”
she asked anxiously. “The ‘accident’
is this cut. The ‘fun’ral’ is old
Mis’ Wentworth’s. I heard ter-day that
they couldn’t have it until Saturday, so that’ll
give us plenty of time ter get the folks here. I needn’t
say whose fun’ral it is that’s goin’
ter be on Saturday, Thaddeus! I want yer ter hitch
up an’ drive over ter Hopkinsville ter send
the telegrams. The man’s new over there, an’
won’t know yer. You couldn’t send ’em
from here, of course.”</p>
<p>Thaddeus Clayton never knew just how he allowed himself
to be persuaded to take his part in this “crazy
scheme,” as he termed it, but persuaded he certainly
was.</p>
<p>It was a miserable time for Thaddeus then. First there
was that hurried drive to Hopkinsville. Though the
day was warm he fairly shivered as he handed those
two fateful telegrams to the man behind the counter.
Then there was the homeward trip, during which, like
the guilty thing he was, he cast furtive glances from
side to side.</p>
<p>Even home itself came to be a misery, for the sweeping
and the dusting and the baking and the brewing which
he encountered there left him no place to call his
own, so that he lost his patience at last and moaned:</p>
<p>“Seems ter me, Harriet, you’re a pretty
lively corpse!”</p>
<p>His wife smiled, and flushed a little.</p>
<p>“There, there, dear! don’t fret. Jest
think how glad we’ll be ter see ’em!”
she exclaimed.</p>
<p>Harriet was blissfully happy. Both the children had
promptly responded to the telegrams, and were now
on their way. Hannah Jane, with her husband and two
children, were expected on Friday evening; but Jehiel
and his wife and boy could not possibly get in until
early on the following morning.</p>
<p>All this brought scant joy to Thaddeus. There was
always hanging over him the dread horror of what he
had done, and the fearful questioning as to how it
was all going to end.</p>
<p>Friday came, but a telegram at the last moment told
of trains delayed and connections missed. Hannah Jane
would not reach home until nine-forty the next morning.
So it was with a four-seated carryall that Thaddeus
Clayton started for the station on Saturday morning
to meet both of his children and their families.</p>
<p>The ride home was a silent one; but once inside the
house, Jehiel and Hannah Jane, amid a storm of sobs
and cries, besieged their father with questions.</p>
<p>The family were all in the darkened sitting-room--all,
indeed, save Harriet, who sat in solitary state in
the chamber above, her face pale and her heart beating
almost to suffocation. It had been arranged that she
was not to be seen until some sort of explanation had
been given.</p>
<p>“Father, what was it?” sobbed Hannah Jane.
“How did it happen?”</p>
<p>“It must have been so sudden,” faltered
Jehiel. “It cut me up completely.”</p>
<p>“I can’t ever forgive myself,” moaned
Hannah Jane hysterically. “She wanted us to
come East, and I wouldn’t. ’Twas my selfishness--’twas
easier to stay where I was; and now--now--”</p>
<p>“We’ve been brutes, father,” cut
in Jehiel, with a shake in his voice; “all of
us. I never thought--I never dreamed-father, can--can
we see-- her?”</p>
<p>In the chamber above a woman sprang to her feet. Harriet
had quite forgotten the stove-pipe hole to the room
below, and every sob and moan and wailing cry had
been woefully distinct to her ears. With streaming
eyes and quivering lips she hurried down the stairs
and threw open the sitting-room door.</p>
<p>“Jehiel! Hannah Jane! I’m here, right
here--alive!” she cried. “An’ I’ve
been a wicked, wicked woman! I never thought how bad
‘twas goin’ ter make <i>you</i> feel.
I truly never, never did. ’Twas only myself--I
wanted yer so. Oh, children, children, I’ve been
so wicked--so awful wicked!”</p>
<p>Jehiel and Hannah Jane were steady of head and strong
of heartland joy, it is said, never kills; otherwise,
the results of that sudden apparition in the sitting-room
doorway might have been disastrous.</p>
<p>As it was, a wonderfully happy family party gathered
around the table an hour later; and as Jehiel led
a tremulous, gray-haired woman to the seat of honor,
he looked into her shining eyes and whispered:</p>
<p>“Dear old mumsey, now that we’ve found
the way home again, I reckon we’ll be coming
every year--don’t you?”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_13"></a>The Black Silk Gowns</h1>
<p>The Heath twins, Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, rose
early that morning, and the world looked very beautiful
to them--one does not buy a black silk gown every
day; at least, Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia did
not. They had waited, indeed, quite forty years to
buy this one.</p>
<p>The women of the Heath family had always possessed
a black silk gown. It was a sort of outward symbol
of inward respectability--an unfailing indicator of
their proud position as members of one of the old families.
It might be donned at any time after one’s twenty-first
birthday, and it should be donned always for funerals,
church, and calls after one had turned thirty. Such
had been the code of the Heath family for generations,
as Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia well knew; and it
was this that had made all the harder their own fate--that
their twenty-first birthday was now forty years behind
them, and not yet had either of them attained this
<i>cachet</i> of respectability.</p>
<p>To-day, however, there was to come a change. No longer
need the carefully sponged and darned black alpaca
gowns flaunt their wearers’ poverty to the world,
and no longer would they force these same wearers
to seek dark corners and sunless rooms, lest the full
extent of that poverty become known. It had taken
forty years of the most rigid economy to save the
necessary money; but it was saved now, and the dresses
were to be bought. Long ago there had been enough
for one, but neither of the women had so much as thought
of the possibility of buying one silk gown. It was
sometimes said in the town that if one of the Heath
twins strained her eyes, the other one was obliged
at once to put on glasses; and it is not to be supposed
that two sisters whose sympathies were so delicately
attuned would consent to appear clad one in new silk
and the other in old alpaca.</p>
<p>In spite of their early rising that morning, it was
quite ten o’clock before Miss Priscilla and
Miss Amelia had brought the house into the state of
speckless nicety that would not shame the lustrous
things that were so soon to be sheltered beneath its
roof. Not that either of the ladies expressed this
sentiment in words, or even in their thoughts; they
merely went about their work that morning with the
reverent joy that a devoted priestess might feel in
making ready a shrine for its idol. They had to hurry
a little to get themselves ready for the eleven o’clock
stage that passed their door; and they were still a
little breathless when they boarded the train at the
home station for the city twenty miles away--the city
where were countless yards of shimmering silk waiting
to be bought.</p>
<p>In the city that night at least six clerks went home
with an unusual weariness in their arms, which came
from lifting down and displaying almost their entire
stock of black silk. But with all the weariness, there
was no irritation; there was only in their nostrils
a curious perfume as of lavender and old lace, and
in their hearts a strange exaltation as if they had
that day been allowed a glad part in a sacred rite.
As for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, they went home
awed, yet triumphant: when one has waited forty years
to make a purchase one does not make that purchase
lightly.</p>
<p>“To-morrow we will go over to Mis’ Snow’s
and see about having them made up,” said Miss
Priscilla with a sigh of content, as the stage lumbered
through the dusty home streets.</p>
<p>“Yes; we want them rich, but plain,” supplemented
Miss Amelia, rapturously. “Dear me, Priscilla,
but I am tired!”</p>
<p>In spite of their weariness the sisters did not get
to bed very early that night. They could not decide
whether the top drawer of the spare-room bureau or
the long box in the parlor closet would be the safer
refuge for their treasure. And when the matter was
decided, and the sisters had gone to bed, Miss Priscilla,
after a prolonged discussion, got up and moved the
silk to the other place, only to slip out of bed later,
after a much longer discussion, and put it back. Even
then they did not sleep well: for the first time in
their lives they knew the responsibility that comes
with possessions; they feared--burglars.</p>
<p>With the morning sun, however, came peace and joy.
No moth nor rust nor thief had appeared, and the lustrous
lengths of shimmering silk defied the sun itself to
find spot or blemish.</p>
<p>“It looks even nicer than it did in the store,
don’t it?” murmured Miss Priscilla, ecstatically,
as she hovered over the glistening folds that she
had draped in riotous luxury across the chair-back.</p>
<p>“Yes,--oh, yes!” breathed Miss Amelia.
“Now let’s hurry with the work so we can
go right down to Mis’ Snow’s.”</p>
<p><i>"Black</i> silk-<i>black</i> silk!”
ticked the clock to Miss Priscilla washing dishes
at the kitchen sink.</p>
<p>“You’ve got a black <i>silk!</i>
You’ve <i>got</i> a black <i>silk!"</i>
chirped the robins to Miss Amelia looking for weeds
in the garden.</p>
<p>At ten o’clock the sisters left the house, each
with a long brown parcel carefully borne in her arms.
At noon--at noon the sisters were back again, still
carrying the parcels. Their faces wore a look of mingled
triumph and defeat.</p>
<p>“As if we <i>could</i> have that beautiful
silk put into a <i>plaited</i> skirt!”
quavered Miss Priscilla, thrusting the key into the
lock with a trembling hand. “Why, Amelia, plaits
always crack!”</p>
<p>“Of course they do!” almost sobbed Miss
Amelia. “Only think of it, Priscilla, our silk--<i>cracked!</i>”</p>
<p>“We will just wait until the styles change,”
said Miss Priscilla, with an air of finality. “They
won’t always wear plaits!”</p>
<p>“And we know all the time that we’ve really
got the dresses, only they aren’t made up!”
finished Miss Amelia, in tearful triumph.</p>
<p>So the silk was laid away in two big rolls, and for
another year the old black alpaca gowns trailed across
the town’s thresholds and down the aisle of
the church on Sunday. Their owners no longer sought
shadowed corners and sunless rooms, however; it was
not as if one were <i>obliged</i> to wear sponged
and darned alpacas!</p>
<p>Plaits were “out” next year, and the Heath
sisters were among the first to read it in the fashion
notes. Once more on a bright spring morning Miss Priscilla
and Miss Amelia left the house tenderly bearing in
their arms the brown-paper parcels--and once more
they returned, the brown parcels still in their arms.
There was an air of indecision about them this time.</p>
<p>“You see, Amelia, it seemed foolish--almost
wicked,” Miss Priscilla was saying, “to
put such a lot of that expensive silk into just sleeves.”</p>
<p>“I know it,” sighed her sister.</p>
<p>“Of course I want the dresses just as much as
you do,” went on Miss Priscilla, more confidently;
“but when I thought of allowing Mis’ Snow
to slash into that beautiful silk and just waste it
on those great balloon sleeves, I--I simply couldn’t
give my consent!--and ’tisn’t as though
we hadn’t <i>got</i> the dresses!”</p>
<p>“No, indeed!” agreed Miss Amelia, lifting
her chin. And so once more the rolls of black silk
were laid away in the great box that had already held
them a year; and for another twelve months the black
alpacas, now grown shabby indeed, were worn with all
the pride of one whose garments are beyond reproach.</p>
<p>When for the third time Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia
returned to their home with the oblong brown parcels
there was no indecision about them; there was only
righteous scorn.</p>
<p>“And do you really think that Mis’ Snow
<i>expected</i> us to allow that silk to be cut
up into those skimpy little skin-tight bags she called
skirts?” demanded Miss Priscilla, in a shaking
voice. “Why, Amelia, we couldn’t ever
make them over!”</p>
<p>“Of course we couldn’t! And when skirts
got bigger, what could we do?” cried Miss Amelia.
“Why, I’d rather never have a black silk
dress than to have one like that--that just couldn’t
be changed! We’ll go on wearing the gowns we
have. It isn’t as if everybody didn’t know
we had these black silk dresses!”</p>
<p>When the fourth spring came the rolls of silk were
not even taken from their box except to be examined
with tender care and replaced in the enveloping paper.
Miss Priscilla was not well. For weeks she had spent
most of her waking hours on the sitting-room couch,
growing thiner, weaker, and more hollow-eyed.</p>
<p>“You see, dear, I--I am not well enough now
to wear it,” she said faintly to her sister
one day when they had been talking about the black
silk gowns; “but you--” Miss Amelia had
stopped her with a shocked gesture of the hand.</p>
<p>“Priscilla--as if I could!” she sobbed.
And there the matter had ended.</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>The townspeople were grieved, but not surprised, when
they learned that Miss Amelia was fast following her
sister into a decline. It was what they had expected
of the Heath twins, they said, and they reminded one
another of the story of the strained eyes and the glasses.
Then came the day when the little dressmaker’s
rooms were littered from end to end with black silk
scraps.</p>
<p>“It’s for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia,’”
said Mrs. Snow, with tears in her eyes, in answer
to the questions that were asked.</p>
<p>“It’s their black silk gowns, you know.”</p>
<p>“But I thought they were ill--almost dying!”
gasped the questioner.</p>
<p>The little dressmaker nodded her head. Then she smiled,
even while she brushed her eyes with her fingers.</p>
<p>“They are--but they’re happy. They’re
even happy in this!” touching the dress in her
lap. “They’ve been forty years buying it,
and four making it up. Never until now could they
decide to use it; never until now could they be sure
they wouldn’t want to--to make it--over.”
The little dressmaker’s voice broke, then went
on tremulously: “There are folks like that,
you know--that never enjoy a thing for what it is,
lest sometime they might want it--different. Miss
Priscilla and Miss Amelia never took the good that
was goin’; they’ve always saved it for
sometime--later.”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_14"></a>A Belated Honeymoon</h1>
<p>The haze of a warm September day hung low over the
house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the
side veranda a gray-haired, erect little figure sat
knitting. After a time the needles began to move more
and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the
motionless, withered fingers.</p>
<p>“Well, well, Abby, takin’ a nap?”
demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man coming around
the corner of the house and seating himself on the
veranda steps.</p>
<p>The little old woman gave a guilty start and began
to knit vigorously.</p>
<p>“Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin’.”
She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly:
“--it’s ever so much cooler here than up
ter the fair grounds now, ain’t it, Hezekiah?”</p>
<p>The old man threw a sharp look at her face. “Hm-m,
yes,” he said. “Mebbe ’t is.”</p>
<p>From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As
by common consent the old man and his wife got to
their feet and hurried to the front of the house where
they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a
curve and crossed the road at right angles.</p>
<p>“Goes slick, don’t it?” murmured
the man.</p>
<p>There was no answer. The woman’s eyes were hungrily
devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish.</p>
<p>“An’ we hain’t been on ’em
’t all yet, have we, Abby?” he continued.</p>
<p>She drew a long breath.</p>
<p>“Well, ye see, I--I hain’t had time, Hezekiah,”
she rejoined apologetically.</p>
<p>“Humph!” muttered the old man as they
turned and walked back to their seats.</p>
<p>For a time neither spoke, then Hezekiah Warden cleared
his throat determinedly and faced his wife.</p>
<p>“Look a’ here, Abby,” he began,
“I’m agoin’ ter say somethin’
that has been ‘most tumblin’ off’n
the end of my tongue fer mor’n a year. Jennie
an’ Frank are good an’ kind an’ they
mean well, but they think ’cause our hair’s
white an’ our feet ain’t quite so lively
as they once was, that we’re jest as good as
buried already, an’ that we don’t need
anythin’ more excitin’ than a nap in the
sun. Now, Abby, <i>didn’t</i> ye want ter
go ter that fair with the folks ter-day? Didn’t
ye?”</p>
<p>A swift flush came into the woman’s cheek.</p>
<p>“Why, Hezekiah, it’s ever so much cooler
here, an’--” she paused helplessly.</p>
<p>“Humph!” retorted the man, “I thought
as much. It’s always ‘nice an’ cool’
here in summer an’ ‘nice an’ warm’
here in winter when Jennie goes somewheres that you
want ter go an’ don’t take ye. An’
when ’t ain’t that, you say you ‘hain’t
had time.’ I know ye! You’d talk any way
ter hide their selfishness. Look a’ here, Abby,
did ye ever ride in them ’lectric-cars? I mean
anywheres?”</p>
<p>“Well, I hain’t neither, an’, by
ginger, I’m agoin’ to!”</p>
<p>“Oh, Hezekiah, Hezekiah, don’t--swear!”</p>
<p>“I tell ye, Abby, I will swear. It’s a
swearin’ matter. Ever since I heard of ’em
I wanted ter try ’em. An’ here they are
now ’most ter my own door an’ I hain’t
even been in ’em once. Look a’ here, Abby,
jest because we’re ’most eighty ain’t
no sign we’ve lost int’rest in things.
I’m spry as a cricket, an’ so be you, yet
Frank an’ Jennie expect us ter stay cooped up
here as if we was old--really old, ninety or a hundred,
ye know--an’ ’t ain’t fair. Why,
we <i>will</i> be old one of these days!”</p>
<p>“I know it, Hezekiah.”</p>
<p>“We couldn’t go much when we was younger,”
he resumed. “Even our weddin’ trip was
chopped right off short ’fore it even begun.”</p>
<p>A tender light came into the dim old eyes opposite.</p>
<p>“I know, dear, an’ what plans we had!”
cried Abigail; “Boston, an’ Bunker Hill,
an’ Faneuil Hall.”</p>
<p>The old man suddenly squared his shoulders and threw
back his head.</p>
<p>“Abby, look a’ here! Do ye remember that
money I’ve been savin’ off an’ on
when I could git a dollar here an’ there that
was extra? Well, there’s as much as ten of ’em
now, an’ I’m agoin’ ter spend ’em--all
of ’em mebbe. I’m <i>agoin’</i>
ter ride in them ‘lectric-cars, an’ so
be you. An’ I ain’t goin’ ter no
old country fair, neither, an’ no more be you.
Look a’ here, Abby, the folks are goin’
again ter-morrer ter the fair, ain’t they?”</p>
<p>Abigail nodded mutely. Her eyes were beginning to
shine.</p>
<p>“Well,” resumed Hezekiah, “when
they go we’ll be settin’ in the sun where
they say we’d oughter be. But we ain’t
agoin’ ter stay there, Abby. We’re goin’
down the road an’ git on them ‘lectric-cars,
an’ when we git ter the Junction we’re
agoin’ ter take the steam cars fer Boston. What
if ’tis thirty miles! I calc’late we’re
equal to ’em. We’ll have one good time,
an’ we won’t come home until in the evenin’.
We’ll see Faneuil Hall an’ Bunker Hill,
an’ you shall buy a new cap, an’ ride in
the subway. If there’s a preachin’ service
we’ll go ter that. They have ’em sometimes
weekdays, ye know.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Hezekiah, we--couldn’t!” gasped
the little old woman.</p>
<p>“Pooh! ’Course we could. Listen!”
And Hezekiah proceeded to unfold his plans more in
detail.</p>
<p>It was very early the next morning when the household
awoke. By seven o’clock a two-seated carryall
was drawn up to the side-door, and by a quarter past
the carryall, bearing Jennie, Frank, the boys, and
the lunch baskets, rumbled out of the yard and on
to the high-way.</p>
<p>“Now, keep quiet and don’t get heated,
mother,” cautioned Jennie, looking back at the
little gray-haired woman standing all alone on the
side veranda.</p>
<p>“Find a good cool spot to smoke your pipe in,
father,” called Frank, as an old man appeared
in the doorway.</p>
<p>There followed a shout, a clatter, and a cloud of
dust--then silence. Fifteen minutes later, hand in
hand, a little old man and a little old woman walked
down the white road together.</p>
<p>To most of the passengers on the trolley-car that
day the trip was merely a necessary means to an end;
to the old couple on the front seat it was something
to be remembered and lived over all their lives. Even
at the Junction the spell of unreality was so potent
that the man forgot things so trivial as tickets,
and marched into the car with head erect and eyes
fixed straight ahead.</p>
<p>It was after Hezekiah had taken out the roll of bills--all
ones--to pay the fares to the conductor that a young
man in a tall hat sauntered down the aisle and dropped
into the seat in front.</p>
<p>“Going to Boston, I take it,” said the
young man genially.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” replied Hezehiah, no less
genially. “Ye guessed right the first time.”</p>
<p>Abigail lifted a cautious hand to her hair and her
bonnet. So handsome and well-dressed a man would notice
the slightest thing awry, she thought.</p>
<p>“Hm-m,” smiled the stranger. “I
was so successful that time, suppose I try my luck
again.--You don’t go every day, I fancy, eh?”</p>
<p>“Sugar! How’d he know that, now?”
chuckled Hezekiah, turning to his wife in open glee.
“So we don’t, stranger, so we don’t,”
he added, turning back to the man. “Ye hit it
plumb right.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m! great place, Boston,” observed
the stranger. “I’m glad you’re going.
I think you’ll enjoy it.”</p>
<p>The two wrinkled old faces before him fairly beamed.</p>
<p>“I thank ye, sir,” said Hezekiah heartily.
“I call that mighty kind of ye, specially as
there are them that thinks we’re too old ter
be enj’yin’ of anythin’.”</p>
<p>“Old? Of course you’re not too old! Why,
you’re just in the prime to enjoy things,”
cried the handsome man, and in the sunshine of his
dazzling smile the hearts of the little old man and
woman quite melted within them.</p>
<p>“Thank ye, sir, thank ye sir,” nodded
Abigail, while Hezekiah offered his hand.</p>
<p>“Shake, stranger, shake! An’ I ain’t
too old, an’ I’m agoin’ ter prove
it. I’ve got money, sir, heaps of it, an’
I’m goin’ ter spend it--mebbe I’ll
spend it all. We’re agoin’ ter see Bunker
Hill an’ Faneuil Hall, an’ we’re
agoin’ ter ride in the subway. Now, don’t
tell me we don’t know how ter enj’y ourselves!”</p>
<p>It was a very simple matter after that. On the one
hand were infinite tact and skill; on the other, innocence,
ignorance, and an overwhelming gratitude for this
sympathetic companionship.</p>
<p>Long before Boston was reached Mr. and Mrs. Warden
and “Mr. Livingstone” were on the best
of terms, and when they separated at the foot of the
car-steps, to the old man and woman it seemed that
half their joy and all their courage went with the
smiling man who lifted his hat in farewell before
being lost to sight in the crowd.</p>
<p>“There, Abby, we’re here!” announced
Hezekiah with an exultation that was a little forced.
“Gorry! There must be somethin’ goin’
on ter-day,” he added, as he followed the long
line of people down the narrow passage between the
cars.</p>
<p>There was no reply. Abigail’s cheeks were pink
and her bonnet-strings untied. Her eyes, wide opened
and frightened, were fixed on the swaying, bobbing
crowds ahead. In the great waiting-room she caught
her husband’s arm.</p>
<p>“Hezekiah, we can’t, we mustn’t
ter-day,” she whispered. “There’s
such a crowd. Let’s go home an’ come when
it’s quieter.”</p>
<p>“But, Abby, we--here, let’s set down,”
Hezekiah finished helplessly.</p>
<p>Near one of the outer doors Mr. Livingstone--better
known to his friends and the police as “Slick
Bill”--smiled behind his hand. Not once since
he had left them had Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden been
out of his sight.</p>
<p>“What’s up, Bill? Need assistance?”
demanded a voice at his elbow.</p>
<p>“Jim, by all that’s lucky!” cried
Livingstone, turning to greet a dapper little man
in gray. “Sure I need you! It’s a peach,
though I doubt if we get much but fun, but there’ll
be enough of that to make up. Oh, he’s got money--’heaps
of it,’ he says,” laughed Livingstone,
“and I saw a roll of bills myself. But I advise
you not to count too much on that, though it’ll
be easy enough to get what there is, all right. As
for the fun, Jim, look over by that post near the
parcel window.”</p>
<p>“Great Scott! Where’d you pick ’em?”
chuckled the younger man.</p>
<p>“Never mind,” returned the other with
a shrug. “Meet me at Clyde’s in half an
hour. We’ll be there, never fear.”</p>
<p>Over by the parcel-room an old man looked about him
with anxious eyes.</p>
<p>“But, Abby, don’t ye see?” he urged.
“We’ve come so fer, seems as though we
oughter do the rest all right. Now, you jest set here
an’ let me go an’ find out how ter git
there. We’ll try fer Bunker Hill first, ’cause
we want ter see the munurmunt sure.”</p>
<p>He rose to his feet only to be pulled back by his
wife.</p>
<p>“Hezekiah Warden!” she almost sobbed.
“If you dare ter stir ten feet away from me
I’ll never furgive ye as long as I live. We’d
never find each other ag’in!”</p>
<p>“Well, well, Abby,” soothed the man with
grim humor, “if we never found each other ag’in,
I don’t see as ’twould make much diff’rence
whether ye furgived me or not!”</p>
<p>For another long minute they silently watched the
crowd. Then Hezekiah squared his shoulders.</p>
<p>“Come, come, Abby,” he said, “this
ain’t no way ter do. Only think how we wanted
ter git here an’ now we’re here an’
don’t dare ter stir. There ain’t any less
folks than there was--growin’ worse, if anythin’--but
I’m gittin’ used ter ’em now, an’
I’m goin’ ter make a break. Come, what
would Mr. Livin’stone say if he could see us
now? Where’d he think our boastin’ was
about our bein’ able ter enj’y ourselves?
Come!” And once more he rose to his feet.</p>
<p>This time he was not held back. The little woman at
his side adjusted her bonnet, tilted up her chin,
and in her turn rose to her feet.</p>
<p>“Sure enough!” she quavered bravely. “Come,
Hezekiah, we’ll ask the way ter Bunker Hill.”
And, holding fast to her husband’s coat sleeve,
she tripped across the floor to one of the outer doors.</p>
<p>On the sidewalk Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden came
once more to a halt. Before them swept an endless
stream of cars, carriages, and people. Above thundered
the elevated railway cars.</p>
<p>“Oh-h,” shuddered Abigail and tightened
her grasp on her husband’s coat.</p>
<p>It was some minutes before Hezekiah’s dry tongue
and lips could frame his question, and then his words
were so low-spoken and indistinct that the first two
men he asked did not hear. The third man frowned and
pointed to a policeman. The fourth snapped: “Take
the elevated for Charlestown or the trolley-cars,
either;” all of which served but to puzzle Hezekiah
the more.</p>
<p>Little by little the dazed old man and his wife fell
back before the jostling crowds. They were quite against
the side of the building when Livingstone spoke to
them.</p>
<p>“Well, well, if here aren’t my friends
again!” he exclaimed cordially.</p>
<p>There was something of the fierceness of a drowning
man in the way Hezekiah took hold of that hand.</p>
<p><i>"Mr. Livin’stone!"</i> he cried; then
he recollected himself. “We was jest goin’
ter Bunker Hill,” he said jauntily.</p>
<p>“Yes?” smiled Livingstone. “But
your luncheon--aren’t you hungry? Come with
me; I was just going to get mine.”</p>
<p>“But you--I--” Hezekiah paused and looked
doubtingly at his wife.</p>
<p>“Indeed, my dear Mrs. Warden, you’ll say
‘Yes,’ I know,” urged Livingstone
suavely. “Only think how good a nice cup of tea
would taste now.”</p>
<p>“I know, but--” She glanced at her husband.</p>
<p>“Nonsense! Of course you’ll come,”
insisted Livingstone, laying a gently compelling hand
on the arm of each.</p>
<p>Fifteen minutes later Hezekiah stood looking about
him with wondering eyes.</p>
<p>“Well, well, Abby, ain’t this slick?”
he cried.</p>
<p>His wife did not reply. The mirrors, the lights, the
gleaming silver and glass had filled her with a delight
too great for words. She was vaguely conscious of
her husband, of Mr. Livingstone, and of a smooth-shaven
little man in gray who was presented as “Mr.
Harding.” Then she found herself seated at that
wonderful table, while beside her chair stood an awesome
being who laid a printed card before her. With a little
ecstatic sigh she gave Hezekiah her customary signal
for the blessing and bowed her head.</p>
<p>“There!” exulted Livingstone aloud. “Here
we--” He stopped short. From his left came a
deep-toned, reverent voice invoking the divine blessing
upon the place, the food, and the new friends who were
so kind to strangers in a strange land.</p>
<p>“By Jove!” muttered Livingstone under
his breath, as his eyes met those of Jim across the
table. The waiter coughed and turned his back. Then,
the blessing concluded, Hezekiah raised his head and
smiled.</p>
<p>“Well, well, Abby, why don’t ye say somethin’?”
he asked, breaking the silence. “Ye hain’t
said a word. Mr. Livin’stone’ll be thinkin’
ye don’t like it.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Warden drew a long breath of delight.</p>
<p>“I can’t say anythin’, Hezekiah,”
she faltered. “It’s all so beautiful.”</p>
<p>Livingstone waited until the dazed old eyes had become
in a measure accustomed to the surroundings, then
he turned a smiling face on Hezekiah.</p>
<p>“And now, my friend, what do you propose to
do after luncheon?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Well, we cal’late ter take in Bunker
Hill an’ Faneuil Hall sure,” returned
the old man with a confidence that told of new courage
imbibed with his tea. “Then we thought mebbe
we’d ride in the subway an’ hear one of
the big preachers if they happened ter be holdin’
meetin’s anywheres this week. Mebbe you can
tell us, eh?”</p>
<p>Across the table the man called Harding choked over
his food and Livingstone frowned.</p>
<p>“Well,” began Livingstone slowly.</p>
<p>“I think,” interrupted Harding, taking
a newspaper from his pocket, “I think there
are services there,” he finished gravely, pointing
to the glaring advertisement of a ten-cent show, as
he handed the paper across to Livingstone.</p>
<p>“But what time do the exercises begin?”
demanded Hezekiah in a troubled voice. “Ye see,
there’s Bunker Hill an’--sugar! Abby, ain’t
that pretty?” he broke off delightedly. Before
him stood a slender glass into which the waiter was
pouring something red and sparkling.</p>
<p>The old lady opposite grew white, then pink. “Of
course that ain’t wine, Mr. Livingstone?”
she asked anxiously.</p>
<p>“Give yourself no uneasiness, my dear Mrs. Warden,”
interposed Harding. “It’s lemonade--pink
lemonade.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she returned with a relieved sigh.
“I ask yer pardon, I’m sure. You wouldn’t
have it, ‘course, no more’n I would. But,
ye see, bein’ pledged so, I didn’t want
ter make a mistake.”</p>
<p>There was an awkward silence, then Harding raised
his glass.</p>
<p>“Here’s to your health, Mrs. Warden!”
he cried gayly. “May your trip----”</p>
<p>“Wait!” she interrupted excitedly, her
old eyes alight and her cheeks flushed. “Let
me tell ye first what this trip is ter us, then ye’ll
have a right ter wish us good luck.”</p>
<p>Harding lowered his glass and turned upon her a gravely
attentive face.</p>
<p>“‘Most fifty years ago we was married,
Hezekiah an’ me,” she began softly. “We’d
saved, both of us, an’ we’d planned a honeymoon
trip. We was comin’ ter Boston. They didn’t
have any ’lectric-cars then nor any steam-cars
only half-way. But we was comin’ an’ we
was plannin’ on Bunker Hill an’ Faneuil
Hall, an’ I don’t know what all.”</p>
<p>The little lady paused for breath and Harding stirred
uneasily in his chair. Livingstone did not move. His
eyes were fixed on a mirror across the room. Over
at the sideboard the waiter vigorously wiped a bottle.</p>
<p>“Well, we was married,” continued the
tremulous voice, “an’ not half an hour
later mother fell down the cellar stairs an’
broke her hip. Of course that stopped things right
short. I took off my weddin’ gown an’
put on my old red caliker an’ went ter work.
Hezekiah came right there an’ run the farm an’
I nursed mother an’ did the work. ’T was
more’n a year ’fore she was up ‘round,
an’ after that, what with the babies an’
all, there didn’t never seem a chance when Hezekiah
an’ me could take this trip.</p>
<p>“If we went anywhere we couldn’t seem
ter manage ter go tergether, an’ we never stayed
fer no sight-seein’. Late years my Jennie an’
her husband seemed ter think we didn’t need
nothin’ but naps an’ knittin’, an’
somehow we got so we jest couldn’t stand it.
We wanted ter go somewhere an’ see somethin’,
so.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Warden paused, drew a long breath, and resumed.
Her voice now had a ring of triumph.</p>
<p>“Well, last month they got the ’lectric-cars
finished down our way. We hadn’t been on ’em,
neither of us. Jennie an’ Frank didn’t
seem ter want us to. They said they was shaky an’
noisy an’ would tire us all out. But yesterday,
when the folks was gone, Hezekiah an’ me got
ter talkin’ an’ thinkin’ how all
these years we hadn’t never had that honeymoon
trip, an’ how by an’ by we’d be
old--real old, I mean, so’s we couldn’t
take it--an’ all of a sudden we said we’d
take it now, right now. An’ we did. We left
a note fer the children, an’--an’ we’re
here!”</p>
<p>There was a long silence. Over at the side-board the
waiter still polished his bottle. Livingstone did
not even turn his head. Finally Harding raised his
glass.</p>
<p>“We’ll drink to honeymoon trips in general
and to this one in particular,” he cried, a
little constrainedly.</p>
<p>Mrs. Warden flushed, smiled, and reached for her glass.
The pink lemonade was almost at her lips when Livingstone’s
arm shot out. Then came the tinkle of shattered glass
and a crimson stain where the wine trailed across
the damask.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Livingstone,
while the other men lowered their glasses in surprise.
“That was an awkward slip of mine, Mrs. Warden.
I must have hit your arm.”</p>
<p>“But, Bill,” muttered Harding under his
breath, “you don’t mean--”</p>
<p>“But I do,” corrected Livingstone quietly,
looking straight into Harding’s amazed eyes.</p>
<p>“Mr. and Mrs. Warden are my guests. They are
going to drive to Bunker Hill with me by and by.”</p>
<p>When the six o’clock accommodation train pulled
out from Boston that night it bore a little old man
and a little old woman, gray-haired, weary, but blissfully
content.</p>
<p>“We’ve seen ’em all, Hezekiah, ev’ry
single one of ’em,” Abigail was saying.
“An’ wan’t Mr. Livingstone good,
a-gittin’ that carriage an’ takin’
us ev’rywhere; an’ it bein’ open
so all ’round the sides, we didn’t miss
seein’ a single thing!”</p>
<p>“He was, Abby, he was, an’ he wouldn’t
let me pay one cent!” cried Hezekiah, taking
out his roll of bills and patting it lovingly. “But,
Abby, did ye notice? ‘Twas kind o’ queer
we never got one taste of that pink lemonade. The
waiter-man took it away.”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_15"></a>When Aunt Abby Waked Up</h1>
<p>The room was very still. The gaunt figure on the bed
lay motionless save for a slight lifting of the chest
at long intervals. The face was turned toward the
wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across
the pillow. Just outside the door two physicians talked
together in low tones, with an occasional troubled
glance toward the silent figure on the bed.</p>
<p>“If there could be something that would rouse
her,” murmured one; “something that would
prick her will-power and goad it into action! But
this lethargy--this wholesale giving up!” he
finished with a gesture of despair.</p>
<p>“I know,” frowned the other; “and
I’ve tried--day after day I’ve tried.
But there’s nothing. I’ve exhausted every
means in my power. I didn’t know but you--”
He paused questioningly.</p>
<p>The younger man shook his head.</p>
<p>“No,” he said. “If you can’t,
I can’t. You’ve been her physician for
years. If anyone knows how to reach her, you should
know. I suppose you’ve thought of--her son?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. Jed was sent for long ago, but he
had gone somewhere into the interior on a prospecting
trip, and was very hard to reach. It is doubtful if
word gets to him at all until--too late. As you know,
perhaps, it is rather an unfortunate case. He has not
been home for years, anyway, and the Nortons--James
is Mrs. Darling’s nephew--have been making all
the capital they can out of it, and have been prejudicing
her against him--quite unjustly, in my opinion, for
I think it’s nothing more nor less than thoughtlessness
on the boy’s part.”</p>
<p>“Hm-m; too bad, too bad!” murmured the
other, as he turned and led the way to the street
door.</p>
<p>Back in the sick-room the old woman still lay motionless
on the bed. She was wondering--as she had wondered
so often before--why it took so long to die. For days
now she had been trying to die, decently and in order.
There was really no particular use in living, so far
as she could see. Ella and Jim were very kind; but,
after all, they were not Jed, and Jed was away--hopelessly
away. He did not even want to come back, so Ella and
Jim said.</p>
<p>There was the money, too. She did not like to think
of the money. It seemed to her that every nickel and
dime and quarter that she had painfully wrested from
the cost of keeping soul and body together all these
past years lay now on her breast with a weight that
crushed like lead. She had meant that money for Jed.
Ella and Jim were kind, of course, and she was willing
they should have it; yet Jed--but Jed was away.</p>
<p>And she was so tired. She had ceased to rouse herself,
either for the medicine or for the watery broths they
forced through her lips. It was so hopelessly dragged
out--this dying; yet it must be over soon. She had
heard them tell the neighbors only yesterday that she
was unconscious and that she did not know a thing
of what was passing around her; and she had smiled--but
only in her mind. Her lips, she knew, had not moved.</p>
<p>They were talking now--Ella and Jim--out in the other
room. Their voices, even their words, were quite distinct,
and dreamily, indifferently, she listened.</p>
<p>“You see,” said Jim, “as long as
I’ve got ter go ter town ter-morrer, anyhow,
it seems a pity not ter do it all up at once. I could
order the coffin an’ the undertaker--it’s
only a question of a few hours, anyway, an’
it seems such a pity ter make another trip--jest fer
that!”</p>
<p>In the bedroom the old woman stirred suddenly. Somewhere,
away back behind the consciousness of things, something
snapped, and sent the blood tingling from toes to
fingertips. A fierce anger sprang instantly into life
and brushed the cobwebs of lethargy and indifference
from her brain. She turned and opened her eyes, fixing
them upon the oblong patch of light that marked the
doorway leading to the room beyond where sat Ella
and Jim.</p>
<p>“Jest fer that,” Jim had said, and “that”
was her death. It was not worth, it seemed, even an
extra trip to town! And she had done so much-- so
much for those two out there!</p>
<p>“Let’s see; ter-day’s Monday,”
Jim went on. “We might fix the fun’ral
for Saturday, I guess, an’ I’ll tell the
folks at the store ter spread it. Puttin’ it
on Sat’day’ll give us a leetle extry time
if she shouldn’t happen ter go soon’s
we expect--though there ain’t much fear o’
that now, I guess, she’s so low. An’ it’ll
save me ’most half a day ter do it all up this
trip. I ain’t--what’s that?” he broke
off sharply.</p>
<p>From the inner room had seemed to come a choking,
inarticulate cry.</p>
<p>With a smothered ejaculation Jim picked up the lamp,
hurried into the sick-room, and tiptoed to the bed.
The gaunt figure lay motionless, face to the wall,
leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across the
pillow.</p>
<p>“Gosh!” muttered the man as he turned
away.</p>
<p>“There’s nothin’ doin’-but
it did give me a start!”</p>
<p>On the bed the woman smiled grimly--but the man did
not see it.</p>
<p>It was snowing hard when Jim got back from town Tuesday
night. He came blustering into the kitchen with stamping
feet and wide-flung arms, scattering the powdery whiteness
in all directions.</p>
<p>“Whew! It’s a reg’lar blizzard,”
he began, but he stopped short at the expression on
his wife’s face. “Why, Ella!” he
cried.</p>
<p>“Jim--Aunt Abby sat up ten minutes in bed ter-day.
She called fer toast an’ tea.”</p>
<p>Jim dropped into a chair. His jaw fell open.</p>
<p>“S-sat up!” he stammered.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“But she--hang it all, Herrick’s comin’
ter-morrer with the coffin!”</p>
<p>“Oh, Jim!”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t help it! You know how she
was this mornin’,” retorted Jim sharply.
“I thought she <i>was</i> dead once. Why,
I ’most had Herrick come back with me ter-night,
I was so sure.”</p>
<p>“I know it,” shivered Ella, “but
you hadn’t been gone an hour ’fore she
began to stir an’ notice things. I found her
lookin’ at me first, an’ it give me such
a turn I ’most dropped the medicine bottle in
my hand. I was clearin’ off the little table
by her bed, an’ she was followin’ me around
with them big gray eyes. ‘Slickin’ up?’
she asks after a minute; an’ I could ‘a’
dropped right there an’ then, ’cause I
<i>was</i> slickin’ up, fer her fun’ral.
‘Where’s Jim?’ she asks then. ’Gone
ter town,’ says I, kind o’ faint-like.
‘Umph!’ she says, an’ snaps her lips
tight shet. After a minute she opens ’em again.
’I think I’ll have some tea and toast,’
she says, casual-like, jest as if she’d been
callin’ fer victuals ev’ry day fer a month
past. An’ when I brought it, if she didn’t
drag herself up in bed an’ call fer a piller
to her back, so’s she could set up. An’
there she stayed, pantin’ an’ gaspin’,
but <i>settin’ up</i>--an’ she stayed
there till the toast an’ tea was gone.”</p>
<p>“Gosh!” groaned Jim. “Who’d
‘a’ thought it? ’Course ’t
ain’t that I grudge the old lady’s livin’,”
he added hurriedly, “but jest now it’s
so-- unhandy, things bein’ as they be. We can’t
very well--” He stopped, a swift change coming
to his face. “Say, Ella,” he cried, “mebbe
it’s jest a spurt ’fore--’fore the
last. Don’t it happen some-times that way--when
folks is dyin’?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” shuddered Ella.
“Sh-h! I thought I heard her.” And she
hurried across the hall to the sitting-room and the
bedroom beyond.</p>
<p>It did not snow much through the night, but in the
early morning it began again with increased severity.
The wind rose, too, and by the time Herrick, the undertaker,
drove into the yard, the storm had become a blizzard.</p>
<p>“I calc’lated if I didn’t git this
’ere coffin here purty quick there wouldn’t
be no gettin’ it here yet awhile,” called
Herrick cheerfully, as Jim came to the door.</p>
<p>Jim flushed and raised a warning hand.</p>
<p>“Sh-h! Herrick, look out!” he whispered
hoarsely. “She ain’t dead yet. You’ll
have ter go back.”</p>
<p>“Go back!” snorted Herrick. “Why,
man alive, ’twas as much as my life’s
worth to get here. There won’t be no goin’
back yet awhile fer me nor no one else, I calc’late.
An’ the quicker you get this ’ere coffin
in out of the snow, the better’t will be,”
he went on authoritatively as he leaped to the ground.</p>
<p>It was not without talk and a great deal of commotion
that the untimely addition to James Norton’s
household effects was finally deposited in the darkened
parlor; neither was it accomplished without some echo
of the confusion reaching the sick-room, despite all
efforts of concealment. Jim, perspiring, redfaced,
and palpably nervous, was passing on tiptoe through
the sitting-room when a quavering voice from the bedroom
brought him to a halt.</p>
<p>“Jim, is that you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Aunt Abby.”</p>
<p>“Who’s come?”</p>
<p>Jim’s face grew white, then red.</p>
<p>“C-ome?” he stammered.</p>
<p>“Yes, I heard a sleigh and voices. Who is it?”</p>
<p>“Why, jest-jest a man on--on business,”
he flung over his shoulder, as he fled through the
hall.</p>
<p>Not half an hour later came Ella’s turn. In
accordance with the sick woman’s orders she
had prepared tea, toast, and a boiled egg; but she
had not set the tray on the bed when the old woman
turned upon her two keen eyes.</p>
<p>“Who’s in the kitchen, Ella, with Jim?”</p>
<p>Ella started guiltily.</p>
<p>“Why, jest a--a man.”</p>
<p>“Who is it?”</p>
<p>Ella hesitated; then, knowing that deceit was useless,
she stammered out the truth.</p>
<p>“Why, er--only Mr. Herrick.”</p>
<p>“Not William Herrick, the undertaker!”
There was apparently only pleased surprise in the
old woman’s voice.</p>
<p>“Yes,” nodded Ella feverishly, “he
had business out this way, and--and got snowed up,”
she explained with some haste.</p>
<p>“Ye don’t say,” murmured the old
woman. “Well, ask him in; I’d like ter
see him.”</p>
<p>“Aunt Abby!”--Ella’s teeth fairly
chattered with dismay.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’d like ter see him,” repeated
the old woman with cordial interest. “Call him
in.”</p>
<p>And Ella could do nothing but obey.</p>
<p>Herrick, however, did not stay long in the sick-room.
The situation was uncommon for him, and not without
its difficulties. As soon as possible he fled to the
kitchen, telling Jim that it gave him “the creeps”
to have her ask him where he’d started for,
and if business was good.</p>
<p>All that day it snowed and all that night; nor did
the dawn of Friday bring clear skies. For hours the
wind had swept the snow from roofs and hilltops, piling
it into great drifts that grew moment by moment deeper
and more impassable.</p>
<p>In the farmhouse Herrick was still a prisoner.</p>
<p>The sick woman was better. Even Jim knew now that
it was no momentary flare of the candle before it
went out. Mrs. Darling was undeniably improving in
health. She had sat up several times in bed, and had
begun to talk of wrappers and slippers. She ate toast,
eggs, and jellies, and hinted at chicken and beefsteak.
She was weak, to be sure, but behind her, supporting
and encouraging, there seemed to be a curious strength--a strength that sent a determined gleam to her eyes,
and a grim tenseness to her lips.</p>
<p>At noon the sun came out, and the wind died into fitful
gusts. The two men attacked the drifts with a will,
and made a path to the gate. They even attempted to
break out the road, and Herrick harnessed his horse
and started for home; but he had not gone ten rods
before he was forced to turn back.</p>
<p>“’T ain’t no use,” he grumbled.
“I calc’late I’m booked here till
the crack o’ doom!”</p>
<p>“An’ ter-morrer’s the fun’ral,”
groaned Jim. “An’ I can’t git nowhere--<i>nowhere</i> ter tell ’em not ter come!”</p>
<p>“Well, it don’t look now as if anybody’d
come--or go,” snapped the undertaker.</p>
<p>Saturday dawned fair and cold. Early in the morning
the casket was moved from the parlor to the attic.</p>
<p>There had been sharp words at the breakfast table,
Herrick declaring that he had made a sale, and refusing
to take the casket back to town; hence the move to
the attic; but in spite of their caution, the sick
woman heard the commotion.</p>
<p>“What ye been cartin’ upstairs?”
she asked in a mildly curious voice.</p>
<p>Ella was ready for her.</p>
<p>“A chair,” she explained smoothly; “the
one that was broke in the front room, ye know.”
And she did not think it was necessary to add that
the chair was not all that had been moved. She winced
and changed color, however, when her aunt observed:</p>
<p>“Humph! Must be you’re expectin’
company, Ella.”</p>
<p>It was almost two o’clock when loud voices and
the crunch of heavy teams told that the road-breakers
had come. All morning the Nortons had been hoping
against hope that the fateful hour would pass, and
the road be still left in unbroken whiteness. Someone,
however, had known his duty too well--and had done
it.</p>
<p>“I set ter work first thing on this road,”
said the man triumphantly to Ella as he stood, shovel
in hand, at the door. “The parson’s right
behind, an’ there’s a lot more behind him.
Gorry! I was afraid I wouldn’t git here in time,
but the fun’ral wan’t till two, was it?”</p>
<p>Ella’s dry lips refused to move. She shook her
head.</p>
<p>“There’s a mistake,” she said faintly.
“There ain’t no fun’ral. Aunt Abby’s
better.”</p>
<p>The man stared, then he whistled softly.</p>
<p>“Gorry!” he muttered, as he turned away.</p>
<p>If Jim and Ella had supposed that they could keep
their aunt from attending her own “funeral”--as
Herrick persisted in calling it--they soon found their
mistake. Mrs. Darling heard the bells of the first
arrival.</p>
<p>“I guess mebbe I’ll git up an’ set
up a spell,” she announced calmly to Ella. “I’ll
have my wrapper an’ my slippers, an’ I’ll
set in the big chair out in the settin’-room.
That’s Parson Gerry’s voice, an’
I want ter see him.”</p>
<p>“But, Aunt Abby--” began Ella, feverishly.</p>
<p>“Well, I declare, if there ain’t another
sleigh drivin’ in,” cried the old woman
excitedly, sitting up in bed and peering through the
little window. “Must be they’re givin’
us a s’prise party. Now hurry, Ella, an’
git them slippers. I ain’t a-goin’ to lose
none o’ the fun!” And Ella, nervous, perplexed,
and thoroughly frightened, did as she was bid.</p>
<p>In state, in the big rocking-chair, the old woman
received her guests. She said little, it is true,
but she was there; and if she noticed that no guest
entered the room without a few whispered words from
Ella in the hall, she made no sign. Neither did she
apparently consider it strange that ten women and
six men should have braved the cold to spend fifteen
rather embarrassed minutes in her sitting-room--and
for this last both Ella and Jim were devoutly grateful.
They could not help wondering about it, however, after
she had gone to bed, and the house was still.</p>
<p>“What do ye s’pose she thought?”
whispered Jim.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” shivered Ella, “but,
Jim, wan’t it awful?--Mis’ Blair brought
a white wreath--everlastin’s!”</p>
<p>One by one the days passed, and Jim and Ella ceased
to tremble every time the old woman opened her lips.
There was still that fearsome thing in the attic,
but the chance of discovery was small now.</p>
<p>“If she <i>should</i> find out,”
Ella had said, “’twould be the end of
the money--fer us.”</p>
<p>“But she ain’t a-goin’ ter find
out,” Jim had retorted. “She can’t
last long, ‘course, an’ I guess she won’t
change the will now--unless some one tells her; an’
I’ll be plaguy careful there don’t no one
do that!”</p>
<p>The “funeral” was a week old when Mrs.
Darling came into the sitting-room one day, fully
dressed.</p>
<p>“I put on all my clo’s,” she said
smilingly, in answer to Ella’s shocked exclamation.
“I got restless, somehow, an’ sick o’
wrappers. Besides, I wanted to walk around the house
a little. I git kind o’ tired o’ jest
one room.” And she limped across the floor to
the hall door.</p>
<p>“But, Aunt Abby, where ye goin’ now?”
faltered Ella.</p>
<p>“Jest up in the attic. I wanted ter see--”
She stopped in apparent surprise. Ella and Jim had
sprung to their feet.</p>
<p>“The attic!” they gasped.</p>
<p>“Yes, I--”</p>
<p>“But you mustn’t!--you ain’t strong
enough!--you’ll fall!--there’s nothin’
there!” they exclaimed wildly, talking both together
and hurrying forward.</p>
<p>“Oh, I guess ’t won’t kill me,”
said the old woman; and something in the tone of her
voice made them fall back. They were still staring
into each other’s eyes when the hall door closed
sharply behind her.</p>
<p>“It’s all--up!” breathed Jim.</p>
<p>Fully fifteen minutes passed before the old woman
came back. She entered the room quietly, and limped
across the floor to the chair by the window.</p>
<p>“It’s real pretty,” she said. “I
allers did like gray.”</p>
<p>“Gray?” stammered Ella.</p>
<p>“Yes!--fer coffins, ye know.” Jim made
a sudden movement, and started to speak; but the old
woman raised her hand. “You don’t need
ter say anythin’,” she interposed cheerfully.
“I jest wanted ter make sure where ‘twas,
so I went up. You see, Jed’s comin’ home,
an’ I thought he might feel--queer if he run
on to it, casual-like.”</p>
<p>“Jed--comin’ home!”</p>
<p>The old woman smiled oddly.</p>
<p>“Oh, I didn’t tell ye, did I? The doctor
had this telegram yesterday, an’ brought it
over to me. Ye know he was here last night. Read it.”
And she pulled from her pocket a crumpled slip of
paper. And Jim read:</p>
<p>Shall be there the 8th. For God’s sake don’t
let me be too late.</p>
<p style="font-variant: small-caps; text-align: right">J. D. Darling</p>
<h1><a name="chap_16"></a>Wristers for Three</h1>
<p>The great chair, sumptuous with satin-damask and soft
with springs, almost engulfed the tiny figure of the
little old lady. To the old lady herself it suddenly
seemed the very embodiment of the luxurious ease against
which she was so impotently battling. With a spasmodic
movement she jerked herself to her feet, and stood
there motionless save for the wistful sweep of her
eyes about the room.</p>
<p>A level ray from the setting sun shot through the
window, gilding the silver of her hair and deepening
the faint pink of her cheek; on the opposite wall
it threw a sharp silhouette of the alert little figure--that figure which even the passage of years had been
able to bend so very little to its will. For a moment
the lace kerchief folded across the black gown rose
and fell tumultuously; then its wearer crossed the
room and seated herself with uncompromising discomfort
in the only straight-backed chair the room contained.
This done, Mrs. Nancy Wetherby, for the twentieth
time, went over in her mind the whole matter.</p>
<p>For two weeks, now, she had been a member of her son
John’s family--two vain, unprofitable weeks.
When before that had the sunset found her night after
night with hands limp from a long day of idleness?
When before that had the sunrise found her morning
after morning with a mind destitute of worthy aim
or helpful plan for the coming twelve hours? When,
indeed?</p>
<p>Not in her girlhood, not even in her childhood, had
there been days of such utter uselessness--rag dolls
and mud pies need <i>some</i> care! As for her
married life, there were Eben, the babies, the house,
the church--and how absolutely necessary she had been
to each one!</p>
<p>The babies had quickly grown to stalwart men and sweet-faced
women who had as quickly left the home nest and built
new nests of their own. Eben had died; and the church--strange
how long and longer still the walk to the church had
grown each time she had walked it this last year! After
all, perhaps it did not matter; there were new faces
at the church, and young, strong hands that did not
falter and tremble over these new ways of doing things.
For a time there had been only the house that needed
her--but how great that need had been! There were the
rooms to care for, there was the linen to air, there
were the dear treasures of picture and toy to cry
and laugh over; and outside there were the roses to
train and the pansies to pick.</p>
<p>Now, even the house was not left. It was October,
and son John had told her that winter was coming on
and she must not remain alone. He had brought her
to his own great house and placed her in these beautiful
rooms--indeed, son John was most kind to her! If only
she could make some return, do something, be of some
use!</p>
<p>Her heart failed her as she thought of the grave-faced,
preoccupied man who came each morning into the room
with the question, “Well, mother, is there anything
you need to-day?” What possible service could
<i>she</i> render <i>him?</i> Her heart
failed her again as she thought of John’s pretty,
new wife, and of the two big boys, men grown, sons
of dear dead Molly. There was the baby, to be sure;
but the baby was always attended by one, and maybe
two, white-capped, white-aproned young women. Madam
Wetherby never felt quite sure of herself when with
those young women. There were other young women, too,
in whose presence she felt equally ill at ease; young
women in still prettier white aprons and still daintier
white caps; young women who moved noiselessly in and
out of the halls and parlors and who waited at table
each day.</p>
<p>Was there not some spot, some creature, some thing,
in all that place that needed the touch of her hand,
the glance of her eye? Surely the day had not quite
come when she could be of no use, no service to her
kind! Her work must be waiting; she had only to find
it. She would seek it out--and that at once. No more
of this slothful waiting for the work to come to her!
“Indeed, no!” she finished aloud, her dim
eyes alight, her breath coming short and quick, and
her whole frail self quivering with courage and excitement.</p>
<p>It was scarcely nine o’clock the next morning
when a quaint little figure in a huge gingham apron
(slyly abstracted from the bottom of a trunk) slipped
out of the rooms given over to the use of John Wetherby’s
mother. The little figure tripped softly, almost stealthily,
along the hall and down the wide main staircase. There
was some hesitation and there were a few false moves
before the rear stairway leading to the kitchen was
gained; and there was a gasp, half triumphant, half
dismayed, when the kitchen was reached.</p>
<p>The cook stared, open-mouthed, as though confronted
with an apparition. A maid, hurrying across the room
with a loaded tray, almost dropped her burden to the
floor. There was a dazed moment of silence, then Madam
Wetherby took a faltering step forward and spoke.</p>
<p>“Good-morning! I--I’ve come to help you.”</p>
<p>“Ma’am!” gasped the cook.</p>
<p>“To help--to help!” nodded the little
old lady briskly, with a sudden overwhelming joy at
the near prospect of the realization of her hopes.
“Pare apples, beat eggs, or--anything!”</p>
<p>“Indeed, ma’am, I--you--” The cook
stopped helplessly, and eyed with frightened fascination
the little old lady as she crossed to the table and
picked up a pan of potatoes.</p>
<p>“Now a knife, please,--oh, here’s one,”
continued Madam Wetherby happily. “Go right
about something else. I’ll sit over there in
that chair, and I’ll have these peeled very
soon.”</p>
<p>When John Wetherby visited his mother’s rooms
that morning he found no one there to greet him. A
few sharp inquiries disclosed the little lady’s
whereabouts and sent Margaret Wetherby with flaming
cheeks and tightening lips into the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Mother!” she cried; and at the word the
knife dropped from the trembling, withered old fingers
and clattered to the floor. “Why, mother!”</p>
<p>“I--I was helping,” quavered a deprecatory
voice.</p>
<p>Something in the appealing eyes sent a softer curve
to Margaret Wetherby’s lips.</p>
<p>“Yes, mother; that was very kind of you,”
said John’s wife gently. “But such work
is quite too hard for you, and there’s no need
of your doing it. Nora will finish these,” she
added, lifting the pan of potatoes to the table, “and
you and I will go upstairs to your room. Perhaps we’ll
go driving by and by. Who knows?”</p>
<p>In thinking it over afterwards Nancy Wetherby could
find no fault with her daughter-in-law. Margaret had
been goodness itself, insisting only that such work
was not for a moment to be thought of. John’s
wife was indeed kind, acknowledged Madam Wetherby
to herself, yet two big tears welled to her eyes and
were still moist on her cheeks after she had fallen
asleep.</p>
<p>It was perhaps three days later that John Wetherby’s
mother climbed the long flight of stairs near her
sitting-room door, and somewhat timidly entered one
of the airy, sunlit rooms devoted to Master Philip
Wetherby. The young woman in attendance respectfully
acknowledged her greeting, and Madam Wetherby advanced
with some show of courage to the middle of the room.</p>
<p>“The baby, I--I heard him cry,” she faltered.</p>
<p>“Yes, madam,” smiled the nurse. “It
is Master Philip’s nap hour.”</p>
<p>Louder and louder swelled the wails from the inner
room, yet the nurse did not stir save to reach for
her thread.</p>
<p>“But he’s crying--yet!” gasped Madam
Wetherby.</p>
<p>The girl’s lips twitched and an expression came
to her face which the little old lady did not in the
least understand.</p>
<p>“Can’t you--do something?” demanded
baby’s grandmother, her voice shaking.</p>
<p>“No, madam. I--” began the girl, but she
did not finish. The little figure before her drew
itself to the full extent of its diminutive height.</p>
<p>“Well, I can,” said Madam Wetherby crisply.
Then she turned and hurried into the inner room.</p>
<p>The nurse sat mute and motionless until a crooning
lullaby and the unmistakable tapping of rockers on
a bare floor brought her to her feet in dismay. With
an angry frown she strode across the room, but she
stopped short at the sight that met her eyes.</p>
<p>In a low chair, her face aglow with the accumulated
love of years of baby-brooding, sat the little old
lady, one knotted, wrinkled finger tightly elapsed
within a dimpled fist. The cries had dropped to sobbing
breaths, and the lullaby, feeble and quavering though
it was, rose and swelled triumphant. The anger fled
from the girl’s face, and a queer choking came
to her throat so that her words were faint and broken.</p>
<p>“Madam--I beg pardon--I’m sorry, but I
must put Master Philip back on his bed.”</p>
<p>“But he isn’t asleep yet,” demurred
Madam Wetherby softly, her eyes mutinous.</p>
<p>“But you must--I can’t--that is, Master
Philip cannot be rocked,” faltered the girl.</p>
<p>“Nonsense, my dear!” she said; “babies
can always be rocked!” And again the lullaby
rose on the air.</p>
<p>“But, madam,” persisted the girl--she
was almost crying now--“don’t you see?
I must put Master Philip back. It is Mrs. Wetherby’s
orders. They-- they don’t rock babies so much
now.”</p>
<p>For an instant fierce rebellion spoke through flashing
eyes, stern-set lips, and tightly clutched fingers;
then all the light died from the thin old face and
the tense muscles relaxed.</p>
<p>“You may put the baby back,” said Madam
Wetherby tremulously, yet with a sudden dignity that
set the maid to curtsying. “I--I should not want
to cross my daughter’s wishes.”</p>
<p>Nancy Wetherby never rocked her grandson again, but
for days she haunted the nursery, happy if she could
but tie the baby’s moccasins or hold his brush
or powder-puff; yet a week had scarcely passed when
John’s wife said to her:</p>
<p>“Mother, dear, I wouldn’t tire myself
so trotting upstairs each day to the nursery. There
isn’t a bit of need--Mary and Betty can manage
quite well. You fatigue yourself too much!”
And to the old lady’s denials John’s wife
returned, with a tinge of sharpness: “But, really,
mother, I’d rather you didn’t. It frets
the nurses and--forgive me-but you know you <i>will</i>
forget and talk to him in ’baby-talk’!”</p>
<p>The days came and the days went, and Nancy Wetherby
stayed more and more closely to her rooms. She begged
one day for the mending-basket, but her daughter-in-law
laughed and kissed her.</p>
<p>“Tut, tut, mother, dear!” she remonstrated.
“As if I’d have you wearing your eyes
and fingers out mending a paltry pair of socks!”</p>
<p>“Then I--I’ll knit new ones!” cried
the old lady, with sudden inspiration.</p>
<p>“Knit new ones--stockings!” laughed Margaret
Wetherby. “Why, dearie, they never in this world
would wear them--and if they would, I couldn’t
let you do it,” she added gently, as she noted
the swift clouding of the eager face. “Such
tiresome work!”</p>
<p>Again the old eyes filled with tears; and yet--John’s
wife was kind, so very kind!</p>
<p>It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John
Wetherby came into his mother’s room and found
a sob-shaken little figure in the depths of the sumptuous,
satin-damask chair. “Mother, mother,--why, mother!”
There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby’s
voice.</p>
<p>“There, there, John, I--I didn’t mean
to--truly I didn’t!” quavered the little
old lady.</p>
<p>John dropped on one knee and caught the fluttering
fingers. “Mother, what is it?”</p>
<p>“It--it isn’t anything; truly it isn’t,”
urged the tremulous voice.</p>
<p>“Is any one unkind to you?” John’s
eyes grew stern. “The boys, or-- Margaret?”</p>
<p>The indignant red mounted to the faded cheek. “John!
How can you ask? Every one is kind, kind, so very
kind to me!”</p>
<p>“Well, then, what is it?”</p>
<p>There was only a sob in reply. “Come, come,”
he coaxed gently.</p>
<p>For a moment Nancy Wetherby’s breath was held
suspended, then it came in a burst with a rush of
words.</p>
<p>“Oh, John, John, I’m so useless, so useless,
so dreadfully useless! Don’t you see? Not a
thing, not a person needs me. The kitchen has the
cook and the maids. The baby has two or three nurses.
Not even this room needs me--there’s a girl
to dust it each day. Once I slipped out of bed and
did it first--I did, John; but she came in, and when
I told her, she just curtsied and smiled and kept
right on, and--she didn’t even skip <i>one
chair!</i> John, dear John, sometimes it seems as
though even my own self doesn’t need me. I--I
don’t even put on my clothes alone; there’s
always some one to help me!”</p>
<p>“There, there, dear,” soothed the man
huskily. “I need you, indeed I do, mother.”
And he pressed his lips to one, then the other, of
the wrinkled, soft-skinned hands.</p>
<p>“You don’t--you don’t!” choked
the woman. “There’s not one thing I can
do for you! Why, John, only think, I sit with idle
hands all day, and there was so much once for them
to do. There was Eben, and the children, and the house,
and the missionary meetings, and--”</p>
<p>On and on went the sweet old voice, but the man scarcely
heard. Only one phrase rang over and over in his ears,
“There’s not one thing I can do for you!”
All the interests of now--stocks, bonds, railroads--fell
from his mind and left it blank save for the past.
He was a boy again at his mother’s knee. And
what had she done for him then? Surely among all the
myriad things there must be one that he might single
out and ask her to do for him now! And yet, as he
thought, his heart misgave him.</p>
<p>There were pies baked, clothes made, bumped foreheads
bathed, lost pencils found; there were--a sudden vision
came to him of something warm and red and very soft--something
over which his boyish heart had exulted. The next
moment his face lighted with joy very like that of
the years long ago.</p>
<p>“Mother!” he cried. “I know what
you can do for me. I want a pair of wristers--red
ones, just like those you used to knit!”</p>
<hr width="75%" size="1" />
<p>It must have been a month later that John Wetherby,
with his two elder sons, turned the first corner that
carried him out of sight of his house. Very slowly,
and with gentle fingers, he pulled off two bright
red wristers. He folded them, patted them, then tucked
them away in an inner pocket.</p>
<p>“Bless her dear heart!” he said softly.
“You should have seen her eyes shine when I
put them on this morning!”</p>
<p>“I can imagine it,” said one of his sons
in a curiously tender voice. The other one smiled,
and said whimsically, “I can hardly wait for
mine!” Yet even as he spoke his eyes grew dim
with a sudden moisture.</p>
<p>Back at the house John’s mother was saying to
John’s wife: “Did you see them on him,
Margaret?--John’s wristers? They did look so
bright and pretty! And I’m to make more, too;
did you know? Frank and Edward want some; John said
so. He told them about his, and they wanted some right
away. Only think, Margaret,” she finished, lifting
with both hands the ball of red worsted and pressing
it close to her cheek, “I’ve got two whole
pairs to make now!”</p>
<h1><a name="chap_17"></a>The Giving Thanks of Cyrus and Huldah</h1>
<p>For two months Cyrus Gregg and his wife Huldah had
not spoken to each other, yet all the while they had
lived under the same roof, driven to church side by
side, and attended various festivities and church prayer-meetings
together.</p>
<p>The cause of the quarrel had been an insignificant
something that speedily lost itself in the torrent
of angry words that burst from the lips of the irate
husband and wife, until by night it would have been
difficult for either the man or the woman to tell exactly
what had been the first point of difference. By that
time, however, the quarrel had assumed such proportions
that it loomed in their lives larger than anything
else; and each had vowed never to speak to the other
until that other had made the advance.</p>
<p>On both sides they came of a stubborn race, and from
the first it was a battle royally fought. The night
of the quarrel Cyrus betook himself in solitary state
to the “spare-room” over the parlor. After
that he slept on a makeshift bed that he had prepared
for himself in the shed-chamber, hitherto sacred to
trunks, dried corn, and cobwebs.</p>
<p>For a month the two sat opposite to each other and
partook of Huldah’s excellent cooking; then
one day the woman found at her plate a piece--of brown
paper on which had been scrawled:</p>
<p>If I ain’t worth speakin’ to I ain’t
worth cookin’ for. Hereafter I’ll take
care of myself.</p>
<p>A day later came the retort. Cyrus found it tucked
under the shed-chamber door.</p>
<p>Huldah’s note showed her “schooling.”
It was well written, carefully spelled, and enclosed
in a square white envelope.</p>
<p><i>Sir</i> [it ran stiffly]: I shall be obliged
if you do not chop any more wood for me. Hereafter
I shall use the oil stove. HULDAH PENDLETON GREGG.</p>
<p>Cyrus choked, and peered at the name with suddenly
blurred eyes: the “Huldah Pendleton” was
fiercely black and distinct; the “Gregg”
was so faint it could scarcely be discerned.</p>
<p>“Why, it’s ’most like a d’vorce!”
he shivered.</p>
<p>If it had not been so pitiful, it would have been
ludicrous--what followed. Day after day, in one corner
of the kitchen, an old man boiled his potatoes and
fried his unappetizing eggs over a dusty, unblacked
stove; in the other corner an old woman baked and brewed
over a shining idol of brass and black enamel--and
always the baking and brewing carried to the nostrils
of the hungry man across the room the aroma of some
dainty that was a particular favorite of his own.</p>
<p>The man whistled, and the woman hummed--at times;
but they did not talk, except when some neighbor came
in; and then they both talked very loud and very fast--to
the neighbor. On this one point were Cyrus Gregg and
his wife Huldah agreed; under no circumstances whatever
must any gossiping outsider know.</p>
<p>One by one the weeks had passed. It was November now,
and very cold. Outdoors a dull gray sky and a dull
brown earth combined into a dismal hopelessness. Indoors
the dull monotony of a two-months-old quarrel and
a growing heartache made a combination that carried
even less of cheer.</p>
<p>Huldah never hummed now, and Cyrus seldom whistled;
yet neither was one whit nearer speaking. Each saw
this, and, curiously enough, was pleased. In fact,
it was just here that, in spite of the heartache, each
found an odd satisfaction.</p>
<p>“By sugar--but she’s a spunky one!”
Cyrus would chuckle admiringly, as he discovered some
new evidence of his wife’s shrewdness in obtaining
what she wanted with yet no spoken word.</p>
<p>“There isn’t another man in town who could
do it--and stick to it!” exulted Huldah proudly,
her eyes on her husband’s form, bent over his
egg-frying at the other side of the room.</p>
<p>Not only the cause of the quarrel, but almost the
quarrel itself, had now long since been forgotten;
in fact, to both Cyrus and his wife it had come to
be a sort of game in which each player watched the
other’s progress with fully as much interest
as he did his own. And yet, with it all there was
the heartache; for the question came to them at times
with sickening force--just when and how could it possibly
end?</p>
<p>It was at about this time that each began to worry
about the other. Huldah shuddered at the changeless
fried eggs and boiled potatoes; and Cyrus ordered
a heavy storm window for the room where Huldah slept
alone. Huldah slyly left a new apple pie almost under
her husband’s nose one day, and Cyrus slipped
a five-dollar bill beneath his wife’s napkin
ring. When both pie and greenback remained untouched,
Huldah cried, and Cyrus said, “Gosh darn it!”
three times in succession behind the woodshed door.</p>
<p>A week before Thanksgiving a letter came from the
married daughter, and another from the married son.
They were good letters, kind and loving; and each
closed with a suggestion that all go home at Thanksgiving
for a family reunion.</p>
<p>Huldah read the letters eagerly, but at their close
she frowned and looked anxious. In a moment she had
passed them to Cyrus with a toss of her head. Five
minutes later Cyrus had flung them back with these
words trailing across one of the envelopes:</p>
<blockquote>Write um. Tell um we are sick--dead--gone
away--anything! Only don’t let um come. A
if <i>we</i> wanted to Thanksgive!</blockquote>
<p>Huldah answered the letters that night. She, too,
wrote kindly and lovingly; but at the end she said
that much as she and father would like to see them,
it did not seem wise to undertake to entertain such
a family gathering just now. It would be better to
postpone it.</p>
<p>Both Huldah and Cyrus hoped that this would end the
subject of Thanksgiving; but it did not. The very
next day Cyrus encountered neighbor Wiley in the village
store. Wiley’s round red face shone like the
full moon.</p>
<p>“Well, well, Cy, what ye doin’ down your
way Thanksgivin’--eh?” he queried.</p>
<p>Cyrus stiffened; but before he could answer he discovered
that Wiley had asked the question, not for information,
but as a mere introduction to a recital of his own
plans.</p>
<p>“We’re doin’ great things,”
announced the man. “Sam an’ Jennie an’
the hull kit on ’em’s comin’ home
an’ bring all the chicks. Tell ye what, Cy,
we <i>be</i> a-Thanksgivin’ this year! Ain’t
nothin’ like a good old fam’ly reunion,
when ye come right down to it.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know,” said Cyrus gloomily. “But
we--we ain’t doin’ much this year.”</p>
<p>A day later came Huldah’s turn. She had taken
some calf’s-foot jelly to Mrs. Taylor in the
little house at the foot of the hill. The Widow Taylor
was crying.</p>
<p>“You see, it’s Thanksgiving!” she
sobbed, in answer to Huldah’s dismayed questions.</p>
<p>“Thanksgiving!”</p>
<p>“Yes. And last year I had--<i>him!</i>”</p>
<p>Huldah sighed, and murmured something comforting,
appropriate; but almost at once she stopped, for the
woman had turned searching eyes upon her.</p>
<p>“Huldah Gregg, do you appreciate Cyrus?”</p>
<p>Huldah bridled angrily, but there was no time for
a reply, for the woman answered her own question,
and hurried on wildly.</p>
<p>“No. Did I appreciate my husband? No. Does Sally
Clark appreciate her husband? No. And there don’t
none of us do it till he’s gone--gone-- gone!”</p>
<p>As soon as possible Huldah went home. She was not
a little disconcerted. The “gone--gone--gone”
rang unpleasantly in her ears, and before her eyes
rose a hateful vision of unappetizing fried eggs and
boiled potatoes. As to her not appreciating Cyrus--that
was all nonsense; she had always appreciated him,
and that, too, far beyond his just deserts, she told
herself angrily.</p>
<p>There was no escaping Thanksgiving after that for
either Huldah or Cyrus. It looked from every eager
eye, and dropped from every joyous lip, until, of
all the world Huldah and Cyrus came to regard themselves
as the most forlorn, and the most abused.</p>
<p>It was then that to Huldah came her great idea; she
would cook for Cyrus the best Thanksgiving dinner
he had ever eaten. Just because he was obstinate was
no reason why he should starve, she told herself; and
very gayly she set about carrying out her plans. First
the oil stove, with the help of a jobman, was removed
to the unfinished room over the kitchen, for the chief
charm of the dinner was to be its secret preparation.
Then, with the treasured butter-and-egg money the turkey,
cranberries, nuts, and raisins were bought and smuggled
into the house and upstairs to the chamber of mystery.</p>
<p>Two days before Thanksgiving Cyrus came home to find
a silent and almost empty kitchen. His heart skipped
a beat and his jaw fell open in frightened amazement;
then a step on the floor above sent the blood back
to his face and a new bitterness to his heart.</p>
<p>“So I ain’t even good enough ter stay
with!” he muttered. “Fool!--fool!”
he snarled, glaring at the oblong brown paper in his
arms. “As if she’d care for this--now!”
he finished, flinging the parcel into the farthest
corner of the room.</p>
<p>Unhappy Cyrus! To him, also, had come a great idea.
Thanksgiving was not Christmas, to be sure, but if
he chose to give presents on that day, surely it was
no one’s business but his own, he argued. In
the brown paper parcel at that moment lay the soft,
shimmering folds of yards upon yards of black silk--and
Huldah had been longing for a new black silk gown.
Yet it was almost dark when Cyrus stumbled over to
the corner, picked up the parcel, and carried it ruefully
away to the shed-chamber.</p>
<p>Thanksgiving dawned clear and unusually warm. The
sun shone, and the air felt like spring. The sparrows
twittered in the treetops as if the branches were
green with leaves.</p>
<p>To Cyrus, however, it was a world of gloom. Upstairs
Huldah was singing-- singing!--and it was Thanksgiving.
He could hear her feet patter, patter on the floor
above, and the sound had a cheery self-reliance that
was maddening. Huldah was happy, evidently--and it
was Thanksgiving! Twice he had walked resolutely to
the back stairs with a brown-paper parcel in his arms;
and twice a quavering song of triumph from the room
above had sent him back in defeat. As if she could
care for a present of his!</p>
<p>Suddenly, now, Cyrus sprang forward in his chair,
sniffing the air hungrily. Turkey! Huldah was roasting
turkey, while he--</p>
<p>The old man dropped back in his seat and turned his
eyes disconsolately on the ill-kept stove--fried eggs
and boiled potatoes are not the most toothsome prospect
for a Thanksgiving dinner, particularly when one has
the smell of a New England housewife’s turkey
in one’s nostrils.</p>
<p>For a time Cyrus sat motionless; then he rose to his
feet, shuffled out of the house, and across the road
to the barn.</p>
<p>In the room above the kitchen, at that moment, something
happened. Perhaps the old hands slipped in their eagerness,
or perhaps the old eyes judged a distance wrongly.
Whatever it was, there came a puff of smoke, a sputter,
and a flare of light; then red-yellow flames leaped
to the flimsy shade at the window, and swept on to
the century-seasoned timbers above.</p>
<p>With a choking cry, Huldah turned and stumbled across
the room to the stairway. Out at the barn door Cyrus,
too, saw the flare of light at the window, and he,
too, turned with a choking cry.</p>
<p>They met at the foot of the stairway.</p>
<p>“Huldah!”</p>
<p>“Cyrus!”</p>
<p>It was as if one voice had spoken, so exactly were
the words simultaneous. Then Cyrus cried:</p>
<p>“You ain’t hurt?”</p>
<p>“No, no! Quick--the things--we must get them
out!”</p>
<p>Obediently Cyrus turned and began to work; and the
first thing that his arms tenderly bore to safety
was an oblong brown-paper parcel.</p>
<p>From all directions then came the neighbors running.
The farming settlement was miles from a town or a
fire-engine. The house was small, and stood quite
by itself; and there was little, after all, that could
be done, except to save the household goods and gods.
This was soon accomplished, and there was nothing
to do but to watch the old house burn.</p>
<p>Cyrus and Huldah sat hand in hand on an old stone
wall, quite apart from their sympathetic neighbors,
and--talked. And about them was a curious air of elation,
a buoyancy as if long-pent forces had suddenly found
a joyous escape.</p>
<p>“’T ain’t as if our things wan’t
all out,” cried Cyrus; his voice was actually
exultant.</p>
<p>“Or as if we hadn’t wanted to build a
new one for years,” chirruped his wife.</p>
<p>“Now you can have that ’ere closet under
the front stairs, Huldah!”</p>
<p>“And you can have the room for your tools where
it’ll be warm in the winter!”</p>
<p>“An’ there’ll be the bow-winder
out of the settin’ room, Huldah!”</p>
<p>“Yes, and a real bathroom, with water coming
right out of the wall, same as the Wileys have!”</p>
<p>“An’ a tub, Huldah--one o’ them
pretty white chiny ones!”</p>
<p>“Oh, Cyrus, ain’t it almost too good to
be true!” sighed Huldah: then her face changed.
“Why, Cyrus, it’s gone,” she cried
with sudden sharpness.</p>
<p>“What’s gone?”</p>
<p>“Your dinner--I was cooking such a beautiful
turkey and all the fixings for you.”</p>
<p>A dull red came into the man’s face.</p>
<p>“For--me?” stammered Cyrus.</p>
<p>“Y-yes,” faltered Huldah; then her chin
came up defiantly.</p>
<p>The man laughed; and there was a boyish ring to his
voice.</p>
<p>“Well, Huldah, I didn’t have any turkey,
but I did have a tidy little piece o’ black
silk for yer gown, an’ I saved it, too. Mebbe
we could eat that!--eh?”</p>
<p>It was not until just as they were falling asleep
that night in Deacon Clark’s spare bedroom that
Mr. and Mrs. Gregg so much as hinted that there ever
had been a quarrel.</p>
<p>Then, under cover of the dark, Cyrus stammered:</p>
<p>“Huldah, did ye sense it? Them ’ere words
we said at the foot of the stairs was spoke--exactly--<i>together</i>!”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, dear,” murmured Huldah,
with a little break in her voice. Then:</p>
<p>“Cyrus, ain’t it wonderful--this Thanksgiving,
for us?”</p>
<p>Downstairs the Clarks were talking of poor old Mr.
and Mrs. Gregg and their “sad loss;” but
the Clarks did not--know.</p>
<h1><a name="chap_18"></a>A New England Idol</h1>
<p>The Hapgood twins were born in the great square house
that set back from the road just on the outskirts
of Fairtown. Their baby eyes had opened upon a world
of faded portraits and somber haircloth furniture,
and their baby hands had eagerly clutched at crystal
pendants on brass candlesticks gleaming out of the
sacred darkness that enveloped the parlor mantel.</p>
<p>When older grown they had played dolls in the wonderful
attic, and made mud pies in the wilderness of a back
yard. The garden had been a fairyland of delight to
their toddling feet, and the apple trees a fragrant
shelter for their first attempts at housekeeping.</p>
<p>From babyhood to girlhood the charm of the old place
grew upon them, so much so that the thought of leaving
it for homes of their own became distasteful to them,
and they looked with scant favor upon the occasional
village youths who sauntered up the path presumably
on courtship bent.</p>
<p>The Reverend John Hapgood--a man who ruled himself
and all about him with the iron rod of a rigid old-school
orthodoxy--died when the twins were twenty; and the
frail little woman who, as his wife, had for thirty
years lived and moved solely because he expected breath
and motion of her, followed soon in his footsteps.
And then the twins were left alone in the great square
house on the hill.</p>
<p>Miss Tabitha and Miss Rachel were not the only children
of the family. There had been a son--the first born,
and four years their senior. The headstrong boy and
the iron rule had clashed, and the boy, when sixteen
years old, had fled, leaving no trace behind him.</p>
<p>If the Reverend John Hapgood grieved for his wayward
son the members of his household knew it not, save
as they might place their own constructions on the
added sternness to his eyes and the deepening lines
about his mouth. “Paul,” when it designated
the graceless runaway, was a forbidden word in the
family, and even the Epistles in the sacred Book,
bearing the prohibited name, came to be avoided by
the head of the house in the daily readings. It was
still music in the hearts of the women, however, though
it never passed their lips; and when the little mother
lay dying she remembered and spoke of her boy. The
habit of years still fettered her tongue and kept
it from uttering the name.</p>
<p>“If--he--comes--you know--if he comes, be kind--be
good,” she murmured, her breath short and labored.
“Don’t--punish,” she whispered--he
was yet a lad in her disordered vision. “Don’t
punish--forgive!”</p>
<p>Years had passed since then--years of peaceful mornings
and placid afternoons, and Paul had never appeared.
Each purpling of the lilacs in the spring and reddening
of the apples in the fall took on new shades of loveliness
in the fond eyes of the twins, and every blade of grass
and tiny shrub became sacred to them.</p>
<p>On the 10th of June, their thirty-fifth birthday,
the place never had looked so lovely. A small table
laid with spotless linen and gleaming silver stood
beneath the largest apple-tree, a mute witness that
the ladies were about to celebrate their birthday--the
10th of June being the only day that the solemn dignity
of the dining-room was deserted for the frivolous
freedom of the lawn.</p>
<p>Rachel came out of the house and sniffed the air joyfully.</p>
<p>“Delicious!” she murmured. “Somehow,
the 10th of June is specially fine every year.”</p>
<p>In careful, uplifted hands she bore a round frosted
cake, always the chief treasure of the birthday feast.
The cake was covered with the tiny colored candies
so dear to the heart of a child. Miss Rachel always
bought those candies at the village store, with the
apology:--</p>
<p>“I want them for Tabitha’s birthday cake,
you know. She thinks so much of pretty things.”</p>
<p>Tabitha invariably made the cake and iced it, and
as she dropped the bits of colored sugar into place,
she would explain to Huldy, who occasionally “helped”
in the kitchen:--</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t miss the candy for the world--my
sister thinks so much of it!”</p>
<p>So each deceived herself with this pleasant bit of
fiction, and yet had what she herself most wanted.</p>
<p>Rachel carefully placed the cake in the center of
the table, feasted her eyes on its toothsome loveliness,
then turned and hurried back to the house. The door
had scarcely shut behind her when a small, ragged urchin
darted in at the street gate, snatched the cake, and,
at a sudden sound from the house, dashed out of sight
behind a shrub close by.</p>
<p>The sound that had frightened the boy was the tapping
of the heels of Miss Tabitha’s shoes along the
back porch. The lady descended the steps, crossed
the lawn and placed a saucer of pickles and a plate
of dainty sandwiches on the table.</p>
<p>“Why, I thought Rachel brought the cake,”
she said aloud. “It must be in the house; there’s
other things to get, anyway. I’ll go back.”</p>
<p>Again the click of the door brought the small boy
close to the table. Filling both hands with sandwiches,
he slipped behind the shrub just as the ladies came
out of the house together. Rachel carried a small tray
laden with sauce and tarts; Tabitha, one with water
and steaming tea. As they neared the table each almost
dropped her burden.</p>
<p>“Why, where’s my cake?”</p>
<p>“And my sandwiches?”</p>
<p>“There’s the plate it was on!” Rachel’s
voice was growing in terror.</p>
<p>“And mine, too!” cried Tabitha, with distended
eyes fastened on some bits of bread and meat--all
that the small brown hands had left.</p>
<p>“It’s burglars--robbers!” Rachel
looked furtively over her shoulder.</p>
<p>“And all your lovely cake!” almost sobbed
Tabitha.</p>
<p>“It--it was yours, too,” said the other
with a catch in her voice. “Oh, dear! What can
have happened to it? I never heard of such a thing--right
in broad daylight!” The sisters had long ago
set their trays upon the ground and were now wringing
their hands helplessly. Suddenly a small figure appeared
before them holding out four sadly crushed sandwiches
and half of a crumbling cake.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry--awful sorry! I didn’t
think--I was so hungry. I’m afraid there ain’t
very much left,” he added, with rueful eyes on
the sandwiches.</p>
<p>“No, I should say not!” vouchsafed Rachel,
her voice firm now that the size of the “burglar”
was declared. Tabitha only gasped.</p>
<p>The small boy placed the food upon the empty plates,
and Rachel’s lips twitched as she saw that he
clumsily tried to arrange it in an orderly fashion.</p>
<p>“There, ma’am,--that looks pretty good!”
he finally announced with some pride.</p>
<p>Tabitha made an involuntary gesture of aversion. Rachel
laughed outright; then her face grew suddenly stern.</p>
<p>“Boy, what do you mean by such actions?”
she demanded.</p>
<p>His eyes fell, and his cheeks showed red through the
tan.</p>
<p>“I was hungry.”</p>
<p>“But didn’t you know it was stealing?”
she asked, her face softening.</p>
<p>“I didn’t stop to think--it looked so
good I couldn’t help takin’ it.”
He dug his bare toes in the grass for a moment in silence,
then he raised his head with a jerk and stood squarely
on both feet. “I hain’t got any money,
but I’ll work to pay for it--bringin’ wood
in, or somethin’.”</p>
<p>“The dear child!” murmured two voices
softly.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to find my folks, sometime,
but I’ll do the work first. Mebbe an hour’ll
pay for it--’most!”--He looked hopefully
into Miss Rachel’s face.</p>
<p>“Who are your folks?” she asked huskily.</p>
<p>By way of answer he handed out a soiled, crumpled
envelope for her inspection on which was written,
“Reverend John Hapgood.”</p>
<p>“Why--it’s father!”</p>
<p>“What!” exclaimed Tabitha.</p>
<p>Her sister tore the note open with shaking fingers.</p>
<p>“It’s from--Paul!” she breathed,
hesitating a conscientious moment over the name. Then
she turned her startled eyes on the boy, who was regarding
her with lively interest.</p>
<p>“Do I belong to you?” he asked anxiously.</p>
<p>“I--I don’t know. Who are you--what’s
your name?”</p>
<p>“Ralph Hapgood.”</p>
<p>Tabitha had caught up the note and was devouring it
with swift-moving eyes.</p>
<p>“It’s Paul’s boy, Rachel,”
she broke in, “only think of it--Paul’s
boy!” and she dropped the bit of paper and enveloped
the lad in a fond but tearful embrace.</p>
<p>He squirmed uneasily.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I eat up my own folks’s
things. I’ll go to work any time,” he
suggested, trying to draw away, and wiping a tear splash
from the back of his hand on his trousers.</p>
<p>But it was long hours before Ralph Hapgood was allowed
to “go to work.” Tears, kisses, embraces,
questions, a bath, and clean clothes followed each
other in quick succession--the clothes being some of
his own father’s boyhood garments.</p>
<p>His story was quickly told. His mother was long since
dead, and his father had written on his dying bed
the letter that commended the boy-- so soon to be
orphaned--to the pity and care of his grandparents.
The sisters trembled and changed color at the story
of the boy’s hardships on the way to Fairtown;
and they plied him with questions and sandwiches in
about equal proportions after he told of the frequent
dinnerless days and supperless nights of the journey.</p>
<p>That evening when the boy was safe in bed--clean,
full-stomached, and sleepily content the sisters talked
it over. The Reverend John Hapgood, in his will, had
cut off his recreant son with the proverbial shilling,
so, by law, there was little coming to Ralph. This,
however, the sisters overlooked in calm disdain.</p>
<p>“We must keep him, anyhow,” said Rachel
with decision.</p>
<p>“Yes, indeed,--the dear child!”</p>
<p>“He’s twelve, for all he’s so small,
but he hasn’t had much schooling. We must see
to that--we want him well educated,” continued
Rachel, a pink spot showing in either cheek.</p>
<p>“Indeed we do--we’ll send him to college!
I wonder, now, wouldn’t he like to be a doctor?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” admitted the other cautiously,
“or a minister.”</p>
<p>“Sure enough--he might like that better; I’m
going to ask him!” and she sprang to her feet
and tripped across the room to the parlor-bedroom
door. “Ralph,” she called softly, after
turning the knob, “are you asleep?”</p>
<p>“Huh? N-no, ma’am.” The voice nearly
gave the lie to the words.</p>
<p>“Well, dear, we were wondering--would you rather
be a minister or a doctor?” she asked, much
as though she were offering for choice a peach and
a pear.</p>
<p>“A doctor!” came emphatically from out
of the dark--there was no sleep in the voice now.
“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”</p>
<p>“You shall, oh, you shall!” promised the
woman ecstatically, going back to her sister; and
from that time all their lives were ordered with that
one end in view.</p>
<p>The Hapgood twins were far from wealthy. They owned
the homestead, but their income was small, and the
added mouth to fill--and that a hungry one--counted.
As the years passed, Huldy came less and less frequently
to help in the kitchen, and the sisters’ gowns
grew more and more rusty and darned.</p>
<p>Ralph, boylike, noticed nothing--indeed, half the
year he was away at school; but as the time drew near
for the college course and its attendant expenses,
the sisters were sadly troubled.</p>
<p>“We might sell,” suggested Tabitha, a
little choke in her voice.</p>
<p>Rachel started.</p>
<p>“Why, sister!--sell? Oh, no, we couldn’t
do that!” she shuddered.</p>
<p>“But what can we do?”</p>
<p>“Do?--why lots of things!” Rachel’s
lips came together with a snap. “It’s
coming berry time, and there’s our chickens,
and the garden did beautifully last year. Then there’s
your lace work and my knitting-- they bring something.
Sell? Oh--we couldn’t do that!” And she
abruptly left the room and went out into the yard.
There she lovingly trained a wayward vine with new
shoots going wrong, and gloated over the rosebushes
heavy with crimson buds.</p>
<p>But as the days and weeks flew by and September drew
the nearer, Rachel’s courage failed her. Berries
had been scarce, the chickens had died, the garden
had suffered from drought, and but for their lace and
knitting work, their income would have dwindled to
a pitiful sum indeed. Ralph had been gone all summer;
he had asked to go camping and fishing with some of
his school friends. He was expected home a week before
the college opened, however.</p>
<p>Tabitha grew more and more restless every day. Finally
she spoke.</p>
<p>“Rachel, we’ll have to sell--there isn’t
any other way. It would bring a lot,” she continued
hurriedly, before her sister could speak, “and
we could find some pretty rooms somewhere. It wouldn’t
be so very dreadful!”</p>
<p>“Don’t, Tabitha! Seems as though I couldn’t
bear even to speak of it. Sell?--oh, Tabitha!”
Then her voice changed from a piteous appeal to one
of forced conviction.</p>
<p>“We couldn’t get anywhere near what it’s
worth, Tabitha, anyway. No one here wants it or can
afford to buy it for what it ought to bring. It is
really absurd to think of it. Of course, if I had an
offer--a good big one--that would be quite another
thing; but there’s no hope of that.”</p>
<p>Rachel’s lips said “hope,” but her
heart said “danger,” and the latter was
what she really meant. She did not know that but two
hours before, a stranger had said to a Fairtown lawyer:</p>
<p>“I want a summer home in this locality. You
don’t happen to know of a good old treasure
of a homestead for sale, do you?”</p>
<p>“I do not,” replied the lawyer. “There’s
a place on the edge of the village that would be just
the ticket, but I don’t suppose it could be
bought for love nor money.”</p>
<p>“Where is it?” asked the man eagerly.
“You never know what money can do-- to say nothing
of love--till you try.”</p>
<p>The lawyer chuckled softly.</p>
<p>“It’s the Hapgood place. I’ll drive
you over to-morrow. It’s owned by two old maids,
and they worship every stick and stone and blade of
grass that belongs to it. However, I happen to know
that cash is rather scarce with them--and there’s
ample chance for love, if the money fails,” he
added, with a twitching of his lips.</p>
<p>When the two men drove into the yard that August morning,
the Hapgood twins were picking nasturtiums, and the
flaming yellows and scarlets lighted up their somber
gowns, and made patches of brilliant color against
the gray of the house.</p>
<p>“By Jove, it’s a picture!” exclaimed
the would-be purchaser.</p>
<p>The lawyer smiled and sprang to the ground. Introductions
swiftly followed, then he cleared his throat in some
embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Ahem! I’ve brought Mr. Hazelton up here,
ladies, because he was interested in your beautiful
place.”</p>
<p>Miss Rachel smiled--the smile of proud possession;
then something within her seemed to tighten, and she
caught her breath sharply.</p>
<p>“It is fine!” murmured Hazelton; “and
the view is grand!” he continued, his eyes on
the distant hills. Then he turned abruptly. “Ladies,
I believe in coming straight to the point. I want
a summer home, and--I want this one. Can I tempt you
to part with it?”</p>
<p>“Indeed, no!” began Rachel almost fiercely.
Then her voice sank to a whisper; “I--I don’t
think you could.”</p>
<p>“But, sister,” interposed Tabitha, her
face alight, “you know you said-- that is, there
are circumstances--perhaps he would--p-pay enough--”
Her voice stumbled over the hated word, then stopped,
while her face burned scarlet.</p>
<p>“Pay!--no human mortal could pay for this house!”
flashed Rachel indignantly. Then she turned to Hazelton,
her slight form drawn to its greatest height, and
her hands crushing the flowers, she held till the
brittle stems snapped, releasing a fluttering shower
of scarlet and gold. “Mr. Hazelton, to carry
out certain wishes very near to our hearts, we need
money. We will show you the place, and--and we will
consider your offer,” she finished faintly.
It was a dreary journey the sisters took that morning,
though the garden never had seemed lovelier, nor the
rooms more sacredly beautiful. In the end, Hazelton’s
offer was so fabulously enormous to their unwilling
ears that their conscience forbade them to refuse
it.</p>
<p>“I’ll have the necessary papers ready
to sign in a few days,” said the lawyer as the
two gentlemen turned to go. And Hazelton added: “If
at any time before that you change your minds and
find you cannot give it up-- just let me know and
it will be all right. Just think it over till then,”
he said kindly, the dumb woe in their eyes appealing
to him as the loudest lamentations could not have
done. “But if you don’t mind, I’d
like to have an architect, who is in town just now,
come up and look it over with me,” he finished.</p>
<p>“Certainly, sir, certainly,” said Rachel,
longing for the man to go. But when he was gone, she
wished him back--anything would be better than this
aimless wandering from room to room, and from yard
to garden and back again.</p>
<p>“I suppose <i>he</i> will sit here,”
murmured Tabitha, dropping wearily on to the settee
under the apple-trees.</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” her sister assented. “I
wonder if <i>she</i> knows how to grow roses;
they’ll certainly die if she doesn’t!”
And Rachel crushed a worm under her foot with unnecessary
vigor.</p>
<p>“Oh, I hope they’ll tend to the vines
on the summerhouse, Rachel, and the pansies--you don’t
think they’ll let them run to seed, do you? Oh,
dear!” And Tabitha sprang nervously to her feet
and started backyto the house.</p>
<p>Mr. Hazelton appeared the next morning with two men--an
architect and a landscape gardener. Rachel was in
the summerhouse, and the first she knew of their presence
was the sound of talking outside.</p>
<p>“You’ll want to grade it down there,”
she heard a strange voice say, “and fill in
that little hollow; clear away all those rubbishy posies,
and mass your flowering shrubs in the background. Those
roses are no particular good, I fancy; we’ll
move such as are worth anything, and make a rose-bed
on the south side--we’ll talk over the varieties
you want, later. Of course these apple-trees and those
lilacs will be cut down, and this summerhouse will
be out of the way. You’ll be surprised-- a few
changes will do wonders, and--”</p>
<p>He stopped abruptly. A woman, tall, flushed, and angry-eyed,
stood before him in the path. She opened her lips,
but no sound came--Mr. Hazelton was lifting his hat.
The flush faded, and her eyes closed as though to
shut out some painful sight; then she bowed her head
with a proud gesture, and sped along the way to the
house.</p>
<p>Once inside, she threw herself, sobbing, upon the
bed. Tabitha found her there an hour later.</p>
<p>“You poor dear--they’ve gone now,”
she comforted.</p>
<p>Rachel raised her head.</p>
<p>“They’re going to cut down everything--every
single thing!” she gasped.</p>
<p>“I know it,” choked Tabitha, “and
they’re going to tear out lots of doors inside,
and build in windows and things. Oh, Rachel,--what
shall we do?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, oh, I don’t know!”
moaned the woman on the bed, diving into the pillows
and hugging them close to her head.</p>
<p>“We--we might give up selling--he said we could
if we wanted to.”</p>
<p>“But there’s Ralph!”</p>
<p>“I know it. Oh, dear--what can we do?”</p>
<p>Rachel suddenly sat upright.</p>
<p>“Do? Why, we’ll stand it, of course. We
just mustn’t mind if he turns the house into
a hotel and the yard into a--a pasture!” she
said hysterically. “We must just think of Ralph
and of his being a doctor. Come, let’s go to
the village and see if we can rent that tenement of
old Mrs. Goddard’s.”</p>
<p>With a long sigh and a smothered sob, Tabitha went
to get her hat.</p>
<p>Mrs. Goddard greeted the sisters effusively, and displayed
her bits of rooms and the tiny square of yard with
the plainly expressed wish that the place might be
their home.</p>
<p>The twins said little, but their eyes were troubled.
They left with the promise to think it over and let
Mrs. Goddard know.</p>
<p>“I didn’t suppose rooms could be so little,”
whispered Tabitha, as they closed the gate behind
them.</p>
<p>“We couldn’t grow as much as a sunflower
in that yard,” faltered Rachel.</p>
<p>“Well, anyhow, we could have some houseplants!”--Tabitha
tried to speak cheerfully.</p>
<p>“Indeed we could!” agreed Rachel, rising
promptly to her sister’s height; “and,
after all, little rooms are lots cheaper to heat than
big ones.” And there the matter ended for the
time being.</p>
<p>Mr. Hazelton and the lawyer with the necessary papers
appeared a few days later. As the lawyer took off
his hat he handed a letter to Miss Rachel.</p>
<p>“I stepped into the office and got your mail,”
he said genially.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” replied the lady, trying
to smile. “It’s from Ralph,”-- handing
it over for her sister to read.</p>
<p>Both the ladies were in somber black; a ribbon or
a brooch seemed out of place to them that day. Tabitha
broke the seal of the letter, and retired to the light
of the window to read it.</p>
<p>The papers were spread on the table, and the pen was
in Rachel’s hand when a scream from Tabitha
shattered the oppressive silence of the room.</p>
<p>“Stop--stop--oh, stop!” she cried, rushing
to her sister and snatching the pen from her fingers.
“We don’t have to--see--read!”--pointing
to the postscript written in a round, boyish hand.</p>
<p>Oh, I say, I’ve got a surprise for you. You
think I’ve been fishing and loafing all summer,
but I’ve been working for the hotels here the
whole time. I’ve got a fine start on my money
for college, and I’ve got a chance to work for
my board all this year by helping Professor Heaton.
I met him here this summer, and he’s the right
sort--every time. I’ve intended all along to
help myself a bit when it came to the college racket,
but I didn’t mean to tell you until I knew I
could do it. But it’s a sure thing now.</p>
<p>Bye-bye; I’ll be home next Saturday.</p>
<p>Your aff. nephew,</p>
<p>Ralph.</p>
<p>Rachel had read this aloud, but her voice ended in
a sob instead of in the boy’s name. Hazelton
brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and
the lawyer looked intently out the window. For a moment
there was a silence that could be felt, then Hazelton
stepped to the table and fumbled noisily with the
papers.</p>
<p>“Ladies, I withdraw my offer,” he announced.
“I can’t afford to buy this house--I can’t
possibly afford it--it’s too expensive.”
And without another word he left the room, motioning
the lawyer to follow.</p>
<p>The sisters looked into each other’s eyes and
drew a long, sobbing breath.</p>
<p>“Rachel, is it true?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Tabitha! Let’s--let’s go out
under the apple-trees and--just know that they are
there!”</p>
<p>And hand in hand they went.</p>
<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps">The End </p>
<pre>
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