The Quest for the Rose of Sharon




The Works of

Burton E. Stevenson

  The Quest for the Rose of Sharon     $1.25

  The Young Section Hand                1.50
  The Young Train Dispatcher            1.50
  The Young Train Master                1.50

  L. C. Page & Company, Publishers
  New England Building      Boston, Mass.




[Illustration: “‘BEEN DIGGIN’, HEV YE! LOOKIN’ FER THE TREASURE,
MEBBE!’”

  (_See page 128._)]




  THE QUEST FOR THE
  ROSE OF SHARON

  By
  BURTON E. STEVENSON

  _Author of “The Marathon Mystery,” “The Halliday
  Case,” “The Young Section Hand,” etc._

  ILLUSTRATED

  BOSTON  L. C. PAGE &
  COMPANY  MDCCCCIX




  _Copyright, 1906_
  BY THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING CO.

  _Copyright, 1909_
  BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
  (INCORPORATED)

  _All rights reserved_

  First Impression, April, 1909

  Electrotyped and Printed at
  THE COLONIAL PRESS:
  C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.




Contents


  CHAPTER                                   PAGE

     I. GRANDAUNT NELSON                      1
    II. THE MESSENGER FROM PLUMFIELD         18
   III. THE PROBLEM                          33
    IV. OUR NEW HOME                         43
     V. I BEGIN THE SEARCH                   53
    VI. I FIND AN ALLY                       67
   VII. VARIETIES OF THE ROSE OF SHARON      80
  VIII. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL                 101
    IX. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE ENEMY         119
     X. RETRIBUTION                         137
    XI. THE SHADOW IN THE ORCHARD           149
   XII. BEARDING THE LION                   168
  XIII. SURRENDER                           183
   XIV. THE ROSE OF SHARON                  191




List of Illustrations


                                            PAGE

  “‘BEEN DIGGIN’, HEV YE? LOOKIN’ FER THE TREASURE,
  MEBBE!’” (_See page 128_)         _Frontispiece_

  “SHE SAILED OUT OF THE ROOM”               16

  “‘OH, I SUPPOSE I CAN GET READY,’ FALTERED MOTHER,
  A LITTLE DAZED”                            29

  “I SAW FROM THEIR FLUSHED FACES THAT THEY HAD,
  INDEED, MADE SOME DISCOVERY”               99

  “‘JANE!’ I GASPED.... ‘JANE, OH, JANE, I’VE FOUND
  IT!’”                                      194

  “HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT
  MR. CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY”     199




The Quest for the Rose of Sharon




Chapter I

Grandaunt Nelson


GRANDAUNT always was eccentric. Indeed, I was sometimes tempted to call
her a much harsher name in the dark days when the clouds hung so heavy
above us that I often doubted if there really was a sun behind them.
But, as Mr. Whittier says, “Death softens all resentments, and the
consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies
the severity of judgment;” and, looking back through the mist of years
which blurs the sharp outlines of those days of trial, I can judge
grandaunt more leniently than it was then possible for me to do. So I
will let the adjective stand as I have written it.

I remember our first meeting as distinctly as though it had happened
yesterday.

I had wandered down the shining path of slate to our front gate, one
morning. It had rained the night before, which accounted for the path
shining so in the sun’s rays; and the air was soft and warm, and the
world altogether beautiful--but not to me, for I was oppressed by a
great sorrow which I could not in the least understand. So I stood for
a long time, clutching the slats of the gate, and gazing disconsolately
out at the great, unknown world beyond.

Solitary pilgrimages into that world had always been forbidden me,
and I had never questioned the wisdom or justice of the edict;
being well content, indeed, with the place God had given me to
live in, and desiring nothing better than to stay in my own little
Paradise behind the shelter of the gate, with the Angel of Peace and
Contentment guarding it, and watch the world sweep by. But that morning
a hot rebellion shook me. Things were not as they had been in my
Paradise,--all the joy had gone out of it; the sun seemed to shine no
longer in the garden; the Angel had flown away. Why I scarcely knew,
but with sudden resolution I reached for the latch.

And just then a tall figure loomed over me, and I found myself staring
up into a pair of terrifically-glittering spectacles.

“What’s your name, little girl?” asked the stranger.

“Cecil Truman, ma’am,” I stammered, awed by the severity of her
face and a certain magisterial manner which reminded me of the Queen
of Hearts--as though she might at any moment cry, “Off with her
head!”--and far more effectively than the foolish Queen of Hearts ever
did.

“Cecil Truman, ma’am,” I repeated, for she said nothing for a moment,
only stood looking down at me in the queerest manner, and I thought she
had not understood.

“Cecil!” she said, at last, with a derisive sniff. “Why, that’s a boy’s
name! Yet it’s like him, too; yes, I recognize him in that! Nothing
sensible about him!”

I hadn’t the least idea what she meant, but dug desperately at the path
with my toe, certain that I had committed some hideous offence.

“Is that the only name you’ve got?” she demanded, suddenly.

“Dick calls me ‘Biffkins,’ ma’am,” I said, hesitatingly. “Perhaps
you’ll like that better.”

But she only sniffed again, as she leaned over the gate and raised the
latch.

“I’m your Grandaunt Nelson,” she announced, and started up the path to
the house. Then she stopped, looking back. “Aren’t you coming?” she
demanded.

“No, ma’am,” I answered, for it did not seem probable to me that
Grandaunt Nelson was calculated to bring the sunlight back into my
Paradise. “I’m going away.”

“Going away!” she repeated sharply. “What’s the child thinking of?
Going away where?”

For answer, I made a sort of wide gesture toward the world outside the
gate, and reached again for the latch.

But she had me by the arm in an instant, and with no gentle grasp.

“You’ll come with me,” she said grimly, and hustled me beside her up
the path, so rapidly that my feet touched it only occasionally.

I do not remember the details of my mother’s reception of grandaunt;
but I do remember that I was handed over to her by my formidable
relative with the warning that I needed a spanking. And presently
mother took me up to her room to find out what it was all about; and
when I had told her, as well as I could, she kissed me and cried over
me, murmuring that she, also, would love to run away, if she only
could; for the beautiful Prince had vanished from her fairy kingdom,
too, and was never, never coming back. But, after all, she said, it was
only cowards who ran away; brave people did not run away, but faced
their trials and made the best of them.

“And oh, Cecil,” she added, smiling at me, though the smile was a
little tremulous, “We will be brave, won’t we, and never, never run
away?”

I promised, with my head against her shoulder, but I must confess that,
at the moment, I felt anything but brave.

There was soon, no doubt, another reason why she should wish to run
away, and why she needed all her courage and forbearance to keep from
doing so; for not only was her Prince vanished, but she was a queen
dethroned.

From the moment of her arrival, grandaunt assumed charge of things; the
house and everything therein contained were completely under her iron
sway, and we bowed to her as humbly as did the serfs of the Middle Ages
to their feudal lord, who held the right of justice high and low.

Dick and I were both too young, of course, to understand fully the
great blow which had befallen us in father’s death. Dick was eight
and I was six, and we had both grown up from babyhood with that blind
reliance upon a benevolent and protecting Providence, characteristic of
birds and children. We had no thought of danger--no knowledge of it.
Now that the bolt had fallen, we were absorbed in a sense of personal
loss; we knew that we should no longer find father in that long room
under the eaves, with its great north light, and its queer costumes
hanging against the walls, and its tall easel and its pleasant, pungent
smell of paint. Once or twice we had tiptoed up the stairs in the hope
that, after all, he _might_ be there--but he never was--only mother,
sitting in the old, armless chair before the easel, the tears streaming
down her cheeks, as she gazed at the half-finished painting upon it.
I shall never forget how she caught us up and strained us to her--but
there. The Prince had left his Kingdom, and the place was fairyland no
longer--only a bleak and lonely attic which gave one the shivers to
enter. Its dear spirit had fled, and its sweetness.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have only to close my eyes to see Grandaunt Nelson sitting at the
table-head, with mother at the foot, and Dick and me opposite each
other midway on either side. Mother had been crushed by the suddenness
of her loss, and drooped for a time like a blighted flower; but
grandaunt was erect and virile--uncrushable, I verily believe, by any
bolt which Fate could hurl against her. Her face was dark and very
wrinkled, crowned by an aureole of white hair--a sort of three-arched
aureole, one arch over each ear, and one above her forehead. Her lips
were thin and firmly set in a straight line, moving no more than was
absolutely necessary to give form to her words, so that sometimes her
speech had an uncanny ventriloquial effect very startling. Her eyes
were ambushed behind her glasses, which I never saw her without, and
was sure she wore to bed with her. Her figure was tall and angular,
and was clothed habitually in black, cut in the most uncompromising
fashion. I must concede grandaunt the virtue--if it be a virtue in
woman--that she never made the slightest effort to disguise her angles
or to soften them.

These external characteristics were evident enough, even to my childish
eyes; of her internal ones, a few made an indelible impression upon me.
I saw that she pursued a policy of stern repression toward herself, and
toward all who came in contact with her. If she had emotions, she never
betrayed them, and she was intolerant of those who did. She thought it
weakness. If she had affections, she mercilessly stifled them. Duty
was her watchword. Again, one of the great aims of her existence
seemed to be to keep the sunlight and fresh air out of the house--I
believe she thought them vulgar--just as her mother and grandmother and
greatgrandmother, I suppose, had done before her.

She converted our bright and sunny parlour into a gloomy, penitential
place, that sent a chill down my back every time I peeped into it,
which was not often. The only thing in the world she seemed afraid of
was night air, and this she dreaded with a mighty dread, believing it
laden with some insidious and deadly poison. To breathe night air was
to commit suicide--though I have never been quite clear as to what
other kind of air one can breathe at night.

Yes--one other fear she had. I remembered it afterwards, and
understood, though at the time I simply thought it queer. Mother tucked
me in bed one evening, and kissed me and bade me good-night. I heard
her step die away down the hall and then I suppose I fell asleep. But
I soon awakened, possessed by a burning thirst, a cruel and insistent
thirst which was not to be denied. The moon was shining brightly, and
I looked across at mother’s bed, but saw she was not there. There was
nothing for it but to go after a drink myself, so I clambered out of
my cot and started along the hall. Just about midway, I heard someone
coming up the stairs and saw grandaunt’s gray head and gaunt figure
rising before me. I shrank back into the shadow of a door, for I did
not wish her to see me; but she did see me, and gave a shriek so shrill
and piercing that it seemed to stab me.

“What is it?” cried mother’s voice, and she came running up the stair.

Grandaunt, who was clutching the stair-rail convulsively, did not
answer, only pointed a shaking finger in my direction.

Mother hurried forward, and an instant later was bending over me--a
little white crouching figure in the semi-darkness.

“Why, it’s Cecil!” she said. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I--I wanted a drink,” I sobbed, my face hidden in mother’s bosom. “I
was _so_ thirsty.”

“There, there,” and she patted me gently. “Don’t cry. You haven’t done
anything wrong. I’m sure Aunt Nelson will say so too.”

But grandaunt had stalked stiffly away to her room.

The incident did not serve to raise me in her esteem; and no doubt I
quite unconsciously did many other things to annoy her--which is, in
itself, an annoyance. It was not her fault, of course; she had never
been used to children and did not understand them. I think she regarded
them much as she did dogs and cats--nuisances, to be permitted in the
house as little as possible, and then only in the kitchen. Her pet
abhorrence, the annoyance which she could endure least of all, seemed
to be the clatter of Dick’s shoes and mine over the floor and up the
stairs. More than once I thought of the front gate and liberty; but I
no longer dared make a dash for freedom, for I knew that I could never
succeed in hiding from the piercing gaze of those glittering glasses.
She would have me back in a trice and then, “Off with her head!”

Grandaunt devoted a day or two to studying us, much as she might have
studied a rare and curious species of insect; turning us this way and
that, with no thought that we could object, or caring if we did. Then,
having made up her mind, she called a family council, and formally
announced her intentions with regard to us.

“Now, Clara,” she said to mother, “you know I never _did_ approve
of your marriage, though I _did_ give you half a dozen hem-stitched
tablecloths. I hate gossip, and so I had to give you something. For
you’re my niece--sister Jennie’s only child. Though Jennie and I never
_did_ get along together, and I must say you’re like her. But after
all, blood’s thicker’n water, and I’m goin’ to do what’s right by you.
It’s my duty.”

Mother shivered a little. She never liked that word, duty--neither did
I. If people did only their duty, what a dreary, dreary world this
would be!

“But first,” continued grandaunt, inexorably, “we’ve got to talk things
over, and find out what we’ve got t’ go on. What did your husband leave
you?”

Mother raised a protesting hand, but grandaunt waved it aside
impatiently.

“Now, see here, Clara,” she cried, “you’ve got t’ look things in the
face, and the sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll get used to it. Did
he leave any money?”

“No,” answered mother, faintly, her face very white. “That is, not
much--about a hundred dollars.”

“I always said a man couldn’t earn a livin’ by paintin’ picters,”
observed grandaunt. “Who wants to pay out good money for foolishness
like that? Did he have his life insured?”

“Yes,” answered mother, her face whiter still; “but I--I--think he
allowed the policy to lapse--”

“Of course,” nodded grandaunt fiercely. “Jest like him. But this house
is yours, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yes; the house is mine.”

“It’s worth about three thousand--not more’n that,” said grandaunt,
judicially. “And it’ll be hard to sell, for it’s built the craziest I
ever saw--all twisted around from the way a sensible house ought to be.”

“We thought it very beautiful,” said mother meekly.

“Everyone to his taste. Mebbe we’ll find some fool ready to buy it.
But even three thousand ain’t a great deal to raise two children on,”
she added grimly, as she surveyed us through her glasses. “And mighty
hearty children, too--big eaters and awful hard on their clothes.”

“Food is cheaper than medicine,” retorted mother, with some faint
revival of her old self; but she collapsed again under grandaunt’s
severe gaze.

“Some food is,” snapped grandaunt, “and some food ain’t,” and she
directed her gaze toward a plate of oranges which stood on the
sideboard. “And clothes,” she added, surveying our garments with
disapproval. “But we’ll change all that. As I said, I’ll look out for
you. But I’ve got to work out a plan. It’s a good thing you’re my only
relatives, and there ain’t nobody else to think about.”

With that she dismissed us, and we went our several ways--Dick and I to
the nursery, where we selected a little white-haired doll, dressed it
in black, and solemnly hanged it on a gallows of Dick’s improvising.
Mother came in and caught us at it; and laughed a little and cried a
little, and then sat down with us on the floor and drew us to her and
told us gently that we must not mind grandaunt’s abrupt ways; that she
was sure she had a kind heart beating under all her roughness, and that
we should grow to love her when we came to know her better. But I, at
least, was not convinced.

Just at first, I think, mother was rather glad to have someone to cling
to, someone to tyrannize over her and order her steps for her. She was
like a ship without a rudder--grateful for any means of guidance.
But as the days passed, the yoke began to gall. Grandaunt, accustomed
practically all her life to having her own way, exacted an instant and
complete obedience. She disdained to draw any glove over the mailed
fist--that would have seemed to her an unworthy subterfuge. And at
last, she announced the plan which she had formulated, whereby to work
out our salvation.

“Of course you can’t stay here,” she began, when she had us assembled
before her. “I’ll try to sell the house.”

“Yes,” agreed mother, with a sigh, “I suppose that is best.”

“Best!” echoed grandaunt. “There ain’t no best about it. It’s the
only thing you _can_ do. Besides, I can’t stay idlin’ around here any
longer. I want to get back to my own house at Plumfield, where I expect
to pass the rest of my days; I hope in peace,” she added, though by
the way she looked at us, it was evident she had grave doubts as to
whether the hope would be realized. “I’ve been away too long already,”
she continued. “I dare say, Abner and Jane are lettin’ the place run
to rack and ruin--I’ve never been away from it for this long in forty
year. You, Clara, and the girl--we’ll try to find a sensible name for
her--I’ve been thinkin’ about Martha or Susan--”

“Oh, no,” I broke out passionately; “I won’t be--” But grandaunt
silenced me with one flash of her glasses.

“You two,” she continued, “will go home with me. But I can’t have any
boy rampagin’ around my house--the girl’s bad enough!” and she stopped
to glare at Dick, to whom she had taken an unaccountable dislike. “So
I’ll place him at a school I know of--a place where he’ll be given the
right kind of trainin’, and get some of the foolishness took out of
him--”

“But we can’t be separated, Aunt Nelson!” cried mother. “It would break
my heart and--look at him!--I know it would break his.”

Indeed Dick was turning a very white and frightened face from one to
the other, with his hands clutching at his chair; but he choked back
the sob that rose in his throat and pressed his lips tight together
with that pluck I always admired in him. Old Dick!

“Tut-tut!” cried grandaunt. “Break, indeed! who ever heard of a heart
breaking outside of silly novels? Nonsense!”

“Indeed it isn’t nonsense!” and mother looked at grandaunt with such
a fire in her eye as I had never seen there. “I tell you plainly, Aunt
Nelson, that I will never consent to any such plan.”

There was a tone in her voice which could not be mistaken. Grandaunt
glared at her a moment in astonishment, as at a sheep turned lion; then
she hopped from her chair as though it had suddenly become red-hot.

“You’ve made up your mind?” she demanded. “Is that your last word?”

“Yes,” said mother, resolutely. “If you will help us on no other terms,
then we must get along as best we can without your help.”

Grandaunt’s lips tightened until her mouth was the merest line across
her face.

“Very well, Clara,” she said, in a voice like thin ice. “You’ll go your
road, then, and I’ll go mine! I’ll always have the comfort of knowin’
that I offered to do my duty by you. I hope your children’ll thank you
for this day.”

“They will!” cried mother, her head erect, her eyes blazing. “They
will!”

“The more fools they!” snapped grandaunt, in return, and with that she
sailed out of the room, leaving a somewhat awed and frightened family
behind her.

[Illustration: “SHE SAILED OUT OF THE ROOM.”]

We sat there in tears--which were not in the least tears of
sorrow--hugging each other, listening fearfully, as she tramped around
in her room up-stairs. Then she came down again; and I think a swift
fear that she was, after all, not choosing wisely fell upon mother, for
she half rose and made as though she would go to her.

But Dick and I held her fast, and she looked down at us, and sank back
again and strained us to her.

A moment later the front door opened and closed again with a bang. From
the window I caught a glimpse of a tall, black figure hurrying down the
street, and that was the last I saw of Grandaunt Nelson.




Chapter II

The Messenger from Plumfield


THE history of the eight years that followed forms no portion of this
story, and need be touched upon here only in the most casual way.
After grandaunt had washed her hands of us, as it were, and definitely
abandoned us to our fate, mother threw off her despondency by a mighty
effort of will, and went seriously to work to plan for our future. I
like to believe that Grandaunt Nelson really expected to hear from us,
really expected mother to appeal to her for help, and stood ready to
answer that appeal, once her terms were accepted, just as a besieging
army will kill and maim and starve the enemy, but rush in with food and
comfort once the white flag is run up. But I suppose there was a strain
of the same blood in both of them, for mother, having chosen her path,
nerved herself to walk in it, unassisted, to the end.

She found it steep and stony, and difficult enough. Rigid economy was
necessary and we children, of course, felt the pinch of it, though
mother guarded us all she could; but we had each other, and I am
certain none of us ever regretted the decision which had cut us off
from grandaunt’s bounty. Yet even the most rigid economy would not
have availed, but for a fortunate chance--or, perhaps I would better
say, a meting out of tardy justice.

One morning--it was a Saturday, and so I chanced to be at home--there
came a knock at the door, and when I answered it, I saw standing there
a man with a close-bearded face and long, shaggy hair. He inquired for
Mrs. Truman, and I asked him in and ran for mother.

“You are the widow of George Truman, I believe, madam?” he said, rising
as she entered the room.

“Yes,” mother answered. “Did you know him?”

“Not personally, I am sorry to say,” replied the stranger; “but I know
him intimately through his work. It was never appraised at its true
value during his lifetime--”

“No,” agreed mother, quickly, “it was not.”

“But he is coming to his own at last, madam. The world treated him just
as it has treated so many others--stones while he lived, laurels when
he died.”

A quick flush had come to mother’s face and an eager light to her eyes.

“Are you speaking seriously, sir?” she asked, her hands against her
breast.

“Most seriously,” he assured her. “Did you see the report of that sale
of paintings at the Fifth Avenue Art Galleries last week? No? Well, one
of your husband’s was among them--‘Breath on the Oat’--no doubt you
remember it. Do you happen to know what your husband got for it?”

“Yes,” said mother, “I remember very well. It was one of his first
triumphs. He sold it for one hundred dollars.”

Our visitor laughed a little cynically, and his face clouded for a
moment.

“Well, Senator Bloom paid four thousand for it last week,” he said.
“Of course, the senator is not much of a judge of pictures, but a
representative from the Metropolitan went to three thousand, which
shows the way the wind’s blowing. Your husband’s lot was one common to
artists. It’s the dealers who get rich--not all of them,” he added,
with a wry little smile. “For I’m a dealer. That’s what brings me here.
I thought you might perhaps have a few of his pictures still in your
possession. I’ll promise to treat you fairly.”

“There are only some studies, I fear,” answered mother, her hands
trembling slightly. “Would you care to see them?”

“I certainly should,” he cried, and they went away up-stairs together.

I know what it cost mother to let them go--the contents of those
portfolios, or such of them as were marketable--the sketches, the
studies, the ideas which had developed into finished pictures. They
were a part of him, the most vital part of him she had left; but her
duty was to her children, and she never hesitated. And one morning,
nearly a month later, came a letter. The sketches had been sold at
auction, they had awakened a very satisfactory interest, and the net
result, after deducting the dealer’s commission, was the check for two
thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars, which was enclosed.

It came at a good hour, as I learned long afterwards; at an hour when
mother found herself quite at the end of her resources, and failure
staring her in the face--at an hour when she was thinking that she must
swallow her pride and appeal for help to Plumfield; hoist the white
flag, as it were, and admit defeat.

As to grandaunt, we never heard from her nor of her. When she slammed
our front door behind her that morning, she passed from our lives
completely. Mother wrote to her once, but received no answer, and would
not write again; and gradually we children came to forget, almost, that
she existed, or remembered her only as a kind of myth--a phantom which
had crossed our path years before and then disappeared for ever. Yet I
now know that she sometimes thought of us, and that, as the years went
by, the anger she felt toward us passed away, and left, at worst, only
a settled belief in our foolishness and incapacity. Perhaps we were
foolish and incapable, but we were happy, too!

So eight years rolled around, and again we faced a crisis. For one
must eat and be clothed, and even the sum we had got for father’s
sketches would not last for ever. Both Dick and I were old enough now
to be taken into the family council, and mother wisely thought it
best to confide in us wholly, and we were very proud to be taken into
her confidence. Briefly, our home was mortgaged to its full value,
and would have to be sold, since there was no way of paying off the
indebtedness, nor even of meeting the interest on it.

“We will move into a smaller house,” said mother. “We really don’t
need so large a one as this,” but her eyes filled with tears, despite
herself, as she looked around at the familiar room. “Our expenses are
not great, and with the little we will realize from the sale of the
house, I hope--”

Her chin was quivering a little, and her voice not wholly steady. I
understood now why she had worn her last gown so long; I understood
many things--and sprang into her arms sobbing, for suddenly I saw how
thoughtless and selfish I had been; I had not helped her as I might
have done, and the thought wrung me. The hat I could have done without,
the ribbon I did not need, the ticket for the matinee--

“I’ll go to work, dear mother!” cried Dick, jumping out of his chair,
his face aglow. “Here am I, a big, hulking fellow of sixteen! It’s time
I was doing something!”

Mother looked up at him with a proud light in her eyes, and I went over
to give him a hug. I never knew but one other boy who was anything like
as nice as Dick.

“And so will I,” I said. “I’m sure there’s lots of ways even a girl can
make money--though of course not so easily as a boy,” and I looked at
Dick a little enviously.

“Never you worry,” he said, confidently. “I’ll take care of you,
mother, and of you, too, Biffkins. I’ll start right away.”

“There’s no such hurry,” said mother, smiling a little at our
enthusiasm. “The mortgage isn’t due for two months yet, and I’d like
you to finish this term at school, dear Dick. I had hoped that you
could graduate, but I fear--”

“We won’t fear anything!” cried Dick, throwing his arms around us both.
“We’ll show this old world a thing or two before we’re done with it!”

“That we will!” I echoed, with never a doubt of our ability to set the
world whirling any way we chose.

But in the days that followed, we both of us began to realize that the
world was very big and indifferent, and our position in it exceedingly
unimportant. Dick managed to pick up some odd jobs, which he could do
out of school hours, but the actual returns in money were very small;
and as for me, I soon acquired a deep distrust of those writers who
described, in the columns of the magazines, the countless easy ways in
which a girl could make a living. I tried some of them disastrously!

And then, one bright April morning, came the great message! My heart
leaps, even yet, when I think of it.

Just as I was starting for school, a handsome, well-dressed man of
middle age turned in at our gate.

“This is where Mrs. Truman lives, isn’t it?” he asked, seeing me
standing in the door.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and wondered with some misgiving whether mother
could have been mistaken in the date of the mortgage.

“I should like to see her for a few minutes, if she is at home,” he
added.

“Come in, sir,” I said, “and I will call her.”

But we met mother coming down the front stair as we entered the hall.

“This is my mother, sir,” I said.

“My name is Chester, Mrs. Truman,” began our caller. “I come from
Plumfield.”

“From Plumfield!” cried mother. “Oh, then--Aunt Nelson--”

“Is dead--yes,” said Mr. Chester, gently.

“Sit down, sir,” said mother, a little tremulously, leading the way
into the sitting-room. “I--I fear,” she added, as she sat down opposite
him, “that I have been neglectful of her. Oh, I am so sorry! I had
always hoped to see her again and tell her-- If she had only sent me
word that she was ill!”

“She wasn’t ill,” broke in Mr. Chester. “Not ill, at least, in the
sense of being bed-fast. She was in her usual health, so far as any of
her neighbours knew. She was not very intimate with any of them, and
lived a rather secluded life. She owned a great, old-fashioned house,
you know, with large grounds surrounding it, and she lived there with
two old servants, a man who attended to the outdoor work, and his wife,
who acted as cook and house-servant. Three days ago, the latter found
her mistress dead in bed. She was smiling, and had evidently passed
away peacefully in her sleep.”

“But three days ago!” cried mother. “Why was I not told at once?”

“I was simply carrying out her commands, Mrs. Truman. She was a very
peculiar woman, as you doubtless know.”

“Yes,” mother agreed. “But she had no other relatives, and I should
have been there.”

“I know you should,” assented Mr. Chester, visibly ill at ease. “But I
really had no option in the matter. Let me explain. My place happens
to adjoin Mrs. Nelson’s, and so we got to know each other, though not
nearly so well as neighbours usually do. I am a lawyer by profession,
and she entrusted a few of her business affairs to my hands--among
other things, the making of her will. She enjoined me strictly that
under no circumstances were you to be informed of her death until after
the funeral--”

“After the funeral!” repeated mother, mechanically.

“Which took place yesterday.”

“Oh, this is worse than I thought!” said mother, miserably. “I should
have been there, Mr. Chester! She was still angry with me, then. We--we
had a disagreement many years ago; but I had hoped she had long since
forgotten it.”

“My dear Mrs. Truman,” protested Mr. Chester, quickly, “please put that
thought out of your mind. Mrs. Nelson was not in the least angry with
you--as you will see. Her not desiring you at her funeral was simply
another of her peculiarities. She was very old, you know,” he went on,
hesitatingly, as though uncertain how much he should say, “and in her
last years took up some queer beliefs. I don’t know just what they
were, but I do know that she belonged to no church, and that she also
forbade that any minister should be present at her funeral.”

Mother gasped, and sank back in her chair staring at him with eyes dark
with dismay.

“However,” he hastened to add, “there were some lengths to which I did
not feel justified in going--and there _was_ a minister present.”

Mother drew a breath of relief.

“I am glad of that,” she said. “But why have you come to tell me all
this, Mr. Chester?”

“I came to take you back with me for the reading of the will.”

“The will? Am I interested in that?”

“As her only living relative, you are deeply interested. Mrs. Nelson,
you know, inherited a considerable property from her husband. I wanted
to make certain you would be present when the will was opened.”

A vivid flush had crept into mother’s cheeks, and I confess that my own
heart was beating wildly.

Perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--

“When is it to be?” asked mother, after a moment.

[Illustration: “‘OH, I SUPPOSE I CAN GET READY,’ FALTERED MOTHER, A
LITTLE DAZED.”]

“To-day, if we can get there in time. There is a train at
ten-thirty--it’s not quite nine, now. Can you be ready by then? If not,
of course we can put it off till to-morrow.”

“Oh, I suppose I can get ready,” faltered mother, a little dazed by the
suddenness of it all. “That is, if you advise it.”

“I do advise it most strongly,” said Mr. Chester, emphatically. “Mrs.
Nelson’s will is a most peculiar one--by far the most peculiar I ever
had anything to do with--and it is only fair to you that it should be
opened as soon as possible.”

“Very well, we will go!” said mother, rising. “You will excuse us?”

“Certainly. Permit me to suggest,” he added, “that you take things
enough with you for a short stay--for two or three days, anyway.”

“Oh,” said mother, looking at him in surprise, “we can’t come back
to-night, then?”

“No; there are some details you will have to look after,” explained Mr.
Chester, hesitatingly. “You will, of course, use your own judgment, but
I believe you will decide to stay.”

“We might as well go prepared,” mother agreed, and hurried away to get
our things together.

The school bell had rung long since, quite unheeded by me, who had
been hanging breathless over the back of mother’s chair, and now, while
mother got ready for the journey, I raced away to summon Dick. He had
started for school earlier than I, having some errands to do on the
way, so to the school-house I had to go after him. He turned quite
white when he came out in answer to the message I sent in for him and
saw me standing there, fairly gasping with excitement.

“What is it, Biffkins?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Not--”

“Grandaunt Nelson’s dead,” I began; “and, oh, Dick! we’re to go down to
hear the will--by the ten-thirty--we must hurry!”

“All right,” he said, his colour coming back. “Wait till I get
excused,” and he hurried away to tell the principal of the sudden
summons.

He was back in a moment, cap in hand.

“All right,” he said. “Come along,” and we hastened from the building.

“You’re not angry with me, Dick?” I asked, for he still seemed a little
white and shaken.

“Angry?” he repeated, looking down at me with a quick smile. “Why, no,
Biffkins. But you needn’t have frightened a fellow half to death. I
thought--I thought--no matter what I thought.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you, Dick. But I haven’t told you all
about it yet,” I went on, trotting along by his side. “There’s a
mystery--you know how I adore mysteries!”

“What sort of mystery?” he asked, with provoking coolness.

“I don’t just know, but Mr. Chester--he’s the lawyer--says it’s a most
peculiar will. Oh, Dick, am I really awake?” and I pinched him on the
arm.

“You can’t tell whether you’re awake by pinching _me_,” he protested.
“But I guess you are, all right. You seem a little delirious
though--got any fever?”

“Only the fever of excitement, Dick,” I said. “How can you keep so cool
about it? I think it’s wonderful!”

“What’s wonderful?”

“Why, the legacy--of course it’s a legacy, Dick. We’re her only living
relatives! And she lived in a big, old-fashioned house, which she
inherited from her husband. I never thought of grandaunt as having a
husband,” I added, reflectively. “I wonder what sort of man he was.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” retorted Dick. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter. Only, if grandaunt--” But I didn’t finish the
uncharitable sentence. “And, oh, Dick, if it comes true, you can go on
and graduate--you won’t have to go to work.”

“But I want to go to work,” said Dick, and his face was quite gloomy,
as we turned in at the gate together.




Chapter III

The Problem


IT was only an hour’s run to the little station of Fanwood, which is as
near as one can get to Plumfield by rail; and there Mr. Chester had a
carriage waiting for us, and we drove over to the little village a mile
away, where Grandaunt Nelson had lived nearly all her life. The road
was a pleasant one, winding between well-kept hedges, and just rolling
enough to give one occasional views of the country round about. In the
distance, to the west, we could see a range of hills, and Mr. Chester
told us that from their summit, on a clear day, one could see the
ocean, forty or fifty miles away to the eastward.

Plumfield struck me as a very fragmentary and straggling sort of
village--so straggling, in fact, that it was scarcely recognizable as a
village at all, and seemed to have no beginning and no end. There were
two or three little stores, a church and a few houses--

“Though,” Mr. Chester explained, “the village isn’t so small as it
looks. It is spread out a good deal, and you can’t see it all at one
glance.”

We had lunch at the old inn, which had been built before the
Revolution, so they said, and where our arrival created quite a
commotion. Mr. Chester had hurried away to make the arrangements for
opening the will, and came back in about an hour to tell us that
everything was ready. We walked down the street and around the corner
to a tiny frame building, with “Notary Public” on a swinging sign over
the door, and Mr. Chester ushered us into the stuffy little office.

The notary was already there, a little, wrinkled man, with very white
hair and beard which stood out in a halo all around his face. He held
his head on one side as he talked, and reminded me of a funny little
bird. He was introduced to us as Mr. Jones, and was evidently very
nervous. I judged that it had been a long time since his office had
been the scene of a ceremony so important as that which was about to
take place there.

Scarcely were the introductions over, when the door opened and
another man came in,--a tall, thin man, with a red face framed in a
ragged beard. He wore an old slouch hat, and a black bow tie, and an
ill-fitting black frock coat and white trousers which bagged at the
knees--the whole effect being peculiarly rural and unkempt, almost
studiously so. Indeed, as I glanced at his face again, I fancied
that, with the fantastic beard shaved off, it would be a very clever
and capable one. His eyes were very small and very bright, and as they
rested upon me for an instant, I felt a little shiver shoot along my
spine. The notary did not even look at him, but busied himself with
some papers on his desk. Mr. Chester, however, nodded to him curtly,
and informed us in an aside that his name was Silas Tunstall, and that
he also was interested in the will. The newcomer, without seeming in
the least abashed by his chilly reception, sat down calmly, balanced
his hat against the wall, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs,
and after helping himself to a chew of tobacco from a package he took
from his pocket, folded his arms and awaited events.

“I think we are all here?” queried the notary, looking inquiringly at
Mr. Chester.

“Yes,” nodded the latter. “We may as well go ahead.”

The notary cleared his throat and carefully polished and adjusted
his spectacles. Then he picked up from the desk before him an
impressive-looking envelope, sealed with a great splurge of red wax.

“I have here,” he began with great solemnity, “the last will and
testament of the late Eliza Nelson, which has been delivered to me by
Mr. Chester, properly sealed and attested. You have been summoned here
to listen to the reading of this document, which will then be filed for
probate, in the usual way. I will ask Mr. Chester to read it,” and he
opened the envelope and drew forth a paper covered with writing.

“It is not a very long will,” remarked Mr. Chester, as he took the
paper, “but it is, in some respects, a most peculiar one, as you can
judge for yourselves;” and he proceeded to read slowly:

  “I, Eliza Nelson, being in full possession of health and mental
  faculties, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

  “I bequeath to my niece, Clara Truman, and to her heirs for ever,
  the whole of my property, real and personal, provided that within
  one month from the date of my death, she or her heirs will have
  discovered, by means of the key furnished them herewith, the place
  in which I have deposited my stocks, bonds, and other securities. If
  they have not brains enough to accomplish this, as I fear may be the
  case, it is evident that they are not fit and competent persons to
  administer my property.

  “Consequently, in the event of their failure to discover the
  depository of said stocks, bonds, etc., within the space of one
  month from the date of my death, the whole of my property, real and
  personal, shall revert to the trusteeship of my friend and instructor,
  Silas Tunstall, who shall have absolute and undisturbed possession
  thereof for use in propagating the philosophy of which he is so
  earnest and useful a disciple, under such conditions as I have set
  forth in a document to be delivered to the said Silas Tunstall, should
  the property pass to him.

  “Therefore, one month from the date of my death, in the event of
  the failure of my niece, Clara Truman, or her heirs, to fulfil the
  above conditions, the keys to my residence shall be delivered to the
  said Silas Tunstall, and he shall be given absolute and undivided
  possession thereof; until which time, Clara Truman and her heirs shall
  have undisturbed possession of said property, in order that they may,
  if possible, fulfil the conditions upon which their inheritance of it
  is dependent.

  “Provided further, that whoever inherits the property shall be bound
  to pay to Abner Smith and his wife, Jane, during life, an annuity of
  $300, and to permit them to retain their present positions as long as
  they care to do so.

  “I hereby appoint Mr. Thomas J. Chester as my executor, without bond,
  to see that the provisions of this my last will and testament are duly
  complied with.

  “In witness whereof, I have hereunto affixed my hand this eighteenth
  day of January, A. D., 1899.

                                                  “ELIZA NELSON.”

“It is witnessed by Jane and Abner Smith,” added Mr. Chester, “the two
servants mentioned in the will. It is regular in every way.”

We sat in a dazed silence, trying to understand. After a moment, Silas
Tunstall leaned forward.

“Kin I see it?” he asked, and held out his hand, his little eyes
gleaming more brightly than ever.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Chester, and passed the paper over to him.

He examined the signatures and the date, and then, settling back again
in his chair, proceeded to read the document through for himself. While
he was so engaged, I had a chance to look at him more closely, and
I was struck by the profound meanness of his appearance. What sort
of philosophy could it be, I wondered, of which he was an earnest
and useful disciple? Not one, certainly, which made for largeness of
character, if Mr. Tunstall himself was to be taken as an example, and
if I read his countenance aright. I saw that my aversion was shared by
the other two men present, who no doubt knew Mr. Tunstall well. Both of
them sat watching him gloomily, as he read the will, but neither spoke
or showed the impatience which they probably felt.

When he had finished, he handed the paper back to Mr. Chester, without
a word, but his face was positively glowing with a satisfaction he made
no effort to conceal.

“Yes,” he said, “thet’s all reg’lar. Anything else?”

Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

“Doesn’t it say that there is a key to be furnished us, Mr. Chester?” I
asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “I had forgotten. Here it is,” and he
handed mother a little sealed envelope. “You will see it is addressed
to you, Mrs. Truman,” he added.

“It doesn’t feel like a key,” she murmured, holding it between her
fingers. Then she read what was written on the outside of the envelope:

  +------------------------------------------------+
  | Key to be given my niece, Clara Truman, or her |
  | heirs, on the day on which my will is opened.  |
  +------------------------------------------------+

“I have no idea what the envelope contains,” said Mr. Chester. “It was
brought to me sealed as you see it.”

“Oh, don’t you see!” I cried, fairly jumping in my chair with
excitement. “It’s not that kind of a key--not a for-sure key--it’s a
key to the puzzle--a key to where the bonds and things are.”

“Well, we’ll soon see,” said mother, and tore open the envelope with
trembling fingers. Mr. Chester, I think, had half a mind to stop her,
but thought better of it and leaned back in his chair again.

I couldn’t wait--I was dying with impatience--and I skipped over to her
side.

The only contents of the envelope was a little slip of paper.

“Why, it’s poetry!” I cried, as mother drew it out and unfolded it.
And, indeed, there were four rhymed lines written upon it:

  “The Rose of Sharon guards the place
  Where the Treasure lies; so you must trace
  Four to the right, diagonally three,
  And you have solved the Mystery.”

Not good verse, perhaps; but sufficiently tantalizing!

I don’t know precisely how it happened, but as I stooped to take the
slip of paper from mother’s fingers, it somehow fluttered away from us,
and after a little gyration or two, settled to the floor exactly at
Silas Tunstall’s feet. He picked it up, before any one could interfere,
and calmly proceeded to read the lines written upon it, before he
handed it back to us. I saw the quick flush which sprang to Mr.
Chester’s face, but the whole thing was over in a minute, almost before
anyone could say a word.

Mr. Tunstall’s face was positively beaming, and he chuckled audibly as
he picked up his hat and rose to his feet.

“Thet’s all fer the present, ain’t it, Mr. Chester?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s all, I think.”

“Let’s see--when did Mis’ Nelson die?”

“Three days ago--the seventeenth.”

“One month from thet’ll be May seventeenth, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“All right; don’t ferget the date. May seventeenth--I’ll see ye all
ag’in then. Good day, madam,” he added, with a deep bow to mother.

He smiled around upon us with malicious meaning, and I fancied his eye
lingered upon me for an instant longer than the rest. Then he went out
and shut the door behind him.

I could have sworn that I heard him chuckling to himself as he went
down the steps to the street.




Chapter IV

Our New Home


I THINK we were all a little dazed by the scene we had just gone
through. Indeed, the problem grandaunt had set us was enough to
confuse anyone. For myself, I know that I have only the most confused
recollection of Mr. Chester bundling us into the carriage, of a long
drive over a smooth country road, past stately old houses and pretty
modern cottages half-hidden among the trees, and finally of rolling
through a massive stone gateway, and of getting out, at last, before a
great, square red-brick house with a beautiful columned doorway, where
two old people, a man and a woman, stood bobbing their heads to us and
gazing at us with a curiosity not unmixed with apprehension.

“This is to be your home for the next month, at least,” said Mr.
Chester, “and, I hope, for always. This is Abner Smith,” he continued,
beckoning the old people forward, “and this is his wife, Jane. They
were good and faithful servants to Mrs. Nelson, as she has said.”

They were a plump and comfortable-looking couple, with faces like ruddy
apples and hair like driven snow, and eyes which still retained some
of the fire of youth. They were good to look at, striking examples of
a well-spent life and beautiful old age. One saw instantly that they
were trustworthy and lovable, and as I looked at them, I knew that they
would be good and faithful servants to us also. I felt, somehow, that
the possession of these two old retainers gave an added dignity to the
family--a sort of feudal antiquity, very pleasant and impressive, and
quite in keeping with the place.

But I had only a moment for such reflections, for Mr. Chester bade us
good-bye, adding that he was coming back to take us home with him to
dinner.

“I’ve got a little something a-waitin’ fer ye,” observed Mrs. Abner,
hesitating between a natural shyness and a desire to please. “I know
how travellin’ tires a person out.”

“Indeed it does,” agreed mother cordially, and we followed our guide
into the house, along a wide hall, and through an open door into a
pleasant room, where a table stood spread with snowy linen, and looking
most inviting.

“Why, this is scrumptious!” cried Dick. “Mrs. Smith, I think
you’re--you’re a jewel!”

“It’s jest a little lunch,” she said, apologetically.

“Jest t’ take the edge off;” but her cheeks flushed with pleasure at
his words.

“And I’m used t’ bein’ called Jane, sir,” she added.

“And I’m not in the least used to being called sir,” retorted Dick,
“and I don’t like it. My name is Dick, and this young lady’s name is
Cecil, but she prefers to be called Biffkins. Don’t you think Biffkins
suits her?”

Jane looked me over with a critical countenance, while Dick watched
her, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” she answered, gravely, at last, “I think it does.”

“I knew you’d say so,” laughed Dick. “Everybody does. Now, I gave her
that name, and I’m proud of it.”

Mother had been taking off her hat and listening with an amused
countenance.

“You mustn’t take these two children too seriously, Jane,” she said,
warningly. “And if they don’t behave themselves properly, just let me
know!”

Jane smiled at both of us, but she was evidently thinking of something
else, for she stood pulling a corner of her apron nervously between her
fingers.

“I--I hope you’ve come t’ stay, ma’am,” she said, at last, looking at
mother with an apprehension she could not conceal. Plainly, she did not
believe in the philosophy of which Mr. Tunstall was so vigorous and
enlightened a disciple--or, perhaps, it was the disciple she objected
to. I felt my heart warm to Jane.

“I don’t know,” said mother. “We hope to stay, too; but there’s a
condition--”

“Yes’m,” nodded Jane, “I know--me an’ Abner was the witnesses, y’know,”
she went on, apologetically. “I’m free to confess, we never quite
understood it.”

“We none of us quite understand it, yet,” answered mother. “We’ll see
what we can make of it to-morrow.”

Jane took the words for a dismissal, and left us to ourselves. We were
all weary and hungry, more, I think, from excitement than fatigue, but
ten minutes with the appetizing luncheon Jane had spread for us worked
wonders. I remember especially a bowl of curds, or smear-case, seasoned
to a marvel and with a dash of cream on top, which seemed to me the
most perfect food I had ever eaten. I came afterwards to know better
the perfections of Jane’s cookery, but nothing she ever made could
eclipse the memory of that bowl of white-and-yellow toothsomeness.

Ten minutes after sitting down, I was myself again; I felt that my
brain had returned to its normal condition, and I was fairly aching
to begin working on the problem which confronted us, and which I, at
least, was determined to solve with the least possible delay.

“You have that slip of paper with the verse, haven’t you, mother?” I
asked.

“Yes, dear,” and she drew it from her purse, where she had placed it
carefully, and handed it to me.

Dick got up and came to my side, to read the lines over my shoulder.

  “The Rose of Sharon guards the place
  Where the Treasure lies; so you must trace
  Four to the right, diagonally three,
  And you have solved the Mystery.”

“What nonsense!” he said, in disgust. “You don’t expect to solve any
such riddle as that, do you, Biffkins?”

“Yes, I do,” I cried, and read the lines over again.

“Well, if you do, you’ll surprise me,” said Dick.

“I know one thing,” I flashed out, “it won’t be solved without trying.”

“Do you really think there’s an answer to it?” queried Dick.

“Of course there is,” I asserted confidently. “Grandaunt wouldn’t have
written this unless it meant something.”

“I don’t know,” said Dick, doubtfully. “The reasoning doesn’t quite
hold water. Lots of people write things that don’t mean anything.”

“Well, the meaning of this is obvious enough,” I retorted. “Mother,
what is a rose of Sharon? Isn’t it a flower?”

“Why, bless the child!” exclaimed mother, setting down her cup with a
little bang, “of course it is! It’s a shrub--a hardy shrub that grows
quite tall, sometimes. Many people call it the althea.”

“Well, that’s the first step,” I cried triumphantly. “And now the
second--”

“The second,” echoed Dick, as I hesitated. “Well, go ahead, Biffkins;
what’s the second?”

“The second is to find the bush,” I said.

“And the third?”

“To find the treasure, goose!”

“It _sounds_ easy, doesn’t it?” Dick commented, his head on one side.
“We find the bush and then we find the treasure, and then we live happy
ever afterwards.”

“I think it more important to find first where we’re going to sleep,”
said mother. “Then, our bags are still at the station, and we’ll have
to have them.”

“I’ll go after them,” said Dick, picking up his hat. “I dare say
there’s a horse and buggy attached to this place.”

“And I’ll ask Jane about the beds,” said mother, rising.

“And I’ll go treasure-hunting,” said I, pausing only long enough to
snatch up my hat.

“Well, good luck, Biffkins,” Dick called after me, and started back
toward the barn, leaving me alone at the front door, intent on the
problem.

The first thing to do, I felt, was to make a survey of the house and
grounds, and this I found to be no little task. Indeed, I soon became
so absorbed in their beauty that I nearly forgot the puzzle I had set
myself to solve. Let me describe the place as well as I can, and you
will not wonder that, as the days went on, the prospect of losing it
should become more and more dreadful to me.

The house was of red brick, square, in a style which I have since been
told is Georgian. In the middle front was a portico, stone-floored,
with four white columns supporting its roof, and with an iron railing
curving along either side of its wide stone steps, five in number. The
front door was heavily panelled, and bore a great brass knocker. A wide
hall ran through the centre of the house, with the rooms opening from
it on either side--large, square rooms, with lofty ceilings, and heated
either by means of wide fire-places or Franklin stoves. But of the
interior of the house I shall speak again--it was the exterior which
first claimed my attention.

It stood well back from the road, in a grove of stately elms, which
must have been planted at the time the house was built, nearly three
quarters of a century before. A beautiful lawn, flanked by hedges of
hardy shrubs, sloped down to the road, and to the right of the house,
surrounded by a close-clipped hedge of box, was a flower garden laid
out in a queer, formal fashion which I had never seen before. It looked
desolate and neglected, but here and there the compelling sun of
spring had brought out a tinge of green. Beyond the garden was a high
brick wall, covered with vines, shutting us off from the view of our
neighbours.

Back of the house was the kitchen garden, nearly an acre in extent,
and surrounded by rows of raspberry and currant bushes. Along one
side of it was a double grape-arbour, separating it from the orchard.
Cherries and peaches were putting on their bridal robes of white and
pink, and as I passed beneath their branches, drinking deep draughts
of the fragrant air, I could hear the bees, just awakened from their
winter sleep, busy among the petals. Near a sheltering wind-break,
I caught the outline of a group of stables and other out-buildings,
behind which stretched rolling fields, some green with winter wheat,
some stubbly from last year’s corn, some brown and fallow, ready for
the plow. A respect for grandaunt, which I had never had before, began
to rise within me. Surely the owner of such a place as this could not
be without her good qualities. To administer it must have taken thought
and care, and simply to live in it must be, in a way, softening and
uplifting. If Fate would only will that I might always live in it----

I heard the rattle of wheels on the road from the stables, and there
was Dick, setting forth proudly on his trip to the station. He waved
his cap to me, chirruped to the horse, with whom he seemed to be
already on the friendliest of terms, and passed from sight around the
house, while I turned again to the inspection of the premises. At the
end of half an hour, I was fairly breathless with excitement; to be
mistress of this splendid estate, this wide domain! what a thought! How
could life ever lose its interest here, or days pass slowly!

“It isn’t ours,” I said aloud, suddenly chilled by the thought. “It
isn’t ours. But I will make it ours!” And I shut my teeth tight
together, and turned towards the flower-garden. No more idling or
day-dreaming! Every minute must be spent in the search for the
treasure--the “stocks, bonds, and other securities,” as the will
described them, which grandaunt had concealed somewhere about the
place--a hiding-place to which the only clue was the rose of Sharon!




Chapter V

I Begin the Search


THE sun was nearly down, and the long shadows from the trees cut the
lawn into alternate aisles of light and shade. The afternoon was almost
gone, and I saw that I had no time to lose. Since the first object
of my search was a rose of Sharon, it was evident that it must begin
in the garden and I made my way into it through an opening in the
hedge. The hedge was very close and thick, though spraggly and badly
kept, and must have been planted many years before. The garden, as I
have said, was a desolate place enough, but not without evidences of
ancient beauty. Just inside the hedge was a perfect tangle of dead
flower-stocks of hollyhocks with the fresh new plants springing at
their base, of phlox and pinks and candytuft. Inside this, and around
the whole garden ran a broad path, grass-grown and sadly in need of
repair, while two narrower paths extended at right angles across the
garden, meeting at a large depressed circle in the centre, which had
once evidently been the basin of a fountain. But no fountain had played
there for many years, and the basin was overgrown with weeds. At the
corners against the hedge were masses of shrubbery, and the wall at
the farther side was overgrown with ivy.

I realized that I needed a guide in this wilderness, and set out in
search of Abner, whom I finally found in the kitchen garden, busily
engaged in digging up some horse-radish. He heard me coming, and stood
up, leaning on his spade, as I drew near.

“Oh, Mr. Smith,” I began, “is there a rose of Sharon anywhere about the
place?”

“A rose o’ Sharon? Why, yes, miss; bless your heart, they’s a dozen o’
them, I reckon.”

“A dozen!” Here was a complication, indeed! “But isn’t there some
particular one,” I persisted, “which is larger than all the rest, or
which is peculiarly situated, or which grandaunt was particularly fond
of, or something of that sort?”

He scratched his head in perplexity, while I watched him in a very
agony of excitement and suspense.

“Well, miss,” he answered slowly, at last, “they is one th’ missus used
t’ think a good deal of, though lately she didn’t take much interest in
anything about th’ place--just let it run along anyhow. It’s about the
biggest one we’ve got, an’ it’s set in a kind o’ rockery over there in
the garding near the wall. Mebbe that’s the one you mean.”

“Maybe it is,” I said, controlling myself as well as I could, for my
heart leaped at his words. “Will you show it to me, Mr. Smith?”

“Why, of course,” he said good-naturedly. “An’, miss, my name’s Abner,
an’ I like t’ be called by it,” and shouldering his spade, he hobbled
away toward the garden. I could have flown, but I managed somehow to
accommodate my pace to his.

Near the wall which bounded the garden on that side, a somewhat
elaborate rockery had been laid out years before, with stones of
different colours carefully arranged in rows, after a fashion once
thought beautiful. Vines were running over them, myrtle principally,
and shrubs of various kinds were growing among them; some had been
misplaced and others buried in the ground; the whole forming a kind of
tangle which proved that however much grandaunt had once thought of the
spot, Abner was right in saying that she had completely neglected it in
recent years.

“Y’ see,” explained Abner, apologetically, reading my thought, perhaps,
“we was both a gittin’ old, miss; an’ they’s a mighty lot o’ work t’
do around a place like this. They was a lot thet had t’ be done--thet
th’ missus allers made it a point t’ see was done--so this here
rockery--an’ the hull garding fer thet matter--had t’ look out fer
itself. We hadn’t no time fer flub-dubs.”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “but which is the rose of Sharon?”

“This here is th’ rose o’ Sharon, miss,” and he pointed with his spade
to a tall shrub in the middle of the rockery, upon which the spring had
not yet succeeded in coaxing forth any hint of green. The old, brown
seed-pods of the year before still clung to it, and, on the whole, it
did not look very promising of beauty.

“Now I must go, miss,” added my companion. “Jane’s waitin’ fer thet
horse-radish, an’ I’ve got t’ help with th’ milkin’.”

“Very well,” I said; “only leave me your spade, please. Perhaps I can
straighten things out here a little.”

“I doubt it, miss,” he said; “them vines need a good, sharp pair of
clippers more’n anything, an’ a man behind ’em thet ain’t afeard t’ use
’em.” But he leaned his spade against the wall and shuffled away.

Close against the wall, a rustic seat had been built in some bygone
year, and although it had crumbled somewhat and come apart in places
under wind and weather, it would still bear my weight, as I found upon
cautiously testing it. So I sat down to think out my plan of action.
The lengthening shadows warned me that I had no time to lose; but I
believed that I had my finger on the key of the puzzle, and I was
determined to test my theory at once.

The spot had evidently at one time been a favourite resort of somebody;
and grandaunt had lived here so long that it must have been she who
had the rustic seat built and arranged the rockery. I could fancy her
sitting here in the cool afternoons, when she was younger, knitting
placidly, perhaps, or working some piece of embroidery. Perhaps
it was here, where she was first married--but my imagination was
not equal to the flight. Grandaunt a bride! The idea seemed to me
preposterous--which only shows how young and thoughtless I was, for
grandaunt, of course, had, once upon a time, been a girl like any
other, with a girl’s heart and a girl’s hopes.

I know now more of her life than I knew then. She was married when
quite young to a man much older than herself, who brought her to this
house, and shut himself up with her there; a crabbed and high-tempered
man, who set his stamp upon her and moulded her to his fashion. He had
died many years before, but grandaunt had gone on living as she had
lived, so compelling is the force of habit! And if she came to regard
all the world with suspicion, and to fall into queer prejudices and
beliefs, why, she was not so much to blame, after all!

But, for whatever cause, it was evident that grandaunt had at one time
been fond of the garden, with its fountain and rockery and rustic seat.
They offered her a distraction and relief from the sordidness of her
life--a distraction which she came to need less and less, as she grew
accustomed to it. Just at first, no doubt, she had often come here; the
spot had once held a prominent place in her affections; and it was to
it that her thoughts turned when she had been seeking a hiding-place
for the treasure. But just where had she chosen to conceal it?

As I have said, a large number of stones were arranged symmetrically
about the foot of the rose of Sharon. According to the doggerel
grandaunt had left us, I must count four to the right and three
diagonally, and the treasure would be ours. What could she have meant,
unless she was referring to these very stones? Flushed with excitement
at the thought, I looked at them more carefully. Four to the right,
diagonally three--but from which direction must I face the shrub in
determining which was right and which left?

I decided at last that the most sensible solution of this question
was to face the shrub from the main path, which led to it across
the garden, just as anyone would face it who approached it from the
direction of the house. I did so, and then, dropping to my knees, tore
away the tangle of vines, cleared away the accumulated refuse, and
counted four stones to the right.

Here, again, there was a choice of diagonals--the correct one might be
any one of several. I chose one at random and raised the third stone
with hands not wholly steady. Then I leaned forward and peered into
the hole. The earth from which I had lifted the stone seemed hard and
undisturbed. I counted three diagonally in another direction, and
lifted another stone, with the same result. Again I counted three
diagonally, raised the stone, and found myself peering into a shallow
hole with hard dirt at the bottom.

I brought the spade and dug down, as well as I could, in the places
from which I had removed the stones; but after a few moments, it was
evident, even to me, that the earth had not been disturbed for many
years, and that there could not by any possibility be a treasure of any
kind buried beneath it.

But I did not even yet despair. It might very well be that grandaunt
had approached the rockery from the kitchen garden, in which case I
must count in the other direction. I did so, and at the second venture
my heart bounded into my throat, for the stone I hit upon was loose
in its place, and the dirt beneath it soft and yielding. With hands
trembling so that I could scarcely hold the spade, I began to throw the
loose dirt out from the hole. I found it was not large enough to work
in to advantage, and removed the adjoining stones. The earth under all
of them seemed loose, and I worked feverishly, expecting every instant
that the spade would strike a metal box or receptacle of some sort, in
which the securities had been placed. For a few inches, it was easy
digging; then the earth became hard again. But suddenly the spade did
hit something that rang sharply against it. I cleared away the earth
quickly, and found that I had struck--a rock! It was a large one, as
I soon discovered by trying to get around it. And then I saw what I
had not perceived before--little tunnels running away under the stones
on either side, and I knew that the earth had been loosened, not by
Grandaunt Nelson, but by a mole!

It was a heavy blow. I had been so confident that I had solved the
mystery; it had seemed so certain from the very situation of the rose
of Sharon that it marked the treasure’s hiding-place; I had even
fancied myself running to the house with the precious package in my
hands, bursting in upon mother with the great news, lying in wait for
Dick--and now--now--

Despite myself, the tears would come. I let the spade fall and sat down
again upon the seat, and sobbed for very disappointment. Ah, what a
triumph it would have been to be able, the very first day, to discomfit
that horrid Silas Tunstall by finding the treasure and setting at
rest, at once and for all time, the question of the ownership of this
beautiful place!

“Oh, I say,” exclaimed a low voice just over my head, “you mustn’t do
that, you know! Can’t I help you?”

I jumped up with a little cry, for the voice was so near it frightened
me. There, sitting on the wall just above me, was a boy. He had his cap
in his hand, and I saw that his hair was brown and very curly.

“I’d like to help you,” he repeated earnestly; “that is, if you’ll let
me.”

He waved his cap to me with a half-timid, friendly, reassuring gesture.

“Oh!” I said, turning red with shame at the thought that I had been
caught crying. “Oh, I must go!”

“No, don’t go,” he protested. “If you’re going because I’m here, I’ll
go myself.”

“Oh, no; it’s not at all on your account,” I explained politely. “But
it must be very nearly dinner-time,” and I glanced at the brilliant
afterglow which transfigured the western heavens.

Then I glanced at him. He was distinctly a nice-looking boy, and after
the surprise of the first moment, I felt no very great desire to go
away.

“It isn’t late,” he reassured me. “It can’t be dinner-time, yet. May I
come down?”

I eyed him doubtfully. He seemed rather a self-assured boy, and I
wondered what Dick would think of him. I wondered if he thought me a
molly-coddle because he had seen me crying. I shared all Dick’s horror
of girls or boys who cry. Then I wondered if my eyes were very red, and
wiped them with my handkerchief.

“The wall,” I ventured, “was probably put there to keep people out.”

“Not to keep one’s friends out,” he protested. “One ought to be glad if
one’s friends are willing to climb over such a high wall to see one.”

He was smiling in the pleasantest way, and I really couldn’t help
smiling back.

“But one’s friends can come in at the gate,” I pointed out, quickly
suppressing the smile, “so there is no reason why they should climb the
wall. No one likes one’s friends to do unnecessary things.”

“How about the lady who dropped her glove over the barrier among the
lions?” he inquired.

“She was a minx,” I answered warmly.

“And the fellow who jumped after it?”

“He was a fool!”

“Thank you,” he said, with bright eyes.

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean that,” I cried. “I should be very glad to
have you come down, but I really must go.”

“But it isn’t dinner-time yet.”

“I know it isn’t,” I hastened to explain, anxious not to hurt his
feelings again. “But you see we’re going out to dinner this evening,
and it will take a little time to get ready, and of course I don’t want
to be late. Mother wouldn’t like it.”

“But what were you digging there for?” he persisted, looking at the
little piles of dirt I had thrown up. “It seems a queer place to be
digging. Looking for fishing-worms?”

“No,” I said. “I--I was just digging.”

“Are you going to dig any more?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then you must let me help you,” he said. “I’m first-rate at digging.”

“Are you? Well, perhaps I shall. But, you see, I’ll have to know you a
little better first.”

“May I introduce myself?”

“Oh, no; I’ll ask Mr. Chester about you--”

“Mr. Chester?” he interrupted quickly.

“Yes.”

“Is that where you’re going to dinner?”

“Yes--why?”

He burst into a sudden shout of laughter and waved his cap around his
head. I thought for an instant, with a sudden leap of the heart, that
he was going to lose his balance and fall; but he caught a branch above
his head and saved himself.

“I think I’ll come down,” he said, when he had regained his breath; and
he calmly jumped down on our side of the wall. Then he looked at me,
grinning broadly. “Please don’t believe all Mr. Chester tells you about
me,” he said. “He’s prejudiced.”

“I certainly shall believe what he tells me,” I retorted.

“All the same, I’m glad you’re going to dinner there to-night,” he
added, grinning still more broadly.

“Why?” I demanded.

“No matter,” he said. “No matter,” and he looked at me, still laughing.

I felt my cheeks burning, for I could never bear to be laughed at,
especially by a boy. Boys are so dense.

“Very well,” I said, and turning on my heel, I marched away, head in
air.

But I could hear him laughing till I got clear across the garden to the
opposite hedge. I thought it very rude. Perhaps if he had not kept on
laughing, I might have stopped before I got so far away. At last, when
I stole a glance over my shoulder toward the wall, he was gone.




Chapter VI

I Find an Ally


AS I ran around the corner of the house, I saw mother standing at the
front door.

“Why, Cecil,” she said, reproachfully, as I sprang up the steps, “where
have you been all this time?”

“It isn’t so late, is it, mother?”

“It’s very late, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why, look at
your hands!” she cried, as she saw me more clearly. “And your frock!
Where have you been, Cecil?”

“I was out in the garden, mother,” I answered, suddenly conscious that
my hands were very dirty, and that great green splotches on my skirt
showed where I had been kneeling on the moss which covered the rockery.

“In the garden?” she repeated. “What on earth--”

“Looking for the treasure, weren’t you, Biffkins?” called Dick’s voice
mockingly from the darkness of the hall.

“Yes, I was,” I snapped. Really it was provoking that Dick should take
the matter so lightly.

“Well, better luck next time, Biffkins,” he went on, coming to the
door, and looking me up and down with a broad grin. “Why, she’s been
digging!” he cried. “I’ll bet anything she’s got a blister!”

Tears of mortification sprang into my eyes; for I _did_ have a blister
and it hurt, though I wouldn’t have acknowledged it for the world! Why
can’t girls work as boys can?

“But never mind, Biffkins,” added Dick. “Don’t get discouraged. Just
wait till I set my massive brain to work at it--”

“Oh, that’s all that’s necessary!” I retorted, with cutting irony.
Really this puzzle was beginning to get on my nerves a little; I
wondered that Dick could jest about it when it meant so much to all of
us. It showed a heartlessness that I had never suspected in him--an
indifference to his family which was really shocking.

I started to say so, but mother cut short the discussion by chasing
me before her into the house and up-stairs to her bed-room--a
high-ceilinged, deliciously-roomy one, with a great four-poster in
one corner, to which one mounted by a little flight of carpet-covered
steps. I would have stopped to admire it--for if there is one
thing more than any other for which I have a passion, it is
old furniture--but mother, lighting a lamp which stood on the
dresser--another old-fashioned piece, the golden glow of whose mahogany
warmed my heart--bade me sternly to set to work upon my toilet.

“But, oh, mother, what a delightful room!” I cried, struggling with my
buttons. “Was it grandaunt’s?”

“No,” said mother, “Aunt Nelson’s bed-room was at the front of the
house overlooking the drive. I think it better to leave it undisturbed
for the present.”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed, for I knew what mother meant. “But whose room was
this?”

“This, Jane says, was the spare room. It hadn’t been opened for months
apparently, and smelt dreadfully close; but I dare say we shall do very
well. There’s another for Dick just like it across the hall.”

I remembered grandaunt’s aversion to sunlight and fresh air, and did
not wonder that the rooms had seemed stuffy. However, the sweet, cool
air, blowing through the trees had already banished all that.

“Is Dick’s room furnished like this?” I asked.

“Yes, very much the same.”

“I must see it the first thing in the morning. And, mother,” I went
on, in growing excitement, “did you ever see such a lovely old
grandfather’s clock as the one in the lower hall--and just look at that
old wardrobe, with its--”

“Now, Cecil,” interrupted mother, sternly, “I want you to get that
hair of yours in order--and here’s your clean frock. I do hope you’re
not going to be so thoughtless and impolite as to make us late for Mr.
Chester’s dinner!”

“No, mother,” I promised obediently, “I’ll hurry;” but it was just as
well she stayed with me to hold me to this duty, for there were so
many delightful things in the room that, with the best intentions in
the world, I should inevitably have been late without her. It is very
difficult to comb one’s hair and at the same time admire the carving
on the mirror before which you are doing it--and such carving it was,
so graceful and expressive and right! As it was, we had just reached
the lower hall again, and mother was dragging me past the grandfather’s
clock, when the knocker sounded against the door and reverberated
through the hall in a quite startling manner; and there on the step
was Mr. Chester, shaking hands with Dick, who had no passion for old
furniture, and whose toilet, besides, was much simpler than mine--one
of a boy’s great advantages which I have often envied.

“It’s such a delightful night that I didn’t bring the carriage,” said
Mr. Chester, shaking hands with each of us in turn. “And it is really
only a step.”

“It would have been sacrilege to ride,” agreed mother, as we went down
the steps together, and indeed the evening was deliciously soft and
warm, with the fragrance of spring in the air.

“Do you know,” he added, “I never thought of your baggage until--”

“We sent Dick after it,” interrupted mother, quickly. “We certainly
didn’t expect you to bother with it--you’ve been so kind already. He
was only too eager to go--it was quite an adventure for him to drive
over to the station.”

“Though Susan seems to be a horse with a past rather than a future,”
supplemented Dick; whereat we all laughed.

“Yes,” said Mr. Chester, “I’ve seen her trotting meditatively along
many a time. I dare say her past is a blameless and useful one--well
worth meditating upon.”

The night seemed to grow more beautiful every minute, and just as we
turned out of the grounds into the road, the big yellow moon sailed
slowly up over the eastern horizon, sending long streamers of golden
light through the naked branches of the elms. I turned for a last look
at the house, where it loomed soft and dim through the vista of trees
leading up to it: I could see the white door, the grey steps, flanked
by graceful pillars. What a home it was! And I sighed again as I
realized that it was not really ours, and perhaps might never be.

I have wondered since at my instant affection for it, which grew and
grew in warmth until it amounted to positive adoration. I have entered
many houses before and since, many of them more beautiful than this,
but not one of them so moved and won my soul’s soul as did that square
old mansion. And I have often thought that perhaps for some of us there
is on earth a predestined dwelling-place, which we somehow recognize
and long for, and apart from which we are unhappy. Unhappy--it is worse
than that--the ceaseless, miserable yearning! How well I know!

As I looked back that evening, something of this feeling came to me, as
though I were leaving something infinitely dear and precious. It was
only by a positive effort that I kept on with the others, down the
path and through the gate and along the road. We had not far to go, for
a short walk soon brought us to another gate, through which we turned
along a broad path, which led to an open doorway beaming with cheerful
welcome. At the sound of our footsteps, a woman and a boy appeared
against the light in the hall, and came down the steps to meet us.

“My dear,” said Mr. Chester, “this is Mrs. Truman--my wife, Mrs.
Truman--and these are Cecil and Dick. Come here, Tom, and meet your new
neighbours,” he added to the boy.

As the boy turned so that the light fell on his face, I gave a little
gasp of astonishment, and he tried in vain to suppress the snigger that
burst from him.

“This is my son,” went on Mr. Chester, and then stopped as he saw my
suffused face and his son’s distorted countenance. “Tom, you rascal,”
he cried, “what mischief have you been up to now?”

“It wasn’t any mischief, sir,” I hastened to explain. “Only--only--I
was in the garden, and he was on the wall, and he wanted to come down
on our side.”

“And she said I shouldn’t till she’d found out more about me!” cried
Tom. “She said she’d ask you, sir.”

“And very wise of her,” nodded his father. “I’m afraid I can’t give a
very good account of you, sir.”

“I warned her that you were prejudiced, sir,” cried Tom.

“But he came down on our side without waiting for permission,” I added.

“Of course,” said Mr. Chester, laughing. “That was quite in character.
You must put him on probation, Cecil. He’s the biggest mischief in
three counties. He seems to possess an inborn facility for getting into
scrapes.”

“And for getting out of them,” added Mrs. Chester. “Let us do him that
justice.”

Laughing together, we went into the house, and a few moments later were
at the table. Such a pretty room it was, and such pleasant people!
My heart warmed to them instantly, for it was plain to see that they
were wholesome and genuine. For a time, the talk drifted from topic to
topic, but it was inevitable that it should at last turn toward the
will.

“Oh, I do hope that you will be able to keep the place!” burst
out Mrs. Chester, impulsively. “It would be such a relief to have
companionable neighbours after--after--”

She did not finish the sentence, but we could all guess what she meant.

“Besides,” she added, “it would be too terrible to have it fall into
the hands of that horrible Tunstall. Why, I should be afraid to go out
of the house after dark!”

“What is the ‘philosophy of which he is such a distinguished
disciple?’” I asked, quoting the will.

Mr. Chester laughed shortly, and then grew suddenly grave.

“Spiritualism,” he answered. “Not the real thing, of course, in
which there may be some basis of truth, for all I know; but a kind
of insincere hocus-pocus designed to catch the ignorant. I beg your
pardon,” he added quickly. “I must not forget that Mrs. Nelson was a
relative of yours.”

“She was my mother’s sister,” answered mother, quietly, “but I knew her
very slightly. I saw her only three or four times in my life. I know
she had queer ideas--that is, indeed, about all I do know about her.
Pray speak as frankly as you like.”

“Of course,” went on Mr. Chester, “I have no personal knowledge of
what went on over there, but I’ve heard weird tales of his doings in
other quarters. He came here over a year ago--nobody knows from where.
He lives in a little cottage some distance down the road, and is said
to have many visitors, especially at night, though that may be mere
gossip. The only other occupant of the place is an old woman who acts
as housekeeper and general factotum. The house stands so far back from
the road and is so surrounded by shrubbery that no one can see what
goes on there. It belonged to an eccentric old bachelor, who lived
alone there and who surrounded it with a grove of evergreens to keep
the world away, I suppose. There are all sorts of stories told about
it, but most of them are pure fictions.”

“Mr. Tunstall seems to be quite a character,” commented mother.

“He is,” agreed Mr. Chester; “but aside from his disagreeable
personality, there is really nothing against him, except that he seems
to have no adequate means of support. I believe that the stories about
his nocturnal visitors are largely myths, and as far as his other
practise is concerned, it can’t be very lucrative. I’ve never heard
that he ever attempted to obtain money illegally, and I think it’s as
much because he has no visible means of livelihood as from any other
cause that people distrust him. Mrs. Nelson’s case is the first in
which I’ve had reason to suspect he used undue influence--and that’s
only a suspicion. In fact,” he added, reflectively, “now that I try to
formulate some charge against him, I find there isn’t anything to get
hold of.”

“There’s such a thing as circumstantial evidence,” remarked Mrs.
Chester; “and one’s instincts go for something.”

“I don’t know,” rejoined her husband, thoughtfully; “I don’t altogether
trust what you call instinct. I’ve seen it go wrong too often. I’ve
always fancied that Tunstall is a much cleverer man than he appears to
be--too clever by half to be wasting his time the way he seems to be
doing. He’s absent a good deal--drives away in his buggy--yes, he keeps
a horse--and doesn’t come back for days and days. Where he goes nobody
knows.”

“I declare, dear,” said Mrs. Chester, laughing, “you’re growing quite
poetic over Mr. Tunstall. But for all that, I still contend it would be
a real affliction to have him for a neighbour.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mr. Chester; “he’s not an engaging person, I grant
you that; and I should be very sorry indeed to have him move in next
door; more especially,” he added, looking at us, “since that would mean
that our present neighbours must move out. We want you to keep the
place.”

“We should like to keep it, too, of course,” said mother, smiling a
little wistfully, “but I’m afraid that Aunt Nelson has set us a problem
we shall never be able to solve.”

“Biffkins has already had one try at it, though,” put in Dick, slyly.

“Biffkins?” repeated Tom, quickly. “Who’s that?”

Dick indicated me with a little gesture.

“Cecil didn’t seem quite to describe her,” he explained, smiling
broadly.

“I think Biffkins a bully name,” said Tom. “Ho!” he added, suddenly,
looking at me with quick interest, “was that what you were digging in
the garden for?”

“Of course it was,” laughed Dick. “I told her I’d bet she had a
blister.”

“Well, maybe she has,” retorted Tom, quickly. “I dare say I’d have one
too, if I’d dug up as much dirt as she did. Why, when I looked over
the wall--”

A sudden wave of crimson swept over my face and I glanced at Tom
appealingly. Only too distinctly did I remember what I was doing when
he looked over the wall!

“She was digging away like mad,” he went on calmly; “you should have
seen her!”

I shot him a grateful glance. How many boys would have been so generous?

“And he offered to help,” I said. “If it hadn’t been so late--”

“But you’ll let me help next time?” he questioned eagerly. “You must,
you know. I’m a good digger, anyway; and I’ve got a pretty good head
for puzzles.”

“Tom!” cried his mother.

“Oh, I should love to have him help!” I burst out. “I’m sure he would
be a very great help!”

“Done!” cried Tom. “Shake hands on it!” and he danced around the table
and caught my hand in his.

And as I looked into his honest brown eyes I knew that I had found an
ally.




Chapter VII

Varieties of the Rose of Sharon


“I THINK we should all like to say just what Tom has said,” remarked
Mr. Chester, after a moment. “We should all like to help, if we could.”

“Oh, you all can!” I cried, impulsively. “I’m sure you can help a great
deal.”

“How?” asked Mr. Chester, quietly, but with an earnestness there was no
mistaking.

“I’m sure you could help us to work out that riddle that grandaunt left
us,” I said. “You know that is the only clue we have.”

“You forget that I haven’t seen the riddle,” he remarked. “What was it?”

“It’s just a verse,” I said, “and rather a silly verse, too. Here it
is,” and I repeated the lines slowly, while the Chesters listened in
astonishment. Tom’s eyes were gleaming with interest and excitement.

“Let’s see; how is it?” he asked. “Say it again, won’t you?”

  “‘The Rose of Sharon guards the place
  Where the Treasure lies; so you must trace
  Four to the right, diagonally three,
  And you have solved the Mystery.’”

I repeated the lines slowly, and he soon had them. They were easy to
remember, and, once learned, ran in one’s head like Mark Twain’s famous,

  “Punch, brothers, punch; punch with care;
  Punch in the presence of the passenjaire.”

There was a little pause, and I could see that they were repeating the
lines over to themselves, and trying to get some meaning out of them.

“Well,” said Mrs. Chester, at last, “that is a problem!”

“I dare say this man Tunstall had a hand in devising it,” observed her
husband. “He affects a kind of cryptic utterance, sometimes--it’s one
of the tricks of the business. He had acquired considerable influence
over your aunt, Mrs. Truman--not enough, evidently, to persuade her to
cut you off entirely, but still enough to make your inheritance hang
upon this slender thread--and it is a slender one.”

“Can you tell us anything more about him?” asked mother. “I scarcely
looked at him to-day--I didn’t realize at the time how deeply he was
concerned in all this.”

“_I_ did,” I said; “or, rather, he looked at me, and it sent a creepy
feeling all up and down my back. He has the sharpest eyes!”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Chester, “they’re part of his stock in trade. I’ve
imagined, sometimes, that they were a kind of hypnotic eye, which might
affect a nervous or weak-minded person very deeply.”

“They evidently affected Aunt Nelson,” said mother. “Please tell us all
you can, Mr. Chester. The more we know of the facts in the case, the
better chance we shall have of solving this perplexing puzzle.”

“That’s true,” assented Mr. Chester, slowly. “It is only right that you
should know; and yet I can tell you very little more than I’ve already
told. I’ve said that Tunstall pretended to be a sort of disciple of
the occult. I’ve been told that he calls himself a swami, whatever
that may be, and pretends to believe in the transmigration of souls,
in his power to recall the spirits of the dead, and I don’t know what
tomfoolery besides. No doubt he’s a clever operator--he must be, or he
couldn’t stay in one locality as long as he has in this. And he’s never
been exposed, as most mediums are, sooner or later. I doubt if he’d
have remained here as long as he has, but for the hold he got on Mrs.
Nelson, and his hope of inheriting her property.”

“Did he have such a hold on her?” inquired mother.

“Oh, yes; I wouldn’t have believed he’d dare go to the lengths he did
if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I happened upon him one night--”
he paused hesitatingly, and looked at his wife, “I don’t know whether
I’d better tell the story,” he added.

“Yes, tell it,” said Mrs. Chester. “They have the right to know.”

“Well, then,” went on Mr. Chester, “I was detained in the city very
late one night some four or five months ago, and it was after midnight
when I reached Fanwood. Mrs. Chester was not expecting me, and there
was no carriage at the station. I knew she was in bed, and rather than
disturb her, I decided to walk over. It took me about an hour--it was
a bright moonlight night, I remember, a good deal like this one, and
I took my time. When I turned in at our gate, I fancied I saw a light
in our stable, and I walked back to investigate, but found it was only
the reflection of the moonlight on a window. I was coming back to
the house, by the path which runs along the wall, when I fancied I
heard voices on the other side. I stopped to listen, and sure enough,
there were two persons talking together on your aunt’s side. I could
not make out either voice clearly, one was so low and broken, and the
other so high and whining. You can imagine how puzzled I was, and a
little frightened, too, I confess, for my first thought was naturally
of burglars. But I knew I couldn’t go to bed and to sleep until I had
found out what was happening over there, so I went softly back to the
stable, got a short ladder, and placed it noiselessly against the wall.
Then I climbed up and looked over.”

We were all listening breathlessly; I, at least, with a delicious
creepy sensation at the roots of my hair.

“Well,” continued Mr. Chester, “I confess that I was startled for a
moment by what I saw--a white and diaphanous-looking figure standing
before an old bench, on which there was a dark, huddled shape, which I
couldn’t make out clearly. Indeed, I couldn’t make out anything very
clearly, for both figures were in the shadow of the wall, and besides I
had only a moment to look at them, for I suppose I must have made some
sound--an exclamation of surprise, perhaps--for suddenly the white
figure vanished among the trees, and the figure on the bench sprang to
its feet and I saw it was Mrs. Nelson.

“‘What is it?’ she cried, and then she looked up and saw my white face
peering down at her.

“I felt rather foolish, as one will when he is caught eavesdropping, no
matter how good his motives may have been.

“‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, ‘if I’m intruding; but I happened to hear
voices--’

“She didn’t seem to understand very clearly, but stared about her in a
dazed way, and just then who should come forward from among the trees
but Silas Tunstall. Then I understood. He had been up to some of his
mummeries, imposing upon that old woman. He glared up at me for a
moment; but without saying a word, laid his hand upon Mrs. Nelson’s
arm and led her off toward the house. I confess that it was with no
very pleasant feeling I looked after them. I thought it all over next
day, but I didn’t see how I could interfere. After all, it was none of
my business, and so I decided to do nothing, and told no one of the
incident except my wife.”

Then I recalled that half-forgotten adventure, which I have already
recorded--my starting to get a drink one night, and meeting grandaunt
in the hall. And for the first time, I understood her terror. She
believed in ghosts--and the little white figure she had seen disappear
into the gloomy doorway had looked ghostly enough! Poor grandaunt! How
she had screamed! Mr. Tunstall had no doubt found it easy enough to
make a disciple of her, since she was ready to come more than half-way
to meet him.

“Horrible!” breathed mother at last. “Did he--did he have any other
victims?”

“Oh, yes. He is said to have a number of followers, though I haven’t
any idea who they are. He gives seances, from time to time, I
understand, but only a very few are admitted to them, and then only
people of whom he is absolutely sure. You understand this is mere
rumour, Mrs. Truman; I don’t know personally that it is true. But where
there’s so much smoke, there must surely be a little fire.”

“And he was with Aunt Nelson after that?” asked mother.

“Oh, a great deal. He was almost constantly at her house, toward the
last. We often saw him coming or going. I think her mind failed a
little, though, of course, there would be no way of absolutely proving
it. But I noticed many little changes in her. It might be,” he added,
“that the will could be set aside.”

But mother shook her head decidedly.

“No,” she said; “if we can’t get the property in the way she provided,
we won’t get it at all. She had a right to do as she pleased with
it--we had no claim upon her. We will never carry the matter into the
courts.”

“That is right, Mrs. Truman,” cried Mrs. Chester warmly. “I don’t
believe in washing one’s family linen in public. Besides, I’ve always
had a horror of the courts.”

“And you a lawyer’s wife!” laughed her husband, as we rose from table.

“I don’t care,” retorted Mrs. Chester; “the courts are incomprehensible
to me. They’re supposed to be established for the administration of
justice, and yet I’ve known them to be very unjust; and even when it is
justice they administer, they seem to choose the very longest and most
tortuous way of doing it.”

“I’ve always understood,” said mother, “that it was the lawyers who led
justice around by the nose and made her appear such a sorry figure,”
and laughing, we passed on into the drawing-room.

“I say,” whispered Tom, his eyes bright, to Dick and me, “let’s go up
to the library and see if we can’t find out something more about the
rose of Sharon.”

“Splendid!” I cried, and excusing ourselves, we scampered away up the
stairs.

Tom went to work at once among the dictionaries and encyclopedias in
a business-like way which impressed me immensely. The great volumes
seemed to possess no terrors nor mysteries for him, but stood ready to
yield up their secrets to his touch. It reminded me of the cave of the
Forty Thieves--it was no trouble at all to get in, if one just knew how.

“Of course,” he pointed out, “the first thing is to find out everything
we can about the rose of Sharon. That’s the keystone of the arch, as it
were. So we’ll begin there.”

At the end of half an hour we had achieved the following result:

  1.--Rose of Sharon--an ornamental malvaceous shrub. In the Bible the
  name is used for some flower not yet identified; perhaps a narcissus,
  or possibly the great lotus flower.--_Webster’s Dictionary._

  2.--Rose of Sharon--(a) in Scrip. Cant. II. 1, the autumn crocus; (b)
  a St. John’s wort; (c) same as althea.--_The Century Dictionary._

  3.--The Rose of Sharon--(a) a variety of apple; (b) a variety of plum;
  (c) a kind of early potato.

“Well,” observed Dick, disgustedly, when we had got this far, “the
farther we go, the more we seem to get tangled up! Even these
dictionary fellows don’t agree with each other.”

“They seldom do,” said Tom, with a wisdom born of experience. “All
you can do, usually, is to average up what they say and reach your
own conclusion. But wait a minute. Suppose we look up the Bible verse
ourselves.”

“What is ‘Cant.’?” queried Dick. “I don’t know any book of the Bible
called that, or anything like it.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Tom, as he took down his father’s Bible. “Let’s
see,” and he ran rapidly through the list of books at the front. “I
have it--‘Cant.’ is short for ‘Canto,’ which is Latin for song.”

“The Song of Solomon,” I ventured.

“Of course,” said Tom, and he turned to it.

I have since learned that our reasoning upon this occasion was not so
brilliant as I then thought it, and that “Cant.” is an abbreviation
of “Canticles,” the scholarly name for the Song of Songs. However, we
had guessed rightly, although our logic was at fault, and we found the
verse we were looking for at the beginning of the second chapter: “I am
the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys.”

Tom pored over it for a moment, then looked up.

“I believe I’ve found it!” he cried. “See, four words to the right
gives us ‘and the lily,’ then over here in the next column, ‘by.’
Then three diagonally, ‘my trees among.’ ‘And the lily by my trees
among’--that isn’t very good English, but it means something, anyway.
If there is a lily among the trees--”

“But,” I objected, “the words may not be arranged the same way in
grandaunt’s Bible.”

“That’s so,” he assented, plunged into despondency again. “We’ll have
to look at her Bible and see. In the meantime, there’s the apple-tree
and the plum. Perhaps the treasure is in a cavity in one of them.”

“Don’t forget the early potato,” laughed Dick. “I see clearly that
we’ll have to dig up the whole place, chop down the orchard, and
perhaps tear down the house, if we expect to follow up all these
clues. We’ve got a large job on hand.”

There was nothing more to be discovered in the library, so we put the
books we had been consulting back in their places and went down-stairs
to join our elders. We found them still talking over the various
aspects of the problem, and sat down to listen.

“The thing that puzzles me,” Mr. Chester was saying, “is that Mrs.
Nelson made no stipulation in the will about Tunstall finding this
treasure. If _you_ fail to find it, the property goes to him; but there
is no penalty if _he_ fails to find it. And suppose both of you fail to
find it? What then?”

“It’s a sort of game of ‘we lose,’ whatever happens,” broke in Tom.

“The only explanation is,” added Mr. Chester, “that Mrs. Nelson took
it for granted that Tunstall would have no difficulty in finding the
treasure.”

“With the aid of his Hindu gods, perhaps,” Mrs. Chester suggested.

“What is the ‘treasure,’ anyway, Mr. Chester?” mother queried in a kind
of desperation. “The word makes one think of chests of gold and that
sort of thing, but, I take it, that’s not what we’re to look for.”

“Oh, no. The will says the ‘treasure’--I use the word because it is
used in the key--consists of ‘stocks, bonds, and other securities.’
Mrs. Nelson never took me into her confidence, so I can’t even guess at
the amount.”

“And what shape will they be in? What must we look for?”

“I think you will find them in a small steel box such as is usually
used for holding securities of that kind. Tom, run up and bring down
that box off my desk. Of course I may be mistaken,” he added, as Tom
reappeared carrying a little black metal box, “but I believe that some
such box as this is the object of your search.”

We all stared at it for a moment, as though this were the veritable box.

“Then if we don’t find it,” asked mother, at last, “and this Mr.
Tunstall doesn’t find it, as you suggested might possibly happen, the
‘treasure’ will be lost?”

“Oh, probably most of the securities could be replaced upon proper
proof of loss. But I don’t believe there’s any danger of their being
lost. I believe Tunstall knows where they are, and that he devised the
puzzle, or, at least, suggested it. The verse sounds very much like
him.”

For a moment, no one spoke; but I know I grew pale at the thought of
how completely we were in that man’s power. I could see Tom grow pale,
too, and he stared across at me with eyes almost starting from his head.

“But,” faltered mother, at last, “if he knows where they are, he may
have removed them.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” assented Mr. Chester. “But perhaps he’s so
confident you’ll never find them that’s he’s content to wait till
the end of the month, so that everything will be quite straight and
regular.”

I felt as though my brain would burst in the effort I made to look at
this new possibility from all sides.

“Besides,” added Mr. Chester, “it wouldn’t do him any good to steal
them. Stocks and bonds aren’t of much use to anyone unless they are
legally come by.”

“But he might remove them,” said Dick, “to prevent our finding them,
and then put them back.”

“Oh, be sure of one thing,” cried Mrs. Chester. “If he had any hand in
hiding them he did it so well that they won’t be found till he finds
them himself!”

“I don’t believe he knows,” I burst out, at last. “If he knew, he
wouldn’t have read the key when he picked it up after I let it fall. If
he knew what it was, he’d have handed it back to us without looking at
it.”

Mr. Chester nodded.

“You may be right,” he said. “That’s a good point.”

“But whether he knows or not,” I went on, “the thing for us to do is
to solve the puzzle. He certainly hasn’t had a chance to remove the
‘treasure’ yet, and we must see that he doesn’t get a chance. Where do
you suppose grandaunt would conceal her property, Mr. Chester?”

“It seems to me,” answered Mr. Chester, slowly, “that Mrs. Nelson
would not bury the papers, or conceal them anywhere outside the house.
Moisture works havoc with securities of that kind, and to bury them
would be the very worst thing which could be done with them, even in a
box like this. Besides, she would naturally want them where she could
keep her eye on them, and have ready access to them. Bonds usually
have coupons attached to them which have to be detached and sent in
for payment of interest. Most people keep securities of that kind in a
safe-deposit box at a bank. I believe that you will find them somewhere
in the house--in a place that was under Mrs. Nelson’s eyes constantly.”

“But the rose of Sharon, sir,” I objected. “That could scarcely be in
the house.”

“No,” he agreed slowly, “no; I confess that puzzles me. Yet it seems
most improbable that Mrs. Nelson would do anything so foolish as to
bury her securities. She would be too anxious, I imagine, to have them
within reach, like a miser with his gold. I am tempted to believe
that the ‘rose of Sharon’ does not refer to a bush or a tree, but to
something else which we have not discovered as yet. It might be a piece
of furniture, or a picture, or a plant--almost anything, in fact.
I would scrutinize everything in the house carefully to see if the
appellation, ‘rose of Sharon,’ cannot be made to fit.”

Dick groaned.

“There’s no end to it,” he said, mournfully. “It seems to me that ‘rose
of Sharon’ can mean about everything under the sun.”

“Well,” said Mr. Chester, smiling, “I would certainly look for it
very carefully in the house; though, of course, it will do no harm to
continue your search outdoors, too.”

“I told Biffkins, a while ago,” observed Dick, “that we should probably
have to dig up the whole place and tear down the house before we were
through. It seems to me the easiest way would be to scare it--”

But he stopped suddenly without completing the sentence, and we were
all too preoccupied to notice.

We fell silent pondering the problem, which seemed to grow more
perplexing the more we tried to unravel it. I have had a clothes-line
act in just that way! But I saw what a help a trained mind like Mr.
Chester’s would be to us. And we should need help--all we could get.
Yet I had always delighted in solving puzzles--the more difficult the
better--and I was determined to solve this one, upon which so much
depended. The very fact that so much depended upon it, seemed to make
it more difficult. It was impossible to approach it light-heartedly,
not caring much whether one succeeded or not; and the very anxiety to
succeed somehow beclouded the intellect.

Mr. Chester smiled as he looked at my serious, intent face.

“Come, my dear,” he said, “don’t take it so much to heart. Remember
you have nearly a month in which to work out the answer. A great many
things may happen in that time. Besides, as you grow better acquainted
with the place, some natural solution of the puzzle may suggest itself
to you. You mustn’t be discouraged over a first failure--that won’t do
at all.”

“I’m not discouraged, sir,” I answered stoutly. “I don’t intend to
permit myself to become discouraged.”

“That’s right,” he said heartily. “That’s the spirit that overcomes
obstacles and wins out in the end. Do you remember the last lines that
Browning ever wrote, where he described himself as

  “‘One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
    Never doubted clouds would break,
  Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
  Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
    Sleep to wake’?”

“Did Browning write that?” I asked, my eyes a little blurred with the
quick tears which had sprung to them. “But I thought he was a stuffy
old poet whom nobody could understand?”

“Many people think so,” answered Mr. Chester, with his kind smile;
“but it is mostly because they have taken somebody else’s word for it
and have never tried to understand, themselves. Suppose you try for
yourself, sometime. You’ll find him a tonic--just such a tonic as you
need.”

“I will,” I said, gratefully; and then, for the first time, I noticed
that the two boys were no longer in the room. Mother noticed their
absence, too, at the same moment.

“Why, where is Dick?” she asked.

“They’ve probably gone back to the library,” I suggested, leaping at
once to the conclusion that they had found a new clue. “Shall I go
after them?”

“Yes, dear--we must be going. Tell Dick it’s getting late.”

I ran up the stairs to the library door, eager to find out what it was
they had discovered. But in the first moment, as I entered, I thought
the room was empty. Then I heard the low murmur of excited voices from
the deep window-seat. But at the sound of my footsteps, the murmur
ceased abruptly.

[Illustration: “I SAW FROM THEIR FLUSHED FACES THAT THEY HAD, INDEED,
MADE SOME DISCOVERY.”]

“Have you found out something, Dick?” I cried, bursting in upon them.
“Oh, tell me!”

I saw from their flushed faces that they had, indeed, made some
discovery; but instead of confiding in me at once, as I naturally
expected them to do, they glanced guiltily at each other like two
conspirators.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” I demanded. “I don’t think that’s fair!”

“Well, you see, Biffkins,” began Dick, stammeringly, “this isn’t
anything for--for a girl to know.”

“It isn’t?” I cried, my temper rising at such duplicity. “I should just
like to know why? Perhaps you think I couldn’t help?”

“No,” replied Dick, grinning fiendishly, as he always did whenever I
grew angry; “I don’t believe you could!”

I gasped with astonishment at the absurdity of such a thing, and glared
at Tom Chester, whose face was as crimson as my own. And to think that
only a short while before he had danced around the table to shake hands
with me in an alliance offensive and defensive! His treason fairly
took my breath away. And I had thought him a nice boy, upon whom one
could rely! I felt the hot tears rushing into my eyes; then my pride
asserted itself; and crushing them back, I tossed up my head and
scorched them both with a single fiery glance.

“Oh, very well!” I said, and marched from the room.




Chapter VIII

The House Beautiful


THE dawn, streaming in through the window, awakened me, and, incapable
of lying still a moment longer, I climbed down softly from the
four-poster, without awakening mother. I hurried into my clothes,
and down the stairs to the lower hall, which seemed alarmingly grim
and gloomy in the dim light. I paused an instant to give the big
grandfather’s clock a little friendly pat--it seemed so kind and
fatherly ticking leisurely away there in the gloom, a sober survival of
that stately period when time walked instead of ran.

I had a hard struggle with the big wrought-iron bolt of the front door,
but finally it yielded, and I swung the door open and stepped out upon
the porch.

How fresh and bright and green everything appeared! Every blade of
grass was spangled with dew, which the sun, just rising gloriously over
the far eastern treetops, was eagerly drinking for his morning draught.
It reminded me of Cleopatra--only the sun was drinking diamonds instead
of pearls! And how sweet the air was, breathing gently over the
orchard, as though loth to leave the scent of the apple-blossoms!

I crossed the lawn and made a little tour of the garden and orchard,
discovering a hundred beauties which had escaped me the afternoon
before. I found a hedge of lilacs which was just putting forth its
first green leaves, and a moment’s inspection showed me that nearly
every one of the pretty clusters sheltered a bud. What a gorgeous thing
that hedge would be in a few weeks--but perhaps I should never see it!
The thought sobered me for an instant; but nothing could long cast a
shadow over a morning so glorious, and the cloud soon passed.

Then a bustle of life near the barn attracted me, and I found Abner
and Jane busily engaged in milking two cows before turning them out to
pasture. They gave me a pleasant good-morning, and I stood for a time
watching the milk foaming into the pails.

“Would you like a drink, miss?” asked Jane, and when I nodded a
delighted assent, handed me up a foaming tin cup full. How good it
tasted, and how sweet it smelled! One would fancy it the nectar of the
gods!

“Thank you,” I said, as I handed it back to her. “Some day you must
teach me how to milk,” I added. “It must be very difficult.”

“Oh, no, miss,” said Jane, smiling; “there’s jest a knack about it--a
kind o’ turn o’ the wrist. I’ll be glad t’ show you whenever you like.”

But I didn’t want to be shown then--there were too many other things to
do. I started away on a little tour of discovery, and was surprised to
find how large and well-kept the barn, stable, and other out-buildings
were. It was here, evidently, that Abner had concentrated such energy
as advancing age had left him. I didn’t know then, but I found out
afterwards, that the especial pride of every true farmer is his barn
and stable, just as the especial pride of every good housewife is her
kitchen. And Jane and Abner certainly had reason to be proud of theirs.

Two horses were standing sedately in the stable-yard, their heads over
the gate. Behind this was a hen-house, with a large yard surrounded by
wire-fencing, and already the cackling from the house indicated that
the day’s work had begun. I decided that I would make the chickens my
especial care if--

There was always that “if,” everywhere I turned; and I am afraid it
did finally succeed in taking some of the brightness out of the sky
for me, as I turned back toward the house. Of course, as mother had
pointed out, we had no claim on grandaunt; and yet she herself had said
that blood is thicker than water and that we were her only relatives.
Perhaps we hadn’t treated her as nicely as we might have done; perhaps
we had been a little thoughtless, a little too self-centred; but how is
one to live with a dragon? And, surely, whatever our faults, we seemed
by way of paying dearly enough for them! Was I getting mercenary,
I asked myself; was I getting covetous? Was I going to regret that
decision that mother had made eight years before? Was the legacy going
to prove a curse, instead of a blessing?

The question troubled me for a moment; but I did not have time to find
an answer to it, for, as I turned the corner of the house, I saw Dick
strolling along one of the paths of the garden.

“Oh, there you are, Biffkins!” he cried. “Come here a minute, will you?”

“Oh, Dick, isn’t it a beautiful old place?” I asked, as I came panting
up.

“Scrumptious!” he answered, and stood with his hands in his pockets
looking all around.

I may say here that I have never been able to discover the derivation
of this word; but it was Dick’s superlative, and I was satisfied.

“By the way,” he went on, after a moment, “where was it you were
digging yesterday afternoon, Biffkins?”

“Over here by the wall,” I said, and led him to the rockery, and
explained to him my method of procedure. He listened closely and
seemingly with considerable interest.

“You’ve got a great head, Biffkins,” he said, approvingly, when I had
finished. “I don’t believe that I should ever have figured all that
out.”

“Of course it didn’t come to anything,” I said, apologetically.

“That’s got nothing to do with it. Besides, maybe you’ll have better
luck next time. If at first you don’t succeed, you know.”

“What was it you and Tom were talking about in the library last night,
Dick?” I asked, seeing his benevolent mood and judging it a favorable
moment to return to the attack.

“Now, don’t you worry your head about that,” he answered, sharply. “We
were planning an expedition. But there’s a bell, and I know it means
breakfast. Come on,” and he was off toward the house before I could
say another word. I thought it cowardly in him to run away--I know I
should have had his secret out of him, if he had only given me a fair
show. Dick never was any hand at keeping secrets, especially from his
sister.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Dick,” said mother, when we were seated at the table, “there are a few
more things we’ll need from home, if we’re going to stay here a month.
If I gave you a list of them, and told you where to find them, do you
suppose you could pack them in a trunk and bring them back with you?”

“Yes’m,” said Dick, promptly, for he never really doubted his ability
to do things.

“There’s only one thing that worries me,” added mother, “that’s about
your studies. Neither you nor Cecil ought to lose a whole month--you,
especially, when you have so little--”

I couldn’t bear to hear her talk so, just as though it were certain
that we should have to take up the old life again, with its manifold
perplexities and narrow outlook.

“Oh, mother,” I cried, “we’re going to find the treasure, you know, and
then Dick shall go to college!”

Mother smiled a wistful little smile.

“That would be fine, wouldn’t it?” she said.

“I hope it may come true, for both your sakes; but we mustn’t be too
sure--we mustn’t set our hearts on it too much. Besides, whatever
happens, I don’t think you ought to lose a whole month.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, mother,” said Dick. “I’ll bring
our school-books over, and Cecil and I can put in a couple of hours
every morning, so we won’t fall so very far behind. Tom Chester’s got
a tutor,” he added, with some irrelevance, “who’s coaching him for the
June exams. He comes over from Fanwood every morning.”

“What college is he going to, Dick?” I asked.

“Oh, to Princeton,” said Dick, as though there wasn’t any other.

I knew that it was to Princeton Dick had dreamed of going. He had never
confided that dream to anyone but me. And a bold project leaped into my
head, which I determined to carry out that very day.

“Well,” said mother, “you’ll never get to college, or anywhere else,
if you don’t study, no matter how lucky you are in other ways. So it’s
agreed that you and Cecil will put in two hours at your books every
morning.”

“Yes, mother,” promised Dick; “that’s agreed.”

“Then I’ll make out a list of what we need,” mother added.

“Will to-morrow do to go after them?” asked Dick, with a note of
anxiety in his voice, “because to-day Tom and I were going to--to--”

“Oh, yes; to-morrow will do very well,” said mother, as he stopped in
some confusion.

“What is it you’re going to do, Dick?” I questioned, putting my pride
in my pocket.

“Never you mind,” he retorted, and fell distractedly silent, only
smiling to himself from time to time in a most tantalizing way.

As soon as the meal was finished, having assured himself that mother
did not need him for anything, he disappeared as entirely as though
the earth had opened and swallowed him; but I suspected that he was
somewhere on the other side of that high wall which separated our
garden from the Chester place.

Yet, after all, I did not miss him greatly, for mother and I spent
the morning in a tour of the house--and such a house! I have already
spoken of its exterior; of its interior I know I can give only the
most inadequate idea. As I have already said, a wide hall divided
the lower floor into two halves. The hall itself reminded me of the
pictures I have seen of the great halls in feudal castles, with its
beamed ceiling, its waxed floor, its great fireplace and its impressive
furniture. On one side were the state apartments, the parlours,
connected by a double door. They had apparently been hermetically
closed for years, and were very musty and dusty. They were furnished in
hideous horsehair, and we closed the door behind us after the merest
glance into them. On the other side of the hall were the living rooms,
of heroic proportions and furnished with lovely old mahogany of a style
which I have since learned is called Hepplewhite. The chairs, the
tables, the sideboard, were all things of beauty; graceful, substantial
and right in every way. How those old cabinet-makers must have loved
their work, and what pains they took with it!

Up-stairs were the bed-rooms, sewing-rooms, servants’ rooms, what not.
We went on and on, through room after room, peering into innumerable
closets, opening windows and shutters; stopping here and there to
exclaim over some beautiful piece of walnut or mahogany, and standing
fairly speechless at last among the chaotic heap of treasures in the
attic. It was evident enough that the parlours had not always been
furnished in horsehair! There was a pair of slender-legged card-tables,
inlaid in satin-wood, with entrancing curves--but there; if I stopped
to describe one-half the treasures in that attic there would never be
an end!

“The Nelson family has lived here for five or six generations, so Mr.
Chester told me last night,” said mother, at last. “They’ve always been
well-to-do, and that accounts for all this beautiful old furniture.
Besides, in those days as in these, the best was always the cheapest.
Just see how strong and well-made it all is, built honestly to last
many lifetimes. Aunt Nelson seems to have taken fairly good care of it;
all it needs is a little upholstering and refinishing. However, it’s no
use to talk of that!” and she turned sharply to go down again.

“But, mother, wait a minute,” I protested. “You remember what Mr.
Chester said--that he believed the treasure was concealed somewhere in
the house? Isn’t this the most likely place of all?”

“No more likely than any one of those scores of chests and drawers and
clothes-presses down-stairs,” and she started resolutely to descend.

I followed her despondently. What she said was true, of course; the
treasure might be in any one of the closets, or in any one of the
innumerable drawers of dressers, cupboards, and bureaus, all of
which seemed crammed to overflowing with the accumulations of those
six generations. In the beginning, I had had some wild notion of
ransacking the house from top to bottom, but I saw now what a physical
impossibility that would be in the month allotted us. Alas, six days of
that month were already gone!

I went out and sat down on one of the front steps to think it over.
After all, I told myself, it would be foolish to go blindly about the
search, hoping to look _everywhere_, and consequently looking nowhere
thoroughly. The wise way would be to begin with the more likely places,
search them carefully, and so proceed gradually to the less likely
ones. And what was the most likely of all? Mr. Chester had said that
grandaunt would naturally wish to keep her securities where they would
be constantly under her eye and easy of access. The next instant, I
sprang to my feet, fairly burning with excitement--to keep them under
her eye--to keep them where she could look them over without fear of
interruption--it was obvious enough! They must be concealed somewhere
in her own room! How stupid I had been!

I fairly flew up the stair and to the room which had been grandaunt’s.
It was situated at the front end of the upper hall, right over the
front entrance, and overlooking the drive. I hesitated a moment with my
hand on the knob, and a little shiver of my old fear of grandaunt swept
over me; but I shook it away, opened the door and closed it resolutely
behind me. This was no time for foolish sentiment. Besides, I didn’t
believe in ghosts.

It was very dark in the room, but I opened one of the shutters and let
in a stream of sunlight. Then I sat down to take a careful survey of my
surroundings.

The room was not a very large one and was furnished in the simplest
fashion. One corner was occupied by a four-poster of moderate
size--a mere baby beside the huge one in the guest-chamber. The
hangings were rather old and faded, but the bed had on it a quilt,
intricately embroidered, which, at another time, would have awakened
my enthusiasm. Preoccupied as I was, I paused for an instant to look
at it and to wonder at the patience of its maker, for it evidently
represented long weeks of labour.

Opposite the bed was a small dressing-table, a very gem of a thing,
and in a kind of alcove between the two front windows was a desk,
which riveted my attention. It was a very large one, of black walnut,
and when I let down the top, innumerable drawers and pigeon-holes
were disclosed. There was also a row of drawers down either side to
the floor, and in the sides, opening outward behind the drawers, were
partitioned receptacles for account-books. All this I took in at a
glance, as it were, and my heart was beating wildly, for I knew that
this desk was the natural hiding-place of grandaunt’s papers. It was
just here that she would keep them!

But the rose of Sharon!

I confess that baffled me for a moment; and yet, I told myself, what
was more natural than that the whole hocus-pocus about the rose of
Sharon should have been devised merely to throw us off the track. At
any rate, I would examine the desk as closely as I could.

There were loose papers and a number of account-books in the
pigeon-holes, but a glance at them was sufficient to show me that none
of them could be the documents I sought, even had it been probable
that grandaunt would have kept such valuable papers so carelessly. The
drawers, too, were filled with a litter of papers of various kinds
and in the compartments at the sides of the desk, old account-books
had been crowded until they would hold no more; but there was nothing
which, by any stretch of the imagination, could be made to resemble
“stocks, bonds and other securities.” How that phrase mocked me!

The search completed, I sat down again in the chair before the desk
and regarded it despondently. The desk itself had been open and not
one of the drawers had been locked. The keys, strung upon a wire ring,
hung from a tack inside the desk. If grandaunt had kept her securities
there, it would, most certainly, have been under lock and key.

There was a wardrobe in the room, but a glance into it had shown me
that it contained nothing but an array of grandaunt’s old clothes, hung
against the wall. If the papers were not in this desk, where could they
be? The room seemed to offer no other reasonable hiding-place--

A dash of colour at the back of the desk caught my eye, and I leaned
forward to descry hanging there a little calendar, bearing a picture of
a dark girl in a picturesque red costume, standing beside an old well,
evidently intended to be Arabian or Egyptian or something Oriental.
There was a little line of print under the picture, and my heart leaped
with a sudden suffocating rapture as I deciphered it--“The Rose of
Sharon!”

I was so a-tremble for a moment that I clutched the arms of the chair
to steady myself--to keep myself from failing forward; but the weakness
passed, and left behind it a kind of high excitement. My brain seemed
somehow wonderfully clear. Without an instant’s hesitation, I counted
four pigeon-holes to the right and then three diagonally. The last
one was stuffed with papers, which I had already examined. I did not
so much as glance at them, as I took them out, but laying them on the
desk, I put my hand into the hole and pressed steadily against the
back. I half-expected to see the front of the desk swing outward toward
me, but apparently nothing happened, though I was certain that I had
felt the back of the pigeon-hole move a little. Examining it more
carefully with my fingers, I felt a slight projection, and almost at
the instant I touched it, a little door at the side of the desk flew
open.

I sprang from my seat and peered into the opening. It was a kind of
cubby-hole between the pigeon-holes at the front and the back of the
desk, its door cunningly concealed by a strip of molding--a secret
compartment, if there ever was one--and in it lay a black tin box, the
very counterpart of the one Mr. Chester had shown us the night before!

I took but a glance at it, and then, snapping the little door shut,
ran frantically for mother. I wanted her to share the joy of the
discovery--to be present when the lid was raised.

I found her in the dining-room down-stairs, putting the final touches
to the dinner-table.

“Why, Cecil!” she cried, as I burst in upon her. “What has happened?
You look--”

“Never mind, mother,” I said, in a kind of hoarse whisper. “Come along.
And oh, hurry! I’ve found it!”

Her face whitened suddenly, and she put one hand on the table to steady
herself.

“You’ve found it?” she repeated.

I nodded. I was past words. Then I turned to the door, and she followed
me--out into the hall, up the stair, into grandaunt’s room. I stopped
before the desk.

“See,” I said, my composure partially regained, “this is grandaunt’s
desk--the natural place for her to keep her papers--and here is the
rose of Sharon,” I went on, showing her the calendar with its Oriental
picture and the line beneath. “Here are four pigeon-holes to the right
and three diagonally; I press this little spring at the back, and that
little door flies open. What do you see inside, mother?”

“A tin box,” answered mother, almost in a whisper.

“And in the box,” I said, “are the papers.” And I drew it forth.

As I did so, a sickening fear fell upon me, for the box was very light.
In an agony of terror, I threw up the lid. The box was empty, except
for a single sheet of paper. I snatched it out and read it:

  “MY DEAR NIECE:--You will, of course, find this box. Any fool could
  do that. I kept my papers in it for many years, and they seemed
  safe enough; but such a hiding-place was too obvious for such a
  test as I proposed to set you. I therefore removed them to another
  hiding-place, to which the key which you have been given also applies.
  Since you have come thus far on the journey, I may say that I hope
  you will be successful; but I doubt it. I fear neither you nor your
  children have the industry and patience and perseverance necessary to
  achieve success in any difficult thing. I may be mistaken--I hope I
  am.

                                             “Your Aunt,
                                                  “ELIZA NELSON.”




Chapter IX

An Interview with the Enemy


I OPENED my eyes to find mother bathing my face and chafing my hands.
The reaction--the plunge from certainty to disappointment--had been too
much for me. I felt strangely weak and flabby. I could scarcely raise
my shaking hand to my face.

But the feeling passed in a moment, and I sat up and pushed my hair
away from my forehead. I confess I was ashamed of myself.

“Really, Cecil,” said mother, when she saw that I was all right again,
“if you’re going to take it this way, I think the sooner we get away
from here the better. You mustn’t yield to your feelings so.”

“But oh, mother,” I cried, with a little sob in my voice that I
couldn’t repress, “it was cruel of her! Cruel! Cruel!”

“I’ve often heard your father say,” continued mother, “that the
greatest test of character is defeat--that every manly man is a good
loser. Have you already forgotten those lines of Browning which Mr.
Chester repeated last night?”

“No, mother, I haven’t,” I replied, and I flung my arms around her
neck and hugged her tight. “Only, just at first, it was more than I
could bear. But I’m going to remember them, mother dear--I’m going to
be a good loser.”

“If you learn only that,” said mother, smoothing back my hair and
kissing me, “this search will be worth something to you, whether you
find the treasure or not. It will be a test of character, as well as of
patience and ingenuity.”

“Yes, mother; but--but please don’t tell Dick about the desk--not just
yet.”

“Very well,” mother promised, understanding. “And now straighten up
your hair, for it must be nearly time for lunch,” and kissing me again,
she hurried away down-stairs.

Dear mother!

I went over to the old dresser, and resting my arms on top of it,
stared steadily into the glass.

“Cecil Truman,” I said, sternly, to my reflected self, “you’re not
going to be a coward any more, nor a whiney baby. You’re going to be a
good loser. But you’re going to fight!” I added. “You’re going to fight
for all you’re worth!” And somewhat comforted, I proceeded to do my
hair.

Lunch was ready when I got down-stairs again, and a moment later,
Dick appeared around a corner of the house, looking so important and
mysterious that, but for my chastened mood, I should have been tempted
to box his ears. He ate his food with disgraceful haste, scarcely
speaking a word, and snatched up his cap again the moment he had
finished.

“You won’t need me this afternoon, will you, mother?” he asked, pausing
in the doorway.

“No, I think not,” said mother, who never needed him when he didn’t
wish to be needed. “Jane and I are going to drive down to the village
to get a few groceries and other things. Would you care to go along?”

“Not to-day, thank you, ma’am,” and he was off.

I peeped out the window and saw that he was making for the Chester
place as fast as his legs would carry him. Really, it was too bad of
Dick to treat me so!

“You’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Cecil?” asked mother. “I think it will
do you good to get away from this place for a while.”

But I had a sort of deadly fear that if I left the place, it would
somehow get beyond my grasp entirely. I might wake up and find it all
a dream. So I declined, too, and in the course of half an hour, Abner
and I saw mother and Jane drive away down the road. Then, with the
whole afternoon before me, I resolutely put away from me the thought of
Dick’s treachery, and turned anew to the solution of the mystery.

“Abner,” I asked, as we turned back together to the house, “did you
ever hear of an apple-tree called the rose of Sharon?”

“The rose o’ Sharon? Why, certainly, miss. It’s a big, red winter
apple, but it don’t bear as well as it might, an’ it ain’t so very
tasty. The Baldwin beats it.”

“But is there one in the orchard?”

“Yes--jest one--away over yonder in the corner near the fence. You
can’t miss it. It’s the last tree as you cross the orchard. It’s an
old feller, an’ a tough one--all the other trees that was near it has
rotted or blowed down.”

“Very well,” I said; “and thank you.”

“Air ye goin’ out there, miss? Ef ye air, we’d best bolt the front
door, fer I’m goin’ out to the barn myself.”

I agreed that it would be wise to bolt the door, which we did, and
proceeded on through the hall to the back door. My tour of the morning
had not included the kitchen, and there had been so many other things
to do and places to visit that I had never even been in it. As I
entered it now, I paused for a delighted look at the rows of shining
pans, at the big range and all its paraphernalia. In years agone,
the cooking had been done in a great open fireplace, fully eight
feet broad, and the range had been placed right in it, with its pipe
extending up the chimney. The old crane had not been taken down, but
still remained in place, folded back against the wall out of the way.
What feasts had been prepared in that old fireplace! My mouth fairly
watered at thought of them. It was in some such place as this that the
people of Dickens loved to sit and watch the spits turning and sniff
the savoury odours. Dickens always makes me hungry.

Everything was spotlessly clean, and bore witness to Jane’s sterling
housewifely qualities. Through an open door beyond I caught a glimpse
of the milk-house and heard the tinkle of running water. I stepped to
it for a glance around. Rows of crocks, covered with plates, stood in
a trough through which the water ran, clear as crystal and cold as
ice, brought through an iron pipe, as I afterwards learned, from a
never-failing spring some distance back of the house. The whole place
had a delicious aroma of milk and butter, suggesting cleanliness and
health. I should have liked to linger, but I had work to do.

“It’s all perfectly delightful!” I cried, returning to Abner, who had
lingered by the kitchen hearth.

“It is a nice place,” he agreed, looking about at it affectionately.
“Cosy an’ homelike. A mighty nice place t’ set in winter, when the
wind’s howlin’ around outside, a-bankin’ the snow ag’inst the house.
I’ve set there by the fire many a winter night an’ listened to it, an’
thanked my stars thet I had a tight roof over my head an’ a good fire
t’ set by.”

“I hope you’ll sit there many winters more,” I said heartily.

“Thank ’ee, miss; so do I. I don’t ask no better place; but I’m afeerd
we’ll hev t’ leave it.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “Grandaunt provided that both of you should
remain as long as you care to.”

“But mebbe we won’t keer,” answered Abner, his face setting into
obstinate lines. “Mebbe we won’t keer when thet there ghost-raiser
comes t’ live here. It ain’t hardly decent, thet business he’s in. He
ort t’ be tarred an’ feathered.”

“Perhaps things will come out all right,” I said, but the words were
from the lips rather than from the heart.

“Oh, I hope so, miss!” he cried. “I do hope so! We’d hate t’ leave the
old place; an’ you’ll excuse me, miss, fer sayin’ so, but we like you
all; we like you more’n I kin say. If they was only somethin’ we could
do t’ help!”

His face was touching in its simple earnestness.

“Thank you, Abner,” I said, my eyes a little misty. “I’m so glad you
like us, and perhaps you can help. You may be sure I’ll call upon you
if I need you.”

“Do, miss,” he answered. “An’ upon Jane, too. Now I must be gittin’ t’
my work. Is they anything else?”

“Yes, one thing. May I have the spade I had yesterday?”

“What’d ye do with it, miss?”

“I--I--oh, yes!” I cried, overcome with contrition. “I left it where I
was digging. I’ll get it!” and I ran away toward the garden, feeling
the reproachful glance he cast after me, and vowing to myself never
again to be so careless.

I found the spade lying among the tangle of vines where I had left it,
and I sat down on the bench to review the scene of my previous day’s
work. Mr. Chester had said that, in his opinion, the treasure was not
in the yard at all, but somewhere in the house. So it had been; and my
hands trembled a little at the memory of the morning’s disappointment.
But it was there no longer--grandaunt had removed it to another and
less easily found hiding-place--a hiding-place which the rose of Sharon
still guarded. The picture on the calendar had proved that there might
be roses of Sharon of many and unexpected kinds. I must look for them;
I must get everyone around the place to help me; and I must exhaust the
possibilities of each one before passing on to the next. My search must
be thorough and systematic. That was my one chance of success.

Plainly, then, it would be wise to begin at once with the rose of
Sharon before me; and so, discarding the rule of four to the right and
three diagonally--for the four and three might mean inches or feet or
even yards--I proceeded to pick up carefully all the stones arranged
around the shrub. They made a circle perhaps two yards in diameter, and
the task of getting them out of the way was no light one; but I kept
steadily at work, not minding bruised fingers, and finally I had all
the stones heaped on one side out of the way.

Then, after a short rest, I went to work with the spade and began to
dig up the dirt which the stones had covered; but my back was aching
and my hands smarting long before the task was accomplished, and more
than once I glanced at the top of the wall, hoping to see a boy’s
figure there. But none appeared, and I laboured on, reflecting bitterly
upon perfidious human nature. He had said he was a good digger; he had
offered to help; and we had clasped hands upon it! Oh, how one may be
mistaken in a boy! Nerved by such reflections, I did not stop until the
whole circle of ground had been well spaded up. Evidently there was no
treasure concealed about the roots of this rose of Sharon!

Half dead with fatigue, I sank down again, with a sigh, upon the bench.
The fatigue I should not have minded so much, but for the sore heart
in my bosom. That one’s comrade should desert one! That was the last
straw! I almost wished that we had never seen the place!

I buried my face in my hands in the effort to keep back the tears, for,
as I have said already, I don’t like girls who cry. I resolved anew
that I would not permit myself to grow discouraged, that I would keep
right on trying. And as for Tom Chester--

“What’s the matter, little girl?” asked a voice, so near that it fairly
made me jump. But it was not _the_ voice--oh, no, quite a different
voice from the one which had made me jump the day before. “Not cryin’?”

I looked up, and there was Silas Tunstall! He was dressed exactly as
he had been the day before, only his white trousers were a little more
soiled than they had been then, and his face wore the self-same smirk,
and his whiskers were raggeder than ever and his little black eyes
brighter and creepier. The rest of his face didn’t seem to fit his
eyes, somehow; one had an impression of the same sort of contradiction
which a wolf’s eyes in a sheep’s face would occasion.

“Not cryin’!” he repeated, eyeing me narrowly, while I sat fairly
gasping with astonishment, not unmixed with fear. And then he looked
about him at the signs of my afternoon’s labour. “Been diggin’, hev ye?
Lookin’ fer the treasure, mebbe! Oh, yes, the rose of Sharon!” and he
glanced at the shrub which stood tall and brown in the centre of the
circle of upturned earth. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

But the moment had given me time to collect my scattered wits. My fear
of him had passed, and in its place came a hot resolve to make the most
of this encounter--to draw some advantage from it, if I could. If he
really knew where the treasure was--well, surely my wits were as good
as his!

“Yes, it’s a rose of Sharon, Mr. Tunstall,” I said, as calmly as I
could. “You remember what the key said--‘The rose of Sharon guards the
place,’ and so on. Of course I’m trying to find the treasure. You don’t
blame me for that, do you?”

“Oh, no,” he answered, slowly, evidently surprised at my
loquacity--which, indeed, rather surprised myself. “Oh, no; can’t say
thet I do.”

“It’s such a beautiful old place--we have all fallen in love with it,”
I continued earnestly, in my best society manner.

“O’ course; o’ course,” he agreed. “Most anybody would. Go ahead an’
enj’y it.”

“We are--and I’m doing my best to solve the puzzle,” I added.

“All right, go ahead if it amuses ye,” he said, with an assurance that
made my heart sink. “But ef I was you, I’d jest take things easy.”

“Oh, I think it’s worth trying,” I retorted. “I’m going to investigate
every rose of Sharon about the place--you know there are apples and
plums and early potatoes, and I don’t know what besides, which are
called roses of Sharon.”

“Air they?” he asked, laughing. “No, I didn’t know it. It strikes me
you’ve got a purty big job on hand. Did ye ever hear the story of the
man what left his sons a ten acre field in which he said they was a
treasure hid, and they dug fer it an’ dug fer it, till they finally
caught on that what he meant was the craps they raised arter diggin’
the field up?”

“Yes,” I said; “I’ve heard that story.”

“Only thet couldn’t apply here, o’ course,” he added, maliciously,
“fer ye won’t hev time t’ reap any craps. Howsomever, I ain’t got no
objections t’ you’re diggin’ the place up--mebbe I’ll do some reapin’
myself. Only it’s purty hard work--an’ mighty poor prospect of any pay.
But I ain’t got nothin’ t’ say till the seventeenth o’ May; I’m givin’
ye a clear field. I’m playin’ fair. I’m a white man, I am.”

It was my turn to be surprised at his flow of words. The emphasis he
placed upon them seemed to me a little forced, but I murmured that
I was sure he was very generous and fair-minded, and that we all
appreciated his kindness in playing fair.

“All right,” he said shortly. “I’m glad t’ hear it. Is thet what your
maw wanted t’ tell me? Hardly wuth while fer me t’ come clear out here
fer thet.”

“My mother?” I repeated, in astonishment. “But she’s not here. She
drove in to the village this afternoon.”

“In to the village?” he repeated, his face flushing a little. “How long
ago?”

“Oh, quite a while ago,” I answered. “She had some shopping to do.”

“Mebbe she ’lowed she’d be hum by this time,” he suggested, looking
at his watch; and for the first time I noticed the deepening shadows
and saw that I had consumed the whole afternoon in my work. “Now I
wonder what it could ’a’ been she wanted t’ tell me?” He put his watch
back into his pocket, and took a restless step or two up and down. “Ye
haven’t heard her say anything about a law-suit, hev ye?” he demanded,
stopping before me suddenly.

“A law-suit?” I echoed, perplexed. “What sort of a law-suit?”

“Well,” he proceeded cautiously, watching me closely, “I thought mebbe
she’d got some fool notion in her head thet the courts could upset
the will, ’r somethin’ o’ thet sort. These lawyer fellers air allers
lookin’ out fer jobs.”

“Oh, she won’t do that!” I cried. “If we can’t get the place the way
grandaunt wanted us to, we won’t get it at all--mother told Mr. Chester
that only last night.”

“She did, hey?” and my visitor drew a sudden deep breath. “Well, thet’s
wise of her--no use spendin’ your money on lawyers--though _they’d_
like it well enough, I reckon.”

“I don’t believe mother thought of it that way at all,” I corrected.
“She said we really hadn’t any claim on grandaunt, and that she had a
perfect right to dispose of her property in any way she wished.”

My companion said nothing for a moment, only stood looking down at me
with a queer light in his eyes.

“’Tain’t many people who are so sensible,” he remarked at last. “Well,
I must be goin’,” he added. “Sorry I missed yer mother. The next time
she sends fer me, tell her t’ be at home.”

“Sends for you?” I repeated again, more and more astonished. “Did she
send for you?”

“Thet’s what she did--a boy brought me word. At least, I guess it was
from her. Nobody else here’d be sendin’ me any messages, would they,
an’ invitin’ me out here t’ see them?”

“No,” I answered; “no, sir; I don’t think they would.”

“Well, I come, anyway; an’ I knocked at the front door, but didn’t git
no answer. Then I jest naterally wandered around a little, thinkin’ she
might be out here some’rs, an’ I see you a-settin’ here--an’ quite an
interestin’ conversation we’ve had, to be sure. You tell her--”

“I don’t believe she sent for you, sir,” I interrupted. “She wouldn’t
have gone away, if she was expecting you, and I’m sure she hasn’t come
back yet. Besides, if she wanted to see you, she could have done so
when she drove to town, instead of getting you to come away out here.”
I might have added that I was perfectly certain mother did not want to
see him, but to have said so would have been scarcely polite.

“Thet’s so,” he agreed, and stood for a moment in deep study. “Well,
I dunno,” he added, at last, slowly. “Looks kind o’ funny, don’t it?
Mebbe I made a mistake in thinkin’ the message was from her. I ort t’
have asked the boy. But if anybody’s been playin’ me a trick,” and his
face darkened, and he looked at me threateningly, “they’d better watch
out.”

“Oh, nobody has been playing you a trick!” I hastened to exclaim. “Who
would play you a trick?”

“I dunno,” he repeated. “I dunno. But I’m glad I come, anyway. It’s
allers a pleasure t’ meet sech a bright little girl as you air. I know
people run me down an’ lie about me; but I jest want t’ tell you thet
Silas Tunstall’s heart’s in the right place an’ thet he plays square. I
suppose they’ve been tellin’ you all sorts o’ things about me?”

“Oh, no,” I answered politely; “not at all.”

“Said I was a spiritualist, hey?”

“Yes, they said that,” I admitted.

“Well, ain’t I got a right t’ be a spiritualist?” he demanded hotly.
“Thet don’t hurt nobody, does it? Did they say I cheated?”

“No, sir.”

“Or stole?”

“No, sir.”

“Or lied?”

“No, sir.”

“But jest because I mind my own business an’ ask other people t’
mind theirs, they’re all arter me. They can’t understand why I don’t
spend my evenin’s down to the village store, chewin’ terbaccer an’
spittin’ on the stove. They can’t figger out how I make a livin’, an’
it worries ’em! Oh, I know! I’ve heerd ’em talk! Pah!” Then his anger
seemed suddenly to cool. “All I want is t’ be let alone,” he went on,
in another tone. “I’m a peaceful man; I don’t harm nobody; an’ I don’t
want nobody t’ harm me. But I can’t bear these here busy-bodies what’s
allers pokin’ their noses in other people’s business. Say,” he added,
suddenly, wheeling around upon me, “s’pose we keep this here meetin’ to
our two selves?”

He was smiling down at me cunningly, and I disliked him more than ever.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll have to tell mother, you know.”

“Oh, all right,” he answered, carelessly. “It don’t make no difference
t’ me. I’ve got t’ go, anyway--it’s gittin’ dark.”

He turned to go, but at that instant, two figures, robed in white,
dropped suddenly, as it seemed, from the very heavens, and I saw Mr.
Tunstall, his face purple, struggling wildly in the coils of an almost
invisible net. With a shriek, I turned to run; when our enemy, with a
scream a hundred times more shrill than mine, collapsed and tumbled in
a heap to the ground.




Chapter X

Retribution


THE sound of that piercing scream, and the sight of Silas Tunstall
dropping lifeless to the ground, gave me such a shock that I stopped
dead where I was, unable to stir hand or foot. For a moment longer, I
saw, with starting eyes, the two ghostly figures circling uncertainly
around the prostrate form, in the increasing gloom; then they stopped,
drew together, and I heard a hasty consultation in muffled tones, which
I seemed to recognize.

“Biffkins!” called Dick’s frightened voice, at last; “come here, will
you, and get these things off us!”

He was tearing frantically at his white mufflings, and the other--Tom,
of course--was dancing a kind of furious war-dance in the effort to
get free. And both of them were so excited that they were getting more
entangled every instant. I don’t believe I had ever really thought them
ghosts; still, it was a relief to know that they were familiar flesh
and blood. I ran to them with a glad cry, in a moment their ghostly
cerements lay about their feet, and they stood disclosed as two very
tousled and very frightened boys.

“Do you suppose he’s dead?” asked Tom, in a husky whisper, as they
bent over the fallen man, who lay in a limp heap, enveloped in a
finely-meshed fishing-net.

“I don’t know,” answered Dick, paler than I had ever seen him. “But I
shouldn’t think people’d die that easy. It’s not natural!”

Tom had whipped out his knife and was cutting away the net, quite
forgetful of the fact that it was one of his most precious treasures.

“See if you can feel his pulse,” he said; and Dick gingerly applied his
fingers to Mr. Tunstall’s wrist.

“No,” he gasped, after a moment; “not a sign! Oh! oh!” and he stared
down at his victim with eyes fairly starting from his head.

“So this was the great secret!” I began. I know it was ungenerous; but
they had been very unkind, and revenge was my due. Besides, the memory
of my profitless afternoon’s work was hot upon me--and of how I had
watched and hoped--“So this--”

“Oh, cut it out, Biffkins!” broke in Dick, huskily. “Don’t rub it
in! We--we can’t stand it. You’d better go and call someone--call
mother--while we get him out of this thing,” and he began to tear
savagely at the net.

“Mother hasn’t come home yet,” I said.

“My father’s at home,” suggested Tom, and without waiting to hear more,
I was off along the path to the gate, and then out along the road
toward the Chester house, the whole horror of the affair suddenly upon
me. I burst up to the door, panting, breathless, and pulled the bell
with a fury I was far from realizing. Mr. Chester himself flung the
door open.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he cried, seeing my blanched face. “What has
happened?”

“The boys,” I gasped incoherently, growing more frightened every
minute, “tried to--scare--Silas Tunstall--and he--dropped dead!”

“Dropped dead!” he echoed, and I saw his face go white with sudden
horror.

“And they want you to come at once, sir,” I concluded, getting my
breath.

“Very well; lead the way,” he said, and he followed me down the path,
his lips compressed.

My legs were beginning to tremble under me with fatigue and excitement,
but I managed to keep on my feet until we reached the althea bush,
and then, pointing mutely to the boys, I tumbled down upon the bench,
utterly unable to take another step.

Mr. Chester bent over the prostrate man silently, and looked at him
for an instant. Then he dropped to his knees, loosened the victim’s
waistcoat and listened at his breast. The boys stood watching him with
bated breath.

“One of you go and get some cold water,” he said, abruptly, looking up.

Dick was off like a flash, thankful, doubtless, for the chance to
do something--and glad, too, perhaps, to escape from Mr. Chester’s
accusing eyes.

“Now, help me straighten him out here, sir,” he said to his son, and in
a moment they had Mr. Tunstall extended flat on his back. I shuddered
as I looked at him, he seemed so limp and cold and lifeless.

Then Mr. Chester bent over him again and began to compress his ribs and
allow them to expand, as I had read of doing for drowned persons. He
chafed his hands and slapped them smartly and seemed to be pummelling
him generally, but the gathering darkness prevented me from seeing very
clearly. Dick soon came back with the water, with which Mr. Chester
bathed the unconscious man’s face and neck. I had forgotten my fatigue
in the stress of the moment’s emotion, and instinctively had joined the
two boys, who were kneeling beside their victim, peering down at his
flaccid, bloodless countenance, in a very agony of apprehension.

The chafing and rubbing and bathing seemingly produced no effect, and
as minute followed minute and no sign of life appeared, the fear that
it had altogether fled deepened to certainty. The boys looked already
like convicted murderers, and I could not help pitying them, in spite
of the way they had treated me. Somehow my hand stole into Tom’s, and I
was shocked to feel how cold and clammy it was. He felt the pressure of
my fingers, and smiled at me wanly, and leaned over and whispered, “I’m
sorry, Biffkins;” and thereupon all the anger I had felt against him
melted quite away.

At last, Mr. Chester, despairing of gentler methods, caught up a double
handful of water and dashed it violently into the unconscious face. For
an instant, there was no response, then the eyelids slowly lifted and
a deep sigh proceeded from the half-open mouth. A moment more, and,
rubbing his eyes confusedly, he sat up and looked about him.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, anxiously. “Where am I?”

The difference of tone and accent from those he had used with me only
a few minutes before fairly startled me. He had dropped his drawl, his
nasal tone, his slip-shod enunciation. And his face had changed, too.
It was thinner and more alert; and the ragged whiskers seemed absurdly
out of place upon it.

“You’ve had a fainting-spell,” answered Mr. Chester, gently. “You will
soon be all right again, I hope.”

A dark flush suffused Mr. Tunstall’s face, and he rose awkwardly to his
feet.

“Oh, yes; I’ll soon be all right ag’in,” he said, with a weak attempt
at a laugh. The drawl was back again--the nasal twang; but none of the
others seemed to have noticed that he had used another tone a moment
before. I began to fear him--to have a different conception of him--he
was an enemy far more formidable than I had thought. Which was his
natural tone, I wondered--and yet, on second thought, there could be no
question as to that. His natural tone was the one he had used when he
first came to himself, before he fully realized where he was, before he
had quite got his senses back.

“Have you had such attacks before?” asked Mr. Chester.

“Oh, yes; they ain’t nothin’. I has ’em every onct in a while. Didn’t
say nothin’ foolish, I hope?” he added, and shot a quick, suspicious,
threatening glance at us.

“No,” said Mr. Chester, “you didn’t say a word--you didn’t even
breathe, so far as I could see.”

“Only a scream at the first,” I said.

“A scream?” repeated Mr. Tunstall. “What’d I scream fer?”

Then his eyes fell upon the tumbled white robes on the ground. He gazed
at them an instant, then lifted his eyes and fixed them on the two
boys, with a malevolence which made me shudder.

“Oh, yes,” he said, at last, in a low, hoarse voice. “I remember, now.
I remember, now!”

“I’m sure, sir,” began Dick, but Mr. Tunstall silenced him with a
fierce gesture.

“All right; all right,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to listen. Much
obleeged fer your trouble,” he added to Mr. Chester. “I reckon I’ll be
goin’ along home.”

“Do you think you’re strong enough?” asked Mr. Chester. “If you’re not,
I can have my carriage--”

“No, no,” broke in the other, impatiently. “I’m all right, I tell ye,”
and he slouched off across the garden.

We stood and watched him as he walked away, until the dusk hid him;
then Mr. Chester turned to the boys with a stern light in his eyes.

“Now,” he said, “perhaps you two young gentlemen will be good enough to
explain what you hoped to accomplish by this trick.”

“We were going to make him confess, sir,” answered Dick, in a subdued
voice.

“Confess? Confess what?”

“Where the treasure is, sir. You know you said you thought he knew
where it was, and then you told about coming on him that time dressed
as a ghost; and we thought maybe if we dropped on him sudden in the
dark in the same place, he might think we were for-sure ghosts--”

“One of us was going to pretend to be Mrs. Nelson,” supplemented Tom.
“We thought we might frighten it out of him.”

“But, of course,” said Dick, miserably, “we hadn’t any idea it would
turn out like that.”

For a moment, Mr. Chester continued to stare at them in astonishment;
then a peculiar inward convulsion seized him, as though he wanted to
sneeze and couldn’t. As I looked at their downcast faces, I felt very
much like laughing, but I didn’t dare with Mr. Chester standing there.

“A brilliant scheme!” he commented, at last, in a voice which trembled
a little. “May I ask which of you devised it?”

“It was I, sir,” answered Tom, guiltily.

“How did you know that Mr. Tunstall would be here this evening?”
queried his father.

“We--we sent him a message by our boy, Jimmy.”

“A message?”

“Yes, sir--that he’d learn something to his advantage if he came out
here this afternoon. We knew Mrs. Truman had gone to town.”

“He thought it was mother sent the message,” I remarked.

“And the message was a falsehood,” said Mr. Chester, sternly. “It was,
of course, inevitable that they should tell a lie. Go on.”

“Well, Mr. Tunstall came,” said Tom, flushing deeply at his father’s
words. “We watched him come up the road and go up to the house and
knock and try the front door. Then he wandered around a bit, and
finally saw Cecil sitting on the bench there. She’d been digging some
more.”

“Yes, and he frightened me nearly to death for a minute,” I said.

“It couldn’t have happened better,” said Dick. “He talked quite a
while, and we had time to get all our trappings ready; and just as he
turned to go, we threw Tom’s big seine over him and dropped off the
wall. Before we had time to do any more, he had fainted--we thought he
was dead.”

“And suppose he had been dead,” said Mr. Chester, “as he might easily
have been, since his heart is probably diseased, do you know that at
this moment both of you would be guilty of manslaughter? You hadn’t
thought about that, of course?”

“No, sir,” answered both boys, together.

“Do you think your mother, Dick, would have been willing to pay such a
price as that for this place?”

“No, sir,” burst out Dick; “nor I wouldn’t either. I--I don’t like the
place any more--mother won’t either, when I tell her.”

“Oh, Dick!” I cried reproachfully.

Mr. Chester said nothing for a moment, but stood in deep thought.

“I will tell your mother myself,” he said, finally. “We mustn’t
have her prejudiced against the place. But I hope this afternoon’s
experience will teach both of you a lesson--I hope that neither of
you will ever again try to startle anyone as you tried to startle Mr.
Tunstall this afternoon. There is no kind of joke so dangerous. And, by
the way, Cecil,” he went on, turning to me, “what was it you and Mr.
Tunstall were talking about so long?”

“Why, I don’t just remember, sir,” I answered. “He told me about
getting the message, and I told him I was sure it wasn’t from mother;
and then we talked about the treasure, and he said to go ahead and hunt
for it, that it wasn’t any of his business until the seventeenth of
May, and that he was going to play fair.”

“Was that all?” he asked, looking at me keenly. “Try to think. Mr.
Tunstall is a very clever man. A silly note like the one sent him
wouldn’t have got him out here unless he had some very definite object
in coming, and was hoping for an excuse to do so.”

“I don’t remember anything else, sir,” I said, making a desperate
effort at recollection. “Oh, yes; he asked if I’d heard mother say
anything about trying to break the will, and I told him that I had
heard her tell you that she wouldn’t think of doing so--that if she
couldn’t get the place the way grandaunt provided, she didn’t want it
at all.”

Mr. Chester’s lips tightened, and he looked grimly at the boys.

“The note wasn’t such a lie, after all,” he said, in a voice very
stern. “Mr. Tunstall has learned something very decidedly to his
advantage.”




Chapter XI

The Shadow in the Orchard


SO I had aided the enemy! I had thought myself clever enough to match
my wits against his, and I had lost! It was a bitter reflection!

I had underestimated his strength, had dared to face him when I should
have run away, and he had defeated me ignominiously. He had learned
from me exactly what he wished to learn, and now he could rest secure
until the month was up. I could guess how the thought that we might,
after all, carry the matter to the courts had worried him--his very
anxiety went far to prove that we might really be able to set aside the
will.

One thing was clear enough. Silas Tunstall was not at all the ignorant
boor that I had thought him. His ungainliness, his drawl, his slip-shod
utterance were all assumed--for what? The answer seemed evident
enough. They had been assumed to aid him in practising the deceptions
of his business as a spiritualistic medium. What a belief-compelling
thing it was for him to be able to cast aside, whenever he wished,
the uncouth husk in which he was usually enveloped. In the gloom of
the seance, what sitter would suspect that that clear voice could be
Silas Tunstall’s, or that crisp and perfect enunciation his? Oh, it was
evident enough; and I had walked straight into the trap he had set for
me!

These were the pleasing reflections with which I had to comfort myself
as we walked back toward the house together. I had played the fool--the
boys were not to blame; it was I alone! If I had only had sense enough
to hold my tongue!

The sound of wheels on the drive brought me out of my thoughts, and we
reached the front door just as a buggy drew up before it.

“Good gracious! I hadn’t any idea we should be so late!” cried mother,
as Mr. Chester helped her to alight. “But there were so many things to
do, and on the way back we had a little accident--our horse slipped and
broke one of the traces, and it took us half an hour to mend it. Won’t
you come in, Mr. Chester?”

“Just for a moment,” he answered. “Tom, you go on home and tell your
mother I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and he followed mother into the
house.

Tom paused only long enough for a swift whisper in my ear.

“You’ve forgiven me?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I felt awfully bad when I looked over the wall and saw you digging. I
knew what you’d think of me. But it’ll never happen again!”

“It _did_ hurt,” I said.

“And don’t you give up, Biffkins,” he added; “and don’t you go to
blaming yourself. We’ll win out yet,” and he gripped my hand for an
instant and was gone. And my heart was at peace again, for I knew that
my ally was true to me.

What Mr. Chester said to mother we never knew, but he must have put the
adventure in a decidedly milder light than he had used with the boys,
for he and mother were laughing as they came out into the hall a few
minutes later. And a great load was lifted from me, for I had feared
that mother might really take a dislike to the place, if Dick got into
serious trouble about it.

The episode was not entirely ended, however, for next morning a note
came from Mr. Chester for Dick, and the two boys were sent off together
to apologize to Mr. Tunstall, who, they reported, had received their
apology as gracefully as could be expected.

“Only he looked at us out of those little black eyes of his,” Dick
confided to me privately, afterwards, “as though he would like to kill
us on the spot. I’m afraid the whole thing was a mistake, Biffkins. If
he hadn’t had that attack of heart disease, I believe we’d have got the
whole story out of him--if he knows it; but we really only succeeded in
converting an adversary into a bitter enemy. Whatever he may pretend,
I’m sure he’s our bitter enemy now.”

These were large words for Dick to use in conversation, and they showed
how serious he thought the matter was. But I made light of it.

“I don’t suppose he was any too friendly before,” I said, “in spite of
all his protests about playing fair. Certainly we didn’t expect any
help from him. And I don’t see how he can do us any harm.”

“Well, maybe not,” agreed Dick, slowly. “But just the same, it was a
mighty foolish thing to do.”

Indeed, as I thought it over afterwards, Mr. Tunstall had considerable
cause to congratulate himself on the outcome of the adventure, and on
his opportune fainting-fit. But for that, his secret, if he possessed
one, might really have been frightened out of him; though now I think
of it, it seems improbable that even the most ghostly of apparitions
would have impressed him as supernatural. He had played that game too
often himself.

“And oh, Biffkins,” added Dick, “you should have seen the place where
he lives. It’s a little gray house, so shut in by trees and shrubbery
that you can’t see it from the road at all, even in winter. In fact, a
good many of the trees are evergreens, so that winter doesn’t make any
difference. A funny little old woman let us in, and we had to sit in a
little stuffy hall for ever so long before Mr. Tunstall came out to us.
And he didn’t ask us in--just stood and listened and glowered, with his
hands under his coat-tails, and then sent us about our business. I tell
you, I felt mighty small.”

“Well, I felt pretty small last night,” I said, “when I found out how
he’d fooled me.”

“He’s a slick one,” was Dick’s final comment, and I echoed the verdict.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dick started for Riverdale, right after lunch, with the list of things
which we would need before the month was up, and I took advantage of
his absence to put into effect the plan which had flashed into my head
the day before, when mother was talking about our studies. I went over
to Mrs. Chester’s and told her all about it, and the result was that
Mr. Chester called upon mother that very evening, and suggested that
Dick and Tom study together under the same tutor.

I saw how mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the suggestion, but
she hesitated.

“Perhaps Dick may be in the way,” she said. “Cecil tells me that Tom is
preparing to enter Princeton, and much as I would like my boy to study
with him--”

“My dear Mrs. Truman,” broke in our visitor, “it will have quite the
opposite effect. Tom will study all the better for having a companion.
Please say yes. It’s for my boy’s good, as well as yours.”

So it was settled; and when Mr. Chester left, he gave my hand a little
extra pressure, and whispered a word in my ear which made me very
happy. And how pleased Dick was! Every day, from ten o’clock till
one, the boys were closeted with the tutor, while I got my lessons by
myself. I can’t pretend that I enjoyed it, or that I always spent all
that time in study. I’m afraid that a good part of it was spent in
trying to puzzle out the mystery of the rose of Sharon, and that the
rule of four to the right and three diagonally interested me more than
did any relating to planes and lines and angles. But, at least, the
time was not wholly wasted.

       *       *       *       *       *

How the days flew by! I was afraid to count them; afraid to consult
the calendar. The disaster which was set to happen on the seventeenth
of May loomed steadily larger and larger as the march of time brought
it inexorably nearer. The stately ticking of the old clock in the hall
became a thing to lie awake at night and listen to with dread.

Not that we were idle, for the two boys and I spent every afternoon and
almost every evening striving to solve the mystery. Dick was thoroughly
in earnest, now, and Tom proved himself the most delightful and helpful
of comrades. Dear mother did not actively aid us much--indeed, I think
she had never permitted herself to believe that this beautiful place
could be hers permanently; but we three young people kept at work with
the energy of desperation.

We rooted up a good portion of the orchard, taking all sorts of
measurements from the old apple tree which leaned, ragged and solitary,
above the pasture fence. We sounded the trees for possible hollows,
but found most of them dishearteningly sound. We dug up the earth for
many yards around the tall althea bush, and around as many others as
seemed in any way distinctive. As the spring advanced, a clump of
lilies sprang up among the trees near the house, and formed the centre
of another extensive circle of operations--all of which were absolutely
fruitless of result, except the enlargement of already healthy
appetites.

“I tell you what,” remarked Dick wearily, one evening, “I’m beginning
to believe that grandaunt is playing a joke on us. You remember the
story of the old fellow who left a big field to his heirs, saying in
his will that a great treasure was concealed there--”

“Yes,” I interrupted; “Mr. Tunstall spoke of it, too; only he added
that grandaunt could scarcely have meant that, since we wouldn’t be
here to reap the harvest.”

Dick winced at the words.

“Confound old Tunstall,” he said. “What’s become of him?”

“I don’t know,” Tom answered. “I haven’t seen him for quite a while.”

“Maybe he’s gone away,” I suggested. “Don’t let’s think of him. Well,
what shall we do next?”

We had just completed the exploration of the vicinity of the clump of
lilies, and Tom was standing with his eyes fixed upon them.

“But see here,” he cried, “we’ve just been wasting our time grubbing
around here.”

“That’s evident enough,” growled Dick, with a glance at the piles of
earth we had thrown up. “You’d suppose this was the Panama canal.”

“But why didn’t we think? Don’t you remember, Biffkins, we were going
to look in your grandaunt’s Bible--it wasn’t really any use to look in
father’s.”

“Why, of course!” I cried. “How silly of us! Come on, let’s look at it
now.”

“You run on,” said Dick, “and find it. I’m dead tired--I’m also
somewhat discouraged,” and he threw himself down on the grass.

“Shame!” I cried; but he only wiggled a little, and turned over on his
face. Tom sat down beside him, and I saw that he was discouraged, too,
though he wouldn’t admit it. “Very well,” I said. “I’ll get it. You two
stay here.”

I remembered having seen a shabby little leather-bound book lying on
the stand at the head of grandaunt’s bed, and I did not doubt that
this was the Bible which she habitually used. So I flew away toward
the house, and up the stair to grandaunt’s room. It was evident enough
that I had guessed correctly, as soon as I opened the volume, it was so
marked and underlined. With a little tremor, I turned to the Song of
Solomon, and ran down the narrow column until I came to the first verse
of the second chapter.

The words, “I am the rose of Sharon,” formed the first line. Just to
the right of it, across the line dividing the columns, was the second
line of the fourteenth verse, “in the clefts of,” then, diagonally
three to the left were the words, “the” “rock,” “stairs!”

With a shriek of victory, and hugging the little volume to me, I flew
down the stairs and out upon the lawn.

The boys looked up as they heard me coming, and when they saw my face,
both of them sprang to their feet.

“I’ve found it!” I cried. “I really believe I’ve found it this time,”
and I showed them the mystic words.

“Well,” said Tom, at last, “it _does_ seem that that’s too big a
coincidence not to mean something. ‘In the clefts of the rock stairs.’
What do you think of it, Dick?”

“The cry of ‘wolf!’ doesn’t awaken any especial interest, any more,”
answered Dick languidly. “I’ve become too used to it. But I suppose we
might as well look up the rock stairs, wherever they are--”

“But perhaps there aren’t any,” I objected.

“Oh, yes,” said Dick, wearily, “you’ll find there’s some rock steps
around the place somewhere, and we might as well proceed to tear them
down, I suppose.”

But I would not permit him to discourage me. I hunted up Abner and
asked him if there were any rock steps or a rock stairway about the
place anywhere. Dick’s prediction came true.

“Why, yes, miss,” he answered, slowly, “they’s a short flight leads
down into the milk-house, an’ another flight into the cellar. Then
there’s the flight up to the front porch, an’ the other up to the side
porch.”

“And is that all, Abner?” I questioned. “Be sure, now, that you tell me
all of them.”

He stood for a minute with his eyes all squinted up, and I suppose he
made a sort of mental review of the whole place, for he nodded his head
at last and assured me that these were all.

Armed with this information, I rejoined the boys and--but why should
I give the details of the search? It was the same old story, infinite
labour and nothing at the end. Really it was disheartening.

“Well,” remarked Tom, philosophically, when we had finished putting
the last step back into place, “they needed straightening, anyway. And
the garden would have had to be dug up about this time, too; and I’ve
always heard that it’s a good thing to loosen up the ground around
trees.”

“I’m getting tired of improving the place for Tunstall’s benefit,”
objected Dick. “I move we give it up.”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “We can’t give it up! That would be cowardly. Do
you remember Commodore Perry, when he fought the British on Lake Erie?
He had a banner painted with the words, ‘Don’t Give up the Ship,’ and
he nailed it to his mast; and when his ship was sinking, he took the
banner down, and carried it to another ship, and nailed it up there.
Let’s nail our banner up, too.”

“But we’ve done everything we could think of doing,” objected Dick.
“What can we do now, Biffkins?”

“We haven’t gone in pursuit of the early potato,” suggested Tom,
demurely.

“We can begin in the house,” I said; “begin at the farthest corner of
the garret, and work right down to the cellar.”

“That’s a big job,” said Dick, and sighed.

“I know it is; but I’m beginning to believe more and more that Mr.
Chester was right, and that the treasure is somewhere in the house.
We’ll begin to-morrow.”

“Oh, we can’t begin to-morrow,” said Tom.

“Why not?” I questioned, sharply, impatient of the least delay.

“Why, to-morrow’s May-Day,” he explained, “and the children at the
Fanwood school are going to have a big time. We’ll all have to go--as
distinguished guests, you know. Father and mother are going, and so is
your mother. It’s to be a kind of picnic--a May-pole and all that sort
of thing.”

“Very well,” I said, seeing that their hearts were set upon it; “we’ll
go, then;” but I must confess that I did not enjoy the day, which,
under other circumstances, would have been delightful. But in the midst
of the gayety, clouding it, rising above the laughter, the thought kept
repeating itself over and over in my brain that only fifteen days
of grace remained. “Only fifteen days, only fifteen days,” over and
over and over. It was with absolute joy that I climbed, at last, into
the buggy to start homewards, and I could scarcely repress a shout of
happiness as we turned in at the gate and rolled up to the dear old
house.

As soon as lessons were over next day, the search of the house began.
The refrain had changed a little: “Only fourteen days--only fourteen
days!” it ran now. Fourteen days! Thirteen days! Twelve days! How I
tried to lengthen every one of them; to make every minute count! And
how useless it seemed. For we made no progress; we were apparently not
one step nearer the solution of the puzzle than we had been at first.
We opened boxes, ransacked cupboards, explored dim crannies under the
eaves, turned drawers upside down--disclosing treasures, indeed, which
at another time would have filled me with delight, but, alas! they were
not the treasures we were seeking! From the garret to the second floor,
then to the first floor, then to the cellar--we turned the house inside
out, did everything we could think of doing, short of tearing it down,
and utterly without result! At last, mother interfered.

“You children must sit down and rest,” she said. “You will make
yourselves ill. Cecil is getting nervous and positively haggard.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said; “I wouldn’t mind anything, if we could only
find the treasure.”

“You don’t sleep well at night,” pursued mother remorselessly. “You
twitch about--”

“Yes,” I admitted; “and lie awake listening to the old clock in the
hall, and thinking that every second it ticks off is one second less.”

“Well,” said mother, more sternly, “it must stop. It isn’t worth it.
Why not be satisfied with thinking that we’re merely on a visit here--a
month’s vacation--and plan to make the last days of the visit as
pleasant as you can? Then, when we go away, we can at least look back
upon having had a nice time.”

“But we don’t want you to go away, Mrs. Truman,” spoke up Tom. “Mother
was saying again last night how dreadfully she would feel if you would
have to go. As for me, I--I don’t know what I’d do.”

I looked up and met his eyes, and there was something in them that
made me feel like laughing and crying too.

“You’ve all been very kind to us,” said mother, flushing with pleasure,
“and you must come over to Riverdale and see us often. I want you all
to be sure to come over and spend the last evening with us here--a kind
of farewell, you know.”

She tried to smile, though it ended a little miserably, and I could
see that she was deeply disappointed, too, but was being brave for our
sake. I never knew until long afterward how she herself had worked to
solve the mystery.

We obeyed her by abandoning the search--indeed, we must soon have
stopped from sheer inability to find anything more to do. We had
exhausted our ingenuity and our resources--we were at the end. But all
that could not prevent me worrying--it had rather the opposite effect;
and night after night I lay awake, wondering where the treasure could
be. And though I was careful to lie still and breathe regularly, so
that mother might not suspect my wakefulness, it was often all I could
do to keep myself from crying out under the torture.

In the afternoons, we rambled about the place, or visited each other;
but there was a shadow over us which nothing could lift. One day we
even made a little excursion to the range of hills which shut us in
upon the west. It was from them, so Mr. Chester said, that we might
see the sea over the wide plain which sloped away eastward to it; but
we didn’t see it. Perhaps the day was not clear enough, or perhaps the
sun was too far west to throw back to us the glint of the water; but I
fancy I should not have seen it, however favourable the conditions, for
I had eyes for little else than the old house nestling among the trees,
two miles away. About it, the broad fields looked like the squares of
a great chess-board, dark with new-turned earth, or green with the
growing wheat.

Dusk was falling as we started toward home. We were all a little tired
and very hungry, and we cut across lots, instead of going around by the
road. We skirted a field of wheat, and finally came to the back of the
orchard, and silently climbed the fence.

“That’s the rose of Sharon,” I said, pausing for a look at the old
gnarled apple-tree. “I wonder if it really could have anything to do
with the treasure?”

“Oh, come on, Biffkins,” said Dick, a little crossly. “Don’t you ever
get that off your mind?”

“No, I don’t,” I retorted, sharply. “And I don’t see--”

I stopped abruptly, for I fancied I saw a shadow skulking away from us
under the trees.

“What is it?” asked Tom, following the direction of my startled gaze.

“I thought I saw somebody,” I said; and in that instant, a terrible
conviction flashed through my mind. “It was Silas Tunstall. Quick--this
way.”

I was off under the trees, without stopping to think what we should do
if it really proved to be that worthy, and I heard the boys pattering
after me. We raced on, and in a moment, sure enough, there was the
figure, just swinging itself over the orchard fence.

“There; there!” I cried, and the boys saw it, too. In a moment more we
were at the fence, and tumbled over it.

But the figure had disappeared. We raced this way and that, but could
find no trace of it; and at last we gave it up in disgust, and started
back through the orchard.

But the memory of the figure I had seen for an instant silhouetted
against the sky, as it mounted the fence, burnt and burnt in my
brain--for I was sure that it carried under its arm a square parcel
of some sort--and I told myself frantically that it could be only one
thing--the treasure.




Chapter XII

Bearding the Lion


LITTLE sleep did I get that night. Minute by minute, I heard the old
clock ticking away, while I lay there and thought and thought. I had
told nothing of my suspicion to anyone--I hadn’t the heart; but I was
absolutely sure that Silas Tunstall had stolen into the grounds the
evening before, knowing that we were away, and had secured the treasure.

But where had it been hid? We had searched everywhere so thoroughly.
Evidently not in the house, for the thief would scarcely have dared
enter it while mother was there, nor would he have chosen the early
evening for such a venture. He could not have approached the barn or
stable-yard unseen, for Abner and Jane were milking there. Indeed, it
was difficult to see how he could have come undetected any farther
than the orchard. Perhaps the treasure had been concealed there
somewhere--and I remembered the old rose of Sharon apple-tree leaning
over the pasture fence. Yet we had made it the starting-point of a very
careful search. I resolved that I would go over the ground once again
the first thing in the morning.

I was out of bed with the first peep of dawn.

“Why, Cecil,” said mother, waking up and looking at me in surprise,
“what are you getting up for?”

“I don’t feel at all sleepy, mother,” I said, “and I thought I’d like
to walk around over the place just at dawn.”

Mother made no objection, so I slipped down the stairs, and out the
front door. Without pausing an instant, I hastened toward the orchard.
I could soon tell whether Silas Tunstall had disturbed anything there.

I made straight for the old tree, and then walked slowly toward the
spot whence I had first descried that shadowy figure slinking through
the gloom. I went over the ground in the vicinity carefully, but could
not see that it had been disturbed, except where we ourselves had
disturbed it. I was not woodsman enough to follow footprints, even
had any been distinctly visible on the soft turf of the orchard, and
I began to realize with despair what a hopeless task it was that I
had undertaken. And I began to realize, too, how absurd it was that
I should have supposed for a moment that the treasure was concealed
anywhere underground. I had allowed myself to be influenced by a sort
of convention that treasure was always concealed there--the word
“treasure” itself, which grandaunt had used, was largely responsible
for it; but Mr. Chester had unquestionably been right. No one would
think of burying such treasure as stocks and bonds; no woman,
especially, would place any of her belongings in such a position that
she would have to use a pick and shovel to get at them.

I had been walking aimlessly back and forth through the orchard, and
my eye, at that instant, was caught by a bright spot of light some
distance off among the trees. I could see that the rays of the rising
sun were reflected upon some white object, but what it was I could not
guess, and I instinctively turned toward it to find out. As I drew
near, I saw that it appeared to be a round white stone, lying at the
foot of one of the trees, but it was not until I stooped over it that
I saw just what it was. It seemed to be a round piece of cement stone,
about ten inches in diameter, and about an inch thick. It looked as
though it had been cast in a mould. For a moment, I was at a loss to
understand where it came from or how it got there--then, suddenly, I
remembered!

More than once, as I had passed through the orchard, I had seen this
tree. A hollow had begun to form about five feet above the ground,
probably where a limb had been ripped off years before in a wind-storm.
The decay had evidently made considerable progress, but at last it had
been detected, and the hollow cleaned out and filled up with cement.
Now, as I stood hastily upright and looked at the hole, I saw that it
had not been filled at all, but that this cement lid had been carefully
fitted over the hollow. I looked into it, but could not determine its
depth. I plunged my arm into it, and found that it extended about two
feet down into the tree, that it had evidently been carefully hollowed
out, and that the cement cap had kept it dry and clean. One movement of
my arm was enough to tell me that the hollow was quite empty.

I sat down against the tree a little dazedly, for I understood the
whole story. Here was where the treasure had been concealed, and Silas
Tunstall, unable any longer to run the risk of our finding it, had
stolen into the orchard the night before, removed the cement cap and
abstracted the box containing the papers. He had heard us coming; we
had startled him so that he had forgotten to replace the cap, but had
hurried away, the box under his arm. This beautiful old place would
never be ours!

And sitting there, watching the sun sail up over the treetops, I made a
great resolution. I would beard the lion in his den; I would see Silas
Tunstall, and at least let him know that we knew he had not played
fairly.

I carefully replaced the cap, noting how nicely it fitted into the
groove made by the bark, as it had grown around it; then I went
slowly back to the house. I thought it best to say nothing to anyone
concerning the resolution I had made; I doubted myself whether any good
could come of it, but I was determined to make the trial.

Help came from an unexpected quarter.

“Cecil,” said mother, at the breakfast table, “I wish you would walk
over to the village for me and get me a spool of number eighty black
thread. I thought I had another spool, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Very well, mother,” I said, in as natural a tone as I could muster.
And as soon as I had finished breakfast, I put on my hat and started
for the village.

Though Dick had described the house in which Mr. Tunstall lived, he had
given me no idea of its exact location, except that it was somewhere
along the road between our place and the town, so there was nothing for
it but to ask at the little store where I bought the thread. I asked
the question as indifferently as I could, but I saw the quick glance
which the boy who waited on me shot at me.

“Tunstall?” he repeated; “oh, yes, miss; I know where he lives.
Everybody around here does. It’s about half a mile back up the road--a
little gray house, standin’ a good ways back among the trees. You can’t
miss it. It’s got two iron gate-posts painted white.”

“Oh, yes,” I said; “I remember the place now.”

“An’ there’s another way you can tell it, miss,” he added,
mysteriously. “It’s got green shutters, an’ they’re always closed.”

“Thank you,” I said, and having secured the spool of thread, left
the store. But I could feel him staring after me, and I had an
uncomfortable consciousness that I had provided him with a choice
tid-bit of gossip.

However, it was too late to help it, now; so I hurried back up the
road and soon came to the gateway guarded by the two white posts. I
turned resolutely in between them, and walked on along the drive,
which curved abruptly to the right, and was soon quite screened from
the highway. Then I saw the house--a modest little gray cottage, with
closed shutters. But for what I had been told about them, I should have
concluded that Mr. Tunstall was away from home. I went on to the door
and knocked, noticing, as I did so, how it was screened by a row of
broad-branched arbour vitæ bushes. Evidently Mr. Tunstall was fond of
privacy--and for an instant I regretted my haste in coming alone to pay
him this visit.

As I was trying to decide whether, after all, I would not better make
my escape before it was too late, I heard a slight sound, and had a
sense of being scrutinized through the curtain which covered the lights
at the side of the door. An instant later, the door opened noiselessly,
and I saw Silas Tunstall standing there looking down at me.

“Why, it’s Miss Truman!” he cried, in affected surprise. “Won’t you
come in, miss?”

Without answering, and summoning all the bravery I possessed, I stepped
across the threshold and into the hall beyond. The door was at once
closed, and I found myself in semi-darkness.

“This way,” said Mr. Tunstall’s voice, and his hand on my arm guided
me to the right. Then my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and I
saw that I was in the front room--a room rather larger than one would
have expected from the tiny exterior of the house, and furnished in a
most impressive manner, which the semi-darkness appreciably increased.
Curtains of some thin stuff which stirred in every breath of air hung
against the walls, and I fancied that a draft was introduced from
somewhere just for the purpose of keeping them in motion. There was
a little table near the centre of the room, upon which were various
queer-looking instruments. A book-case, filled with big volumes,
stood in one corner. By the table were two chairs. There was no other
furniture. I noticed that the curtains extended entirely around the
room, and that when the door was closed, there was no sign of any
aperture. I judged that the two front windows had been padded with
some black cloth, to keep any glimmer of light from penetrating to
the interior, and I reflected that it would be equally effective in
preventing any glimmer from within being seen outside. The only light
in the room proceeded from two candles which flickered on the mantel
over the fireplace, and which seemed to burn with a queer perfume. At
least, I could think of no other place from which the perfume could
come. Indeed, some people might not have called it a perfume at all. It
reminded me, somehow, of the odour of a freshly-printed newspaper--the
odour which, I suppose, comes from the ink.

Of course, I didn’t see all this at once, but gradually during my visit.

“Set down,” said Mr. Tunstall, and motioned me to one of the chairs,
while he himself took the other. “What kin I do fer you?”

I determined to hazard a bold stroke at once.

“Mr. Tunstall,” I said, “I hope you won’t keep up that drawl with me.
It really isn’t worth while. And I think your natural tone so much
pleasanter.”

He stared at me for an instant in undisguised amazement; then he leaned
back in his chair and chuckled.

“Well, you _are_ a bold one!” he said. “But all right. I can’t say that
I’ve ever enjoyed the masquerade.”

“Why did you adopt it?” I asked.

“It’s a great advantage,” he explained, “for an apparently uneducated
man to be able to assume the guise of an educated one, when working at
a trade like mine. It’s convincing.”

I nodded. That had been my own explanation of it.

“But why did you adopt the trade?” I persisted.

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed slightly.

“Really, I don’t know,” he said. “Why not?”

It reminded me of the March Hare and the Mad Hatter. True enough, why
not?

“And now,” he added, “tit for tat. Have you found the treasure?”

“No,” I answered; “but you have.”

He stared at me again for an instant.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly, at last.

“Oh, yes, you do. We saw you in the orchard last night; and I found the
hole in the tree this morning. You didn’t put the cement lid back into
place.”

“Didn’t I? That was careless of me. But now I remember. I heard you
coming, and tried to get out of the way.”

“How did you get out of the way?” I asked. “You just seemed to--to
vanish.”

He laid one finger against the side of his nose and smiled a little. I
noticed that the finger was stained a curious light green, as though
with ink or acid.

“That’s one of my secrets,” he answered. “I never go into a place until
I’m sure of getting away from it, if I want to.”

I paid little heed to the words at the time, but I had occasion to
remember them afterwards.

“So you admit it was you and that you got the treasure?” I cried.

“My dear Miss Truman,” said Mr. Tunstall, “I admit nothing. In fact,
I deny most emphatically and unequivocally that I got the treasure,
or that I went to the orchard to get it. I can wait for the treasure
until it comes to me in a legal manner. I’m no such fool as to give you
people a case against me.”

“Then what was it you got?” I persisted. “I saw you had a package of
some sort under your arm.”

He hesitated a moment, looking at me closely.

“Promise me one thing. If I tell you, you will keep the secret.”

“I--I can’t promise that,” I stammered.

“All right,” he retorted easily; “then I won’t tell,” and he thrust
his hands deep into his pockets and leaned back in his chair.

“I won’t tell,” I said, at last, “if it wasn’t the treasure.”

He sat still for a moment, looking at me, as though still undecided.

“I believe I can trust you,” he said, and arose and brushed aside a
curtain at the side of the room. I saw that it concealed a little
alcove in which was a small table. He picked up something from the
table, and came back to me.

“This is what I got out of the tree last night,” he said, and placed a
little metal case on the table before me.

“And what was in it?” I asked.

“Open it and see.”

With some little trepidation, I undid the hasp and threw back the lid.
I could see nothing inside but a jumble of white stuff, and I looked up
to my companion for explanation.

“It’s merely some of my paraphernalia,” he said, smiling grimly. “I
often needed it when I was over at the Nelson place, and I designed
that hiding-place for it. I found I would need it again to-day, so I
went after it last night. That’s the whole story.”

I looked at him for an instant, and then slowly closed the box.

“I see you believe me,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I said; “I do.”

“And you’ll say nothing about it?”

“No,” I promised.

“Let me see,” he went on, “you have still--let me see--three days of
grace. Do you think you’ll find the treasure?”

“No,” I said again, “I don’t.”

“Neither do I. I’m almost tempted to give you a hint, just for
the sporting chance; but I can’t afford it. I’ve got to have that
property,” and his face suddenly hardened and his eyes grew cold. “I’ve
worked hard for it and taken chances for it. It’s mine, and I’m going
to have it. You haven’t a chance on earth.”

“No,” I agreed drearily, “we haven’t.”

And for the first time, I really gave up hope. Up to that moment, I
had never really despaired; I had been certain that something would
happen--some fortunate chance--to disclose the treasure, and assure
us possession of the property. But in that instant hope died. I had
somehow trusted in our star; and now, suddenly, I perceived that our
star had ceased to shine. As Mr. Tunstall said, we had no chance at
all.

“And now,” he added, rising, “I must ask you to excuse me. I have
an engagement for this afternoon; the stage is set,” he added, with
a little gesture round the room. “Really, I don’t know why I’m so
candid with you, Miss Truman; only one has to be candid with somebody
occasionally, or one would burst. And then, I believe I can trust you
not to repeat what I’m saying.”

“Oh, yes,” I assented, drearily; “what would be the use?”

“What, indeed,” he echoed, and bowed me out.

As I turned away from the door, an elegant carriage rolled up along
the drive and stopped before the house. The driver swung himself down
and opened the door. I would have liked to see the occupant of the
carriage, but it would have been rude to linger, so I walked on. I
could not resist glancing over my shoulder, however, and I saw the
driver assisting from the carriage a woman, evidently old, from her
feebleness, and heavily veiled. Plainly all of Mr. Tunstall’s patronage
might not be so unremunerative as Mr. Chester imagined.

As I turned away, I saw something else that startled me--a figure
disappearing behind one of the evergreens. I caught only a glimpse
of it--just enough to tell me that it was a man’s figure. I waited a
moment, watching, but it did not reappear, and, suddenly ill at ease, I
hastened out of the grounds.

I went slowly homewards, meditating upon Mr. Tunstall’s curious
profession, his candor, and above all on his evident confidence that we
had no chance.

And I could not but confess that he was right. We had no chance.




Chapter XIII

Surrender


AND so we came to the last evening. I had said nothing about my
interview with Silas Tunstall. I did not see that it would do any
good, and besides I knew that mother would not approve of it. More
than that, I had virtually promised him that it should remain between
ourselves. I realized that it was useless to struggle against fate,
and resigned myself to the inevitable. I cannot say that it was a
cheerful resignation, but I bore up as well as I could. It was a kind
of dreadful nightmare--those last two days. Mother was the bravest of
us all; Dick, gallant fellow that he was, managed to assume a cheerful
countenance; but Tom went about like a ghost, so white and forlorn that
even I, sore at heart as I was, could not help smiling at him. Jane
and Abner, too, showed their sorrow in a way that touched me. I came
upon Jane one evening, sitting on the kitchen steps, her apron over
her head, rocking back and forth, shaken with sobs. I tried to comfort
her--but what could I say--who was myself in such need of comfort!

On that last evening, Mr. and Mrs. Chester and Tom sat down with us to
dinner, as mother had all along insisted they should do; but in spite
of our persistent efforts at cheerfulness, or perhaps because of them,
it reminded me most forcibly of a funeral feast. I could fancy our
dearest friend lying dead in the next room.

No one referred to the morrow, but it was none the less in the thoughts
of all of us, and was not to be suppressed. Mr. Chester, at last, could
stand the strain no longer.

“It’s pretty evident what we’re all thinking about,” he said, “but
we mustn’t permit ourselves to take too gloomy a view of the future.
Remember that old, wise saying that ‘it’s always darkest just before
the dawn.’ Deep down in my heart, I believe that something will happen
to-morrow to set things right.”

“But what?” blurted out Tom. “What can happen, father?”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Chester. “I can’t imagine--but, after
all, things usually turn out all right in this world, if we just have
patience; and I’m sure that this muddle is going to turn out all right
too--I feel it in my bones. There’s one thing, Mrs. Truman. Have you
quite made up your mind not to try to break the will? I tell you
frankly that I believe it can be broken.”

“Oh, no,” answered mother, quickly; “there must be nothing of that
sort. I have quite made up my mind.”

Mr. Chester nodded.

“Then we must trust in providence,” he said.

“I always have,” said mother, simply. “And if it chooses that this
place shall not belong to us, I, at least, will not complain. After
all, we have no real right to it--relationship doesn’t give a right,
except in the eyes of the law. We never did anything to deserve it,
and I’ve sometimes thought that we would be stronger, and in the end
happier, if we didn’t get it. Gifts make paupers, sometimes.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Dick; “we can fight our own battles;” and he
looked around at us with such a light in his eyes that I could have
hugged him.

“Well,” said Mr. Chester, “I’m not one of those who think that
everything that happens is for the best; but I do believe that our
lives are what we make them, and that we can make them pretty much what
we please. I certainly don’t believe that your future depends upon this
legacy; and you’ve won half the battle already by learning to take
disappointment bravely. I had quite a shock to-day myself,” he added,
half laughing. “Look at that,” and he drew a bill from his pocket and
handed it to me. “What do you make of it?”

I unfolded it and looked at it.

“Why, it’s a five-dollar bill,” I said.

“So I thought,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But it’s not.”

“Do you mean it’s counterfeit?”

“I certainly do. Pass it around.”

It went from hand to hand around the table.

“Well,” commented mother, “I don’t blame you for being taken in. Anyone
would be.”

“It is a good imitation. The cashier at my bank had to look twice at
it before he was sure. And he was on the lookout, too. He said there’d
been a lot of them passed in New York and Philadelphia recently.”

“It certainly seems a quick way to get rich,” remarked Mrs. Chester.

“But not a very sure one,” said her husband. “In fact, it’s about the
riskiest way there is. Counterfeiters are always caught; Uncle Sam
keeps his whole secret service at work until he gets them,” and he
proceeded to tell us some stories of exploits which the secret service
had performed.

They distracted our thoughts for a while, but it was still far from
being a merry evening, and I am sure there were tears in the eyes of
all the others, as well as in mine, when our neighbours finally said
good-night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The seventeenth of May dawned clear and warm--a very jewel of a
day--and as I sprang from bed and threw back the shutters, I forgot for
a moment, in contemplation of the beauty of the morning, that this was
the day of our banishment--that this was the last time I should ever
sleep in this room and look out upon this landscape. But only for a
moment, and then the thought of our approaching exile surged back over
me, and I looked out on garden and orchard with a melancholy all the
more acute because of their fresh, dewy loveliness.

I met Dick at the foot of the stairs, and together we left the house
and made a last tour of the place, saying good-bye to this spot and
that which we had learned to love. We looked at the chickens and at the
cows; at the old trees in the orchard, at the garden----

We made the tour silently, hand in hand; there was no need that we
should speak; but at last I could bear it no longer.

“Dick,” I said, chokingly, “let’s go back to the house; I don’t want to
see any more.”

“All right, Biffkins,” he assented. “I feel pretty much the same way
myself.”

So back to the house we went, where we found mother busily engaged in
packing up our belongings, assisted by Jane. That worthy woman was
plainly on the verge of despair, and restrained her tears only with the
greatest difficulty.

Mr. Chester was to come for us at nine o’clock, and the whole matter
would probably be settled before noon, so that we could take the
afternoon train back to the little house at Riverdale which had been
our home for fifteen years, but which, so it seemed to me, was home no
longer, and which, in any case, we were so soon to lose. The mortgage
would fall due in a very few days, now; and, of course, we had no means
to meet it. After that--well, I did not trust myself to think upon what
would happen after that.

We had two hours to wait, and those two hours live in my memory as
a kind of terrible nightmare. I moved about the house mechanically,
helping mother, black misery in my heart. I had thought that I had
given up hope two days before; but I realized that never until this
moment had I really despaired. Now I knew that hope was over, that this
was to be the end.

At last, there came the sound of wheels on the drive before the house,
and a moment later Mr. Chester came in for us. For an instant, I had
the wild hope that perhaps there was some provision of the will with
which we were not acquainted and which would yet save us--that the past
month had been merely a period of probation to test us, or perhaps a
punishment for our mutiny of eight years before; but a single glance
at Mr. Chester’s face crushed that hope in the bud. He was plainly as
miserable as any of us. He had given up hope, too.

“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I don’t need to go, do I? Please let me
wait for you here.”

“Why, my dear,” said mother, hesitatingly, “of course you may stay if
you wish; but--”

“I don’t want to see that hateful Silas Tunstall again,” I burst out.
“I just can’t stand it!” and then, in an instant, my self-control gave
way, the tears came despite me, and deep, rending sobs.

I was ashamed, too, for I saw Dick looking at me reproachfully; but
after all a girl isn’t a boy.

“You’d better go up-stairs, dear,” said mother kindly, “and lie down
till we come back. We’ll have to come back after our things. Have your
cry out--it will help you.”

I was glad to obey; so I kissed her and Dick good-bye and mounted the
stairs slowly. I felt as though my heart would break. I wanted to hide
myself, to shut out the world, and be alone with my misery. Blindly, I
opened the first door I came to, and entered the darkened bedchamber at
the front of the house, which had been grandaunt’s.

I heard them talking on the steps below, and I crept to the front
window, and peering out through the closed shutters, watched them
till they drove away. It seemed to me that my very heart went with
them--this, then, was the end--the end--the end--! In a very ecstasy of
despair, I threw myself upon the bed and buried my burning face in the
pillow! Oh, it was more than I could bear!




Chapter XIV

The Rose of Sharon


I DON’T know how long I lay there, but after a while, I felt a gentle
hand laid on my shoulder.

“Good gracious, Miss Cecil!” said a kind voice at the bedside. “Don’t
take on so, dear. You’ll make yourself sick!”

“I--I don’t care,” I sobbed desperately. “I wish I was dead. You--you
would cry, too.” And I looked up at Jane’s dear old face.

“I know I would,” assented that good creature, and, indeed, at that
very moment, she was compelled hastily to use the corner of her apron
to check a tear that was wandering down her cheek. “But,” she added,
“I’d try t’ bear up ag’in it. Lord knows, me an’ Abner’ll miss you!”

“Thank you, Jane,” I said; “I know you will.”

“An’ anyways, miss,” she went on, her housewifely instinct asserting
itself, “I wouldn’t spile this here rose o’ Sharing quilt, the old
missus set so much store by.”

“This what, Jane!” I cried, sitting up suddenly, and sliding to the
floor, my heart leaping to my throat.

Jane fairly jumped.

“Gracious, miss!” she screamed, “but you give me a start, takin’ me
up that quick!” and she pressed her hand against her ample bosom and
caught her breath convulsively.

“But what was it you said I was spoiling?” I persisted, for I could
scarcely believe that I had heard aright.

“Why, this quilt, to be sure,” she answered. “You was cryin’ on it, and
here’s a mark from one o’ your--”

“Yes, yes!” I cried. “But what kind of a quilt did you say it was,
Jane?”

Jane pressed her cool hand anxiously to my forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, child,” she said soothingly. “I might ’a’ knowed
you would have arter all that worry. I was wrong t’ get ye up. You’d
better lay down ag’in. Never mind the quilt--it’s an old thing, anyway.”

“Jane,” I exclaimed, with the calmness of desperation, “will you kindly
tell me again what kind of a quilt you said this was?”

“It’s a rose o’ Sharing quilt, miss,” answered Jane. “Don’t y’ see
these little flowers in every other square an’ this here big one in the
middle? Missus allers kept it on her bed, an’ would never let any of
us touch it; though I could never guess why she thought so much of it,
fer it ain’t purty, to my mind.”

While she was speaking, I had rushed to the windows and thrown back the
shutters; and as the bright morning sun streamed into the room, I bent
over and looked at the quilt with eyes so throbbing with excitement
that I could scarcely see it. Sure enough, on each alternate patch was
a little rude conventional representation of the althea blossom, and
on the centre patch was a much larger one of the tall, upright bush,
worked with considerable care. Around the border of the quilt ran a
design of leaves.

With hands that trembled so I could scarcely hold it, I snatched the
quilt off the bed, and starting at the central figure, counted four
squares to the right and three diagonally. But the square that I
arrived at felt precisely like all the others. There was nothing under
it save the thick soft stuffing of the quilt.

“You’ve got it upside down, miss,” observed Jane, who had been watching
me uncomprehendingly, puzzled, but much cooler than I.

“Upside down?”

“Yes,” and she pointed to the central square.

I turned it around and tried the same formula--four to the right,
diagonally three. What was this, rustling beneath my fingers? Not
cotton nor wool, but something stiff, crinkling in my grasp like
paper--like stocks--like bonds!

“Jane!” I gasped, falling to my knees in sudden weakness; “Jane, oh,
Jane, I’ve found it!”

“Found it, miss?” repeated Jane, in bewilderment.

“Yes--the treasure! Oh, Jane!” and I was on my feet again galvanized
into action at the thought. “We must get to Plumfield! We must get to
Plumfield, or it will be too late!”

The meaning of it all burst in upon Jane’s understanding like a
lightning-flash, and she staggered and grew faint under the shock.

“Jane,” I cried, seeing from her staring eyes that heroic measures were
necessary, “if you faint now I’ll never speak to you again!” and I
actually pinched her earnestly, viciously, on the arm. “Go tell Abner
to hitch up the horse,” I added, “just as quick as he can. A minute or
two may mean--”

[Illustration: “‘JANE!’ I GASPED ... ‘JANE, OH, JANE, I’VE FOUND IT!’”]

“He’s out in the hill-paster,” said Jane, reviving. “He said he
couldn’t stand it t’ stay around the house.”

My heart sank as I followed her down the stairs. The hill pasture was a
good mile away.

“Perhaps we can hitch up ourselves,” I suggested, hugging the precious
quilt to me--feeling the papers crinkle in my grasp.

“I kin hitch up,” said Jane, “but I can’t ketch old Susan, an’ never
could. She jest naterally runs when she sees me a-comin’.”

“Well, we’ll try,” I said, desperately, for I hadn’t much confidence
in my horse-catching abilities. “Come on,” and laying the quilt on the
table in the hall, I opened the front door and ran down the steps--and
right into a boy who was standing there and staring disconsolately up
at the house.

“Oh, Tom!” I cried, a great load lifted from my heart. “Oh, but I’m
glad to see you! Tom, I’ve found the treasure!”

For an instant, I thought he didn’t understand, he stood staring at
me so queerly, with all the colour fading out of his cheeks. Then it
rushed back again in a flood, and he sprang at me and caught me by the
hands in a way that quite frightened me.

“Say it again, Biffkins!” he cried. “Say it again!”

“I’ve found the treasure,” I repeated, as calmly as I could. “And, oh,
Tom, don’t squeeze my hands so--we must drive to town right away--to
the notary’s office--maybe we’ll be too late--and will you catch the
horse?”

“Will I?” he cried. “Ask me if I’ll jump over the moon, Biffkins, and
I’ll say yes. Get ready,” and he was off toward the pasture, where old
Susan was placidly grazing, quite unconscious of the great mission that
awaited her.

I folded up the quilt and got on my hat and went down to the door; and
here in a moment came Tom, driving like mad. And Jane was standing
there rocking her arms--

“Hop in, Biffkins!” cried Tom, drawing up with a great scattering of
gravel. And I hopped in.

“God bless you!” cried Jane, from the steps. “God bless you!” and as
we turned out into the road, I looked back and saw her still standing
there waving her apron after us.

“Is that the treasure?” asked Tom, when we were fairly in the road and
headed for town, looking at the quilt in my arms. “It doesn’t look
much like a treasure, I must say. Is that it?”

“Yes--that is, I think it is, Tom.”

“Don’t you know?” he asked.

“I--I believe it is, Tom,” I stammered, my heart sinking a little. “I
didn’t want to stop to look. Feel right here.”

He took one hand from the reins and felt carefully.

“Doesn’t that feel like stocks and bonds?” I asked.

“It certainly feels like something,” he admitted. “Well, we’ll soon
find out,” and he turned his whole attention to encouraging the
astonished Susan.

I dare say that that old horse, in all her eighteen years, had never
covered that road so swiftly; but the two miles seemed like ten to
me, and I think the most welcome sight I ever saw in my life was the
scattered group of houses which marks the centre of the little village.
We dashed down the street with a clatter that brought the people to
their windows, and stopped at last at the little frame building which
served the notary for an office.

I jumped out, and without waiting for Tom, ran up the little flight
of steps to the door, with the quilt flapping wildly about me. And
just as I laid my hand upon the knob, the door opened from within, and
Silas Tunstall stood looking down at me, his face lighted by a smile of
triumph.

“Well, what’s the matter, young one?” he asked.

“I want to see Mr. Chester,” I gasped; “right away.”

“Mr. Chester? Well, he’s in there; go on in.”

He went on down the steps, but looked at the quilt in my arms with a
little start as I passed him, hesitated a moment, and then came back
and stood in the doorway.

But I had burst into the room as though hurled from a catapult. I saw a
group about the table.

“Oh, Mr. Chester!” I cried. “I’ve found it--the treasure!”

I was thrusting the old quilt into his arms--laughing, crying--while he
stared down at me with puzzled face. Then he stared at the quilt and
seemed still more astonished.

“The treasure?” he repeated, mechanically. “The treasure?”

[Illustration: “HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT MR.
CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY.”]

“Yes; yes!” I cried. “Four to the right, diagonally three. See!” and
I guided his hand to the proper square.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, as he felt of it. “There _is_
something here. Let us see,” and he got out his pen-knife.

“No, you don’t!” cried Silas Tunstall’s voice from the door. “It’s too
late--it’s all settled, ain’t it? You’ve give up, ain’t you? That there
quilt’s mine, an’ I’d thank you to return it!”

He stretched out a lean hand to take it, but Mr. Chester snatched it
hastily away.

“It’s mine, I tell you!” he repeated hotly. “Give it back, ’r I’ll hev
you arrested, you thief!”

I could not but admire the man. Even in a moment such as this, he had
presence of mind to retain the drawl.

Mr. Chester looked at him, frowning thoughtfully, and my heart grew
cold within me. To be too late now! But in a moment, his brows relaxed.

“Mr. Jones,” he said, turning to the notary, “the will specifically
states that the heirs are to be allowed one month to find this
treasure, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And nothing that we or anyone else can do in the meantime can alter
that?”

“I should think not; no, sir, certainly not.”

“Very well. Mrs. Nelson did not die until twelve minutes after twelve
o’clock; so we have still,” added Mr. Chester, glancing at his watch,
“twenty minutes in which to find this treasure. If we do find it within
that time, the property belongs to Mrs. Truman and her children.”

“No, you don’t!” snarled Silas, again. “Don’t try any of your lawyer
tricks on me. I won’t stand it! You’ve give it up, I tell you; you
can’t go back on your word!”

The room was still as death; everyone seemed to hold his breath with
the suspense of the moment.

Only Mr. Chester was apparently unmoved. With a sharp snip, which cut
the silence like a knife, he ripped open the square of the quilt and
drew forth a flat package of papers. He opened it, and looked them over
with a quick movement. I could see that his hands were trembling a
little despite himself. I was watching him intent, with bated breath,
but I was still conscious, somehow, of Tom’s white, strained face
beside me. What a dear fellow he was!

Mr. Chester passed the papers to the notary, and the two held a
moment’s whispered conference as they looked them over. Then Mr.
Chester turned back to us, and his face was beaming.

“Miss Truman,” he said, “I congratulate you. You have indeed found the
treasure, and the Court rules that the property is yours.”

Mother was laughing convulsively, with the tears streaming down her
face; Dick’s arms were about my neck; Tom had both my hands and was
shaking them wildly. There was such a mist before my eyes that I could
scarcely see.

“Oh, Biffkins!” cried my brother. “Oh, Biffkins, what a trump you are!”

       *       *       *       *       *

I can’t tell clearly what happened just then, we were all so moved and
so excited. I remember hearing what seemed to be a scuffle at the door,
followed by a muttered oath and a sharp command, and I looked around to
see two strangers standing in the doorway, and one of them had a pistol
pointed straight at Silas Tunstall, who was staring at it, his hands
above his head.

We all of us stood, for an instant, gaping in amazement at this strange
spectacle.

“What’s all this?” demanded Mr. Tunstall, angrily. “Turn that there gun
another way, young feller.”

The “young feller,” a well-built, clean-shaven man of middle age,
laughed derisively.

“Oh, come, Jim,” he said; “it won’t do,” and reaching forward with his
disengaged hand, he deliberately plucked out by the roots a tuft of
Mr. Tunstall’s beard. At least, I thought for a moment it was by the
roots--then I saw that there weren’t any roots, but that the beard was
a false one, cunningly glued on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he added,
glancing around at us, “permit me to introduce to you Mr. James Bright,
the cleverest confidence man in the United States.”

The prisoner’s face relaxed; in fact he was actually smiling.

“All right, Briggs,” he said, and I saw how the others stared in
astonishment at a tone which I knew to be his natural one. “What’s it
for, this time?”

“This,” answered the detective, and drew a roll of new greenbacks from
his pocket. “The best you’ve done yet,” he added. “And a fine plant
you’ve got out there at that little place of yours. We’ve been all
through it.”

“Is this one of them?” asked Mr. Chester, and produced the counterfeit
which had been passed on him the day before.

“Yes, that’s a sample,” answered Briggs, glancing at it. “They worried
us for a while, I tell you. Of course we knew right away it was Jim’s
work.”

“You’ll have to prove it’s mine,” pointed out the prisoner.

“Oh, we can do that easily enough. Your fingers give you away.”

And, looking at them, I saw again the curious stains I had noticed a
few days before. And I also suddenly understood the odour which filled
Mr. Tunstall’s parlour.

“But we’ve lost track of you,” went on the detective. “It’s nearly
a year since we heard of you--you’d buried yourself so well down
here--and we hadn’t the least idea where to look for you. One of my
men has been shadowing your house off and on for some time, because we
had heard some rather curious stories about one Silas Tunstall, and we
wanted to find out something more about him. But we never suspected it
was you. That spiritualistic dodge was an inspiration and that disguise
is a work of art.”

“Yes,” agreed the captive complacently, “I’m rather proud of it,
myself. There was just one person it did not deceive.”

“Who was that?” asked the detective.

“That sharp-eyed and quick-witted young lady yonder,” said the
prisoner, and bowed in my direction.

They all stared at me, and I felt that my cheeks were very crimson.

“Why, Cecil,” began mother, but the prisoner interrupted her.

“Understand, madam,” he said, “she didn’t know I was engaged in
anything crooked; I don’t suppose she even suspected that these
whiskers were false; but she had caught my dialect tripping in an
unguarded moment, and she saw through me right away. I congratulate
her,” he added. “She’s the cleverest I ever met.”

I had never liked Mr. Tunstall, but, I confess that, in this new
incarnation, there was something fascinating about the man. He seemed
so superior to circumstances and so indifferent to them. There he stood
now, more unconcerned and self-possessed than anyone else in the room.

“I know we were dense,” said the detective, grimly; “but, anyway, we
got you.”

“Who put you next?” asked the prisoner, curiously.

“Shorty,” replied the detective, smiling broadly. “We got him
yesterday in New York, with the goods on, gave him the third degree and
he peached last night.”

“The cur!” muttered the prisoner between his teeth, his face hard as
iron. “I stayed here too long,” he added. “I’d have been away from here
a month ago, but for this fool business,” and he nodded toward the
packet of papers. “I was like a good many others--I thought maybe I
could make enough to be honest!”

“Well, you’ll be honest for some years to come, Jim,” laughed the
detective, “whether you want to or not; so perhaps it’s just as
well--and Uncle Sam’ll breathe a lot easier! Put the cuffs on him,
Bob,” he added, to his companion.

I saw the other man draw from his pocket something of shining steel,
and take a step forward. The prisoner held out his hands--and suddenly
the handcuffs were hurled full into the detective’s face. He staggered
back against his companion, the blood spurting from his lips, and
in that instant, the prisoner had ducked past, was out the door and
away. They were after him in a moment, but by the time we got outside,
the fugitive had disappeared as completely as though the earth had
opened and swallowed him. Two or three excited people were leading the
detectives toward a strip of woodland which stretched back from the
road, and which formed a perfect covert; others were running out from
their houses, and were soon in full pursuit; but that was the last that
I, or, as far as I know, any of those then present, ever saw of the
famous Jim Bright.

       *       *       *       *       *

And that’s the story. For why need I tell of the drive home--home--yes,
home! Of Abner and Jane--of the dinner that evening--oh, quite a
different meal from the one of the night before. You can imagine it all
much better than I can tell it. And though it was all three years ago,
there is a little mist before my eyes whenever I think of it. It is
sweet to think of it, and it has been sweet to tell about it.

And how we have grown to love the old place! The old furniture has been
brought down out of the attic, and the horsehair hidden from view under
the eaves. For my own room, I have taken grandaunt’s, and my little
desk is between the two front windows, and I can look out over the walk
and down to the road. And on my bed there is a quilt, rather a faded
and ugly quilt--but _the_ quilt--and it shall always stay there. And
Dick is a junior at Princeton, and so is--

I hear a quick step on the walk below my window, and a clear voice,
“Oh, Biffkins!”

“Yes, Tom,” I answer; “in a minute.”

Old Tom! For grandaunt’s legacy has brought me more than a beautiful
home--more than stocks and bonds--I can’t write it--but you can guess!
Oh, I know, dear reader, you can guess!

THE END.




  From
  L. C. Page & Company’s
  Announcement List
  of New Fiction


=The Call of the South=

  BY ROBERT LEE DURHAM. Cloth decorative, with 6 illustrations by Henry
  Roth $1.50

A very strong novel dealing with the race problem in this country.
The principal theme is the _danger_ to society from the increasing
miscegenation of the black and white races, and the encouragement it
receives in the social amenities extended to negroes of distinction by
persons prominent in politics, philanthropy and educational endeavor;
and the author, a Southern lawyer, hopes to call the attention of the
whole country to the need of earnest work toward its discouragement.
He has written an absorbing drama of life which appeals with apparent
logic and of which the inevitable denouement comes as a final and
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The author may be criticised by those who prefer not to face the hour
“When Your Fear Cometh As Desolation And Your Destruction Cometh As A
Whirlwind;” but his honesty of purpose in the frank expression of a
danger so well understood in the South, which, however, many in the
North refuse to recognise, while others have overlooked it, will be
upheld by the sober second thought of the majority of his readers.

=The House in the Water=

  BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of “The Haunters of the Silences,”
  “Red Fox,” “The Heart of the Ancient Wood,” etc. With cover design,
  sixteen full-page drawings, and many minor decorations by Charles
  Livingston Bull. Cloth decorative, with decorated wrapper $1.50

Professor Roberts’s new book of nature and animal life is one long
story in which he tells of the life of that wonderfully acute and
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again appear, figuring in the story even more than they did in “Red
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The following chapter headings for “The House in the Water” will give
an idea of the fascinating reading to come:

  THE SOUND IN THE NIGHT (Beavers at Work).
  THE BATTLE IN THE POND (Otter and Beaver).
  IN THE UNDER-WATER WORLD (Home Life of the Beaver).
  NIGHT WATCHERS (“The Boy” and Jabe and a Lynx see the Beavers at
    Work).
  DAM REPAIRING AND DAM BUILDING (A “House-raising” Bee).
  THE PERIL OF THE TRAPS (Jabe Shows “The Boy”).
  WINTER UNDER WATER (Safe from All but Man).
  THE SAVING OF BOY’S POND (“The Boy” Captures Two Outlaws).

“As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He
is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all
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“Poet Laureate of the Animal World, Professor Roberts displays
the keenest powers of observation closely interwoven with a fine
imaginative discretion.”--_Boston Transcript._

=Captain Love=

 THE HISTORY OF A MOST ROMANTIC EVENT IN THE LIFE OF AN ENGLISH
 GENTLEMAN DURING THE REIGN OF HIS MAJESTY GEORGE THE FIRST. CONTAINING
 INCIDENTS OF COURTSHIP AND DANGER AS RELATED IN THE CHRONICLES OF THE
 PERIOD AND NOW SET DOWN IN PRINT

 BY THEODORE ROBERTS, author of “The Red Feathers,” “Brothers of
 Peril,” etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated by Frank T. Merrill

                                                       $1.50

A stirring romance with its scene laid in the troublous times in
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But, if the setting be similar to other novels of the period, the story
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he has done.

=Bahama Bill=

 BY T. JENKINS HAINS, author of “The Black Barque,” “The Voyage of the
 Arrow,” etc. Cloth decorative, with frontispiece in colors by H. R.
 Reuterdahl

                                                       $1.50

The scene of Captain Hains’s new sea story is laid in the region of
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Captain Hains’s descriptions of life at sea are vivid, absorbingly
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=Matthew Porter=

 BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD, JR., author of “The Private Tutor,” etc. With a
 frontispiece in colors by Griswold Tyng

                                                       $1.50

When a young man has birth and character and strong ambition it is safe
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Mr. Bradford has given us a charming romance with an unusual motive.
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=Anne of Green Gables=

  BY L. M. MONTGOMERY. Cloth decorative, illustrated      $1.50

Every one, young or old, who reads the story of “Anne of Green Gables,”
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Miss Montgomery will receive praise for her fine sympathy with and
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=Spinster Farm=

  BY HELEN M. WINSLOW, author of “Literary Boston.” Illustrated from
  original photographs

                                                       $1.50

Whatever Miss Winslow writes is good, for she is in accord with the
life worth living. The Spinster, her niece “Peggy,” the Professor, and
young Robert Graves,--not forgetting Hiram, the hired man,--are the
characters to whom we are introduced on “Spinster Farm.” Most of the
incidents and all of the characters are real, as well as the farm and
farmhouse, unchanged since Colonial days.

Light-hearted character sketches, and equally refreshing and unexpected
happenings are woven together with a thread of happy romance of which
Peggy of course is the vivacious heroine. Alluring descriptions of
nature and country life are given with fascinating bits of biography of
the farm animals and household pets.




Selections from L. C. Page and Company’s List of Fiction


WORKS OF ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS

  _Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative     $1.50_

=The Flight of Georgiana=

  A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER. Illustrated by H. C.
  Edwards.

“A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a remarkably
well finished piece of work.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._

=The Bright Face of Danger=

  Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son of the
  Sieur de la Tournoire. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

“Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him heartily.
The story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, rational and
convincing.”--_Boston Transcript._

=The Mystery of Murray Davenport=

(40th thousand.)

“This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. Those
familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of this
praise, which is generous.”--_Buffalo News._

=Captain Ravenshaw=

  OR, THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE. (52nd thousand.) A romance of Elizabethan
  London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists.

Not since the absorbing adventures of D’Artagnan have we had anything
so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy.

=The Continental Dragoon=

  A ROMANCE OF PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778. (53d thousand.) Illustrated
  by H. C. Edwards.

A stirring romance of the Revolution, with its scene laid on neutral
territory.

=Philip Winwood=

  (70th thousand) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American
  Captain in the War of Independence, embracing events that occurred
  between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London.
  Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.

=An Enemy to the King=

  (70th thousand.) From the “Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de
  la Tournoire.” Illustrated by H. De M. Young.

An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the
adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry III., and
on the field with Henry IV.

=The Road to Paris=

 A STORY OF ADVENTURE. (35th thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an account of
the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite ancestry.

=A Gentleman Player=

  HIS ADVENTURES ON A SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. (48th
  thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare’s company of
players, and becomes a friend and protégé of the great poet.

=Clementina’s Highwayman=

  Cloth decorative, illustrated      $1.50

Mr. Stephens has put into his new book, “Clementina’s Highwayman,” the
finest qualities of plot, construction, and literary finish.

The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period. It is a dashing,
sparkling, vivacious comedy, with a heroine as lovely and changeable as
an April day, and a hero all ardor and daring.

The exquisite quality of Mr. Stephens’s literary style clothes the
story in a rich but delicate word-fabric; and never before have his
setting and atmosphere been so perfect.




WORKS OF CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS


=Haunters of the Silences=

  Cloth, one volume, with many drawings by Charles Livingston Bull, four
  of which are in full color

                                                       $2.00

The stories in Mr. Roberts’s new collection are the strongest and best
he has ever written.

He has largely taken for his subjects those animals rarely met with
in books, whose lives are spent “In the Silences,” where they are the
supreme rulers. Mr. Roberts has written of them sympathetically, as
always, but with fine regard for the scientific truth.

“As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He
is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all
the nature writers.”--_Brooklyn Eagle._

“His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and literary
exactness.”--_New York World._

=Red Fox=

  THE STORY OF HIS ADVENTUROUS CAREER IN THE RINGWAAK WILDS, AND OF HIS
  FINAL TRIUMPH OVER THE ENEMIES OF HIS KIND. With fifty illustrations,
  including frontispiece in color and cover design by Charles Livingston
  Bull.

  Square quarto, cloth decorative      $2.00

“Infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of sport,
since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of
hunted.”--_Boston Transcript._

“True in substance but fascinating as fiction. It will interest old and
young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who
do not.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._

“A brilliant chapter in natural history.”--_Philadelphia North
American._

=The Kindred of the Wild=

  A BOOK OF ANIMAL LIFE. With fifty-one full-page plates and many
  decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.

  Square quarto, decorative cover      $2.00

“Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that
has appeared; well named and well done.”--_John Burroughs._

=The Watchers of the Trails=

  A companion volume to “The Kindred of the Wild.” With forty-eight
  full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by Charles
  Livingston Bull.

  Square quarto, decorative cover      $2.00

“These stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in
their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. Among
the many writers about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable
place.”--_The Outlook._

“This is a book full of delight. An additional charm lies in Mr. Bull’s
faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their own tell
the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing the pen
pictures of the author.”--_Literary Digest._

=The Heart That Knows=

  Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.50

“A novel of singularly effective strength, luminous in literary color,
rich in its passionate, yet tender drama.”--_New York Globe._

=Earth’s Enigmas=

  A new edition of Mr. Roberts’s first volume of fiction, published in
  1892, and out of print for several years, with the addition of three
  new stories, and ten illustrations by Charles Livingston Bull.

  Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.50

“It will rank high among collections of short stories. In ‘Earth’s
Enigmas’ is a wider range of subject than in the ‘Kindred of the
Wild.’”--_Review from advance sheets of the illustrated edition by
Tiffany Blake in the Chicago Evening Post._

=Barbara Ladd=

  With four illustrations by Frank Verbeck.

  Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.50

“From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures us on by
his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and by his keen and
sympathetic analysis of human character.”--_Boston Transcript._




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

On page 69, bedroom has been changed to bed-room.

On page 113, account books has been changed to account-books.

On pages 116 and 120, downstairs has been changed to down-stairs.

On page 131, lawsuit has been changed to law-suit.

On page 168, stable yard has been changed to stable-yard.

On page 172, tree-tops has been changed to treetops.

On page 190, upstairs has been changed to up-stairs.

All other spelling, hyphenation and dialect have been retained as
typeset.