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BOOKS FOR “OUR GIRLS.”

THE MAIDENHOOD SERIES.

By Popular Authors.


SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

By Miss A. M. DOUGLAS, Author of “In Trust,” “Stephen Dane,” “Claudia,”
“Sydnie Adriance,” “Home Nook,” “Nelly Kennard’s Kingdom.” 12mo, cloth,
illustrated. $1.50.

“A charming romance of Girlhood,” full of incident and humor. The
“Seven Daughters” are characters which reappear in some of Miss
Douglas’ later books. In this book they form a delightful group,
hovering on the verge of Womanhood, with all the little perplexities of
home life and love dreams as incidentals, making a fresh and attractive
story.


OUR HELEN.

By SOPHIE MAY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“The story is a very attractive one, as free from the sensational and
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her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly
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THE ASBURY TWINS.

By SOPHIE MAY, Author of “The Doctor’s Daughter,” “Our Helen,” &c.
12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“Has the ring of genuine genius, and the sparkle of a gem of the
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THAT QUEER GIRL.

By Miss VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND, Author of “Only Girls,” &c. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated. $1.50.

Queer only in being unconventional, brave and frank, an “old-fashioned
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RUNNING TO WASTE.

=The Story of a Tomboy.= By GEORGE M. BAKER. 16mo, cloth, illustrated.
$1.50.

“This book is one of the most entertaining we have read for a long
time. It is well written, full of humor, and good humor, and it has not
a dull or uninteresting page. It is lively and natural, and overflowing
with the best New England character and traits. There is also a touch
of pathos, which always accompanies humor, in the life and death of the
tomboy’s mother.”—_Newburyport Herald._


DAISY TRAVERS;

=Or the Girls of Hive Hall=. By ADELAIDE F. SAMUELS, Author of
“Dick and Daisy Stories,” “Dick Travers Abroad,” &c. 16mo, cloth,
illustrated. $1.50.

The story of Hive Hall is full of life and action, and told in the same
happy style which made the earlier life of its heroine so attractive,
and caused the Dick and Daisy books to become great favorites with the
young. What was said of the younger books can, with equal truth, be
said of Daisy grown up.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The above six books are furnished in a handsome box for $9.00, or sold
separate, by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._


  LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers,      Boston.




SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

[Illustration: SEVEN DAUGHTERS.]




  _THE MAIDENHOOD SERIES._

  SEVEN DAUGHTERS.


  BY
  AMANDA M. DOUGLAS,
  _Author of “In Trust,” “Home Nook,” “Katie’s Stories,” &c._


  BOSTON:

  LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
  NEW YORK:
  CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.




  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874,
  By LEE AND SHEPARD,
  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




TO

KATE ISABELLE HIBBARD.


In thy book, oh Lord, are written all that do what they can, though
they cannot do what they would.

  ST. BERNARD.

 _Belvidere, N. J._




SEVEN DAUGHTERS.




CHAPTER I.

  “‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,
  And wondering looked at me.”

  WORDSWORTH.


“Another girl!”

“Seven of ’em!”

“What a pity!”

“The land sakes alive! Brother Endicott will have to buy calico by the
piece for their gowns! He might get a little throwed off, or a spool
of cotton extry. He, he! ho, ho! Well, children are a great risk! You
don’t s’pose there’ll be a donation party right away—do you!”

“There is donation enough for the present, I think; and the sewing
society will not be called upon.”

I liked that soft, silvery voice of Mrs. Whitcomb. It was just like
her pretty light hair, beginning to be plentifully sprinkled with
silver, and her clear peachy skin, that was just a little wrinkled. Her
touch was so gentle, her motions so graceful and pleasing!

“I was only joking about it. They’ll miss her in the s’ciety—that’s
what they will.”

Aunt Letty Perkins was—dreadful! a thorn in the flesh; a sort of
bitter, puckery presence, as if you had just tasted an unripe persimmon.

“And it’ll be a puzzle to get husbands for ’em all. That’s the most
unfort’net thing about girls.”

I suppose she meant _us_, not the society. My face was in a blaze of
indignation. Then the door was shut, and I went on with my dusting.

It was a sunny April morning, and a pair of swallows were twittering
about the windows.

Another girl and there _were_ seven of us. Some one in the parish had
said that Mrs. Endicott would always be sure of a Sunday school class,
for she could fill it up with her own children. I couldn’t help wishing
that there was just _one_ boy among us, even if it were that wee
bairnie they had been discussing. Boys are nice—in some ways.

I don’t know that I should have modified my opinion so suddenly but for
two things. My eye happened to fall on my pretty pearl paper-cutter,
that had been sent to me at Christmas. On one side of the handle was my
monogram, done in scarlet and gold, on the other a little trail of blue
forget-me-nots. A few weeks ago Harry Denham had been in spending the
evening with us,—that means Fan and I, the elders. He and Fanny were
having a little scrimmage, and, in a half tragic manner, he seized my
pretty gift, pretending to arm himself with a dagger, and, somehow, in
the _melee_, the poor thing snapped in twain.

Hal was very sorry. Then he had such great, beseeching brown eyes, that
when he turned them so appealingly to me, I pitied him more than I did
myself. It was very foolish, I know. I ought to have scolded. I should
have said,—

“You great, rough, careless boy! now see what you have done! I wish you
would never come here again!”

“I can get it mended, I know. There is some beautiful white cement used
for such articles. O, Rose, I am _so_ sorry! I’d get you another one,
only it wouldn’t be _it_.”

“Never mind,” I said, meekly, with a wonderful tendency towards tears,
though whether they would have been for Harry, or the knife, or myself,
I could not exactly tell.

So he had it mended, and it _looked_ as good as new. But little Frank
Mortimer came to call with his mother, and brought it to grief again.

The other event that reconciled me to the advent of my little sister,
whom I had not yet seen, was Tabby, who sprang up on the window sill,
with her cunning salutation, like three or four n’s, strung together in
a prolonged musical fashion, not quite a mew. I don’t want you to think
the word back there was meant for a pun, for it wasn’t. I’ll tell you
in the beginning that I am not a bit bright, or sharp, or funny. I have
even heard jokes that I did not see the point of until the next day.

Tabby is just as beautiful as she can be. A Maltese cat, with a white
nose and two white front paws. She is very cunning, and knows almost
everything within the domain of cat knowledge. If there is one thing
I do love better than another, in the way of pets, it is cats. A
clean-faced, sleek cat, sitting on the hearth-rug before the grate, is
enough to give the whole household a feeling of contentment. Then the
kittens are always so funny and frolicksome!

“Tabby,” I said, as she arched her back and rubbed her head against
my sleeve,—“Tabby, _you_ wouldn’t be half so happy if there was a boy
in the house. He would lift you by the tail, turn your ears back, put
walnut shells on your feet, and make you dance on your hind legs. Then
he would be forever tormenting your kittens. Boys are bad naturally.
Maybe they are born so, and can’t help it,” I continued, reflectively.
“I suppose they _do_ have a good deal more of the old Adam in them than
girls, because, you see, we inherit Eve’s propensity to curiosity;
but then boys are fully as curious—aren’t they, Tabby? and as full of
curiosity!”

“Yes,” answered Tabby.

She says it as plainly as you do. In fact, we sometimes hold quite
lengthy conversations.

“So we don’t care—do we? If Aunt Letty Perkins would not make such a
row about it! How would _she_ like to have a lot of boys, I wonder?”

Tabby shook her head sagely, and scratched her left ear. I knew she
felt just the same as I did.

I finished the parlor, and shut down the windows. Then I went to papa’s
study, took the ashes softly out of the grate, and laid another fire,
in case the evening should be cool, picked up papers and magazines, and
dusted with the very lightest of touches. It was my part of the work to
look after the study. I was so glad to be able to suit papa!

Just then the door opened. It was papa himself, fresh from a walk. _I_
think him ever and ever so handsome, though sometimes I wish he was
not quite so thin. He is rather tall, has a fine chest and shoulders;
but it is his sweet, dear old face that I like so much. It’s a little
wrinkled, to be sure, and may be his mouth _is_ a trifle wide. I never
considered it any defect, however, for he shuts his lips together with
such a cordial smile! He has lovely deep-gray eyes, and his hair, which
was once a bright brown, begins to be toned with silvery threads, as
well as his soft brown beard, which he wears full, except a mustache.

“O, papa!” I cried, clasping my arms around his neck, “_are_ you very
sorry?”

“Sorry for what, my daughter?” And he looked a good deal surprised.

“That we haven’t a boy. There are so many of us girls!”

“My dear, I have always had a great fancy for little girls, as you
know. And we take whatever God sends. She is very pretty.”

“O, you dear, blessed papa!”

“You will have to be the mother now, for a little while, Rose. You must
try to manage the children nicely.”

“Indeed, I will do my best. Papa, do you not believe that I could go in
and see her? Aunt Letty Perkins is there.”

“O, how could Mrs. Whitcomb! Yes; come along, child.”

I followed him to the sitting-room. The Rectory was a great, rambling
old house, with a wide hall through the middle. Back of the parlor,
quite shut off, indeed, were the dining-room and the two kitchens; on
the other side, study, sitting-room, nursery, and mamma’s sleeping
apartment.

Mamma’s door was shut. Mrs. Whitcomb was wise enough to keep guard over
that. There was a little fire in the Franklin stove, and before it sat
Mrs. Perkins, though everybody called her Aunt Letty. Her feet were on
the fender, her brown stuff dress turned up over her knees, her black
alpaca skirt not quite so high, and a faded quilted petticoat taking
the heat of the fire. She always wore substantial gray yarn stockings
in the winter, and lead-colored cotton in summer, except on state
occasions. Her bonnet was always a little awry, and the parting of her
hair invariably crooked. I’m sure I don’t know what she did, except to
attend to other people’s affairs.

Mrs. Downs was beside her, a helpless-looking little fat woman, who,
Fan declared, looked like a feather pillow with a checked apron tied
around it. She was always out of breath, had always just left her work,
and was never going to stay more than a moment.

“O, brother Endicott!” exclaimed Aunt Letty, reaching her hand out so
far that she nearly tipped her chair over; “I s’spose you ought to be
congrat_your_lated.” (She always put _your_ in the word, and always
said _equi_nomical, regardless of Noah Webster.) “What does the Bible
say about a man having his quiver full of olive branches? or is it that
they sit round the table? now I disremember. I don’t go much according
to Old Testament. It was well enough for them heathenish Jews and the
old times; but I want the livin’ breathin’ gospel. What you goin’ to
call her?”

Papa smiled, at the absurd transition, I suppose. Fan said Aunt Letty
had only one resemblance to a dictionary—she changed her subjects
without any warning.

“Would Keren-happuch do?” papa asked, with a droll twinkle in his eye.

“O, now, Mr. Endicott!”

“It’s a nice little thing,” put in Mrs. Downs. “Favors its mar I think.”

“Come and see it, Rose.—May we, Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“O, yes, indeed,” with her sweet smile.

She led me to the corner of the room, between the stove and mamma’s
door. There, on two chairs, was a tiny bed, and under the blanket a
tiny baby with a broad forehead, black, silky hair, a cunning little
mouth, but no nose to speak of. Yet she _was_ pretty. I thought I
should like to squeeze her to a jelly, and cover her with kisses,
though I don’t know as that would be orthodox jelly-cake for any but a
cannibal.

Papa glanced at her with a tender smile, then sighed. Perhaps he was
thinking of the long way the little feet would have to travel. It is
a great journey, after all, from the City of Destruction to the New
Jerusalem. Something in the baby-face brought to mind Christiana and
the children.

“Great pity ’tisn’t a boy,” persisted Aunt Letty.

“O, I don’t know about that. They are so handy to take one another’s
clothes,” said papa, humorously.

“To be sure. But yours could be cut over,” returned the literal woman.

“I am afraid that I shall always need mine to the last thread. I have
lost the trick of outgrowing them. O, have you heard that Mrs. Bowers’s
sister has come from the west? Arrived last evening.”

“Land sakes alive! Why, I guess I’ll run right over. Sally and me was
thick as peas in our young days. And her husband’s been a what you call
it out there, senate, or constitution, or something.”

“Member of the legislature,” corrected father, quietly.

“O, yes. Some folks _do_ get along. There’s the middle of my needle. I
should knit there if the house was afire!”

She brushed down her skirts, put her knitting in her satchel, jerked
her shawl up, and pinned it, and settled her old black bonnet more
askew than ever. Mrs. Whitcomb kindly pulled it straight for her.

“Thank’ee. If you want any help, Mrs. Whitcomb, send right straight
over. Ministers are always the chosen of the Lord, and I feel as if one
ought to come at their call.”

“I am much obliged,” returned Mrs. Whitcomb, in her quiet, lady-like
way.

Mrs. Downs took her departure at the same moment. There was a great
bustle, and talking; but father finally succeeded in getting them to
the porch. When Aunt Letty was safely off the steps, she turned and
said,—

“I’m glad you are so well satisfied, Mr. Endicott. It’s a sure sign of
grace to take thankfully what the Lord sends.”

“O, dear,” said papa, with a sigh; “I am afraid I don’t give thanks for
_quite_ everything. ‘Tribulation worketh patience.’ But didn’t those
women almost set you crazy? If I thought another sermon on bridling the
tongue would do any good; I should preach it next Sunday.”

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled and said, in her cool, silvery voice,—

“It takes a great deal of powder and shot to kill a man in battle, and
it takes a great deal of preaching to save a soul.”

“Yes. I get almost discouraged when I find how strong the old Adam is
in human souls.”

I looked at papa rather reproachfully; but just then he opened the door
of mamma’s room, and called me thither.

Mamma was very sweet and lovely. She kissed me many times, and hoped
I would prove a trusty house-keeper, and see that papa had everything
he needed, especially to notice that his cuffs and handkerchiefs were
clean, and that he was in nice order on Sunday.

“And—did I like the baby?” She asked it almost bashfully.

“It is just as sweet as it can be. I only wish it was large enough to
hold and to carry about.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Years afterwards I knew what that meant.

I went out to the kitchen to see about the dinner. We never had regular
servants like other people. It was the lame, and the halt, and the
blind, and the ignorant, metaphorically speaking. Papa brought them
home and mamma took pity on them. Now it was Becky Sill, a great,
overgrown girl of sixteen, whose intemperate father had just died in
the poorhouse, where the three younger children—boys—were waiting for a
chance to be put out to the farmers.

“Look at this ’ere floor, Miss Rose! I’ve scrubbed it white as snow.
And I’ve been a peelin’ of pertaters.”

“_This_ floor is sufficient, Becky; and _peeling_, and _potatoes_.”

“O, law, you’re just like your mother. Some people are born ladies and
have fine ways. I wasn’t.”

“You have been very industrious,” I returned, cheerfully; and then I
went at the dinner.

The hungry, noisy troop came home from school. What if they were _all_
boys!

Do you want a photograph of us? I was past seventeen, not very tall,
with a round sort of figure, and dimples everywhere in my face, where
one could have been put by accident or design. My skin was fair, my
hair—that was my sore point. I may as well tell the truth; it _was_
red, a sort of deep mahogany red, and curled. My features were just
passable. So, you see, I was not likely to set up for a beauty. Fan
was sixteen, taller than I, slender, blonde, with saucy blue eyes and
golden hair, and given to rather coquettish ways. Nelly was fourteen,
almost as tall as I, with papa’s gray eyes,—only hers had a violet
tint,—and mamma’s dark hair. Daisy was next, eleven, and on the blonde
order. Lily, whose name was Elizabeth, and Tim, aged seven. Her real
cognomen was Gertrude; but we began to call her Tiny Tim, and the name,
somehow stuck to her. What a host of girls, to be sure!

“Papa,” I said that evening, going to the study for a good night kiss,
where he was writing in the quiet,—“papa, _are_ you sorry to have so
many girls?”

I had been exercised on the subject all day, and I wanted to dispose of
it before I slept.

“Why, my dear! no;” with a sweet gravity.

“But, papa,”—and I stumbled a little,—“it isn’t likely that—that—we
shall all—get married—”

I could not proceed any farther, and hid my face on his shoulder.

“Married! What ever put such an absurd idea into your head, Rosalind?
A parcel of children—married!”

I knew papa was displeased, or he would never have called me Rosalind.

“O, dear papa, don’t be angry!” I cried. “I was not thinking of being
married, I’m sure. I don’t believe any one will ever like me very much,
because my hair is red, and I may be fat as Mrs. Downs. And if I should
be an old maid,—and I know I shall,—I want you to love me a little; and
if I’m queer and fussy, and all that, you must be patient with me. I
will try to do my best always.”

“My dear darling! what a foolish little thing you are! Some of the old
women have been talking to you, I know. I shall certainly have to turn
the barrel upside down, and find the sermon on bridling the tongue. You
are all little girls, and I will not have the bloom rudely rubbed off
of my peaches. There don’t cry about it;” and he kissed my wet face so
tenderly that I _did_ cry more than ever.

“My little girl, I want us to have a good many years of happiness
together,” he said, with solemn tenderness. “Put all these things out
of your head, and love your mother and me, and do your duty in that
state of life to which it shall please God to call you. I want you to
be like Martin Luther’s bird, who sat on the tree and sang, and let God
think for him. And now, run to bed, for I wish to finish this sermon
while I am in the humor.”

I kissed him many, many times. I was so sure of his sweet,
never-failing love. And I suppose fathers and mothers never _do_ get
tired of us!




CHAPTER II.


It was a bright June morning. The windows were all open; the birds were
singing, and the air was sweet with out-of-door smells. Waving grasses,
hosts of flowers, rose and honeysuckle out on the porch in the very
height of riotous living, each trying to outbloom the other.

We were at breakfast. We never had this meal very early at the Rectory.
On summer mornings papa loved to get up and take a stroll, and botanize
a little. Mamma rose, looked after Becky, and took a quiet supervision
of us all. I helped dress the three younger children, for Fan usually
had some lessons on hand, as she was still in school. By the time we
were ready papa would be back. Then we sang a verse or two of a hymn,
said the Lord’s prayer together, and papa pronounced the greater
benediction over us. It was so short, simple, and enjoyable! Somehow
I do not think children take naturally to prayers, unless they are
rendered very sweet and attractive. We were allowed sufficient time to
get wide awake before coming to breakfast. Mamma was at the head of
the table again, looking as sweet as a new pink. Papa’s place was at
the foot. Fan and I sat opposite each other, about half way down. She
poured the water and the milk. I had the three younger children on my
side, and spread their bread or biscuits for them. I used to think of
Goethe’s Charlotte, only she had brothers as well as sisters.

It was nearly eight o’clock. Lemmy Collins came up with the mail. There
had been a shower the evening before, and none of us had gone for it.

“Ah!” exclaimed papa, “we are bountifully supplied this morning. One
for Nelly, two for mamma, and two for me.”

“O, what elegant writing!” said Nell, leaning over to look at papa’s.

“Yes;” slowly. “I cannot think;” and papa fell into a brown study.

“Why don’t you open it?” asked bright-eyed Daisy; “then you won’t have
to think.”

“To be sure, little wisdom!” and papa smiled. “I will look over this
thin one first, though.”

That was only an invitation to a meeting of the clergy. We were all
watching to see him open the letter par excellence. He took out his
penknife and cut round the seal, which he handed to Tim.

“W—h—y!” lengthening the word out indefinitely. “From Stephen Duncan!”
Then he read on in thoughtful silence, now and then knitting his brows.

Mamma’s letters were from an aunt and a cousin, with some kindly
messages for us all.

“Girls,” said father, with a sudden start, “would you like to have some
brothers large enough to keep their hands and faces clean, and strong
enough to help you garden?”

“Boys are a nuisance!” declared Nell.

“Well, I have an offer of two. One is something of an invalid, though.
My wards, I suppose, for that matter; though I have never considered
myself much of a guardian, since Stephen was old enough to look after
the boys. Then I always thought their uncle, James Duncan, _was_
annoyed at my being put in at all. It seems he died very suddenly, a
month ago, in London. Stephen has to go over and settle his affairs,
and he wants me to keep the boys. Rose, pass this letter up to your
mother.”

“How old are they?” asked Fan.

“Well, I can’t say. Louis is ready to enter college, but has studied
himself out, and will have to go to the country. Stuart is—a boy, I
suppose. I have not seen them since their father died.”

“Poor boys!” said mamma. “And Stephen is coming. Why, he will be here
to-morrow afternoon. This letter has been delayed on its way;” and
mamma glanced at the date and the postmark.

The children were through, and we rose from the table. There was a
perfect hubbub of questions then. Lily swung on father’s arm, while Tim
took a leg, and they were all eagerness to know about the brothers.

“Mamma will have to consider the subject,” he said. “Come, let us go
out and look at the flower-beds. I dare say the rain brought up a
regiment of weeds last night.”

Fanny went to put her room in order; Nelly had some buttons to sew on
her school dress, and followed mamma to the nursery. Becky came in and
helped take the dishes to the kitchen; while I went to my chambers up
stairs.

I hurried a little, I must confess. Then I bundled the youngsters off
to school, and ran into the nursery. Mamma was washing and dressing
baby.

“What about the boys?” I asked. “Will they really come? Should you like
to have them?”

“Perhaps it would be as well for you to read the letter, Rose. You are
old enough to be taken into family council. It seems so odd, too! Only
last evening papa and I were talking about—”

Mamma made so long a pause that I glanced up from the letter, having
only read the preface, as one might say. There was a perplexed look on
the sweet face.

“What is it, mamma?” and I knelt beside her, kissing baby’s fat cheek.

“My dear, I resolved long ago never to burden my girls with cares
and worries before their time. And yet, it would be so delightful to
have you for a friend! A clergyman’s wife has to be doubly discreet
on some points. Now, if I was to say to two or three good friends in
the parish, ‘Our circumstances are somewhat straightened by the recent
expenses,’ they would, no doubt, seek to make it up in some way. But I
have a horror of anything that looks like begging.”

“O, yes, mamma. Aunt Letty Perkins wondered, the day after the baby was
born, if there would not be a donation visit.”

Mamma’s sweet face flushed.

“We have managed so far,” she said; “and everything has gone very
pleasantly. Papa is well loved, and we have a delightful home. This
great old house and garden are worth a good deal. But I am wandering
from my text into byways and highways. I feel that I should sometimes
like to have a friend to talk to who would be a sort of second self—”

“O, mamma take me!” I cried.

“I have always wanted to be like an elder sister to my girls as they
grew to womanhood.”

I wanted to cry, and I was resolved not to. Mamma’s tone was so sweet
that it went to my heart. But to stop myself, I laughed, and exclaimed,—

“Fan would say that your hands would be pretty full if you were going
to be a sister to each one of us. Or you would have to be divided into
infinitesimal pieces.”

“And fourteen girls might not be desirable, if their father was a
clergyman,” she answered, smilingly.

“So, let us be the best of friends, mamma, dearest, and you shall tell
me your troubles. It is being so poor, for one, I know.”

“Yes, dear. Poverty is not always a delightful guest. Last evening
we were resolving ways and means, and papa proposed to give up the
magazines, and be very careful about his journeys. But I cannot bear to
have _him_ pinch. And, you see, if we took these boys, the extra living
would not cost us anything to speak of. Ten weeks would be—two hundred
dollars.”

“O, mamma!”

“It is right that I should consult you about the work. It will make
your duties more arduous. Then taking strangers into your family is
never _quite_ so pleasant. But go on with the letter. We will discuss
it afterwards.”

I felt drawn so near to mamma by the talk and the confidence, that at
first I could hardly take the sense of what I was reading. But I will
tell you the story more briefly.

Papa and Mr. Duncan had been very dear friends for many years; in fact,
I believe, since papa’s boyhood. When Mr. Duncan died he left papa a
small legacy, and some valuable books and pictures, besides associating
him with his brother in the guardianship of his three boys. Mr. James
Duncan, who was an exceedingly proud and exclusive man, seemed to
resent this, and treated papa rather coolly. Their business was done in
writing, and papa had never seen his wards since their father’s funeral.

Stephen had spent one summer at our house when he was quite a boy. It
seemed now that he preserved the liveliest recollection of my mother’s
kindness and care, and desired very much to see my father. The taking
of the boys he asked as a great favor, since he would have to spend all
the summer in England; and he appeared to feel the responsibility of
his brothers very keenly. It was such a nice, kind, gentlemanly letter,
evincing a good deal of thoughtfulness, and respect for papa; and even
where he spoke of the terms, he did it with so much delicacy, as if he
were fearful that it would not be sufficient compensation, and proposed
to come and talk the matter over, as he should, no doubt, need a good
deal of advice from papa in the course of the next few years.

“What a good, sweet letter this is, mamma!” I said. “It makes me think
of papa.”

“Yes; I liked it exceedingly. Papa is greatly interested with the plan.
He thinks it will help us to straighten up matters, so that we can
begin next fall quite easy in our minds. The only other thing he could
do would be to take some boys to prepare for college. That is very
wearing. In this we could all help.”

“I hope the boys will be nice,” I said, with a little misgiving.

“They will be out of doors a great deal, and certainly ought to behave
like gentlemen, since they have been at the best of schools. You will
have to keep their room in order; there will be rather more in the way
of cooking and deserts; but Fanny must help a little during vacation.
You see, baby is going to take up much of my time. But if I thought it
would be uncomfortable for you girls—”

“O, mamma, it will only last such a little while, after all! And the
two hundred dollars—”

“We must not be mercenary, little one.”

Before we had finished, papa came in again. We were all on the boys’
side, I could plainly see.

The next morning I aired the large spare room, brought out fresh
towels, and arranged some flowers in the vases. There was matting on
the floor, a maple bureau, wash-stand, and bedstead. The curtains were
thin white muslin, with green blinds outside, which gave the apartment
a pretty, pale tint.

I didn’t mean to put the two boys in this room when they came. There
was another, opposite, not _quite_ so nice, plenty good enough for
rollicking boys.

Papa went over to the station for Stephen.—Mr. Duncan, I mean. I
wondered why I should have such an inclination to call him by his
Christian name—a perfect stranger, too. But when I saw him I was as
formal as you please.

As tall as papa, and somewhat stouter, with a grave and rather
impressive air, eyes that _could_ look you through, a firm mouth,
that, somehow, seemed to me, _might_ be very stern and pitiless. He
had a broad forehead, with a good deal of fine, dark hair; but, what I
thought very singular, blue eyes, which reminded you of a lake in the
shade. His side-whiskers and mustache gave him a very stylish look, and
he was dressed elegantly. Poor papa looked shabby beside him.

Mamma and the baby, Fanny and I, were on the wide porch, while the
children were playing croquet on the grassy lawn, though I do so much
like the old-fashioned name of “door-yard.” Papa introduced him in his
homelike, cordial fashion, and he shook hands in a kind of stately
manner that didn’t seem a bit like his letter.

He came to me last. I knew he did not like me. I think you can always
tell when any one is pleased with you. He studied me rather sharply,
and almost frowned a little. I felt that it was my red hair. And then I
colored all over, put out my hand awkwardly, and wished I was anywhere
out of sight.

“And all the small crowd out there,” said papa, in so gay a voice that
it quite restored me to composure.

“Really, friend Endicott, I was not prepared for this.—Why, Mrs.
Endicott, how have you kept your youth and bloom? Why, I am suddenly
conscience-smitten that I have proposed to add to your cares.”

“You will feel easy when you see the inside of the house. There is
plenty of room, plenty;” and papa laughed.

“You had only a small nest when I visited you before,” Mr. Duncan said
to mother. “But how very lovely the whole village is! I am so glad
to find such a place for Louis. I hope my boys will not worry you to
death, Mrs. Endicott, for, somehow, I do not know as I can give up
the idea of sending them here, especially as Mr. Endicott is their
guardian. I think it will do them both good to be acquainted intimately
with such a man.”

It was all settled then.

“I have wished a great many times that we had a sister for Louis’s
sake. Oddly enough, my uncle James’s children were all boys, and Louis
is very peculiar in some respects. It is asking a great deal of you. I
understand that well, and shall appreciate it.”

I knew that I ought to look after Becky and the supper; so I rose and
slipped away.

“Two boys,” I said to myself. “I do not believe that I shall like
them;” and I shook my head solemnly.




CHAPTER III.


I went out to the kitchen and advised a few moments with our maid of
all work, and then began to arrange the supper table. The visitor must
sit next to papa, of course, but not on my side of the table. I did not
mean to have him any nearer than I could help; for, if he disliked red
hair, I would not flirt it under his eyes. Or, suppose I placed him
next to Fan! She was so carelessly good natured that he would not be
likely to disturb her thoughts.

Mamma took the baby to the nursery, and then came in to give an
approving look. I placed the two tall vases of flowers on the table,
and it did present a very pretty appearance.

“We are all ready now,” she said. “Call papa.”

I rang the bell, and the children came trooping in, papa and Mr. Duncan
bringing up the rear. Fan glanced at the places, and looked pleased, I
thought.

“Here Mr. Duncan,” she said, with a pretty wave of her hand; and he
took the proffered seat, giving me a quick glance, that brought the
warm blood to my cheeks.

We had a merry time; for, after all, strangers were no great rarity;
and we were always merry in our snug little nest. It was said through
the parish that every one had a good time at our house; and Mr. Duncan
appeared to be no exception. When we were almost through, we began to
say verses, each one repeating a passage of Scripture commencing with
the same letter. We caught Mr. Duncan right away. He commenced two or
three before he could hit upon the right beginning.

“You see, I am not very ready with my wits,” he said, laughingly.

Lily, Daisy, and Tim always had a romp with papa afterwards; but my
duties were not ended until they were snugly tucked in bed. You see,
we could not afford nurse-maids and all that on papa’s salary. But
then, frolicking with them in bed was such a delight that I never
minded the knots in their shoestrings, and the loads of trash that
had to be emptied out of their pockets, to say nothing of mischief and
dawdling, and the heaps of dresses and skirts lying round in little
pyramids. Now and then I would make some stringent rules: every child
must hang up her clothes, take care of her shoes and stockings, and
put her comb and hair-ribbon just where they could be found in the
morning. But, somehow, the rules were never kept. I suppose I was a
poor disciplinarian.

I went down stairs at length. Mr. Duncan was pacing the porch alone.
Papa had been called to see a sick neighbor. Mamma was listening to
poor old Mrs. Hairdsley’s troubles, told over for the hundredth time, I
am sure. She was a mild, inoffensive, weak-eyed old lady, living with
rather a sharp-tempered daughter-in-law. Fan was out on an errand of
mercy also.

“What a busy little woman you are!” he said. “I am glad to see you at
last; and I hope no one will fall sick, or want broth, or be in trouble
for the next fifteen minutes. I suppose clergymen’s houses are always
houses of mercy. I begin to feel conscience-smitten to think that I am
adding to the general burden. What will you do with two boys?”

“I cannot exactly tell,” I answered slowly, at which he appeared a good
deal amused, though I did not see anything particularly funny in it.

“I think I would like to come myself, if I were not going ‘over the
seas.’ What would I be good for? Could I do parish visiting?”

“Yes; and teach the Sunday school, and go around with a subscription
list, and—”

“O, the subscription list finishes me. I should stop at every gate, and
put down a certain amount, and pay it out of my own pocket. Begging I
utterly abhor.”

“But if you had nothing in your pocket? If your neighbors were richer
than you, and if you were trying to teach people that it was their duty
to provide for the sick and the needy?”

“Why, what a little preacher you are! Let us go out in the moonlight.
What a lovely night! Suppose we walk down to meet your father. He said
he should not stay long.”

I could think of no good excuse to offer; so we sauntered slowly
through the little yard and out to the street, both keeping silent for
some time.

“Miss Endicott,” he began presently, “I wish I could interest you in my
brothers. You have such a quaint, elder-sister air, that I know you
would have a good influence over them; though they may not prove so
very interesting,” he went on, doubtfully. “Louis is nervous, and has
been ill; and boys are—well, different from girls.”

I was not such a great ignoramus. I suppose he thought, because we had
a houseful of girls, we knew nothing whatever of boys; so I answered,
warmly,—

“The parishioners sometimes come to tea with two or three boys, who
think they ought to demolish the furniture as well as the supper. Then
there are the Sunday schools, and the picnics, and the children’s
festivals—”

“So you do see boys in abundance.”

“They are no great rarity,” I replied, drily.

“And you do not like them very much?”

“I do not exactly know.”

He laughed there. It vexed me, and I was silent.

“I think it a mistake when the girls are put in one family and the boys
in another. Sisters generally soften boys, tone them down, and give
them a tender grace.”

“And what are the brothers’ graces?” I asked.

“Boys have numberless virtues, we must concede,” he returned
laughingly. “I think they perfect your patience, broaden your ideas,
and add a general symmetry. They keep you from getting too set in your
ways.”

I saw him smile down into my face in the soft moonlight, and it _did_
annoy me. Men are always thinking themselves so superior!

“Our mother died when Stuart was a baby. She was always an invalid. But
the summer I spent with your mother is such a sunny little oasis in my
life, that I wanted the boys to have at least one pleasant memory. I
suppose I _am_ selfish—one of the strong points of the sex.”

“O,” I said, “I thought you were all virtues.”

“We have just about enough faults to preserve ballast. But perhaps you
do not like the idea of their coming.”

He studied my face intently for a moment, from my round chin up to my
hair. I remembered, in great confusion, that red-haired people were
suspected of being quick-tempered.

“I am sorry. They _will_ be an annoyance. I ought to have thought—”

“You misunderstood me, Mr. Duncan,” I began, with a tremble in my
voice. “I should not have objected to their coming, even if I
considered that I had a right. It will ease papa’s burdens in another
way, and I am quite ready to do my part.”

“Little girl, there are a good many things that money cannot buy,” he
said gravely.

I had surely done it now! How mercenary he would think us! I could have
cried with vexation.

There was a silence of some minutes. I had an inward consciousness that
we were not foreordained to get on nicely together.

“It is of some of these things that I would like to speak,” he began,
slowly. “The boys have been to a good school, to be sure; but they
never have had a home, or home training. And on some of the higher
points of morals, a woman’s influence does more by its silent grace
than hundreds of lectures. Will you be a little patient with their
rough ways and want of consideration? I am offering you a part of my
burden, to be sure; but then, with your father’s permission, I am to
share part of yours. I am to stand with you to-morrow at your little
sister’s christening. Believe me, that I am very glad to be here.”

Papa had intended to ask Mr. Searle, his senior warden. I was surprised
at the change.

“Do you not like that, either?” and there was a tinge of disappointment
in his tone.

“Excuse me. It was only the suddenness.”

“I like the claim it gives me upon all your remembrances. Then your
interest need only last a little while, if you so elect, while mine
stretches over a whole life.”

“There is papa!” I exclaimed, with a great breath of relief, and
sprang towards him. He put his dear arm around me, and I felt as if my
perplexities had come to a sudden end.

On the porch we found Fanny and mamma, and the conversation became very
bright and general. Indeed, we sat up past our usual hour.

When Fan and I were up stairs she began at once.

“Mr. Duncan is just splendid! I envied you your walk, and I came back
so soon that I had half a mind to run after you.”

“I wish you had been in my place. We did not get on at all. I wonder if
we shall like the boys.”

“I shall not worry about them until they come.”

“But a fortnight soon passes, and then good-by to our quiet house.”

“A quiet house, with seven children in it!” and Fan laughed merrily.

“Well they are not—”

“Boys! of course. But then, boys grow to be men. And men like Stephen
Duncan are charming. One can afford to have a little trouble.”

“O, Fan! how can you talk so?”

“I wasn’t born blind or dumb. I cannot account for it in any other way.
Now, I dare say, Miss Prim, you are thinking of the two hundred dollars
at the end of the summer, and all that it is to buy.”

“It has to be earned first.”

“We will take Mrs. Green’s cheerful view of boarders. ‘They are not
much trouble in the summer, when you only eat ’em and sleep ’em.’”

I could not help smiling at the quotation.

“I wish it were Stephen instead. And how he talks of running over to
England! Not making as much of it as we should of going to New York. It
is just royal to be rich. Rose, I think I shall marry for money, and
set a good example to the five girls coming after me; for, my dear, I
have a strong suspicion that you will be an old maid.”

“O, Fanny, to-morrow will be Sunday, and the baby’s christening.”

“Dear little Tot! yes. And we must set her a pattern of sweetness, so
that she may see the manifest duty of all women. So, good-night, Mother
Hubbard of many troubles.”

Fan gave me two or three smothering kisses, and subsided. I tried to
do a little serious thinking, but was too sleepy; and, in spite of my
efforts, I went off in a dream about her and Mr. Duncan walking up the
church aisle together, Fan in a trailing white dress. I awoke with the
thought in my mind. But it _was_ foolish, and I tried to get it out.

Sunday was beautiful. The air was full of fragrance; bloom of tree and
shrub, pungent odors of growing evergreens, and the freshening breath
of grassy fields. After a pleasant breakfast, the children were made
ready for church. Sundays were always such enjoyable days with us! I
don’t know quite what the charm was; but they seemed restful, and full
of tender talking and sweet singing.

After Sunday school, in the afternoon, the children were catechized,
and there was a short service.

Very few knew of the baby’s christening; so the congregation was not
larger than usual. After the lesson, we went forward, mamma, Mrs.
Whitcomb, baby, Mr. Duncan, and I. A sweet solemn service it was, baby
being very good and quiet. Edith Duncan. The second name had been
agreed upon in the morning, at Stephen’s request.

The children crowded around papa afterwards.

“I do not wonder that everybody loves him,” Mr. Duncan said, as we
walked homeward. “And I feel as if I had a small claim upon him myself.
I am a sort of brother to you now, Nelly.”

“Are you?” answered Nelly, with a roguish laugh. “I did not think it
was so near a relation as that.”

“Perhaps it may be a grandfather, then,” was the grave reply.

“O, that’s splendid!” declared Tiny Tim, who had big ears. “For we
never had a grandfather, you know, only—”

“Only what?”

“Your hair is not very white,” commented Tim, as if suspicious of so
near a relationship with a young man.

He laughed gayly.

“I mean to be adopted into the family, nevertheless. My hair may turn
white some day.”

“There is no hurry,” returned Fanny. “I doubt if Tim would be the more
cordial on that account.”

“Perhaps not;” with a shrewd smile. “But you will have to give me a
sort of elder brother’s place.”

“Will you really be our brother?” asked Daisy.

“I shall be delighted to, if every one will consent. Ask Miss Rose if I
may.”

“You like him—don’t you, Rose?” Papa said—

“We will take him for a brother,” I returned, gaspingly, my cheeks
scarlet, for fear of some indiscreet revelation.

“I have never had any sisters; so I am very glad to get you all. I hope
you will treat me well, and bring me home something nice when you go
abroad.”

“But we are not going,” said Tim; “and I don’t believe I could hem a
handkerchief nicely enough for you.”

“Then it will have to be the other way. Let me see: seven sisters.
Well, I shall not forget you while I am gone.”

Mr. Duncan went to church that evening with Fan and Nelly, and, after
he came home, had a long talk with papa out on the porch. Papa had
enjoyed his guest very much and I was glad of that. It had been quite a
holiday time.

After breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan went away. He took little
Edith in his arms, and walked up and down the room with her.

“I feel as if I did not want to go away,” he said, turning to mamma.
“I think you must spoil everybody in this house. I almost envy the
boys their summer vacation.—Ah, Miss Fanny, you see I am by no means
perfect.”

Fan nodded her head rather approvingly. I am not sure but she liked a
spice of wickedness.

“I shall remember your promise,” he said to me, with his good-by.

What had I promised? About the boys—was it? Well I would do my best. I
should have done it without his asking.

“And in three months or so I shall see you again. Good by, little
flock.”

Ah, little did we guess then how many things were to happen before we
saw him again!

But the house seemed quite lonesome without him. I made the children
ready for school, and then went at my rooms. If the boys _should_ be
like Stephen, it would not be so very bad after all.

There was a deal of work to be done in the next fortnight. Our maid, as
usual, was called away, providentially, as Fan used to say of them at
any new disappearance, and we succeeded in getting a middle-aged Irish
woman, who could wash and iron excellently, but who knew very little
about cooking. But mamma said there was always something lacking; and,
since she was good and strong, it would do. All these matters were
barely settled, when a note came, saying that Louis and Stuart Duncan
would be at the station on Friday at four.

Nelly walked over with papa. I had relented a little, and made their
apartment bright and sweet with flowers. I had a fancy that I should
like Louis the better; he, being an invalid, was, doubtless, gentle;
and I wheeled the easy-chair to a view of the most enchanting prospect
out of the south window. Then, as usual, I went back to the work of
getting supper. There is always so much eating going on in this world,
and you need so many dishes to eat it off of! We are not flowers of the
field, or fairies, to sup on dew.

“O, there they come—in a carriage!”

Tiny Tim clapped her hands at that, whereupon the baby crowed and
laughed.

A hack with two trunks. A bright, curly-haired boy sprang out, and
assisted Nelly in the most approved style. Then papa, and a tall,
slender young man, looking old for his eighteen years.

It did not seem a prepossessing face to me. The lips were thin, the
brow contracted with a fretful expression, the nose undeniably haughty,
and the cheeks sunken and sallow. Stuart was so different! red and
white, with glittering chestnut hair, and laughing eyes, that were
hazel, with a kind of yellowish tint in them, that gave his whole face
a sunny look. One warmed to him immediately.

Mamma went to the hall, and we followed; and the introductions took
place there.

“Take the trunks up to the room, Mat,” said my father.

The boys bowed, and followed, Stuart casting back a gay glance. Papa
took off his hat, kissed the baby, and sat down.

“I was quite shocked to see Louis,” he said, in an anxious tone. “He
looks very poorly indeed. We must try our best to nurse him back to
health and strength. Rose, there is some more work to do.”

The voices up stairs were raised quite high in dispute. Louis gave a
tantalizing laugh.

We never quarrelled. I do not know that we were so much more amiable by
nature; but our disputes were of small importance, and never reached
any great height. So we all started rather nervously.

“Boys!” said Fan, sententiously. “O, papa, dearest, I am so glad that
you came into the world a full-grown, evenly-tempered man, and that we
all could not help being sweet if we tried, seeing that we follow your
example.”

“Do you?” returned papa, archly. “I hope you do not use it all up, and
that there is a little left for the parish.”

“And the stranger within our gates.”

There seemed to be no cessation in the discussion up stairs; so,
presently, papa asked that the bell might be rung. Stuart answered the
summons, coming down two steps at a bound, and shaking the house.

“Louis begs you to excuse him,” he said, with a graceful inclination.
“He is knocked up completely. He made such a muff of himself at the
examinations, that he has been cross as a bear ever since. He has a
lovely temper.”

There was a droll light in his eyes as he uttered this.

“Your brother said he was in poor health. So he—failed then?” and
papa’s voice dropped softly.

“Yes. Steve did not want him to try. He said there was no hurry about
his getting into college. I only wish somebody would coddle me up,
and tell me that I needn’t study. I think the whole world is in a
conspiracy against me.”

“You seem to thrive on it,” returned papa.

“O, there is no use of worrying one’s self into the grave, so far as I
can see. I believe in enjoying everything that I can squeeze a bit of
fun out of. So I laugh at Louis, and he gets angry.”

“It is just possible that he may not see the fun,” said papa, soberly.

“That is his lookout.”

“Is he really ill?” asked mamma.

“Not much, I guess. But he is as full of whims as any old granny! He
should have been a girl.”

“Keep him on your side of the house,” retorted Fan. “It is a good thing
that boys do not monopolize all the virtues.”

He looked at her with a peculiar stare, then laughed. He did seem
brimming over with merriment, and rather pleased that Fanny had shown
her colors. So they had a little gay sparring.

“Do you not think your brother would like a cup of tea?” asked mamma.

“When he gets in a fit like this, he generally sulks it out,” returned
Stuart carelessly, rising and sauntering out on the porch.

Mamma could not resist, and presently went up stairs, tapping lightly
at the half-open door.

“I wish you would go away,” said a voice, crossly.

“It is I,” exclaimed mamma, in her soft, yet firm, tones, that always
commanded respect.

“O! excuse me;” and Louis half raised his head.

“Will you not have a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you;” rather ungraciously.

“Can I not do something for you? Does your head ache?”

“Yes. I do not want anything but quiet.”

“Very well; you shall have that,” she said, softly.

She came down stairs, with a little sigh.

“Is the bear still on exhibition, Mrs. Endicott?” asked Stuart.

“I am afraid you, in your perfect health, do not realize how hard some
things are to endure,” she said, with a touch of reproof in her voice.

“I am glad I have not such a fearful temper.—Miss Endicott, you play
croquet, of course. I challenge you to a game.”

Fanny tripped gayly down the path. But mamma, I noticed, looked very
grave.




CHAPTER IV.


Fan, Nelly, and Stuart played croquet until it was fairly dusk. There
were shouts of laughter, and much hurrying around, as if no time was to
be lost. Mamma and I went quietly about our duties; and when I had the
children in bed, I came into the nursery and sat down to have a brief
talk with her. By this time the click of the balls had ceased, and the
three were strolling up and down the street.

“How odd it seems!” I said. “I wonder if we shall get along nicely.”

“Don’t begin to fear thus early, Mr. Faint-heart,” returned mamma,
smilingly. “It will not be as nice as having our house to ourselves;
but we are not doing it for pure enjoyment. When we are tired, and
worried, and discouraged we must think of all the nice things we shall
buy in the fall, and be comforted. We shall have papa a new study
carpet, and get his chair freshly covered.”

“And if it _could_ be Russia leather! That would last him all his life.
At all events, we will spend half on him; and I am sure he will deserve
it. He will, likely, be the greatest sufferer by the confusion.”

“The boys will be out of doors much of the time, no doubt. We must try
to improve our invalid as rapidly as possible. Poor boy!”

“Mamma,” I said, “what a great generous heart you have! You always pity
every one. I have a suspicion that Mr. Louis is cross as well as sick.”

“Then we must minister to the mind as well as the body.”

“I am glad that Stuart is bright and cheerful.”

“O, those children must come in!” she said, starting up. “Fanny is so
thoughtless!”

They answered the summons, but sat down on the porch step, where Stuart
finished a story of boyish school-pranks, which was very amusing, to
say the least. Papa came in time to hear the last of it, and shook his
head rather sagely.

“It is past ten,” announced mamma.

“Country bed-time!” said Stuart, gayly. “I suppose, Mrs. Endicott, that
is a hint for me to go stir up my bear, and listen to a few growls. A
menagerie; ten cents admittance. Who’ll venture in? Don’t all speak at
once, or the place may be crowded.”

“Perhaps, since he is not very well, you had better sleep in another
room to-night,” mamma said.

“Because he might eat me up in the night, since he refused his supper.
I am much obliged, Mrs. Endicott.”

Mamma came around a trifle, so that she faced him, and, standing in the
shaded light, raised her soft, dark eyes to his, and said,—

“This is out of consideration to him, and not the fear of what will
happen to you. That will be the thought for you to go to bed with, and
see if you cannot resolve it into a lesson worth the learning. If I
adopt you into my household, I shall train you as one of my children.
And you will be astonished to see what marvels a little care for the
feelings of others will work.”

Stuart blushed and smiled, said good night, and followed papa to the
best guest-chamber, that I had put in such lovely order. And so there
was quiet through the night.

Louis did not make his appearance at breakfast; but Stuart had been
in stirring him up, for we heard the growls. But he was so merry and
good-natured when he came down, that one had not the heart to find any
fault. Indeed, he kept the children laughing all through the meal.

“What is there to do in this queer little town, Mr. Endicott?” he asked
presently. “Fishing, I suppose—the staple amusement of lazy people. Any
hunting?”

“Not at this season; and very little at any. There are some nice
rambles, and the fishing, as you say.”

“Any young fellows that one would like?”

“Yes a number; though some of them keep pretty busy during the day. And
I forgot rowing. There are boats to be had.”

“Thank you. I’ll take a saunter round. I always do have the luck of
finding some one.”

“And there are books in the library. You may like to keep fresh for
fall. So your brother was a good deal disappointed at not passing?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t have troubled me. Steve was not a bit anxious; so I
should have let it go without a sigh. There is nothing like resignation
in this world.”

“You are an admirable pattern of it,” said Fanny. “I feel tempted to
envy you. I have another fortnight of school; and fearful examinations
are hanging over my devoted head.”

“Couldn’t I go in your stead? I am fresh from it all, and might save
you much vanity and vexation of spirit.”

“Especially the vanity. Your kindness is only exceeded by your great
beauty. _Shakespeare._”

“Fanny!” said papa.

Mamma rose from the table, and prepared a dainty breakfast upon a
waiter, pouring the coffee in a pretty medallion cup that had been
given her at Christmas. Then she took it herself. Stuart sprang up with
an instinct of gentlemanliness.

“You are not going to carry that up stairs?” he asked, in surprise.

“Why not?”

“If you are not going to send a servant, I will take it.”

“You may carry it for me, if you like; but I wish to make a call upon
your brother.”

He was her attendant as far as the door; but when her summons was
answered, she dismissed him. Then she walked straight to the bedside,
placing her tray on a small table.

“Are you rested this morning?” she asked, gently. “I think you
will feel better for some breakfast. I am sorry that you should be
so fatigued and ill, for a place seldom looks bright under such
circumstances. But we will do our best for you, and you must try as
well.”

The scowl remained in his forehead. He raised himself on his elbow, and
turned towards her, though his eyes were still averted.

“I am obliged for the trouble, though I do not need any breakfast,” he
said, rather gruffly.

“I think you _do_ need it. Here is a glass of cool spring water, and
some fragrant coffee. A little of both may revive you. Does your head
still ache? If I had known just what to do for you, I should have come
again last night.”

“Was it you who—” and his face flushed a swarthy scarlet.

“Yes;” and mamma looked steadily at him out of her sweet brown eyes.

He moved uneasily, and in his heart wished she were away.

“Was it you who came last evening?” he asked, in a low, wondering tone.

“Yes. I felt anxious about you. I knew you were in a strange place,
and, doubtless, feeling awkward and lonesome. That must be my apology.”

“O,” he exclaimed, “don’t make any—to me. I acted like a boor! I am
sorry and ashamed. And I don’t deserve that you should take all this
trouble for me. But I had been—”

“And I _did_ sympathize with you to the utmost. The disappointment must
have proved great. But I do believe it will be much better for you to
wait. You were not strong enough to take up a college course.”

“Yet I had said those things over and over again. I knew them fairly
well, at least. And to have all those boobies set up and sneer! I could
have killed them!”

He looked so at the moment.

“O,” mamma said, “you must not think of this now. Do not try to keep
the angry flames alive. It is a bright, lovely morning; and if you
could make the effort to come down on the porch, you would feel so much
better! Try this coffee—to please me.”

“You are very kind and solicitous.”

There was a little tremble in his voice; but he made no effort to touch
the food.

“If you appreciate it, you will begin your breakfast before everything
gets cold. You will feel more like rising then. Come, I mean to cheer
you up in spite of yourself. This is not Doubting Castle, and I cannot
take in Giant Despair.”

He smiled faintly then, and sipped his coffee.

“There,” mamma said, in her bright, cheery way, “you have made a small
beginning, and that gives me faith in you. Now I must go back to my
flock. Down stairs there is a cool, pleasant library, and a piano,
which always stands open. I want you to feel at home.”

“You _are_ good,” he returned. “Can I have the library to myself, or
only with Mr. Endicott?”

“Yes; or the parlor, either. Indeed, Mr. Endicott has finished his
sermons, and will be out nearly all day.”

“Thank you.”

Stuart was lying in wait at the foot of the stairs.

“Well,” with a gay little laugh, “did you beard the lion in his den? I
must go up and make him roar.”

“No,” said mamma, laying her hand on his arm, “you must not go up; and
I ask, as a personal favor, that you will not tease him this whole
day.”

“Tease him! The baby! Poor little thing!”

“I have promised him a quiet morning. You will not compel me to break
my word?”

“Then I shall have to go out and hunt up some fun.”

She smiled in her irresistible fashion, that conquered if it did not
convince.

We had made an exception, and done the most of our Saturday’s work on
Friday morning. So now there was only a little dusting, with the usual
making of beds, and all that. I had just finished the other rooms, when
Louis left his, and went quietly down to the study, shutting himself
in. To mamma’s satisfaction, he had eaten nearly all the breakfast she
had prepared.

I put the room in its usual order. Oddly enough, I found a withered
rose under the pillow, and it was still sweet. I remembered that
Stephen was very fond of roses. There were ever so many small articles
strewn about. I thought those big boys were as careless as the children.

Papa came in just before dinner was ready, and had a little chat with
Louis, though the young man was not disposed to be social. At dinner he
seemed dreadfully awkward and embarrassed, his sallow cheeks, flushing
at the least word. Somehow I was glad Stuart was not there. Afterwards
he went up to his room, and spent the whole afternoon alone.

We had rather a funny time. Stuart came in late, and insisted upon
having his dinner in the kitchen, telling Ann two or three such
laughable Irish stories, that they were friends straightway. Then he
would insist upon carrying Fan’s basket when she was ready to start on
her visitation, as she called it.

“It was as good as a play,” he said afterwards. “I thought I should
smile audibly at that old lady—Mrs. Means, I believe you called her.
She is an ungrateful wretch, Mrs. Endicott. ‘She did not like such
light, chaffy bread; it had no heart. You might as well eat sawdust.’
And she wanted to know how many eggs were in the custard; and when
people sent currants, she wished they would send sugar, too. ‘Nasty,
sour things!’ Why, I had half a mind to hustle the gifts back in the
basket, and bring them home.”

“We are not to get weary in well doing,” said mamma.

“I’m not sure but a little wholesome hunger would be good. And then
that old Mrs. Bogert! Doesn’t she look funny there in the bed, with
her little, wrinkled face and that flapping cap-ruffle. And her talk,
and the queer way in which she keeps questioning her maid—‘Betty, how
long is it since I was tuck sick?’ in that high, cracked voice, which
sounds like a smashed hand organ with a monkey grinding it. ‘Betty,
tell the gentleman how I fell down the cellar stairs. Betty, bring me
my snuff-box; mebby the young gentleman will take a pinch.’”

He imitated Mrs. Bogert’s tone so exactly, that we could not help
laughing.

“Did you take a pinch?” asked Nelly.

“Of course I did. And such sneezing!”

“It was dreadful,” said Fan, with a reproachful look. “And not a bit in
earnest.”

“How _did_ you do it?” Nelly questioned.

“This way.”

There isn’t any method of spelling such terrific sneezing. No
combination of letters would do it justice. I thought I wouldn’t laugh;
but I did and the children screamed.

“Good snuff—wasn’t it?” he said, with a droll wink.

“I don’t see how you can do it, all in fun,” said wide-eyed Daisy.

“I do not believe I shall take you out with me again,” commented Fan,
severely.

“But I know the way now. I shall drop in to see the old lady often, and
get a pinch of snuff. O, dear! I am almost worn out with my arduous
duties. Can any one stay me with a glass, and comfort me with cold
water—the literal for apples and love? And then can’t we dissipate
on croquet? If I sit still much longer I shall have the rickets. My
physician prescribed active exercise.”

“You had better take the baby out in her carriage, if you want
exercise,” said Tiny Tim, having heard the two connected some way.

He laughed.

“For—

    ‘Satan finds some mischief still
      For idle hands to do.’

Isn’t that in the hymn book?”

“Not in mine,” returned Fan.

“Well, I am sure it is in the spelling-book. I learned it somewhere;
and it is about a busy bee. Good instructions, like pins, are never
lost.”

“But pins _are_ lost. Your logic is faulty.”

“No they’re always gone before—that is, before you want them.”

“You are too smart for your size,” said Fan. “I am afraid you’ll grow
up a dunce.”

“Well, you cannot have all the virtues for a little money. As it is, I
think of striking for higher wages.”

“You are not worth what you get now,” said Fan, running away.

Stuart did not venture up stairs until just before supper. Louis
declined to come down; so mamma sent him some tea, berries, and
biscuits.

“I am afraid you are beginning in a way to make trouble for yourself,”
papa said, thoughtfully, afterwards.

“I am going to indulge him for a few days. He is nervous, and really
bashful; and I want him to learn to like us. But he cannot be forced to
do anything.”

“I believe I like my girls the best,” said papa, fondly.

Saturday evenings, when no one dropped in, were our choicest time of
all the week. Mamma played, and we all sang. This time no one came to
disturb us. And we never knew, until long afterwards, that Louis Duncan
listened with his eyes full of tears, and had not the courage to join
us. But it always appeared to me like a little bit of heaven below.
Papa’s sweet tenor voice seemed to belong to some particular hymns, and
it took me far above the petty work-day affairs. How good and lovely he
was in his every-day walks and ways!

Louis began to get somewhat acquainted with us on Sunday. He did not
go to church, but lay on the bed reading nearly all day. No one found
any fault with him; and Stuart’s teasing tongue was hushed. I think he
stood a little in awe of my mother, gentle as she was. It was plain
to see that the boys had been brought up with mere outward forms of
religion; that they had no love and very little respect for it. How
different they were from Stephen!

But the enforced quiet was broken on Monday morning, there were some
high words, and then an unmistakable blow, followed by a struggle and a
fall. Papa went up stairs.

“Boys,” he said, with severe but simple dignity, “are you brothers,
and must you quarrel? If you have no respect for yourselves, I implore
you to have a little for my house, that has hitherto been the abode of
harmony. I will not have it.”

The combatants paused, and glared at each other with angry eyes.
Stuart had come off victor, for it was Louis who had fallen. He was
deadly white now, with a blue line about the mouth.

“I won’t be struck as if I was a child,” exclaimed Stuart, with fierce
determination; “and he struck me.”

“I told you to let that brush alone,” said the other, sullenly. “Your
own was there.”

“Stuart, go in the room opposite and finish your toilet. I shall expect
an apology from you both when you come down stairs. Breakfast is ready.”

It seemed as if we were to have neither of them; but when the meal was
about half over Stuart entered the room. His face was flushed, and his
eyes were still sending out fiery rays; but he went straight to papa.

“Mr. Endicott,” he said, making an effort to steady his voice, “I am
truly sorry that I should have been so rude and ungentlemanly in your
house. I ask your pardon.—And yours, Mrs. Endicott.”

“I pardon you on condition that a similar event never happens, while
you are here, at least. You are both too old to fall into such
rough-and-tumble school-boy fights.”

Mamma held out her hand to him as he passed her. He blushed deeply,
but seized it with a thankful eagerness. After that our meal was very
silent.

Ann went up stairs to see if Louis would have any breakfast.

“Sure, he’s crosser than two sticks when the fire is kindlin’. He
doesn’t want sup nor bite; and if he did, it’s little he’d get from me.”

So mamma judged that it was best to pay no further attention to him. He
did not even come down at noon; and then Stuart found that his door was
locked.

Quite late in the afternoon I was hurrying through the hall, when he
opened his door suddenly. His hair was tumbled, his cheeks scarlet, and
his eyes wild and staring.

“For God’s sake, get me a drink of water!” he cried, hoarsely.

I took it up to him, and knocked; but there was no answer. I made some
ado opening the door, and walked in rather timidly. He was laughing and
talking incoherently but clutched at the pitcher of water and drank
great, desperate swallows. Then he sank back on the bed exhausted.

I ran to mamma in affright.

“Louis Duncan is sick and out of his mind!” I cried. “O, mamma, I am
sorry they came. We shall have our hands full of trouble.”

She went to the room with me. He did not appear to know either of us,
and we could not rouse him to any coherency.

“It is a fever. The doctor must be sent for immediately. Tell Nelly to
go. And, Rose, we must arrange the other room, and take him over there,
since it may be a long illness. Well, we must have patience. God knows
what is for the best.”

I soon had everything in order. Papa coming in, he partly led and
partly carried Louis to the best room. Mamma bathed his head and put
some draughts on his wrists and his feet. Now he lay quietly, with his
eyes half open, breathing heavily.

Dr. Hawley called just before supper.

“A bad case,” he said, gravely, “a bad case! Why, the fellow is worn
to skin and bone already, and looks as if he had had the jaundice for
the last month. But we will do our best. He may be stronger than he
appears.”

Stuart felt pretty sober that evening.

“I suppose I ought not to have stirred him up so this morning,” he
said. “But it is such fun! And it was all about a trifle. I used his
hair-brush; and he is as particular as any old maid. Then I tormented
him a little, and he seized the brush and gave me a box on the ear,
which I won’t take from any one without a row. I am not a baby. And
it was awful mean of him! And so we clinched. But he has been in a
dreadful temper for the last month. He was mad because Stephen wouldn’t
let him go to Lake George with a lot of fellows.”

“It was fortunate that he did not,” returned mamma. “And, Stuart, I
hope, in the weeks to come, you will learn your duty towards him. God
has not given you this tie for you to disregard so utterly.”

Stuart looked at her with wondering eyes, but made no answer.

“Our first experience with boys seems to be rather trying,” said Fanny,
as we were going to bed that night. “I hope and pray that he may not
die—and in our house!”

I thought of what Stephen had asked of me.




CHAPTER V.


An awesome quiet settled over the house. I did not remember a time
when any one had ever been very sick. The children gathered in groups,
and spoke in whispers, and for a day or two Stuart appeared almost
conscience-stricken. But his natural flow of spirits could not be
repressed. Yet his laugh jarred on my nerves. We were used to caring
so much for each other’s welfare and comfort, and sympathizing with
sorrows or trivial illnesses, that his carelessness seemed to us as
something quite dreadful. Yet he was so pleasant and good-natured, so
ready to do anything that was asked of him, though he never appeared to
think that he might volunteer any little service.

“We must make some allowance for them,” mamma said, in her kindly
fashion. “Remember that they have had no mother. Much of their lives
has been spent at school; and their uncle was a cold and rather
arrogant man, papa thinks. So they have had no chance to acquire the
graces of home life.”

When the tidings became noised abroad through the village, we were
quite besieged. Mamma threw up the fortifications at the hall door.
The old women, who were curious, or anxious, or even kindly-hearted
in their officious way, heard all of the story there, or in the
sitting-room, that it was necessary for them to know. Aunt Letty
Perkins was not last nor least.

“Was it true, as she had understood, that these two young men came
to study with Mr. Endicott? She heard they were going in college,
or something or other. She hoped he would get well paid for his
trouble—young college chaps were always pretty wild. There was no great
loss without some small gain; and if this young fellow was sick, he
couldn’t be kitin’ round the village into all sorts of mischief.”

“No, to be sure not,” returned mamma, with a smile at this sort of
comfort.

“But what _are_ you to do? You have your hands full already, with such
a houseful of children! I allers say that Mis’ Endicott’s the most
wonderful woman I know. I should think you’d a been worn out long ago;
and here you haven’t scarcely a wrinkle in your face!”

“I do not know why people should wrinkle up their faces when they
have a number of healthy, happy children about them. Why, they keep
you young, Mrs. Perkins. It takes you back to your own childhood
continually.”

“I hope you’re a going to get paid for all this.”

“I do not believe the Duncans will become chargeable to the parish,
since they have fortunes of their own,” said mamma, rather dryly.

“Rich, now? Well, that’s good! Though rich men’s sons are exposed to
sights of temptations. No one knows!” and Aunt Letty shook her head
solemnly.

“I fancy there will not be many here at Wachusett.”

“Mean to keep them the whole year?”

“No; only through vacation.”

“They have gardeens, I s’pose?”

“Mr. Endicott is their sole guardian now, with the exception of an
elder brother, who acts for them.”

“O!”

Then Aunt Letty fidgeted about.

“If you should want some one to help do the nussin’, I could take my
knitting and sit up stairs. I haven’t much of anything to do, and I’d
as lief.”

“No,” said mamma. “I am much obliged. Mrs. Whitcomb is coming over this
evening.”

So Aunt Letty had to go away without seeing the patient. But she had
considerable news to sow broadcast, which comforted her.

For the first two days I spent all my time in the sick room, while papa
remained at night. The violent paroxysms were not very long at a time,
and for the rest he only tumbled about and wanted a drink every few
moments. Then Mrs. Whitcomb arrived, and I was partly released.

By Saturday Dr. Hawley had nearly given up the faintest hope. Every one
knew who was meant when the prayer for the sick was used on Sunday.
Something in papa’s voice touched me in a peculiar manner. In the great
calm of earth and sky, it seemed so strange that any life should go out
into utter nothingness! Why, the smallest insects were on the wing, and
birds and bees went humming and soaring, with no anxious cares, just
brim full of glad, free life.

If we had been less engrossed, we should have felt quite elated over
Fanny’s successful examination; but, as it was, we were glad to have
her at home, without thinking much about it. So the days passed until
the quivering life seemed to hang by a mere thread.

“If he can go through the next twelve hours!” said Dr. Hawley, in a low
tone. “But there seems so little strength to him. I can’t realize that
he has ever been such a rosy, rollicking boy as that Stuart; and yet I
do not see why he should not have been. Well, we have done our best,
Mrs. Whitcomb, and the good parson has prayed; so we must leave all the
rest in God’s hands. Don’t let him sleep more than an hour at a time,
and then give him a teaspoonful of this, out of the glass—remember.”

I didn’t want to go to bed. I crept up to the room, and Mrs. Whitcomb,
and the other strange, uncertain presence, standing by the window
and watching the great stars and the little flecks of silver cloud
threading their way in and out like dainty ladies. I was so afraid of
death, too! and yet I wanted to stay. I thought of Stephen’s perplexity
concerning his brothers, and did not wonder at it now. I was sorry that
I had been so ungracious that night; but I had made all the amends I
could. And I prayed softly for the sick boy, that he might live to a
better and less selfish life, that he might see and know the great
things there are for men to do in the world.

Twelve. The old eight-day clock in the hall told it off in a solemn
way, and went on ticking “forever, never,” and Mrs. Whitcomb breathed
in her chair as if she were asleep; but in a moment she rose and gave
the medicine.

“You had better lie down here on the couch, Rose. Here is a pillow.”

“No; I am not sleepy.” And crossing my arms on the window sill, I
rested my chin on them, and watched the stars again.

One, two, three; and the summer night began to show signs of
drowsiness. The stars grew dimmer, and there was a peculiar grayish
duskiness in the heavens. Then a faint stirring in the east, a melting
of the gray into rose and gold, a piping of birds in the leafy trees,
and a strange tremulousness in all the air. I turned away from the
window and glanced at the pallid face, put my fingers on the thin
wrist. Had the resurrection of the morning reached him?

“O, Mrs. Whitcomb,” I exclaimed, “his pulse is stronger! I believe he
will live. I am so thankful!”

“Now run to bed, dear. You have had your way, and sat up all night.”

I did fall asleep, and never woke until the breakfast bell rang. Dr.
Hawley came in bright and early, and the verdict was favorable.

“Now you must feed him on beef tea, and I’ll feed him on iron,” he said
to Mrs. Whitcomb. “We will run a race to see which can get the most fat
on his bones. Goodness knows there’s need enough of it. He seems to
have put into practice some one’s suggestion, to take off his flesh and
sit in his bones a space. Cool, for this hot weather.”

“I suppose we can venture to be a little jolly now,” Stuart said, that
afternoon, as we were all on the porch. “We have been going about this
whole week like a funeral procession.”

“There might have been one—very easily,” I replied, with as much
sternness as I could put in my voice.

“But when you are through the woods, what is the use of frightening
yourself with the darkness and the ‘bug-a-boos’? Isn’t that what you
tell children? I never really believed that he was going to die. It is
only your good people—”

“Then there is not much fear of you,” said Fan.

“Thank Goodness, no. I mean to have a deal of fun out of life yet. Just
wait until I can get my hands into the money. There will be larks then,
I can tell you. Meanwhile, may we not dissipate harmlessly on croquet?”

“I think not,” was my answer. “Your brother is very weak and nervous;
and I have sometimes found the click of the balls hard to bear myself.”

“Hang it! I wish he was in—England with Stephen. He is always putting
on airs of some kind. Before I’d be such a Molly-fuss-budget I’d go off
and hang myself, and leave my money to the nearest of kin.”

“O, Stuart,” I exclaimed, “you are perfectly—”

“There, don’t preach to me, you small midget! I hate girls’ preaching.
It’s hard enough to have it on Sundays. Can a leopard change his
spots? Yes, he can go off to another spot. So I’ll go. Adieu, little
grandmother.”

He caught his hat, and walked down the garden path as if whistling for
a wager.

“There, you have made him angry,” declared Fan.

“I cannot help it. He doesn’t seem to care for anything. O!”

I was after him in a minute, for there he had Tabby by the nape of the
neck, holding her up high to see her draw up her feet and curl her tail
between her legs like a dog.

“Put her down!” I cried, authoritatively.

He held me off with one arm.

“Why, she likes it,” he said. “Look! what an angelic smile illumines
her countenance!”

“Mia-o-o-ow!” was kitty’s answer, in a prolonged wail; but she managed
to twist herself out of his grasp, and bounded off.

“You are a cruel, hateful boy!” I exclaimed, angrily.

But he only laughed, and went on his way whistling. Fan glanced up from
her embroidery.

“It is tit for tat,” she said, laughingly; “preaching and practice.”

I was quiet for some minutes.

“Do I preach much, Fan?” I asked, rather soberly.

“Not very much. But it may be as dangerous a habit as scolding, if one
gets confirmed in it. And I suppose it isn’t entertaining to boys.”

“But what are you to do when they are just as bad as they can be?”

“Bear it with Christian fortitude and resignation. I am not sure but
it will be good for us to have something that takes us out of the one
groove, and shows us that the world is wider than the little space just
around us.”

There was much truth in that, to be sure.

“You see we have had everything pretty much one way; and now we have
come to a change in the current. I rather like the stir and freshening
up.”

“But if Tabby was yours—”

“You remember the old lady whose idea of heaven was to ‘sit in a clean
checked apron, and sing psalms;’ and I think yours must be to sit here
on the porch, in a clean white dress, and nurse that sleek Maltese cat.”

“O, Fan, how can you be so irreverent?”

I heard the faint tinkle of a bell; so I ran up stairs. Mrs. Whitcomb
asked me to sit there while she went out for a walk. I took up some
crocheting, and, as I worked, watched the wind blowing about the high
tree-tops, and making picturesque backgrounds of the blue sky. Then a
wood robin came and sang his sweet song almost in my ear.

The sick youth stirred and opened his eyes wide. How strange and sunken
they looked!

“Where am I?”

I started at the question, and collected my wandering senses.

“At the rectory. At Mr. Endicott’s.”

“O! Have I been sick? How long since—I can’t seem to remember—”

“It is almost a fortnight since you were taken ill. But you are out of
all danger, and have only to get well.”

“I suppose I have been a great deal of trouble. Did I talk much?” And
he glanced sharply at me.

“No; that is, it was not of much account.”

“Where is Stuart?”

“Out somewhere.”

“May I have a drink?”

I gave him that.

“And you have been taking care of me—all the time?”

“Not all. Mamma and Mrs. Whitcomb have done the most of it.”

“Was I near dying?”

“We thought so, at one time,” I answered, rather slowly, not feeling
quite sure that the admission was right.

“It wouldn’t have been much loss. Both Stephen and Stuart would
have been glad, no doubt, or, at least, relieved. Don’t look so
horror-stricken.”

“I think you are unjust to both your brothers,” I said. “But perhaps it
is best not to talk any more. You are still weak.”

He turned his face over on the pillow, and was silent until mamma came
in and spoke in her cheerful fashion.

“You have all been very kind, much kinder than I deserve. How long will
it take me to get well?”

“That depends a good deal upon yourself,” returned mamma. “When you
feel like it, you may begin to sit up. And you must keep as cheerful as
possible. Are you not hungry?”

He thought he was presently; but he made a wry face over the beef tea.

“Can’t I have something besides this?” he asked. “I am so tired of it!”

“Then you may take it hereafter as medicine, and we will find a new
article of diet. I am glad that you are sufficiently improved to desire
a change. I will see what I can find for you.”

She was as good as her word; and Mrs. Whitcomb brought him up the
cunningest tea in the old-fashioned china, and a fresh nosegay of spice
pinks lying beside his plate.

“O, how delightful they are! I am very much obliged,” he said,
gratefully.

That evening Kate Fairlie and her brother Dick came over to call upon
us.

“I heard your invalid was out of danger, or I should not have
ventured,” she began, after the first greetings were over, “for it is
not a call of condolence merely. Fan, aren’t you glad school is over?
But what can you find to occupy yourself with? I am actually bored to
death already. We are to have some company from the city next week, and
we want to get up a picnic to go to Longmeadow. Won’t you two girls
join, and the young Mr. Duncan who isn’t sick? Dick thinks him such a
funny fellow. Where is he? Can’t I have an introduction? The boys all
seem to know him very well. And is it true that they are so rich?”

“They are very well provided for,” said Fan, quietly.

“And was that handsome man who came to church with you one Sunday, not
long ago, their brother? Has he gone to make the grand tour of Europe?
O, how I _do_ envy people who can go abroad!”

“He has gone to England on some business. He has been to Europe before.”

“Wasn’t he charming? How I should have enjoyed such a visitor! Mother
says that father might give us a winter in Paris just as well as not.
It would perfect my French so much!”

“Do you mean to teach?” asked Fan.

She had such a droll way of clipping the wings of Kate’s higher flights.

“Well, I should think not, Fanny Endicott! But I want to be fitted for
elegant society. I shall go to Washington a while in the winter; that I
am sure of, for my aunt has invited me; and she has no children—so she
will be glad to have me. And so I mean to make a brilliant marriage.”

“That’s all girls think about,” growled Dick.

“O, no,” returned Fan; “some have to think about darning stockings,
and making pies, and altering over their last summer’s dresses. And
some of them think about the future, whether they will be teacher or
dress-maker, or step over to the strong-minded side and keep books or
lecture.”

“I hope neither of you two girls will be strong-minded,” exclaimed
Dick. “Your father does not believe in it at all; and it doesn’t seem
the thing for women to be running round the country lecturing and
haggling with men about money.”

“But, Dick, they have to haggle with the butcher, and baker, and
candlestick-maker, and dry-goods clerk. And they have to scrub floors
and go out washing, and all that. I am afraid I _would_ rather be Anna
Dickinson, even if it is heterodox.”

“And have people laughing about you,” put in Kate, loftily.

“They do not laugh very much when you are a success, I have observed,”
was Fan’s reply.

[Illustration: ROSE’S ENCOUNTER WITH STUART. Page 82.]

“O, don’t let us bother about this humbug. We want to talk over the
picnic. Annie and Chris Fellows are going, and the Hydes, and the
Wests, and the Elsdens. In fact only the nicest people have been asked.
We want it to be select. I should have come to you right in the
first of it but for the sickness. Mrs. Hyde and Mrs. West are going to
take charge of the party. We will have croquet and games, and a little
dancing. Longmeadow is such a lovely place! You must go.”

“We shall have to see what mamma says about it,” I made answer, “and if
we can be spared.”

“Why, there is Nelly and all the others to help take care of the
baby. I am glad we never had any babies to bother with. I should feel
dreadfully if I had a sister. Mamma wouldn’t care half so much for me.”

“Mother-love goes around a good ways,” I said, a trifle resentfully.

“Yes. I don’t believe there is another woman in all Wachusett who loves
her girls any better than your mother,” spoke up Dick, who always had
been mamma’s great admirer. “And on the whole, I don’t know any girls
who have a better time at home.”

“I believe Dick would like our mamma to open a foundling hospital,”
said Kate, with a sneer. “As it is, he keeps the barn full of dogs and
cats, for we will not have them in the house.”

Stuart came up the walk, and Fan called him. He was tall and well-grown
for his sixteen years, and Kate was delighted with him. He accepted her
invitation at once but we were not prepared to give a positive answer.

But Mrs. Hyde came over the next morning and explained it to mamma. It
was to be very select; that is, only rich people were to be invited.
We stood on the boundary line. As daughters of a clergyman we could
visit the poor without contamination, and the wealthier people were not
expected to pass us by. So we had the best of both. But Fan declared
that it was sometimes hard work getting squeezed into all sorts of
places, whether you fitted or not.

“But the great business of this life is to make yourself fit,” papa
always declared.




CHAPTER VI.


“One of us must certainly go to the picnic,” papa said; and he did not
see why both could not go.

“Mrs. Whitcomb will have to leave us to-morrow,” mamma rejoined. “I do
not believe I could spare you both. On the other hand, we do not desire
to slight Mrs. Hyde’s kind invitation.”

“Let Fannie go then,” I exclaimed; “she and Stuart get along so nicely!”

“I am always ready,” said Fan. “But, at the same time, I do not feel
as if I ought, in every case, to have the first choice and all the
pleasures. I am willing to take my turn in staying at home.”

“But I would rather.”

“And Rose is used to the nursing now.”

“I thought Mrs. Whitcomb was going to help us sew,” said Fan. “No one,
save the baby, has anything to wear.”

“She has been so confined to the sick room, my dear! And Mr. Sprague
sent word that he should come for her to-morrow.”

“When I get rich, I shall hire Mrs. Whitcomb by the year,” Fan
announced. “She shall sew, and knit, and tend babies, and turn old
dresses; and we will have a perpetual holiday.”

Mamma laughed at that.

“It is very nice to have invitations to select picnics,” Fanny began
when we were up stairs. “But, since we are _not_ lilies of the
field, it behooves us to ask, wherewith shall we be clothed? Nelly
will have to take most of my last summer’s gowns. That sounds rather
grand—doesn’t it? The wood-colored lawn I inherited from mamma, my
tucked nainsook, and my pique. I can’t begin to squeeze into the
waists; and tight-lacing is injurious, even if you should pursue it
from the noble motive of economy. I don’t want to wear my new poplin
and get it spoiled; and my cambric is faded. I am dying for a new white
dress. O, dear, What a houseful there is to provide for, to be sure!”

“You do need the dress sadly. I wonder if we couldn’t get it?”

“We might ask papa for the collection money.”

“O, Fan, you irreverent girl!”

“Well, I am sure that is our only mode of living. It is a good one, but
rather limited at times. But won’t there be a jolly rejoicing in the
fall! Suppose we should have a new dress all round at the same instant!
Would it ruin the parish?”

“Not if we earned it ourselves, surely.”

“As we shall—keeping a hotel.” And she laughed.

Mamma favored the new dress. Fan went down to the store that afternoon
and bought it, and Dick Fairlie insisted upon driving her home in the
phaeton, telling her again and again how glad he was that she would go
to the picnic.

“Why, there would be no lack of girls, Dick,” she said, gayly.

“But they are not like you.”

“And Wachusett would be very stupid and monotonous if all its girls
were alike, or all its mountains.”

“But I can talk to you; and some of them I can not get on with at all.
I don’t like smart women.”

“O, Dick! I always supposed you liked me on account of my smartness. If
I had one virtue above another, I thought it was that.”

Dick blushed to the roots of his hair.

“I did not mean just that, Miss Fanny,” he stammered. “But some of
the academy girls have a way of laughing if you are not on your best
behavior every moment. And I am a plain, old-fashioned fellow. I like
Scotch ballads ever so much better than opera music, that I can’t
understand a word of; but I do believe Kate would think it a disgrace
to sing in anything but Italian. And woods and trees, and rambles
through them, and talks with friends, seem like ballad-singing to me.”

“Now, Dick, that is a nice, pretty idea. You see you do have thoughts
quite like other people. And the ballad-singing is delightful. I like
it myself.”

“I wish you would keep on down to the pines,” said, Dick wistfully. “It
is just a pleasant drive. I have to go for Kate at six; and here I have
an hour on my hands.”

“I cannot to-day, though I’m much obliged, Dick,” with a pause and a
questioning glance.

“Well.”

“I would like to ask a favor.”

“Anything. I’d be glad to do it for you.”

“Jennie Ryder is just getting over her fever, you know. I was down
there yesterday, and she was wishing I owned a carriage—which I never
shall. But if you could, and _would_, take her out, it would give me as
much pleasure as going myself.”

“I will,” returned Dick, with alacrity.

Fan told mamma and me.

“Though I suppose Kate would fancy her phaeton contaminated, if she
knew it,” Fan added, with a laugh. “But Dick is bright enough not to
say much about it; and I hope Jennie will have a splendid ride. She is
just as nice as anybody, even if she does sew for a living. And I wish
Dick would take a good honest liking to her.”

“Fan!” said mamma, gravely.

“Which means that I am too young, or too something else, to be thinking
of love matters. But they _do_ interest me, mamma _mia_, and I have a
longing to add this one and that one together, and have a sum total of
happiness. And then, little mother, you were only seventeen yourself
when you promised to love, honor, &c., as Mrs. Brown says; and I shall
be seventeen myself at Christmas. And think what an ancient spinster
Rose is getting to be!”

Mamma smiled a little, and examined her dress.

“It was thirty-five cents a yard. They had a lovely one for fifty; and
I looked at it until the flesh began to grow weak; then I fortified
myself by counting my money. And now comes the tug of war to get it
made.”

“We will all help a little,” returned mamma.

There was a general outcry the next morning when Mrs. Whitcomb went
away. Everybody besieged her to set a day for her return.

“I’ll save out a fortnight for you in September, if I possibly can,”
she said, with her sweetest smile. “I hope no one will be sick then,
and we will have a good, old-fashioned visiting time. Take the best
care you can of my patient, Rose.”

I gathered some fresh flowers and carried them up first of all. Louis
nodded his head in thanks.

“I am so sorry Mrs. Whitcomb had to go!” I said, by way of making
conversation.

“I liked her so much! Do you know—whether any one has written to
Stephen?”

“Papa did. He waited until you were out of danger, since he could not
send for him.”

“I suppose he would not have cared much either way;” and the thin lip
curled.

“Pardon me. I think he has a great deal of love for you. He was so
considerate of your comfort and health when he was here!”

“Seemed to be, you mean. When you have learned more of the world, Miss
Rose, you will know that there is a good share of glitter that is not
gold. He and Stuart would have had ever so much more money.”

“You wrong them both. You are unjust to them.”

“O,” he said, rather sneeringly, “you girls can get up quite a
sentiment for each other; but boys take a thing for what it is worth.
Neither of them loves me; and I can’t say there is much love lost
between us.”

“I wish you felt differently about them. And you have just been so ill,
too!”

“I told him that I wouldn’t go nor stay with Stuart. He torments my
very life out. I begged him to send me somewhere else. And no, he would
not. He treats me as if I were about ten years old, and did not know
what was best for myself. He cannot think that I am almost as much of
a man as he is!”

He uttered this in a rapid breath, and then gasped from exhaustion.

“Don’t excite yourself so,” I pleaded. “If you could have heard Stephen
talk of you when he was here! He begged us to make it as pleasant and
take as much interest in you as we could.”

“You have been very kind. I do not want to be ungrateful; but he
doesn’t care for me in that way. He thwarts every plan, he refuses
every wish, and did not even want me to try for college. He would like
to keep me a little boy at school half my life, I do believe.”

I went around pretending to tidy the room a bit; but Mrs. Whitcomb had
left it as neat as a pin. I could not bear to have him talk this way
against Stephen. Then I espied a book, and asked if I should read to
him.

“If you will,” was the rather indifferent answer.

But he was soon quite interested. He turned towards me, and his eyes
grew eager, and over his whole face came a peaceful light. It seemed
then as if there was quite a resemblance between him and the elder
brother, for I remembered that Stephen had a stern way of shutting his
mouth. Louis’s eyes were dark, and that gave him a more desperate look
when he was angry.

He was very full of whims and wants, but a while after dinner concluded
he would take a nap. As baby Edith had gone to peaceful slumbers, and
Nelly sat in the nursery, mamma had taken this opportunity to begin
cutting Fan’s dress. So I joined the conclave, and helped discuss the
momentous question.

Mamma was a born genius. I don’t know which gift or grace was the
strongest. I think she must have had a very evenly-balanced head. And
yet she used to tell us how really helpless she was at her marriage.
She had lived with a great-aunt, who was a whimsical invalid, and did
nothing but go to school, and read to, or amuse, her. Still, I suppose,
she learned those grand lessons of sweetness and patience which helped
so much in her after-life. And when she had to do, she went to work
bravely. She could cook equal to anybody in the parish; she could make
dresses and bonnets; and when you came to the altering, she was superb.
That was why I called her a born genius. Then she had kept up with
her music to some extent, and painted a little in water colors. Three
of papa’s birthday gifts had been pictures of her painting; and some
of the daintiest fruit-pieces in our dining-room were done by her in
colored crayons on a tinted background. No wonder we were proud of her.

Now we talked about overskirt and underskirt, basque, and ruffles, and
bands, and trimmings of various kinds.

“It is quite a fearful undertaking,” said Fan, with a sigh. “If I had
a little more courage, I’d make it perfectly plain; but, then, when I
went out and saw other people all furbelows and frills, I am afraid I
should be dissatisfied. And no one would believe it was a new dress.”

“It is better to take a little more trouble and be satisfied. But I
would not have any ruffles—they are so difficult to iron.”

“Not even one on the skirt?”

“No. I should cut a bias piece in points, and bind them; or you could
have two narrow ones.”

“And I will bind them, as you cannot do that on the machine very well,”
I said.

“You are a good girl, Rose of the World.—Mamma, I think I’ll have a
polonaise.”

“A sensible conclusion. It will make a nice outside garment for all
summer.”

“And I will just point the sleeves and the skirt. There is cheap
trimming for you. Give me credit for another bright idea. And a
bias-band pointed on both sides for the underskirt. So there is the
whole garment provided for. Then I shall have another errand to the
store, to get some pique braid;” and Fan gave a droll little smile.

Mamma began to cut. Fan opened the machine, and sewed the skirt
breadths together. The trimming was measured, and she shaped the points
to her fancy. Then mamma fitted the waist with fingers as deft as any
_modiste_.

“Mamma, if you were reduced to absolute penury, you could set up
dress-making,” Fanny said.

“I have found it very useful without the absolute penury,” returned
mamma, with a wise smile. “When one has seven girls, a good many
dresses are needed.”

“Are you sorry there are so many of us?”

“I do not know which one I would like to give up,” was the grave reply.

“It would be like the Irishman with his flock—wouldn’t it? Every one
of us has some special gift or grace. Mine is simply a grace—winning
ways and curly hair. O, there’s Miss Churchill, and this hall all in a
litter!”

The hall was so wide and airy that we used to sit there and sew in the
summer. Mamma was cutting on the table; so she just gathered the pieces
together, and pushed out papa’s chintz-covered arm-chair. I sat by the
window, crocheting some tiny garments for baby Edith. Fan opened the
hall door wide before Miss Churchill could ring to announce herself.
Mamma shook hands with her cordially.

The Churchills were some of the old families in the town. Oddly
enough, they had never intermarried with their neighbors, but kept to
themselves, and were considered rather haughty and exclusive. They
lived over on the west side, which was the aristocratic part of the
town, there being no mills or factories near.

Miss Esther Churchill, our visitor, was a tall, elegant woman of
perhaps forty-five. Mr. Kenton Churchill, the head of the family, was
about ten years older. Next to him came Mrs. Ogden, who had lived
abroad a great deal, and was now a widow, but wealthy, with one son
and one daughter. Then there was Miss Lucy, much younger, an invalid,
injured quite early in life by being thrown from a horse. They were
refined and particularly nice people, with those little formal ways
that always kept us in awe. Their house was very handsome, and it
seemed as if they must have everything that heart could wish for. They
always paid for two of the best pews in church, one of which they used,
while the other was considered free. Then Mr. Churchill subscribed
liberally to nearly every charitable object; but, somehow, they never
mixed much with the congregation; yet they were always spoken of in
the highest terms. Papa and mamma were always invited over to tea once
a year, and they called occasionally. Miss Esther had made a state
call upon baby Edith, bringing her a handsome cap and cloak. Mamma
had not returned that; so we were a little surprised, and, to use
a provincialism, “put about,” for an instant. But mamma has such a
wonderful grace and self-possession that there was no awkwardness.

“How do you do, young ladies? Quite busy, I see;” and she shook hands
with both. “How cosy and summery you look here. Why, it is quite like a
picture!”

The broad hall was covered with matting. There was a large,
old-fashioned hat-stand on one side, very much like the beautiful new
ones coming into fashion. It had quite a large glass, and drawers under
it, with branching arms out both sides. On either side of it was a
quaint, high-backed chair. They might have come over in the Mayflower,
but I don’t suppose they did. A tall vase of ivy stood on the floor,
the green branches climbing over some picture-frames; and there were
several brackets hanging about, holding vases of flowers, besides a
luxuriant fernery, that had received contributions from all of us. The
hall door opened on one side, while the stairs went up on the other,
and in this sort of shut-off corner was our work-room.

“Yes, it is quite like a picture,” she went on. “It seems to me that a
hall should be the largest and most beautiful part of the house, and
that the family ought to be gathered there. I like the old-fashioned
descriptions of people dining in their hall, or giving audience.”

“And we add sewing on to that,” said Fan, with a little laugh. “Instead
of Carrara marble, we have multiplication tables.”

“We have been somewhat straitened for room latterly,” mamma explained;
“for, when baby is asleep we like to keep it quiet in the nursery; and
papa’s study is the one spot that we never invade with sewing.”

“It is like keeping one grand lady in the house,” Fan added, in her
bright way. “And it gives one a feeling of the utmost respectability.”

Miss Churchill smiled at that. She would always be a handsome woman,
though I don’t imagine any one had ever called her a pretty girl; she
was too large and grand. Her forehead was broad, her hair smooth as
satin, a peculiar unglossy brown, and it always gave me the idea of a
rich lustreless silk. Her eyes were very nearly of the same shade; her
chin broad and firm, and her teeth wonderfully white, strong and even.
Then she had a rather pale but perfect complexion.

“What a quaint child you are!” and she seated herself gracefully in the
arm-chair, “Mrs. Endicott, you might be some historical personage with
her maids of honor about her. That is what _my_ thought is like. And
you _do_ look so sociable! I have been calling on the Maynards; and you
would be surprised at the amount of thinking I have done between there
and here. My seeing you has just put it into shape. Or, I suppose, it
started with something that Lucy said as I was coming out.”

“How is Lucy?!” asked mamma.

“Rather poorly. And then she has been a good deal disappointed. We were
expecting Mrs. Ogden and Helen; and Lucy counts so much on that every
summer! But the Fates have overruled. They go to Newport for the whole
season. Word came three days ago. I have hardly known how to entertain
Lucy since.”

“Does she not go out?”

“Only for about half an hour; her back is so weak that it fatigues her.”

“Yet I should not think she would ever get tired of reading and looking
at your beautiful pictures, and all the rest. There is so much, that by
the time I reached the end, the first part would be new to me again,”
Fan said.

“You think that, because you can have a constant variety. And sixteen
carries with it a glamour which fades afterwards. Do you not find it
so, Mrs. Endicott?”

Mamma blushed and looked puzzled.

“We have another sight at youth through our children’s eyes,” she
answered, softly.

“I do believe it is true. That is why you keep your youth and freshness
through all the—”

“Hard work and worries,” appended mamma, with a smile.

“I did not like to say quite that. The people of now-a-days seldom
approve of such wholesome confessions.”

“But it is our business to set a good example, and not to be ashamed of
the duties of that state of life unto which it pleases God to call us,”
mamma returned.

“We get out of that safe fold sometimes, I am afraid; or, perhaps, we
contract the ‘state,’ make it narrower than God meant it should be.”

What had happened to Miss Churchill? I glanced at her in shy amaze. She
was gracious, elegant, and formal on most of the occasions when I had
met her.

“Yes; we are rather prone to put up fences. And we never know how much
pleasure we shut out along with the persons.”

“That is like my thought, too. I was going to tell you of my call at
the Maynards. First, though, I must acknowledge that I was feeling a
trifle down-hearted on Lucy’s account. I have my house-keeping, and
gardening, and driving out with brother, and rarely get lonesome.
But Lucy stays so much in her room, and Kenton is so fond of being
in his study, that we may be said to lead almost separate lives. I
was thinking it over as I came along. The servant ushered me into the
shaded drawing-room, where the atmosphere was close and sultry with
the odor of flowers. Then Mrs. Maynard sent for me to come to her
room, where she was taking comfort in a dressing-sacque. She bewailed
the loneliness and stupidity of the place, and thought of going to
Saratoga. Then Etta Silverthorne called me into her room. She was
lying on the bed reading a novel, and had the same story to tell. I
asked for the young ladies, and found that Josephine wanted to see me
particularly about a list of books. Would I come to her? Emily was
copying one of Lucy’s paintings, and I must journey to her studio
up-stairs. Then I had to make a call on grandmother, who was very
lonesome, and glad to have a little talk with some one. The girls were
so busy they could only run in a moment at a time; Mrs. Silverthorne
was so fond of reading that she could not bear to be disturbed, and
she hated to read aloud; Mrs. Maynard had the care of the house, of
course. ‘And so I sit here alone pretty nearly all the time,’ said poor
old grandmother.”

“And she is such a nice, enjoyable old lady, too!” mamma remarked.

“There were five women, capable of interesting and amusing each other,
all longing for society. Why did it not occur to them that they might
have a sociable at home? I came directly here, and saw three little
girls having a tea-party under a tree, and three here, looking bright
and animated. You don’t wonder now that I was taken with the picture!”

“An interior. Still life, after—” mamma said, quaintly, as if she were
reading a title.

“And we were not so very still either,” added Fanny. “We were taxing
our inventive faculties in the dress-making line. We wanted something
pretty with a little work and a little money. A new dress is a great
event in our lives. We generally step into each other’s, have them
taken up a trifle on the shoulders, and the skirts shortened. But I
have had the misfortune to outgrow Rose; so the family exchequer has to
be squeezed now and then.”

I was amazed at her daring to say so much to Miss Churchill. However,
she laughed in such a pretty, whole-hearted way that I had no further
misgiving.

“Seven girls! Is that the number? How do you ever get the dress-making
done? It is the staple grievance of nearly every one I know.”

“We do not have many dresses,” said irrepressible Fan; “and our pattern
being small, the puffs and rufflings have to be dispensed with. So we
are saved the trouble of deciding between biassed tucking up and down
the gores, and of fluted bobbinet insertion box-plaited beyond the
equator, that drove the man crazy when he tried to carry his wife’s
message to the dress maker.”

“I should think it would.” And this time Miss Churchill laughed
heartily. “How fortunate you are to be able to do your own! though I
think every woman ought to have some knowledge of it.”

“Every woman ought to know enough of something to support herself by
it, if the necessity comes.”

“Yes. And do you know, now that there is so much talk of independence,
I am afraid many of our girls are making a sad mistake? They are all
trying to rush into the very front ranks, whether they are geniuses or
not; and some of them will be crowded out. There will be no nice home
girls left. But perhaps these young ladies have a vocation?” and she
glanced up with a charming, lady-like hesitation.

“Rose will be a home girl, Miss Churchill. The credit of our family
will be saved. But I can’t decide whether I have a great deal of
genius, and could do anything, or whether my range is so limited that
the right thing would be difficult to find. I could not write a book,
or lecture, or edit a newspaper. I might paint a second-rate picture,
or, possibly, teach school; but I should not like the last.”

“Fanny!” said mamma in mild reproof.

“I know what she would be excellently fitted for,” replied Miss
Churchill, quickly. “And that emboldens me to offer my plea, or,
rather, my sister’s. But how thoughtless I am! Mrs. Endicott, I did
not hear of your added burden and anxiety until a few days ago. I am
sincerely sorry that you should have had so much trouble outside of
your own family, as the serious illness of this young Duncan.”

“Yes, it has been rather unfortunate; but we are through the worst, I
hope. Mr. Endicott is guardian for these boys.”

“He is extremely kind and conscientious, I am sure. But I can hardly
understand how you manage, with all the rest of your work. There comes
Kenton and the carriage, and I feel as if I had not made half a call.”

“I am sure you need not hurry,” exclaimed mamma, who had warmed
wonderfully towards our visitor. “And you had something to ask—for your
sister.”

“O, I am positively ashamed to. I ought to help instead of hindering.”

“Ask it, nevertheless,” said mamma.

“I told Lucy that I was going to call here; and, as I said, she was
feeling quite dispirited and lonesome. ‘Give them all my kindest
regards,’ she said, ‘and ask Mrs. Endicott if she cannot spare one of
the girls to spend the day with me. I’d like to have the one who talks
a good deal.’ Is it a compliment to you, Miss Fanny?”

Fan blushed scarlet.

“I was thinking, a few moments ago, that you, with your bright spirits,
would be invaluable to invalids. But I suppose you can hardly spare
her out of your sick room.” And she glanced at mamma.

“O, Miss Churchill, you rate me too highly,” returned Fanny. “Rose is a
charming and sensible nurse. I never try nursing.”

“Mrs. Whitcomb has been staying with us, and our sick room has had to
be kept very quiet,” said mamma. “Fanny would do better where society
is needed.”

“And that is just Lucy’s case. Now, Miss Fanny, if your mamma _can_
spare you, I will sew on your dress, or do anything to help make up the
time.”

“If it would really be any pleasure, I can readily consent to her
going,” mamma responded.

“It would, indeed. I do not think I realized how busy you all must be,
or I should not have had the courage to prefer my request. And I hope
you will not consider that I have taken a liberty in bringing a few
articles for your patient.”

With that she rose, and went down the path to her brother, who handed a
snowy basket out to her.

“I ventured to put in a few fine summer pears besides: those are for
the children. And now, Mrs. Endicott, what day will your daughter be
most at liberty? Are you quite sure that I am not asking too much?”

“We shall be very glad to grant what you desire,” was the sweet reply.
“Our days are pretty much alike.”

“Would to-morrow be too soon? And bring your dress, for I can sew
beautifully on a machine, and I fancy I have some skill in that art.
I have had such a pleasant call that I hate to go. Miss Rose, come
over any time; we shall be glad to see you. My kindest regards to Mr.
Endicott. Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Not just now. Thank you most kindly.” And mamma walked with her to the
gate.

“Don’t they look lovely together!” exclaimed Fan. “Mamma is as much of
a lady as Miss Churchill.”




CHAPTER VII.


“O mamma, wonders will never cease!” exclaimed Fan. “To think that I
should be singled out for such favors! Why, Kate Fairlie would die of
envy this blessed moment, if she knew it!”

“And how charming Miss Churchill was!” I said.

“She is a very lovely woman, and she was unusually cordial to-day.”

“Do you suppose it was that she—wanted a favor?” asked Fanny, slowly.

“No my dear. I think she told the simple truth. They were lonesome at
home, and the unsocial element at the Maynards’ jarred upon her. Our
homelikeness, if I may use the word, just fitted in with her longing.
It always appeared to me such an unwise fashion of the members of a
family meeting only at meals. I am not willing to be shut out of your
lives, my girls.”

“And you shall not be, mamma _mia_. We will share our sorrows, and
joys, and new dresses. I’ll talk of sublime resignation to poverty, and
then make visits in aristocratic circles.”

“And in the meanwhile we might try on this garment. But, my dear, do
not let your spirits run away with you. Flippancy is not brightness.”

“How we all sat and sewed!” exclaimed Fan. “It did not seem the least
bit awkward. At all events, I cut and Rose crocheted. All that trimming
is ready. Oh, Rose, it is mean for me to take all the good things of
life.”

I thought my head would go off in that rapturous hug. And I was glad
that I was not a bit jealous.

Mamma gave a pinch here, and a pull there, and, behold Fan’s dress
fitted after the similitude of a glove.

“It is just lovely!” was Fan’s ecstatic comment. “Kate Fairlie and Sue
Barstow will die of envy when they see it. Now I shall have just time
enough to run up the seams. Of course, mamma, you wouldn’t think of
taking it?” and Fan gave an inquiring glance.

“No, indeed, though it was kind in Miss Churchill to say it, since your
time was more precious than hers.”

We began to pick up the pieces and restore order. Just then papa came
in, and baby Edith woke and cried. Fan rushed at papa and kissed him
rapturously, telling over the whole story in an instant. She had such a
remarkable way of going to the point of anything without loss of time.

“Really!” he exclaimed; “I am glad she asked you. You can do a little
work for the good cause to-morrow, Fanny.”

“O, papa, it is to be a whole long holiday!”

“You lazy little girl!”

“Papa, if you do not treat me real handsomely, I will go over to the
strong-minded ‘sisteren,’ and write a book, or lecture, or something.”

“I am willing you should lecture. I will give you a subject: ‘The rich
and poor meet together, and the Lord is Maker of them all.’”

“There, Fan!” And it was my turn to laugh.

Fan shook her head solemnly.

“It did not frighten him a bit,” she said.

“No, my dear; since there is room for so much work in the world. I
have often wished the Churchills and several others would come out of
their shells, or their beautiful Edens, and go at some of the thistles
beyond their gates.”

“Poor people have such splendid ideas—don’t they, papa? But then rich
people have all the money.”

“There is something needed besides money. If rich people could only
see how many nice and pleasant gifts and favors they could bestow
without lowering themselves, which so many people are afraid of, ladies
especially. The majority of the poor and ignorant are no more anxious
to come up to their level, than they are to have them.”

“We are lucky to be on the middle ground,” said Fan. “We cannot be
accused of undue ambition, or be snubbed very severely. And yet I do
think it just lovely to be rich, and I always shall.”

“My dear, so do I,” returned papa, gravely. “And we should endeavor
not to array wealth against us. We may in time soften some of the
prejudices on both sides. People need to see soul to soul, and not stop
at the burr outside.”

The tinkle of a small bell reached me. I rose, sorely against my will,
not daring to linger in the family bosom of temptation. The young man
up stairs was continually interfering in some way. Just when you were
having a nice talk, you were compelled to leave off in the middle and
run away, or some one ran away from you. Why, it was as bad as parish
visiting. But there _was_ the money at the end of it—mercenary little
wretch that I had become!

Yet you cannot live in the world superior to all such considerations,
if you are poor. I know the lilies are gorgeously arrayed, and the
ravens fed; but, when you are _not_ a lily, or not a raven, and the
wants and the work come, you must endure the one, and go courageously
at the other.

At this point in my reflections I entered the room and encountered the
wan, eager eyes.

“Did I interrupt you, or call you away from something pleasant? I am so
sorry. I was so lonesome, and—”

It was a good deal for him to say. Had we changed places and was _I_
ungracious?

“It was not anything special. Have you been long awake?”

“More than an hour.”

“Then it is I who ought to apologize,” I said, cheerfully. “Can I get
you anything?—Are you not hungry?”

“I would like to have a drink of good, cold water. I am a deal of
trouble, am I not?”

“If I were sick I would like some one to wait upon me,” I said, and ran
down stairs.—Ann was at the end of the garden, picking berries; so I
drew the water myself; and as I brought the bucket up to the curb, the
woman of Samaria came into my mind. If I could give any such comfort of
living water! Did I really desire to? So far I had done barely what was
required of me. It did not look half as enchanting as reading to and
amusing Miss Lucy Churchill. But wasn’t there a good work in it as well?

I entered the room with a glass pitcher, through which the water shone
and sparkled. There was such a thirsty, longing look in his eyes that I
was glad to minister to him.

“Thank you a thousand times. I have been wanting that for the last half
hour.”

“Why did you not ring sooner?”

[Illustration: ROSE’S VISIT TO THE INVALID. Page 121.]

“You had a visitor; and I call for so many things. There appears to be
no end to my wants. I am ashamed of myself. But it is so tiresome to
lie here helpless.”

“What would be the next thing, if I were a fairy?” I asked, laughingly.

Was it my mood that made him smile?

“There is a tantalizing smell of honeysuckle somewhere about. Nay,
don’t run down stairs again.”

“It is just on the porch.”

Mamma was emptying Miss Churchill’s basket. A bowl of custard, a jar of
wine jelly, fresh eggs, a great, creamy pot-cheese, and the pears. I
just took a whiff of the fragrance and passed on.

“Let me have a piece of it here in my hand.”

“How odd that you should be so fond of flowers!”

“Is it? Sweet blooms only. May be you would not approve of such a love.
I like to crush them and have them about me. Not but what I admire them
in vases, too, but then they do not come into my very life.”

“Or die for you.”

I had said it, and then I paused in a great tremble, thinking of the
other death that came through love, greater than which hath no man.

“Miss Endicott,” he said, slowly, “are you very religious?”

I colored, and turned my face away; then I thought of “confessing
before men.” What should make me afraid here, except the sense of
personal unworthiness?

“I try a little. I have not gone very far in the way.”

“I know some people who are _very_ religious,” he went on, “and
I—dislike them. That was another reason why I did not want to come
here—because your father was a clergyman. But you always appear to have
such nice, enjoyable times. You talk over everything with him and your
mother.”

“Why should we not? It would be strange if they were not interested
in all that concerns us. And bringing home a bit of pleasant talk or
some bright and amusing incident is like adding a sheaf to the general
granary. Does it not seem as if each one ought to contribute to the
fund of happiness?”

“I suppose it is a good deal in the way you look at it. And the having
a home, may be.”

“Yes,” I said, “that is the great thing, or next to the having a
mother.”

“What if I were seized with a fit of confessing my sins? Would that be
added to the ‘general fund?’”

“I think we have all been brought up to respect a confidence,” I
answered, a trifle wounded. “But it would be better to confess them to
papa.”

“I might not want to;” and he gave a short laugh that did not seem
at all natural. “In fact, there are very few people who suit me, or
attract me—the same can, doubtless, be said of me. Do you know—and I
have never owned it before in my life—I am sometimes jealous of Stuart?
Every one takes to him, likes him; and he is no better than—other
people. He is not always truthful; he _is_ awfully selfish, and
heartless, too. Only he has that sunny, glowing way with him; and most
people are such fools that they cannot see through it. So he gets
credit for sweetness, when it is only—”

“A matter of temperament,” I returned, filling up the long pause.

“Exactly. Why cannot others understand that it is so?”

“Because nearly every one likes roses better than thorns. We naturally
shrink from a rough, prickly outside. No matter if the kernel is sweet,
every one, you know, cannot wait years and years for it to open. And
you seem to shut yourself up—”

“There is nothing to show, so I make no pretence,” he answered, in a
dry, hard tone.—“I hate froth, and all that.”

“Yet I suppose the waterfall is much prettier for the spray and
bubbles. Frail as they are, they reflect many beautiful tints. And I
suppose God could have made apples just as well without such showers of
fragrant blooms, and He may put some people in the world for the sake
of the blossom and the sweetness rather than the fruit.”

“What an idea! I should think you would be educated to consider the
strictly useful.”

“But all things that God has made have their uses.”

“You keep to the text—that God does it all. It is a woman’s province to
believe, I fancy.”

There was a little sneer in that.

“Does unbelief render men so much happier that they love to cling to
it?” I asked.

“Oh, they are dipping into science and philosophy, and see so much more
of the world,” he replied, loftily.

I turned to the window—and was silent.

“There!” he exclaimed, “I have vexed you.”

“No.” I returned, “I am not vexed. I only wish I knew the right words
to say to you; mamma might.”

“You are all very kind. I wonder that you were so good, when the
beginning was so unpromising. You must have thought us a couple of
brutes.”

“Stuart apologized handsomely to papa.”

“O, I dare say. He is up to that sort of dodge;” and a smile of scorn
curled his thin lip.

“I wish you loved your brothers better,” I could not forbear saying.

“It is their loss, no doubt.”

What could I do with him in such a mood? “Preaching,” as Fan called it,
was useless. Then I bethought myself of Miss Churchill’s call, and told
him what she had brought for him.

“And now,” I said, “it is time you had your supper. You must be nearly
starved.”

With that I ran down stairs. Yes, I did like bright, pleasant people.
Mamma’s cheery ways and papa’s sweetness were worth more than doses of
science and philosophy, since we have to live in a work-day world, and
cannot soar up to the clouds. It is just the every-day being that is
life, not the grand dreams that never come to pass.

I prepared the tray and took it, standing it on a table at the bed’s
side. When I returned the little group were in their accustomed places,
with papa ready to ask the blessing. I slipped quietly into the circle.

When I went to bring the dishes down I remarked a peculiar expression
upon Louis’ face.

“Miss Rose,” he began, “I want to know how it feels to be generous;
therefore I shall give you a holiday this evening. I must resolve to
stay alone now and then.”

“Are you quite sure—?”

“Quite;” and he waved his hand, smilingly.

I did want to go down to the store with Fan; so I was glad of the
permission. Stuart started to accompany us but two of the village boys
came to call on him. I was relieved, for I wanted to stop on the way
and see one of my Sunday School children.

Fan bought her braid, and we found the baby at the Day’s was sick, and
Betty had to stay at home to help take care of it. Poor thing, how wild
and wan it looked, so different from our rosy Edith.

Mrs. Day’s house was generally in disorder. She was a hard-working
woman in some respects, for she was always at it. Her husband was a
gardener and day-laborer, earning his twelve dollars a week pretty
regularly, and they owned a small cottage and garden, that Mrs. Day
senior had left them. Yet they always looked very poor.

“Yes,” Mrs. Day was saying, “I couldn’t spare Betty on Sunday. Husband
went over the river to see his cousin, and took little Jem. I’d been
hard at work all the week, and was clear beat out, up half the night,
too. And I don’t see as the baby gets a bit better. You don’t know what
it is to look after a baby all alone by yourself, and not have a soul
to raise a finger for you.”

“But Betty helps a good deal.” I returned, for I could not bear to have
the child so underrated.

“A girl like that can’t do much at the best. Now, if I had one or two
grown up, as your mother has!”

She always thought if she only had something another person possessed,
she should be happier. I wondered a little how she would get along with
mamma’s cares and worries, and sewing, to say nothing of the demands
from outside.

“Ask your ma if she cannot come over. Hardly a soul has been in, and I
can’t go anywhere for a bit of change. But poor people have to do the
best they can in trouble.”

I promised, and spoke a few words of cheer to sad-eyed Betty.

“That woman always does try me!” declared Fan. “If I was a minister’s
wife she would be a thorn in my side. How many poor, inefficient people
there are in this world, and the worst feature appears to be their
inability to learn anything! I do not believe they try in good earnest.”

“Yet I feel sorry for her.”

“Well, yes, and the poor sick baby. But if her room had been swept, her
dishes taken to the kitchen, and her hair combed, and a collar on, how
it would have altered the aspect of the place! And she seems to think
every one else in the world has it so much easier.”

“This is one of the places where one must not weary in well-doing, papa
would say,” was my rejoinder.

“You are a good little girl, Rose. I have not half your faith or
patience. I wonder if I shall be of any real and sensible use in this
world?”

“You can try to-morrow. The house will be clean.”

“I am afraid I should not want to go, otherwise,” she returned,
laughingly.

The man came over for her the next morning, quite early, having been
to the village on business. We felt that she was going off in state,
but I suppose it was on account of its being the West Side and the
Churchills, for Fan somehow was fortunate in having plenty of rides
fall to her share. She uttered a laughing good-bye and they drove away.

It seems odd how one event comes out of another, like the wonderful
Chinese transformations. You open a ball and the article inside is one
you would never have guessed at. You go to some place, and one trifling
incident changes the course of one’s whole life, or a few words that
some person utters carelessly brings about a new train of thought and
action, and your life is not quite the same afterward.

The Churchill mansion had a look of the old nobility. It was two
stories, with a great, double pitched roof, and wide, overhanging
eaves. Just the old fashion of white and green. But the blinds were
never faded, and the exterior never soiled. A porch on the front and
one side, upheld by square, white columns, and on the other side the
graveled roadway to the barn. A lawn in front, terraced twice, with
clumps of blossoming shrubs, or dainty beds cut out sharply in the
grass. For the house stood on a slight hill which gave it a still more
commanding appearance.

But around, just a trifle removed, to let in the sunshine, stood the
glory of it all. Great trees, elms, maples, a giant black-walnut,
hemlocks that must have grown nearly a hundred years, firs, spruce and
larches waving their long fringy arms. No modern sacrilegious hands had
come near to disturb them. Birds built in their branches year after
year, and the sunshine sifted through on the grass.

It was a warm morning and Miss Lucy’s reclining chair had been wheeled
out to the shady side of the porch. She was dressed in white with pale
pink roses in her hair and at her throat. Just turned of thirty she had
the Churchill maturity with a certain delicate girlishness. You could
imagine Miss Esther being a handsome and stately old woman, but it
seemed as if Miss Lucy must always stay where she was.

Mr. Churchill came to help her out, Miss Esther welcomed her warmly,
and Lucy put forth her hand with a smile.

“I was afraid we might be too early, but Abner had to go over on
business, and we told him to wait if you were not ready. Did you have a
pleasant ride?”

“It is very kind of you to come. I hope I shall not tire you out before
the day is over,” said Miss Lucy.

“O, you will not, I am sure,” Fanny returned with her bright smile. “I
am delighted to come.”

“And the sewing?” Miss Churchill exclaimed.

“I did all the long seams last evening, and Rose is to bind my trimming
for me, but I am much obliged.”

“What industrious girls you are. I am almost conscience smitten. Are
you quite sure you could be spared?”

“Yes, indeed. Don’t think of that please, Miss Churchill.”

“Will you sit here awhile? The air is so fresh and fragrant. The
greater part of my going out amounts to this only, so I am thankful for
the beautiful prospect. Look at those woods over there.”

Another knoll dark with evergreens as tall as those around the house.
At a little distance an adjoining hill, but in the level opening
between, there was a field of ripening wheat which looked like a golden
sea. Fan spoke of it.

“How odd,” returned Miss Lucy, “I have had the same thought dozens of
times in the last fortnight. I sometimes imagine that there is a lovely
undiscovered country just beyond, and what it is like. I am glad that I
cannot go out to discover it, that would take away half the charm.”

Fanny smiled at the quaint conceit, so satisfying.

“And now tell me all about the children at home, and the sick young
man? What do you think Dr. Hawley said to me a few days ago?—Miss Lucy,
you need some one to bring you a good dish of gossip.”

“Good gossip at that;” laughed Mr. Churchill with a humorous twinkle in
his eye. “If Miss Endicott does not acquit herself well, I’ll go for
some of the village cronies.”

“I’ll begin with the baby then,” and Fanny moved her seat a trifle.
“She is just the cunningest baby you ever saw. We were all smart
children, but she is a prodigy. She sits alone, and creeps a little
sideways, and when she gets in a glee, flaps her wings, i. e. her arms,
and crows.”

Mr. Churchill shook his head solemnly. “That will hardly do for a
girl,” he said, “and a clergyman’s daughter.”

“We think it best for her to do her crowing while she is small,” was
Fannie’s playful answer.

She talked about the others—Fan had a way of brightening up everything
that was very amusing. Not that she ever made it out better or worse—it
was only the quaint touches of harmless pleasantry.

Miss Lucy laughed softly and a pink tint came to her pale cheeks.

Miss Esther in the meanwhile made several journeys to and fro. Mr.
Churchill took up his paper and pretended to read, but his eyes
wandered to the fair young girl whose simple homelikeness was her
greatest charm. Presently the sun came around, and Miss Lucy’s chair
was wheeled to the sitting room, which was cool and shady.

All their entertainments were not kept for the great drawing-room.
Here were pictures, a well filled book-case, articles of _virtu_, a
cabinet of shells, minerals and precious stones, and portfolios of
fine engravings. Here an album filled with notable authors, artists
and musical people, another with eminent men of Europe, and remarkable
women. Fan had enough to entertain her there.

Suddenly a bell rang.

“This is the shortest morning that I have known for some time,”
exclaimed Miss Lucy. “It hardly seems possible that is the dinner bell.
We are old fashioned in our hour, you see.”

Fan was astonished as well. Mr. Churchill gave Lucy his arm, as she
could walk with a little assistance. Miss Esther led Fanny.

The dinner table was like a picture. The quaint old china, delicately
flowered, and the antique silver was set off by the snowy cloth and the
brilliant bouquets with trailing stems that looked as if they might
have grown in the vases. Fan enjoyed it all to the uttermost, and was
too happy to envy aught of it.

“You have been sitting up all the morning;” said Miss Churchill, “and
you do not look a bit tired now! Shall we give Miss Fanny the credit?”

“I think she deserves it. Indeed I hardly noticed how the time passed.
You see I get so tired of staying alone, or talking over the same old
subjects with Essie.”

“You are a grateful young woman I must say!” and Miss Churchill laughed.

“Kenton, couldn’t we have a drive to Round Hill about sunset? I think I
could go.”

“What, more dissipation?”

“Please don’t undertake too much,” said Fanny. “I am well content to
stay here.”

“But the sunset is so lovely there.”

“You must have a good long rest;” said her sister, “and we will see how
you feel then.”

“I dare say Miss Endicott will be glad for I have kept her talking
steadily.”

“I am used to it,” laughed Fan, “and somehow I never understood the
charms of solitude, or perhaps was born incapable of appreciating them.”

“There is no doubt of that;” Mr. Churchill returned with a quiet smile.

They sat over their desert a long while, talking of various subjects
that were exceedingly entertaining. The quiet and air of formal
courtesy that was far removed from stiffness, pleased and interested
Fanny greatly.

But Miss Churchill was inexorable afterward, and would not even consent
to Fan’s going up stairs with Lucy. Instead she took charge of her and
they inspected the house and the clean, fragrant dairy, and lastly
found themselves in Miss Churchill’s room. This was large and airy,
looking cool in its summer dress of matting and furniture of cane or
delicate chintz covers.

The visit was so different from the formal little calls that we had
been in the habit of making with either of our parents. Indeed, Fan
always declared that this day’s experience took her right into the
Churchills’ lives, and I think it did.

A dress of fine white India muslin lay on Miss Churchill’s bed.
At least, the skirt which had three ruffles edged with delicate
needlework. The rest had been ripped apart and ironed out.

“Do you think it pretty?” asked Miss Churchill.

“It is lovely. What exquisite muslin! I wonder what makes these old
things so much more beautiful than what we have now?”

“They are neater and not so showy.”

“But this would be noticeable anywhere.”

“Yes, yet it has an air of quiet refinement. Twenty or thirty years ago
ladies bought dresses to keep, now they are unpardonably old after one
or two seasons, therefore it does not pay to make them so elegant. My
dear Miss Fanny, I may as well confess to a conspiracy. I brought out a
lot of old dresses yesterday—too pretty to give to the absolute poor. I
selected this and altered the skirt. It is all done but the band. I did
not know precisely what to do with the waist, so I shall have to give
you the material. And if you will accept these for yourself and your
sister—there is a great quantity in them, and you will find it a nice,
serviceable fabric, as it will save washing. Please do not consider me
officious.”

“Oh, Miss Churchill!” was all that Fan could say.

“This pine-apple will be good for afternoon wear, and I believe to some
extent in useful gifts. The other I wanted you to have because it was
so pretty. I have two more, which will last me my life time.”

“You are too generous! Oh, Miss Churchill, how can I thank you?”

“By wearing and enjoying them, my dear, and not having any fussy
feeling over them. Just as if they had come from an aunt, for instance.
I do not believe your mother will object. She is too truly a lady to
fancy that I desire to place you under any obligation.”

I should have stood silent and abashed. Fan did the best thing of all,
just clasped her arms around Miss Churchill’s neck and kissed her for
thanks.

The stage came lumbering along at that moment. Miss Churchill glanced
out of the window with one arm still around Fanny.

“Of all things! Here is Winthrop Ogden looking too merry for any
misfortune. It is like him to take us so by surprise. My dear, I will
run down a moment.”




CHAPTER VIII.


Fan heard the sound of the voices without distinguishing the words,
and turned to an inspection of the dresses. There was a dainty apron
overskirt of the muslin, with the same lovely ruffling around it,
and plenty for the waist and sleeves. The others were blue and white
striped, one very narrow, the other about an inch wide, with a kind of
embroidered figure in the stripe. The skirts were long and full, and
with one there was a mantle.

Miss Churchill returned presently.

“You have not mutinied in my absence, have you? My dear girl, I do not
want to place you under any obligation, yet I thought these garments
might be of some use to you and your sister. It would not do to send
them to the sewing society to be cut up for the very poor. Don’t give
yourself an anxious thought. Now go in to Lucy who is waiting for you,
and when she is ready you must come down stairs and see our nephew.”

Miss Lucy was much rested. “I have had three or four naps which did me
a world of good;” she said. “You see I was very tired, and that made me
rest delightfully. All my good things come at once. Winthrop is here.”

She looked bright and cheerful.

“Can I not do something for you?” asked Fanny. “I might brush your
hair, I often do mamma’s.”

“If it would not trouble you—Essie does it in the morning, and I
generally manage it in the afternoon. But I am afraid—”

“No,” returned Fan cordially, divining the delicate fear. She took up
the brush and soon had it in order.

Usually Miss Lucy walked about without any assistance, but being
somewhat weak now, she had to help herself with a cane which she always
kept in her room. Fan tried to anticipate her wants, and she was ready
so soon that she rang the bell for her brother, who came to assist her
down stairs.

“This is our nephew, Mr. Ogden;” announced Miss Churchill, “Miss
Endicott.”

Fan remembered seeing him at church occasionally. He was about
twenty-two, and had matured considerably in a year. He was medium
height, with a rather handsome, rollicking face. There was a laugh in
his hazel eyes, in his curly chestnut hair, and it seemed to play hide
and seek about his mouth, the upper lip being shaded by a soft brown
moustache.

“Ah, Miss Endicott,—though I ought to know you without a formal
presentation, only I could not save your life I suppose if I were not
introduced. How are you, Aunt Lucy? Why you have roses, actually! I
thought from Aunt Essie’s letter that you must be a pale shadow!”

“The roses are in your honor, and not very durable. I am glad to see
you, but oh how you have—changed!”

“For the better allow me to hope!”

She laughed. “But how did you come to take us so by surprise? I thought
you were at Newport.”

“I was yesterday. But I had to dance so much night before last, that
I was afraid of impairing my constitution. I began to sigh for simple
country life, and came hither, thinking of uncle Kenton’s horses.”

“They are in a fine condition;” said Mr. Churchill.

“And I can have only a fortnight’s vacation now, so I mean to make the
most of it. The other two weeks will come in September.”

“Your mother and Helen—?”

“Are delightfully well and charmingly entertained—can you ask more?”

He gave a droll little smile at this.

We heard sometime afterward that Miss Ogden was engaged, and her
lover’s mother being very fond of her, they had gone to Newport
somewhat on her account.

“Come out on the porch. Here is your chair Lucy,” and Mr. Churchill
wheeled it round. “Why you _do_ look quite bright. Miss Endicott, we
must thank you for part of it.”

“I have not done much, I am sure.”

“Oh, Aunt Lucy, have you a protege, or has Miss Endicott kindly
consented to rule you for the nonce? Will my occupation be gone?”

“What nonsense, Winthrop! Miss Endicott came over to spend the day,
taking pity on me. I have been so forlornly lonesome of late.”

“Then I have arrived just in the nick of time, if that word has any
meaning or relation to anything above or under the waters. Let me feel
your pulse. Quite reduced, I must admit. Beef tea and camomile flowers
three times a day. A long walk morning and evening. Cheerful society—a
new bonnet—and—but try that first. My knowledge is not exhausted.”

“Could you take the ride, think, Lucy?” asked Miss Churchill. “Kenton
we will have the large carriage and all go.”

“What conspiracy have you planned?” inquired Winthrop.

“A harmless drive,” returned Miss Lucy mirthfully. “If it looks
suspicious we will leave you at home in Hugo’s charge.”

Hugo was a handsome English hound, as aristocratic as his master.

They all asked and answered questions, drawing Fan within their
beautiful circle by the fine tact of thorough breeding. She was so gay
and charming, and withal natural without any aiming at position or
special notice. Indeed she and Mr. Ogden had two or three passages of
sharpness between them that made their elders laugh.

It came supper time so soon, that Miss Lucy declared gaily she had
been defrauded; the day certainly _was_ shorter than usual.

“Yes,” returned Mr. Churchill, “they are. We have passed the longest
days.”

“Have you? Sometimes I feel as if I were just coming to mine,” and
there was a graver look in her face.

“Aunt Lucy low spirited! Why I thought you were a very princess of
philosophy!”

“One’s heart does fail sometimes.”

“But I am to be married you know, and you are to make me long visits.
I’ll save my buttons for you to sew on, you shall embroider my
initials, and mend my gloves. Will not that be happiness enough?”

“What is your wife to do meanwhile?”

He affected to be puzzled. “Why I suppose she will not _know_ how to do
anything. Is not that the accomplishment of the girl of the period?”

“There may be girls of the semi-colon who do not go quite so far;”
answered Miss Lucy drolly.

Winthrop glanced up at Fan who colored vividly.

“Excuse me, Miss Endicott, I—”

[Illustration: STEPHEN DUNCAN.]

“Winthrop you are not to tease Miss Endicott, nor to classify her,
either. I take her under my especial protection.”

“I lay down my arms at once, Aunt Lucy. I am your most obedient.”

And so it went on with bits of fun and pleasantness cropping out now
and then. Mr. Churchill unbending, Miss Churchill straying from the
little hedge of formalities, sweet as a wild briar blossom. And Lucy
was nearly as bright as Fan.

The carriage came around soon afterwards. Mr. Ogden insisted upon
driving, so the man was dispensed with. The Churchill estate was very
large, including the mountainous track and a good deal of woodland. It
was not a much frequented drive, although Round Hill was one of the
curiosities of the town. But the Churchills and the Garthwaites seemed
to fence it in with their sense of ownership, and it was _not_ common
property like Longmeadow and the Cascades.

But it was very beautiful in the low lying light. Here was a field in
deep gloom, shadowed by yonder trees, here a strip of waving grain,
then long sweeps of grassy hillsides broken by clumps of young cedars
or hemlocks. An irregular wooded chain—the mountains, Wachusetts’
people called them, divided us from the quaint little town lying in the
next valley. Here was the delightful opening that appeared more level
by contrast with the tall trees on both sides, and next, symmetrical
Round Hill, in a flood of golden red light, for the sun was going down
between this and the next eminence.

Fan just turned to Miss Lucy and put out her hand. But the eloquent
words and the intense appreciation were in her fluttering color, her
swelling lip and kindling eye, and the simple gesture.

“I knew you would like it;” said Lucy just as quietly.

Miss Churchill looked over at them. Was she thinking of what Mrs.
Endicott had said—how she kept young in her children’s lives? For
Lucy’s face was like a girl’s again.

“I sometimes think there can be nothing in Europe more beautiful,” Miss
Lucy said at length. “It is my Alps. Ah, if one could paint that glow!”

Winthrop glanced back. “I wish you could have seen some pictures in the
Academy, Aunt Lucy;” and then he went on to describe them in an eager
manner, evincing much genuine love for beauty, and a kind of fitness,
for his tone was low and earnest, without any assumption of manishness.

Meanwhile as they wound slowly along, the sky changed from the crimson
gold, to orange, then to a yellow tint, sending out long rays into the
frost-white, not unlike an Aurora. All the edges of the hills were
purple and blue, with a peculiar velvety softness, losing themselves
presently in hazy indistinctness.

“Kenton,” Lucy said, “this place ought to be re-christened. Sunset Hill
would be more appropriate. There is no such enchanting sunset for miles
around.”

“But it isn’t always that,” in his dry humorous way. “And it _is_
always round.”

“Then mine shall be its holiday name, a kind of golden remembrance.”

“It is beautiful;” Miss Churchill said with deep feeling. “Miss
Fanny, your father preached a good sermon last Sunday morning, about
our longing for loveliness and grandeur which was far away, and not
enjoying that right beside us, and our desiring to do some great thing,
waiting years for the opportunity, when we might have made our lives
rich with the small daily deeds that are at our very finger ends. And
how many of us long for Italy when we have clear skies and glowing
sunsets at home that we know nothing about!”

“Because such lives are crowded full to repletion. I sometimes wonder
if we do not have too much instead of not enough? I find a large world
right around here, because I can’t get out comfortably to any larger
one.”

“And because you see the beauty in every thing,” returned Fanny softly.
“It’s just like daily bread, the now, and here. We need not starve
to-day because of a famine coming a hundred years hence.”

Mr. Churchill raised his grave eyes and smiled, just a little. They
moved on quietly again, the wide glory of the twilight heavens falling
gently over, clasping hands with the indistinct outlines of the
beautiful earth. The creek went rippling and winding around, making a
pleasant stir, and the insects began to chirp in low tones as if not
quite sure the night was coming.

“What a delightful day! Though I have not done half the things that
I meant to,” said Miss Lucy as they were nearing home. “We were to
look over those Russian views this afternoon, and I was to show you my
sketches. It is all Winthrop’s fault. We shall have to take the day
over again, Fanny.”

“I cannot say that I am sorry I came, having a high regard for the
truth. But then I _am_ going; and the world will still last;” he
returned.

“That must be our comfort.”

“I wish you and your sister would come over soon, not merely to tea,
but to spend a good long afternoon;” said Miss Churchill. “And I have a
basket of flowers to send home with you.”

“Does Miss Endicott go alone?” Winthrop asked.

“In the carriage—unless you should have the politeness to accompany
her,” answered Miss Churchill rather inconsequently.

“With pleasure—if Aunt Lucy can spare me.”

“I shall march straight to bed, you saucy boy.”

The ladies were helped out. Fanny thought she had better keep right on.
Miss Churchill brought a great basket of fragrance and beauty, and
said she would send the parcel over the next morning, “that is if you
are quite sure that you will not feel patronized,” she whispered.

“No,” returned Fan frankly. “Rose and I will be most grateful.”

Lucy kissed her good by. Miss Churchill’s farewell was a little more
formal, but full of sweet cordiality. The coachman sprang up in his
seat and turned the horses slowly.

Mr. Churchill assisted Lucy up the steps. “What a pretty behaved girl,”
he said. “She is bright and pleasant without being bold or underbred.
And she enjoys everything so thoroughly.”

“She makes one feel young again. She fairly gives of her own abundant
youth.”

In the meanwhile the two rode home together. There was no moon, but the
stars were out by thousands, shining in all their glory. They talked of
the beauty of the night, of the improvements in the town, and he asked
what was going on in the way of entertainment. This was how Fan came to
mention the picnic, and Mr. Ogden was interested in it immediately.

Nelly and the elders were sitting in the wide, airy hall with the lamp
in the back part, making a golden twilight within. Fan set her flowers
in the midst, and all the air was sweet.

Such a lovely day as it had been! The talk and visiting, the dinner and
tea, the two rides,—Miss Churchill and Miss Lucy—the kindly messages to
mamma,—the invitation to tea, and best of all, the thought about papa’s
sermon. Fan had a way of bringing something home from every place for
every body. It was as good as going yourself.

“So papa, dear, it wasn’t my fascination altogether, but a little pinch
of your good seed. It springs up occasionally where you do not expect
it. And now tell me what you have been doing?”

Our day had proved one of the unsatisfactory days.

Mamma had gone out in the morning to make some calls, and found Mrs.
Day’s baby very sick. Edith started from her nap in affright, and while
I went down to soothe her, Stuart had tormented my patient into a fit
of passion, so that he had a headache and could eat no dinner. Then
there had been a steady stream of visitors all the afternoon.

“I didn’t get much of your trimming done,” I said to Fan, “but the
picnic is not until Tuesday.”

“And I can work like a Trojan to-morrow. Oh! mamma and Rose, there is
something else—I hope you will think I have acted rightly about it.”

Then followed an account of the gift.

“I do not see how you could well have done differently. Miss Churchill
was very kind and delicate.”

“Fan,” exclaimed papa as if waking out of a dream—“I think I _do_ see
the good seed. But some things are best to let grow by themselves. If
you poke about the roots and snip off and tie up, you don’t get half
the bloom and beauty. People like the Churchills might bring forth so
much fruit. Perhaps it will come. The same God who made the gourd, made
the century plant. Mother, couldn’t we have a quiet little hymn?”

It was a trick he had when there was any special thing on his mind.
Mamma’s soft playing seemed to smooth out the tangles.

We sang with her, and then kissed each other good night.

The next day was ever so much better. Mamma had talked to both of the
boys, and I think Louis _did_ try to be patient and pleasant. Fan came
in and helped entertain him while we both sewed. The dresses were sent
with a note from Miss Churchill, and mamma thought them extremely
pretty. We finished Fan’s pique all but the button holes, by night.

Just after tea Mrs. Day sent over. Mamma answered the summons and staid
until ten, then she came home to tell us that the poor little life had
gone out here, to blossom brighter elsewhere. She had washed it and
dressed it for the last time, with her tender hands. Mrs. Downs had
come to stay all night, for Mrs. Day was in violent hysterics.

Early Sunday morning the baby was buried. Three little graves in a row,
and only Betty and Jem left. I stopped in Church just a moment to give
thanks on my knees that our little flock were all alive and well.

“I wonder how you can take such an interest in everybody?” Louis said
as I sat with him awhile that evening. “In one way your father and
mother have a duty towards all in the parish, but—I don’t know as I can
_quite_ explain,—you seem to make their troubles and their pleasures
your very own. And some of the people must be—very common, and quite
ignorant—excuse me, but it is so all over the world.”

“Isn’t that the secret of _true_ sympathy? If you were in great sorrow
and went to a friend, would you not like to have the comfort adapted
to your nature, and wants? The other would be asking for bread and
receiving a stone.”

“It is very good of course, really noble. But it would fret me to do
favors for people who did not interest me one bit. Now I can understand
your sister’s enjoying her day at the Churchills, even if she was asked
partly to entertain an invalid. They were refined, agreeable people.
But that she should give up going to ride with Miss Fairlie yesterday
afternoon, to make a bonnet for that woman who lost her baby, and who
wasn’t a bit thankful—”

“She _was_ thankful,” I interposed.

“Stuart went with your sister, and he said she found fault because it
wasn’t the right shape, and because there was ribbon used instead of
crape. I should have smashed up the thing and thrown it into the fire,
and told her to suit herself.”

I laughed a little, the remark was so characteristic.

“We get used to people’s ways after a while,” I said. “Mrs. Day never
is _quite_ satisfied. If a thing had only been a little different. And
very likely next week she will show the bonnet to some neighbor and
praise Fanny’s thoughtfulness and taste. You see no one happened to
think of a bonnet until it was pretty late.”

“But why could she not have been thankful on the spot? It was
ungracious, to say the least.”

“That is her way.”

“I’d get her out of it, or I wouldn’t do any favors for her.”

“I wonder if _we_ are always thankful on the spot, and when the favor
doesn’t _quite_ suit us?”

There was a silence of some moments, then he said in a low tone: “Do
you mean me, Miss Endicott?”

“No, I am not quite as impolite as that. I made my remark in a general
sense.”

“Suppose some one gave you an article that you did not want?”

“If it was from an equal, and I could decline it, granting that it
was perfectly useless, I should do so. But an inferior, or a poorer
person, who might have taken a great deal of pains, deserves more
consideration.”

“Is it not deceitful to allow them to think they have conferred a
benefit upon you?”

“I do not look at it in that light. This person intended a kindness,
and I take it at his or her appraisal. I am obliged for the labor and
love that went into it, the thought prompting it.”

“Oh,” after a silence.

“And doesn’t that make the good fellowship of the world? When equals
exchange small courtesies there is no special merit in it. No
self-sacrifice is required, no lifting up of any one, or no going down.
The world at large is no better or stronger for the example. It is
when we go out of ourselves, make our own patience and generosity and
sympathy larger, that we begin to enjoy the giving and doing.”

“But you can not really like poor, ignorant people?”

“Better sometimes than I can like rich, ignorant people. When you walk
along the roadside you enjoy the clover blooms, the common daisies and
mallows, and every flowering weed. The way gives you its very best.
These blossoms laugh and nod and twinkle in the glad sunshine, and
you are joyous with them. But if a friend who had a large garden and
gardeners in abundance asked you to come, and took you through weedy
grass-grown paths, and gathered for you a bunch of field flowers, you
would not feel so much obliged.”

“Why no.”

“It is the giving of one’s best. It may also mean the ability to
appreciate, when another gives of the best he has.”

“But _can_ you like the work? Pardon me, but it has always seemed to me
a hint of a second or third rate mind when one can be happy with such
common pleasures. There, no doubt I have offended you.”

“If we were always looking for our own perfect satisfaction, it would
not be. But, ‘No man liveth to himself,’ only.”

“Miss Endicott, I don’t wonder you like my brother Stephen. After all,”
rather doubtfully, “isn’t there a good deal of cant preached?”

“Only believe. All the rest will be added,” I said hurriedly.

The church bell was ringing its middle peal. There was a long pause
then it took up a sweet and rather rapid jangle, subsiding into the
slow swells of tender melody. We always called it the middle peal and
began to get ready, as that gave us just time to go to church. I rose
now, and uttered a pleasant good night.

“Say a little prayer for me, if you don’t think I am too wicked;” he
murmured faintly, turning his face away.

How peculiar he was! When I thought him softening, he was always sure
to draw back into his shell again, and his confidences invariably came
unexpectedly. Then too, they puzzled me, I was not fit to cope with
them. They seemed to jar and jangle with the every day smoothness of my
own life.

Mr. Ogden was at church alone that evening, and though the Maynard
girls were there, walked home in our circle. I was going to stay with
Fannie, but Dick Fairlie was on the other side of her, and George and
Allie West swallowed me up in the narrow path.

“I am coming in to-morrow morning to tell you of the picnic plans,”
said Allie as we were about to separate.

“Can’t I come in the evening and hear?” asked Mr. Ogden. “Or am I the
man on the other side?”

“No indeed,” spoke up Allie, “we shall be glad to have you. I will
leave a special message.”

They were a little acquainted with him, having met him at the Maynards
the summer before. The young ladies of that family had declined
participating in the affair.

We heard all the plans on Monday morn. They were to go out to
Longmeadow in wagons and carriages, taking refreshments and
conveniences. There was just a nice party. “The kind of people
who harmonize,” said Miss West. “I never can endure Tom, Dick and
Harry—everybody and his wife.”

“Of course you wouldn’t want everybody in a small party,” I returned.

“I wish you were going, Rose.”

“The Sunday School picnic comes the week after. I could not go to both.”

“This will be ever so much nicer.”

“O, I am not sure. There will be more enjoyment at that, because there
will be so many more to enjoy everything.”

“Your way of thinking! Well, if I was a clergyman’s daughter I should
have to go I suppose. I am glad that I can choose my pleasures. Fanny
Endicott, if Mr. Ogden calls this evening give him my compliments and a
special invitation.”

Fan colored and made some laughing retort.

He did come over with a message from his aunts, asking us to tea on
Thursday evening if it was convenient. Then he wanted to know about the
picnic, and said that he might be expected, sure.

Dick and Kate came over for Fanny. Mrs. Fairlie was in the wagon and
leaned out to make some inquiries about Mr. Duncan. Stuart had taken a
knapsack and started on foot.

I went a few steps further on to fasten up a spray of clematis. Dick
followed.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have gone too;” he said rather crossly.

“Should I have added so very much?”

“I suppose that grand chap of the Churchills’ will be there?” he went
on without noticing my remark.

“Yes. He was invited by Allie West, you know.”

He snapped off a piece of honeysuckle. What was the matter with him
this morning?

Fan came down in her new pique dress, her broad sun hat trimmed
with light blue, and her white parasol lined with the same tint. She
was pretty and stylish enough for any lady’s daughter. Kate was in a
silvery, much be-ruffled poplin, and a jaunty round hat that scarcely
shaded her eyes.

Louis was considerably improved that day. He walked into the next room,
arranged some flowers that I brought him, and was quite cheerful. He
wanted very much to go down stairs, but mamma thought he had better
not, so he acquiesced pleasantly.

“If you are no worse to-morrow you may try it,” she promised.

Fan had a royal time, though she declared she was half tired to death.

Up in our room she told me all the particulars.

“Everything was just lovely! Servants to do the work, make fires and
coffee, and spread tables, while we sat, or walked in the shade, or
rambled through the woods. We had the violins and quadrilles and
gallops and laughing, and may be a little flirting. It was absolutely
funny to see young Ogden.”

“Oh, Fan, I hope you didn’t—”

“My dear little grandmother, I am afraid I did, just the least bit. You
see Kate and Allie West tried so hard for Mr. Ogden, and he kept by my
side _so_ easily. I had only to look. And Dick Fairlie was like a bear.
Something has vexed him.”

“I thought he was cross this morning. But, oh, Fan, I wouldn’t have you
do any thing to—to displease the Churchills.”

“And I wouldn’t, honestly Rose. This is nothing beyond summer pastime.
Why can’t we all be bright and nice and social? It is a humbug to think
of everybody’s falling in love. I don’t believe young people _would_
think of it, only some one is afraid and speaks before the time, making
a tangle of it all. I do not expect any one to fall in love with me—at
present.”




CHAPTER IX.


Excitements and engagements multiplied with us. One and another had
visitors from the city and we were sent for to tea or to spend the
evening. Stuart was asked every where as well. Louis came down the next
day and sat in the hall with us, where we were sewing as usual. Then on
Thursday we went to the Churchills. They sent the carriage over early,
before we were ready, indeed. Louis eyed the soft cushions wistfully.

“Oh,” I spoke out before I thought, but I was glad an instant
after,—“if you would spare a few moments,—if you would take an invalid
a short drive—”

“With pleasure Miss. The sick young man, I suppose?”

“Yes,” and I ran to beg papa to help him out. Louis was delighted, I
could see.

They drove down the quiet street, where the trees met overhead. Quaint
and old fashioned, with great gardens, many of the houses being owned
by widows, or elderly people whose children were married and gone.
Less than a quarter of a mile away the road curved, and in this little
three-cornered space stood our pretty gray stone church, the shady side
covered with ivy.

“It was delightful;” said Louis on his return. “But I never thought of
the great liberty we were taking.”

“Do not fret about that,” I made answer gaily. “Be just as good as you
can, while I am gone.”

I was glad they had asked no one else at the Churchills. The Maynards
had been over the day before. Miss Churchill received us very
cordially. I explained what I had done, and made a small apology.

“My dear child, I am pleased that you thought of it,” returned Miss
Churchill. “Why, we might send over almost every day. I am glad he is
improving so nicely.”

“It would be a charitable work for me, Aunt Esther. Such a little
satisfies Aunt Lu that I do not keep half busy,” said Mr. Ogden.

“I never knew you to have such an industrious fit;” replied his aunt.

“But I have been in business for a year you see, and have ceased to be
an idler;” and he made a comical face.

Miss Lucy came down soon after. Then we had a nice cordial time talking
about books and looking over pictures.

Sometimes two or three voices sounded at once, not from any ill
breeding, but because we all had so much to say. Then we would laugh
and subside, and begin again. I almost wondered how we dared feel so
much at home, and utter our every day thoughts unreservedly.

Mr. Churchill joined us, and the conversation, asking about church
matters, and if we were going to take the Sunday School to the cascade
again? Were there many sick in the parish?

“Not very many for this season of the year,” I made answer.

“Our town is about as healthy as any location I know. Why people must
be running off to watering places and leaving comfortable houses, I can
not understand.”

“The grand thing is change. Most of us do get tired of running along in
one groove.”

“Why Esther! I thought you considered the doctrine of change a great
heresy!” and Mr. Churchill looked surprised.

“I have been thinking lately that we might make our lives too narrow,
too self-satisfying. So if we get outside we may have our ideas
broadened, and find something new to do, or if we are dissatisfied with
our surroundings, we may come back quite content.”

“Do you want to go any where?”

“Not just now.”

Fan and Lucy had been talking over the picnic.

“Can’t we drive there in the afternoon?” she asked of her brother, “I
should like to see a crowd of happy children.”

“Are you going, Winthrop?”

“I expect to be field marshal. Miss Endicott has engaged my services at
an enormous salary. You will be able to tell me by a blue ribbon around
my left arm, and a primrose in the lappel of my coat. I am to see that
the rear guard is prompt at dinner.”

He looked at me very soberly, and the others glanced in the same
direction. I could not help blushing to the roots of my hair, and
exclaiming:

“Why Mr. Ogden!”

“Aunt Lucy will tell you that I have a great deal of executive
ability.”

They all laughed.

The tea-table was exquisite as usual. Afterward we had music, Fan and
I singing duets, or Mr. Ogden joining us with a very promising tenor
voice.

“Can we not all sing?” asked Fanny presently. “Let me play some
familiar hymns.”

Mr. Churchill came and stood behind her watching the graceful fingers
that dropped such soft, sweet notes. As if he could not resist he added
his bass voice, and then we had quite a choir.

“Young ladies, you have given me an exceedingly pleasant evening;” he
said as we were preparing to leave. “I hope it may soon be repeated.”

Winthrop and Fanny laughed at each other all the way home. They were
not a bit sentimental, and I felt quite relieved. Since the Churchills
were so cordial about it, why should I worry?

He came over the next morning with the barouche and two horses to take
out Mr. Duncan.

“You didn’t ask such a favor for me?” and Louis’ eyes almost flashed.

“I did not ask anything, or even hint. Why can you not go and enjoy
it?”

“I don’t choose to be patronized.”

“I think this was Mr. Ogden’s own planning. You will like him I am
sure. Oh please go,” I entreated.

In the meanwhile Winthrop had been admiring the baby and bantering some
one else to fill up the carriage. Oddly enough mamma consented to take
Edith. When Louis heard that he made no further objection.

The result of this was that Winthrop came back and staid to dinner. We
were all going to the Fairlie’s to tea and croquet. And Fan absolutely
sent him home or I believe he would have staid until we started.

Mamma liked him. Stuart pronounced him jolly, but Louis withheld his
verdict. I must confess that I admired him ever so much. You could get
on with him so nicely.

I was very glad that Fan did not monopolize him during the evening.
Dick appeared quite elated with her notice of him. It was moonlight and
we walked home together, but somehow then Dick fell to my share.

The next week we hardly had a moment to breathe. What with our
engagements and getting everything in train for the picnic we were as
busy as bees. The aristocratic part seldom joined us, but papa always
obeyed the scriptural injunction. The lame, and the halt, and the blind
were hunted up, the whimsical old people who would not go without a
special invitation, the poor who were sure they had nothing to wear,
and the children who were always ready, but needed getting in order.

Mamma remained behind with baby and Louis. I was to act for her as well
as I could. The stronger portion of the community were to meet on the
church green and march in regular order. Fan had beguiled Dick Fairlie
into taking Jennie Ryder and her mother, who was quite disabled from
a stroke of paralysis two years before. All the others were to go in
wagons or stages or wheel-barrows, she said.

Winthrop came over and helped us manage the children. At nine we took
up our line of march under the shady trees. There was a shorter way
in the sun, but we had time enough. This road wound round the hilly
district, crossed the river once, and then seemed to lose itself in the
woods. At least there was the hill and the trees on one side. Here a
craggy declivity stood out bold and brown amid the waving green, ferns
and wild flowers grew in the clefts, or shrubs with precarious footing.
A spur of the creek ran along the height, and presently began to find
its way down through a sort of sloping river, purling over rocks and
stones and fallen trees, and in two places pouring down a precipitous
pathway, making very pretty falls, the larger one at least ten feet
high. Then it ran off and joined the river.

There was one lovely nook, though art had assisted nature here. A
clearing had been made years ago, and now the turf of clover and grass
was like velvet.

It was a small basin between the mountains. Down one side of it came
the cascade, wandering off through the woods in curves that made a
picturesque way. The place was used considerably for pleasure parties,
and kept in tolerable order. The committee had been down the day
before, put up swings, made some long tables and seats, and given the
place quite a homelike air.

The walk was beautiful with varied scenery, fresh, crisp air, and
clearest of skies. Mr. Ogden made acquaintance with Mr. Trafton, our
superintendent, in about five minutes, and they marshalled the children
in a jolly fashion. All heavy baskets and bundles were put in a great
farm wagon, and we had nothing to do but march along triumphantly to
the carol of the birds.

The youngsters were wild, of course. They shouted at a little gray
squirrel which ran along the path, they gave sundry shrill whistles
that exceeded the birds, they laughed and chattered, stepped out of
line to gather wild flowers or pick up some uncommon pebble, beginning
their day’s pleasure at the very outset. But papa did not care. Indeed
he was as merry as any of them.

I thought several times how Stephen Duncan would have liked it. I
wondered what should have brought him so plainly before my mind on this
particular day!

Through winding ways we trooped. Over beyond there were broad meadows
and waving corn-fields, scattered farm buildings and cottages, with a
bit of road, gleaming dusty white in the sunshine, the river broadening
into lakes or bending abruptly; and nearer, the changing glooms and
shadows, the points of the hills in blue and purple and bronze. All the
air was so clear and sweet, it sent the rushes of warm blood to heart
and brain, and then to very finger ends.

The infantry, as Winthrop called it, reached the ground a long while
first. We had to disband and the children ran around as if they had
never seen a bit of country before. Shawls and baskets were stowed in
out-of-the-way corners or suspended from trees. Some of the hardier
boys pulled off shoes and stockings, preparatory to having a good time.
As for us elders, we began to straighten out our affairs and set up
for house-keeping. There were so many lovely people. Miss Oldways,—who
taught the bible-class of larger girls,—in her soft, pearl gray dress,
and ribbon of the same shade on her bonnet, with a bit of pale blue
inside. She was always so sweet and lady-like. She and her widowed
sister, Mrs. Bromley, kept a little thread and needle store in the
village, and, though they were business women, I did not see that it
detracted in the least from their refinement.

Annie and Chris Fellows were with us, and Mrs. Elsden, though she had
four children in the Sunday School, but I think she would have enjoyed
herself any way. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate had gone to the sea-shore the
day before, with the Wests and some others. Then there were Mothers and
Aunts of the children, and several of the farmer families near by.

We had stowed our luggage in a cool, shady place and sent the wagon
home when the caravan arrived. Old ladies who could not have walked,
but were in holiday white apron and kerchief, or best gingham dress,
and some with their knitting. We placed shawls on the mossy rocks or
benches, and seated them.

“Here is your precious cargo,” said Dick to Fannie. “Come and welcome
them.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ryder, I am so glad you _could_ come.”

“I couldn’t if it had not been for you, dear. You are always thinking
of something pleasant. I was so surprised when Dick told me—”

He was Dick to almost everybody, for his father was a plain, sociable
farmer, and the son had grown up with the village boys. It was a great
mortification to Mrs. Fairlie that he did not want to go to college and
liked farming. But then Kate kindly took “cultivation” enough for two.

“What will you do with her?” asked Dick, lifting her out in his strong
arms.

“Right here. O Jennie!” and she went on making a soft corner.

Dick put Mrs. Ryder in it. The neighbors crowded round, glad to see
her out. A pale, sweet, motherly looking woman, who had been very
handsome in her day, and now her cordial thankfulness was good to
behold.

“You are just splendid;” Fan whispered to Dick.

We all liked Jennie Ryder ever so much, and felt a peculiar interest in
her, beside. Two years ago,—or it would be in September,—after Jennie
had graduated with honors she obtained a situation in an excellent
school some twenty miles away, where she could only come home every
Friday, but then the salary was too good to be declined. Just after she
had taught two months, the stroke had fallen upon her mother. A cousin
who had always lived with them was taken ill with a fever and died.
For weeks Mrs. Ryder lay between life and death. Jennie was compelled
to relinquish her school. It was a sore disappointment, for she loved
teaching. But by spring Mrs. Ryder had partially recovered her health,
yet her limbs were well nigh useless. She would hobble around a little
with crutches, but Jennie knew that it would never do to leave her
alone.

They owned a small cottage and garden, but the sickness had made sad
inroads in the little fortune. Jennie felt compelled to earn something
at home, so she bought a sewing machine and did fine work. I suppose
every town or village thinks it _must_ draw a line somewhere. There
were the exclusive West Side people, who only expected to exchange
calls with each other, there were the rich people who had been poor
thirty or forty years ago, and then there was the circle who wanted to
get on and up, by pushing others down and clinging to the skirts of
those just above them. Somehow Jennie Ryder was pushed down. The richer
girls who were at the Academy with her dropped her by degrees when she
sewed for their mothers. One and another left off inviting her out to
little sociables, or croquet. I think she felt it keenly, but she made
no complaint.

She had so many pretty refined ways and accomplishments. If she had
been in a city she could have made them useful, but here all the places
were filled. She painted in water colors, drew in crayons, that were
almost equal to chromos, made moss baskets and ferneries and picture
scrap-books, and had their house looking like a little fairy nest. And
she was so sunny and cheery, and really charming when her true self
had a chance to peep out from the fence that circumstances and ignorant
people built about her.

“Oh,” she said glancing around; “it is like a bit of heaven framed in,
isn’t it? just look at the sky over head and the tree tops and mountain
tops holding it up, as it were. And a whole long, lovely day! I did not
expect on Sunday that I _could_ come.”

“It’s the daily bread for this day;” said papa softly, as he was
shaking hands with her mother.

“And cake and cream and fruit off of the twelve trees. And the seventy
palms with their shade and beauty.”

“You have brought some sunshine,—you seldom go empty-handed, Jennie,”
said papa.

Dick turned and looked at her just then. She had such a clear, sweet,
tender expression, the nameless something better than beauty. A
slender, graceful figure, white and peachy-pink tints with brown hair
and eyes. Her dress was white and a marvel of workmanship, with its
bias tucking and straight tucking and bands of embroidery that she had
done herself. Fan once quoted her, but mamma reminded her that there
were seven of us, and that tucks must be divided by that number.

“And I am going to have a splendid time. Mother, here is your book. Are
you quite comfortable? If you don’t mind, I will take a ramble with the
girls. You and Mrs. Conklin can have a nice talk.”

“No dear, go on.”

Mrs. Conklin had taken out her knitting. She was from one of the farms
over the river, a healthy, happy, rosy-cheeked grandmother, her fingers
flying fondly in and out of the tiny red clouded stocking.

“Where will you go first?” asked Dick of the group of girls.

“To the Cascade,” replied Mr. Ogden.

“You are not girls,” said Fan saucily.

“But you know you wouldn’t that one of us were left behind;” he quoted
sentimentally.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Modesty is becoming to young people.”

“Do you expect to find the old ones sitting on the steps of time, with
faces grimly uncovered?”

They all laughed. Fan took Jennie Ryder’s arm, and Dick filled up the
path beside them, so Winthrop fell back with me. Stuart was right
behind with the prettiest girl he could find, as usual. On we started,
but ere we had reached the first ascent we saw numerous followers in
our wake.

“It is like a picture,” exclaimed Winthrop. “Or better still, a series
of pictures. Oh, look at this moss! and these tiny ferns!”

They all stopped. How beautiful it was in this wide, glowing, redundant
life, the trailing riotous vines, the long streamers of last year’s
Aaron’s beard, the rustling of the leaves and the rippling, tinkling
sound of the water.

“How curious;” said Jennie. “That is a walking fern.”

“Ah, you know it?” and Winthrop glanced up in a pleased fashion.

“I have a fern bed at home. I like them so much. And these grow in such
a peculiar manner.”

“And she has the cunningest winter ferneries that you ever saw, Mr.
Ogden,” declared Fan.

“I like them too. They always give me a peculiar sensation of the
quiet and shade in which they grew. They are like the Quakers, never
surprising you by any gaudy freaks of blossoming. Oh, were any of you
here a month ago?”

“I came for rhododendrons one day;” Jennie answered.

“That was what entered my mind. What crowds and crowds of trees! I am
generally here in August, so I miss that. How perfectly glorious they
must be. What colors?”

“Pure white and pale, blossomy pink.”

“Those are my favorites. I sometimes think I was meant for a country
life. I like the growing and blossoming, the ripening and the fruit.
Autumn rounds everything so perfectly.”

“Yes,” said Dick, “there is always a great richness in Autumn. The
smells of the drying fields, of the stacked corn, the apples and pears
and grapes. And the leaves all aglow, the chestnuts full of yellow
burrs. You ought to come then, Mr. Ogden!”

“I believe I will. Can we all go nutting? That is after the frosts,
though.”

“Yes, late in October.”

“Oh, look!”

We had been going on for a few moments, now we paused again. It was so
all the way up. Something to see and to feel, to pause and drink in
with all one’s soul. Here a rock sculptured and set as if by an artist
hand. Richest moss, great, feathery fronds, pellucid waters, breaks
of sunshine, and haunts of deep gloom. Now we were serious, then we
laughed gaily at some quick jest. It takes so little to amuse when one
is young and happy.

We passed the stream at length and went on to the mountain-top. What a
fair outlying prospect! There was the village below, the church spires,
some tall factory chimneys, and beyond it all mountains again. I
thought of the hills standing about Jerusalem, and the Lord everywhere,
standing about his people.

“O,” exclaimed Fan at length, “we must go back, who will get our
dinner?”

“Who will eat it? is a subject for our more serious consideration;”
said Winthrop.

“And if—

    ‘When we get there
     The cupboard is bare?’”

“That would be a dire misfortune. By the time we reach the bottom
again, we shall be as hungry as bears.”

“You might comfort yourself like the old man of Kilkenny.”

“How was that?” inquired Winthrop.

Stuart’s eyes twinkled with their fun-loving light as he began:

    “There was an old man of Kilkenny.
     Who never had more than a penny.
     He spent all that money in onions and honey,
     This wayward old man of Kilkenny.”

They all laughed heartily. We began our descent but were changed about
somehow. Every body helped the one who came to hand. Now it was Dick,
then Mr. Ogden or Stuart. We slipped and scrambled and uttered small
shrieks, making the way very lively.

“See here!” exclaimed Winthrop—“a wild rose and buds, I think them so
especially beautiful. Who is queen of the May to be crowned?”

“You are too late;” laughed Fan, “May has gone.”

“Queen of Midsummer, then. Miss Endicott accept this late treasure. Let
it blossom and wither on your heart—sweets to the sweet.”

This was to Fan. Her blue eyes laughed saucily.

“The sweet in both cases being about alike,” she made answer.

He gave it to her in a mock sentimental fashion just as his speech had
been. She fastened it in the bosom of her dress, making a sweeping
courtesy.

A strange flash glowed over Dick Fairlie’s face. I do not think any one
else observed it, but it sent my heart up to my throat in a moment.
I understood with a kind of secret sense that it was both love and
jealousy. Then I glanced at gay laughing Fan. Did she mistrust?

I felt strangely, sadly wise, as if in five minutes I had grown years
older. A thing like this coming into our very midst! Well, among so
many girls there would probably be one or two marriages, and who more
likely than winsome, beguiling Fanny.

In the valley they were at work. A fire had been kindled and a great
tea kettle was swinging in the blaze. Baskets were being unpacked.
Table cloths and dishes laid out, and everybody talked at once.

“Rose,” said papa, “I have been looking for you. Miss Oldways wants you
to help with the table. Where are Daisy, Lil and Tim?”

“Nelly promised to keep watch and ward to-day;” and with that I shook
out my large white kitchen apron which nearly covered the skirt of my
dress, and went to work in good earnest.

“I suppose we _do_ enjoy things better when we have to work for them,”
said old Mrs. Granby. “We rush round helter skelter, get our puddings
shaken up and our nice crisp pie-crust jammed and broken, and eat
biscuits that have been spread for three hours, and a bite of cold
meat, and after we have gone home to think it over it seems ever so
much better than a great dinner.”

“The good-fellowship adds. I never go on a picnic but I think of the
Apostles having all things in common;” returned Miss Oldways.

“Yes,” said papa, “they gave of their time and interest, and love,
as well. It was not merely a little money. They brought in the whole
family and bestowed with the open-handed tenderness that blesses the
giver as well.”

I heard snatches of their talk as I ran onward, and snatches of other
talk. Here were sandwiches dripping with jelly, that had somehow been
upturned in the basket.

“Jelly is fashionable with meats,” suggested some one.

“There! I haven’t put in a single spoon. And I took the trouble to tie
red threads around each handle, then left them on the dresser. That was
smart!”

“We will reverse the order of things and have two creams with one
spoon, the second to wait until the first is served.”

“Is every plate used? Let’s count. All the elders must come
first—thirty, thirty-one, and the young girls wait on the
table—thirty-eight—it is but fair that their mothers should have the
best once in a while. Sixty-one! Now ring the bell.”

They filled up the first table, putting a little child in here and
there. The tea and coffee steamed out their appetizing fragrance, and
as we had no vases, we placed mounds of fern, grasses and wild flowers
on the table. Every body ate and drank and had a good time. The dishes
were washed, wiped, and put on again, the children summoned, and after
a while all had been feasted. Then there was a general clearing away,
except at one end of the long table where the fragments were collected
for those who might get hungry by and by.

[Illustration: “SWEETS TO THE SWEET.” Page 181.]




CHAPTER X.


After the eating and drinking, the elders gathered for a sociable chat.
It was as good as old-fashioned country visiting. Modern calls seem
to have carried away the charm of social intercourse. After you have
staid five minutes you begin to think you must go. You cannot stop to
tell this or that bit of pleasantness, or get near to each other. But
there was no hurry here. Phases of religious experiences were compared
in a homely way, mixed up with the turning of a gown, or buying of a
new carpet. With others grace and gardening went hand in hand. Such
magnificent clove pinks, great double luscious blossoms!—blue salvias
that were quite a rarity—ivies, geraniums—sick neighbors who enjoyed
them—odd enough snatches where one couldn’t understand.

Well, is it not the true living after all? Is religion the sacred
Sunday thing that must be laid by and not profaned by common every-day
uses? Did anyone ever hear of it wearing out? When these people had
exchanged thoughts on trials and mercies, faith that could see, and
weak faith that stumbled, compared and comforted each other, who shall
say it was not as good as a sermon? Why should we not help to lift each
other up in our common needs?—Great things come to very few, only.

I lingered for quite a while, resting myself and answering questions
about mamma, baby and Mr. Duncan. It was so dreamily pleasant. The
sun high over head had found our little nook and was making it all
alight with quivering golden rays. Hill seemed to lapse into hill, tree
interlaced with tree, nook, corner and ravine added their suggestive
tender gloom. People came and went, groups of children rushed in and
devoured plates of fragments. They played various games, and at last
settled to a tremendous circle of Copenhagen.

“Where is your sister?” asked Winthrop, “I have been hunting everywhere
for her. Will you not take a walk with me?”

We had not gone very far before the bell rang.

“The children are to sing their carols now.”

“I suppose you have heard them fifty times?”

“Fifty-one will not surfeit me. Besides, I must look after my class.”

“O, bother! Look after me a little while. I am going back to the city
on Saturday, and I shall not see you for ever so long. I actually envy
that dolt of a Duncan who is sick at your house. I never met two girls
that I liked so well. I don’t see how there is any goodness left for
the parish.”

He uttered all this in a rather cross, aggrieved tone which made it
sound so comically I could not forbear laughing.

“O, you don’t know—I wonder if I might trust you with—a—secret?”

He flushed to the roots of his hair. An uncomfortable chill went over
me.

“There are your Aunts!” I said, glad to be relieved from the sudden
embarrassment.

The carriage came up through the opening. Miss Lucy dressed in white
and looking very sweet. Papa went to speak to them.

The children were gathering from “near and from far.” We teachers
“counted noses,” begged the groups not to disperse, ran hither and
thither, and at last settled to the business before us. I was so glad
that Miss Churchill and Miss Lucy had reached us in time for the
singing. What if dresses were a little limp and stained and soiled,
hats awry and curls blown in tangles, there were hosts of happy faces
and lightsome, ringing voices.

Papa generally wrote a childish hymn for special occasions and mamma
arranged the music. They sang that, then several Easter Carols.

Miss Lucy beckoned me toward her.

“How delightful it is!” she exclaimed. “And you’ve had a good time all
day long. I wish I was a little girl! Oh, they are not going to stop?
Please ask them to sing again. Would Christmas carols be out of place?”

I mentioned it to papa who smiled in his sweet fashion and acquiesced.
We had the “Kings of Orient,” “Wonderful Night,” and “Ring out merry
bells for Christmas.” How sweet those young voices sounded on the
summer air! I was really proud of the children.

“Now,” began papa after the last echoes had dropped from the
tree-tops, “we must form a line for our homeward march. We have had a
pleasant day and enjoyed ourselves to the uttermost. Let us thank God
for this great blessing.”

They stood reverently until he dismissed them with the benediction.

The wagons and carriages began to come in and were filled. Some chose
to walk home and let others ride. Mr. Trafford started to form the
ranks again. Fan came up and we paused to say a few words to the
Churchills, then to Mrs. Ryder who declared that everything had been
just delightful, and that she felt ten years younger. Dick was very
grave, I remarked, and scarcely spoke.

The very last of the line was Fan and Mr. Ogden. I gave them a quick
glance but was hurried on by the throng behind me, and occupied with
answering the childrens’ questions. Yet I wondered a little what she
had been about since dinner.

We heard it all afterward, but it is fresher just as it happened to
her. She and Jennie Ryder, and Annie and Chris Fellows went first to
gather ferns and mosses. Of course some of the young men followed in
their wake. When their basket had been filled they strolled off two and
two, presently losing sight of each other. The day gave its touch of
grace and romance to their lives. We all guessed that Mr. Hunter cared
for Annie Fellows, and were not much surprised when we heard a little
later, that they had “made up their minds” during the ramble.

Fan and Dick strolled onward as well. Dick was unusually silent.

“Shall we go back?” Fan asked softly by and by.

“Go back!” and Dick looked surprised. “Not unless you are tired of me.”

He seemed so down-hearted that Fan had not the courage to confess even
in her laughing way.

“I am afraid you have not enjoyed yourself very well. But you have
given a great pleasure to Mrs. Ryder—and Jennie could not have come
without her. She has to stay at home so much.”

“She is a splendid girl,” said Dick.

“Indeed she is. Dick, I have a bright idea! Why couldn’t we when the
evenings are a little cooler, get up a surprise party for her? It would
be jolly.”

“Yes.”

“But you do not seem very much interested.”

“I _am_ interested in anything you like. Only I was thinking;” and he
paused to study her face.

“How queer you are!” with an embarrassed laugh.

“Am I? And you don’t like queerness—you don’t like me?”

Fan began to pull a fern leaf to pieces. It was an odd personal
question, but it could not mean anything. Still her heart beat
strangely, and her breath seemed to tangle as it came up.

“You know I like you of course,” in a sharp, saucy way, flinging out
her curls. “And you are good and pleasant and clever. Don’t I ask
favors first of you?”

“You never ask—for yourself.”

“Why, yes, it is because it pleases me.”

“I wish I could do something for you, alone.”

He snapped off a dry twig and began to break it into bits. Then he
kicked a stone out of the path, keeping his face away from her.

She experienced a peculiar embarrassment. Where was the happy medium
between warmth and coolness? She liked the brotherly friendship they
had fallen into. Was it friendship really?

“If I did want anything,—I should not hesitate—to come to you.”

Then they walked on in uncomfortable silence. It was very awkward. In
the new light coming to Fan, she felt there _was_ something unsaid. Was
it best to get over it as rapidly as possible, leave it behind?

“I think we must return. Papa may want me.”

He turned reluctantly. She quickened her pace at first.

“Don’t hurry. The day will come to an end soon enough. I should like it
to last a week, at least.”

“What an odd idea. We only want pleasant days to last.”

“Isn’t this pleasant to you?”

“Why—yes. All my days are pleasant for that matter. But I thought it
was beginning to bore you.”

He did not answer for quite a while, then he seemed to go far away from
the subject.

“It’s been nice for you at the Churchills.”

“Well—yes. Though I don’t want you to think I was pleased with the
notice because they are rich.”

“I know that does not make any difference with you.”

“But then for that matter your father is rich, too. And there are only
two children.”

“Yet I wish the home—was like yours.”

“With seven girls? You would have no comfort of your life if you were
the only boy among them,” and Fan laughed merrily.

“I would not mind trying it. Or at least—”

“Be warned in time,” and Fan shook her fore-finger threateningly.

“I can’t,” he exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence in his tone. “Only—I’d
be contented with one. Fanny, couldn’t you?—I mean—I love you!”

It was all out then! Fan stood still and white while he was scarlet and
trembling. Both were surprised with a deep solemn awe, as if amazed to
have reached such a point.

“I didn’t mean to tell you so soon. I had hardly put it into shape
myself. But when I saw that Winthrop Ogden hanging round after you, I
knew it all then just like a flash. And why shouldn’t it be? They have
enough at home without you. And it would be so sweet! I should think
of nothing but your happiness. I dreamed it all out on the porch last
night, sitting alone with father.”

His eyes and voice were alike imploring, and he had spoken so rapidly
that it carried her right along. Now she put up her hand with a gesture
of pain.

“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, I am so sorry! I never thought of this!”

“Well!” with a kind of manly assurance, “think of it now. I will be
patient. We can ask your mother and see what she says.”

“Dick, I had better tell you just the truth. I am sorry there is any
need to say it. I like you very much in the pleasant, sisterly fashion
that has grown up between us. I do not believe it can ever be any
different. So it is best not to hope, not to plan—”

“Oh, Fanny, I cannot help it. How could I stop all at once?”

She was touched to the heart. What should she do? The tears came into
her eyes.

“I must have acted very wrongly to make you care so much for me in this
way. I can never, never forgive myself.”

He could not bear to hear the woman he loved blamed, and the tears
conquered him.

“It is nothing you have done, don’t think that,” he said earnestly.
“You can’t help being sweet and pretty, any more than that bird up
there can help singing. And you can’t help being just what I want. You
have treated me the same as you have others, that is, I mean you never
tried in any way to make me love you. It just came. And if you will
only try—”

“If I did try, Dick, I should be ashamed to confess that I could not
love so good, and tender, and true a man as you are. Then, perhaps I
might marry you, not loving you the best, which would be very, very
wicked, and ruin your happiness. Oh, Dick, forgive me and let me be
your sister or your friend, or else let me go quite away. I am so
sorry.”

They walked on until the sound of voices reached them. “Please leave me
here,” she entreated falteringly.

“I’m a great blundering chap, I know. I might have said it all better—”

“It isn’t the saying, it is the thing itself.—O, Dick, don’t you see
that if I had loved you, one word would have been enough. I should be
too honest to tease or make excuses.”

“Yes, I suppose it is so,” in a slow, pathetic way that made Fan think
she was a miserable wretch. “And you can’t help it, I know. I’ll try
to—leave matters as they were, to be a—brother.”

He swallowed over a great lump in his throat, and turned away without
another word. When she found herself quite alone she threw her
trembling figure on the mossy tree-roots and sobbed bitterly. The glad
unconsciousness of girlhood was over.

“If he were not so good,” she thought, “or so rich, or so kind! If I
_could_ find some fault. And that makes it appear all the worse in me.
Oh, papa, dear, what have I done? Why does every one want to—?”

And then she knew it was the old, old story, that had began way back in
Eden-days. People always _did_, and always would, and sometimes there
was a hitch and a snarl, and the thread broke.

She heard the bell calling the children together, so she rose, and went
to the tiny brook to bathe her face. But she felt so shame-faced and
cowardly that she did not dare join them until the singing was done.
Then Dick would be putting Mrs. Ryder in his wagon, and all the others
bustling about. No one would take much notice of her.

“O, here you are, run-away!” said a bright, rather imperious voice.
“Your sister has been worried to death about you. I thought I should
have to begin and search the mountains. Come along. I shall not give
you another chance to go astray.”

With that Winthrop Ogden took possession of her. The carriages began to
move on. The line was forming, and Mr. Endicott walked down its length.

“I have Miss Fannie here, safe;” Mr. Ogden said, with a confident nod.

Fan was so glad to escape observation that she uttered not a word.

“My Uncle and Aunts are here waiting to speak to you.”

She suffered herself to be led thither, listened to the chat and
answered again without understanding a word.

They fell in the rear of the procession. Indeed she hardly noticed how
they lagged behind, until the tramp of the feet had quite a distant
sound.

“Where were you all the afternoon?” Mr. Ogden asked. “Your sister and
I started once to find you.”

“Did you?” absently.

“Yes. We did not know but the bears might have come out and eaten you
up.”

“Hardly.”

“You were not alone?”

“No. We went for ferns. Jennie Ryder and the rest.”

“Miss Ryder has been back this hour. She and her mother went away with
the very first—with Mr. Fairlie.”

“Oh,” indifferently.

“Well, what were you doing?”

“I won’t be questioned, there!”

“You are sure you were not in mischief?”

No answer to this, and a long silence.

“Well, Miss Obstinacy,” he began at length, “I really am afraid
something has occurred to ruffle your temper.”

“I do not know as you are compelled to suffer from it!” she returned,
positively provoked.

“Ah, but I couldn’t leave you here in a howling wilderness, with the
others miles ahead.”

“You exaggerate. Suppose we walk on and overtake them?”

“We _are_ walking on.”

She was in no mood for badinage. Indeed, her heart smote her bitterly
for the pain she had unwittingly caused. She was upbraiding herself and
trying to think where the first false step had begun.

“Are you tired?” he asked presently in a gentler tone.

“Not much. But a day like this always finds one rather stupid at its
close.”

“Were your mental exertions in the woods very severe? Did you stop to
analyze and classify the ferns?”

“No.”

“You must have found some delightful employment.”

No answer again.

“Do you know that I am going back to the city on Saturday?”

“Are you?—indeed!”

“I dare say you will not miss me.”

“I do not know why I should, specially.”

“That is unfriendly.”

“Is it? Well,” rousing herself a trifle, “I suppose we _do_ miss any
one with whom we have had a bright, pleasant time. And your Aunt Lucy
will be very sorry to have you go.”

“And yet, she will have you.”

“I am only one of the incidentals, Mr. Ogden. People who don’t belong
truly, step into each others’ lives and when the time comes, step out
again. But one born in the household is different.”

“They all like you—so much. I am almost jealous of uncle Churchill’s
regard.”

“O, you need not be.”

“He is old-fashioned and strict in some of his notions, but he has a
splendid heart.”

“I believe that.”

“O, Miss Endicott, please look back at this sunset! It is still more
glorious than the one we saw the evening of our ride! Do you know, I
hate to return. Everything is so lovely here.”

Some of the wide fields lay in the shade, some in the bronze light
of the dying sun. All the tree-tops were burnished, and now it was
so still that not a leaf stirred. A distant Whip-poor-will began his
melancholy lay.

“Oh, we must hurry on;” said Fanny recollecting herself. “The others
have passed the curve of the road and are out of sight.”

They quickened their pace a trifle. Presently he inquired—

“What is to be done to-morrow?”

“Why—nothing.”

“No tea parties nor croquet?”

“I believe not. We shall all be tired. I have had two or three weeks of
dissipation and think it high time to rest up a little.”

“Suppose you take a drive with me? That will not be tiresome. About
four in the afternoon, say.”

Fan started again.

“I think I would rather not;” she replied, curtly.

“Why?”

“For various reasons that I cannot enumerate.”

“I am glad you have more than one, for that might be rather hard upon
me. Well, can I come over to tea then? that is if you are not to have
other company.”

“I dare say they will all be glad to entertain you.”

“I don’t wish any one but just _you_. I shall have to take the others
part of the time. But on my last day I deserve some indulgence.”

“I may not feel indulgent;” she answered carelessly.

“Miss Fanny—and I have so many things to ask!”

“Don’t ask them;” she said recklessly. Was she walking into another
fire?

“I must ask one.”

She expressed no curiosity or anxiety, but her heart beat so loudly
it seemed as if he must hear it. Dick Fairlie’s love-making had been
honest and true, but this young man?—So she walked on more rapidly.

“Yes; one question. How else should I know? And it is too great a risk
to leave you here with no word—”

“Mr. Ogden, I think you have lost your senses;” she interrupted sharply.

“I thought so myself to-day. When you went off with that Fairlie! I
know he was with you this afternoon, and I resolved then to have my
say. I do not mean to lose through being a laggard. My darling, can
you—do you—?”

Fan turned and faced him. She was cool and angry.

“Mr. Ogden,” she said decisively, “that is enough! It may be your habit
to make love to city girls on a fortnight’s acquaintance, but it is
not mine to receive it. I have been friendly because I thought you a
gentleman!”

“Fanny! Miss Endicott,” and he confronted her in so authoritative
a fashion, that she felt his strength at once. “You mistake me
altogether. I am _not_ in the habit of trifling. If I speak soon it is
because I must leave you, and I know another loves you. You have only
to say that you prefer him, and I will be silent.”

He waited several minutes for her to answer, but how could she? It was
a cruel strait. Her cheeks were crimson with shame.

“Then I think I have a right to be heard.”

She summoned all her reckless bravery.

“Mr. Ogden,” she began in an ironical tone; “how long do you suppose
you _could_ remember? It would be the wildest of folly to listen to
you.”

“You doubt me altogether! What shall I do to convince you? Let me have
that withered rose at your throat. I gave it to you this morning and it
will be precious to me. How long a probation will you set me—a year?
Well, when you receive this rose back some day you will know that I am
of the same mind.”

He took it and dropped it into his pocket memorandum. Then they walked
on in silence.

On the way the children were dispersed nearest their homes. By the
Church, Fanny and Mr. Ogden came up with the last. She did not dare
leave him or she would have joined her father. A kind of fascination
kept her under his influence.

They paused at the gate. The others had entered.

“Do you want me to come to-morrow?” His tone was almost peremptory.

“I—no—” Hers sounded as if tears were not far off, and the long
lashes shaded her eyes, but still he read the face, and read in it,
furthermore, something she did not know was there.

“Very well. If you love me, as I hope you will some day, I can wait.
You will learn how truly every word was meant. I think then you will be
noble enough to admit it. Good by, little darling.”

He gave her one kiss and was gone. She flew up the path and into the
wide hall, pale as a ghost.

We were all there, mamma with baby in her arms, tiny Tim hanging to
her skirt, Lily and Daisy talking like two chatter-boxes. There was a
promiscuous heap of hats and baskets on the floor.

“Children!” exclaimed papa, “don’t set your mother crazy! Take some of
these articles to the kitchen. There, I nearly stepped into some one’s
hat. Rose my dear—”

Fan entered at this moment. Papa stood first, so she put her arm around
his neck and gave a little sob.

“My dear girl, you are tired to death! How pale you look. Mamma would a
cup of tea do her any good? And isn’t our supper ready?”

I hung up the hats, and sent Daisy off with a cargo of baskets.

“No, I don’t want a mouthful,” Fan said. “It was a splendid day, but
I am tired to the uttermost and would like to drop into bed without a
word. Or if I was Edith and mamma could cuddle me in her arms. Oh dear!”

I think that mamma guessed something was amiss. She gave baby to me and
went straight to Fan.

“Oh, mamma, darling, what would the world be without you? I feel as if
I had been lost somewhere and just come to light. Do I really belong to
you?”

With that she gave a little hysterical laugh which ended with
passionate crying.

“I am a baby, there! I am ashamed of myself. Let me run and put away
my toggery, and maybe I shall come to my senses.”

The children were washed and brushed. Stuart had just come in, and we
sat down to the table. Fanny entered presently, but she neither ate nor
drank, and seemed to be quite unlike herself.

Indeed, I do not think she came to her senses until she and mamma had
a good long talk, she lying in her fresh, cool bed. The friendly dusk
hid her scarlet cheeks, but it could not keep her voice steady. All
the naughtiness was confessed except the little that could not be told
until long afterward, when events justified it.

“My dear girl, I am extremely sorry, and yet I do not know how you
could have avoided the trouble. You did quite right if you could not
love Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Ogden’s haste was ungenerous and inexcusable.
I am glad you had the good sense to see this. And now go to sleep my
darling. If we have any better thoughts to-morrow we will comfort one
another with them.”

So she kissed her and left her alone.




CHAPTER XI.


We were all pretty tired the next morning. The children slept late, and
Fanny was unusually languid for her.—Stuart was the only one who did
not appear to feel the effects of dissipation, for he was off bright
and early on another excursion with the boys.

It seemed so strange to think of Fan having had two offers of marriage;
at least, one we knew was made in good faith. The other mamma was not
decided about.

“Poor little girl;” said papa kissing her. “Your troubles are beginning
early in life.”

“You think like the old lady in the couplet—

    ‘Wires and briars, needles and pins,
     When you are married your trouble begins.’”

and Fan laughed with a trifle of the old archness.

“Not exactly. Your mamma and I have been very happy.” Still there was
a perplexed expression on papa’s face as if he could not quite explain
the puzzle.

“But then no one ever could be as good or as splendid or as lovely as
you!”

“Any more adjectives, Fanny!” and he smiled.

“Yes, a host of them, but I am generous and spare your blushes. Mamma—”
in a sort of absent, thoughtful way, “there is one man who, I think,
would make a royal husband.”

“Are you quite sure you understand the requisite qualities?”

Fanny blushed.

“It is Stephen Duncan. I don’t know what put it in my mind. But he
seems so tender and thoughtful and patient.”

“He must have taken all the family virtues,” I made answer.

“He was different in his boyhood from the others;” said papa. “He is a
fine and noble man.”

“But what troubles me most now,” began Fanny with a certain funny
lugubriousness, “is how I am to meet all these people again. What will
the Churchills think? And oh, if Dick had not—”

“Such matters have to settle themselves,” returned mamma. “In all
probability the Churchills will know nothing about it. Try and be a
little careful in the future. You are no longer a child.”

“Must I wear a veil or enter a convent? Papa, suppose you lock me up in
the study? Then they will all flock to Rose, and it will be the same
trouble over again. What _are_ we to do?”

“Just now you had better find some employment. I cut out half a dozen
aprons for Daisy yesterday;” said mamma.

“Then I will open my beloved machine, so good-bye to romance. Work and
you are adversaries.”

I wondered how she could take events so coolly. She sang with her
sewing as if her heart was as light as thistle-down.

Nelly in the meanwhile was made ready and sent off to visit an old
parishioner, living on a farm thirty miles away. One of the children
went for awhile every summer.

Louis improved rapidly. He had fretted somewhat about accepting the
Churchills’ carriage, and begged papa to hire one for him, which had
been done. He went out nearly every morning now, or if it was too warm,
late in the afternoon. I think he was getting a little humanized, too.
Occasionally he joined our circle and would often play with baby Edith,
who laughed and talked her fashion if you looked at her. She was just
as good and sweet as she could be.

Mr. Ogden did _not_ come over, and went away on Saturday. That somehow
stamped the episode as pastime. With all her gayety Fan _did_ feel
badly over it—a trifle mortified, I think, that he should have ventured
upon such a freedom.

It was to make no change with the Churchills however. Indeed, we
received quite a handsome compliment from them the next week. Mr.
Churchill invited papa to go up in the mountains with him. He had some
business with a tract of woodland that the railroad company wanted
to purchase, and thought it would be a nice trip. They were to start
Tuesday night and return Saturday noon.

The house always appeared so strange without him. Not but what mamma
was quite capable of carrying it on, yet we missed him sadly. Ann
lamented Nelly’s absence, and declared “there wasn’t a childer too
many”. Fan and I sewed and had peculiar talks with Louis. I never could
tell what he thought or what he believed, or whether he advanced these
opinions for arguments’ sake. He had a great deal of morbid pride, and
a way of putting all the briary parts outside. Everybody was selfish,
he averred.

And he did have a fearful temper. Beside the quickness, it had in it
a brooding vindictiveness. He couldn’t seem to forgive injuries or
slights, and he was very jealous of Stuart, though he affected a lofty
indifference to those bright engaging qualities.

Stuart on the other hand did get into a good deal of mischief. He
headed raids on the farmers’ trees and melon-patches, and one night the
water was let out of the dam, which caused a great commotion. Of course
he was an immense favorite with the boys.

When papa came home there was a letter from Stephen, answering the one
announcing the illness. He had been very much perplexed in the business
and found it necessary to go to Paris. He would not be able to return
until late in the Fall. As school began the tenth of September it
would be best to send Stuart immediately. Would Mrs. Endicott see that
his clothes were in order? If Louis preferred, when he was well enough
to resume his studies, to board in some quiet family and take the
lessons he needed, Stephen considered it a better plan.

“Not that I mean this to be construed into a desire for you to keep
him, my dear friend,” he wrote. “You have too much on your hands
already, and I feel as if I had added a great burthen. But if he
decides upon this course will you make some inquiries for him, and help
him to find a suitable person? I do not think him strong enough to be
regularly in school.”

Louis made no comment for several days, then declared that he did not
mean to be buried alive in a country village through a dreary winter.
He would go back to Wilburton, but not enter the school. There were
plenty of families who would take him to board, and he liked it there.

Just at this juncture one of his cousins, a year or two older than
himself, invited him to go to Canada to recruit his health. He was to
start early in September and would call for him.

He accepted the invitation at once, without even consulting papa.

“I suppose it is as well, though,” papa said thoughtfully. “He does
need bracing up, and the change will be just the thing for him. We can
hear meanwhile from Stephen about this Wilburton arrangement.”

The boys both went to Westburg with papa to get some new clothes. Mamma
packed Stuart’s trunk, and then he was frantic to return to the boys.
Monday would be the tenth but he insisted upon starting on Friday. He
wanted to get a good room, to see old friends and feel settled before
school began. He had enjoyed himself splendidly, to be sure, and there
were lots of jolly fellows in Wachusett, to say nothing of the girls.
He meant to come back some time and have it all over. But since he
couldn’t go to Canada, which he thought rather rough, he might as well
march off at once. The sooner a thing was well over, the better.

He spent a day and evening saying good-bye to his friends in the
village. The stage was to come at eight Friday morn. He had his trunk
strapped and out on the porch; ate his breakfast in a hurry, kissed the
children and bade Ann a laughing farewell accompanied with a new calico
gown, which she thought an immense favor.

Papa gave him a little counsel in a low tone of voice, but I do not
think he listened very attentively. He was a boy without a bit of
sentiment or tender regard. He merely sang out—“Good-bye, old chap,” to
Louis, and though he thanked us for our kindness, it was only from a
gentlemanly instinct. Then he sprang into the stage and was off.

“I do not know whether I should like to have such a son or not,” mamma
said slowly, as we entered papa’s study. “He is bright and manly and
entertaining, but he leaves you with a feeling that out of sight is out
of mind.”

“I have tried to sow a little good seed;” yet papa shook his head
gravely.

“But you are afraid it is in sandy ground;” Fan added, with a touch of
comforting sweetness in her voice. “I haven’t much faith in its bearing
fruit, and yet I do believe he has come to have more consideration for
Louis. He has not tormented him half as much lately. That would be one
point gained.”

“Yes. After all, I have more hope of Louis. The struggle will be much
harder, for his temperament and his health are against him, but he will
be steadier in anything he undertakes. I have become deeply interested
in both of them, and I do not feel as if it was going to end here.”

It seemed as if the day was to be rendered memorable for us. In the
midst of the talk came a sudden hard ring. I answered it and found Mr.
Fairlie’s man with a frightened look in his face.

“If you please, Miss—is your father in?” he asked.

“Papa!”

He came at the summons.

“The master is—very bad, sir. They want to see you right away. Mister
Dick is taking it very hard.”

“Mr. Fairlie!” exclaimed papa in amaze.—“Why, I saw him yesterday, and
well.”

“He’s been rather queer in his head for two or three days. It was the
sun or something.—And about midnight he was taken. The Doctor has given
him up now.”

“Yes,” said papa, bewildered. “I’ll be there directly.”

“I’ve the wagon here for you, sir.”

He just kissed mamma and went without another word. Such calls left no
room for discussions.

“It cannot be possible!” ejaculated Fan.

“Mrs. Fairlie and Kate away!” said mamma. “How very sad.”

We had not the heart to talk about it and separated for our morning’s
employment. School had begun again, so I made the children ready. Nelly
had just entered the Seminary. Then I put my rooms in order while Fan
assisted in the kitchen. Tabby came up stairs followed by her small
gray and white kitten, who was a puffy ball of frolic. She glanced
around the room in a curious, complacent fashion.

“Yes, Tabby,” I said, “the plague of your life has departed. Mrs.
Whitcomb will be here next, and you know she is fond of you, so your
troubles are ending. I don’t believe we have learned to like boys so
_very_ much, after all.”

“No,” returned Tabby, with a grave whisk of the tail, while the kitten
made a vigorous attack on the bits of sunshine quivering through the
great sycamore leaves.

I went down stairs and sewed awhile in the nursery. Dinner came, but
no papa. Louis had returned from his drive and looked very cheerful.
We could not wait on account of the children, and unconsciously his
prolonged absence gave us a little hope.

It was dashed down presently. The church bell began to toll. We glanced
at each other in a startled way.

“Poor Dick!” said Fan, turning her head, and I knew her eyes were full
of tears. I could not help a curious thought. What if this sorrow
should bring them together?

Miss Churchill made us a nice long call in the afternoon, and before
she had gone papa returned. Dick had begged him to stay and go to
the station for Mrs. Fairlie who had just come, and do several other
special errands for him. The ladies had stopped on their homeward way
at the house of a cousin in Bridgeport, and were thus easily reached by
telegraph.

“What a terrible shock!” exclaimed Miss Churchill. “A man in almost
perfect health, too; though Dr. Hawley I believe mentioned his having
some trouble with his heart. Was that the cause?”

“I have no doubt it helped materially. He had complained of a dull,
heavy headache for two or three days, and yesterday he was out in the
sun which appeared to affect him a good deal. At midnight he was taken
with paralysis. But brief as the time was it found him ready. He
seemed to have gleams of consciousness and knew me at intervals. His
trust was staid upon God, and there was no fear, no shrinking.”

“He has been a good, upright man. Kenton always esteemed him highly.”

“He was more than that, Miss Churchill, he was an earnest Christian.
If the household had been of one mind, workers in the vineyard, he
would have lived a fuller and more joyous christian life. But we are to
work our way through hindrances. God gave him grace and strength and
perfected him in good deeds. I feel as if I had lost my mainstay in the
church. He was not a man of many words, but you could rely upon him to
the uttermost. And though I shall grieve for a true and staunch friend,
I shall also rejoice that he has gone to his reward, better far than
any earthly happiness.”

“You loved him very much,” said Miss Churchill, deeply moved.

“I did indeed.”

“The loss is dreadful to his family.”

“My heart ached for Richard. He and his father were tender friends,
and the watching through long hours, the not being able to give him
up, was agonizing in the extreme. Mrs. Fairlie was stunned by the
suddenness.”

“I wonder if I could be any—comfort to her?” Miss Churchill questioned
slowly.

“I wish you would call to-morrow,” said papa. “I don’t know but I shall
have to come to you and your brother now.”

“I am sure I should be glad to give you any assistance in my power. I
have been thinking lately that we live quite too much for ourselves.”

“For the night cometh in which no man can work,” said papa solemnly.

An awe fell over us all. One and another dropped in to wonder at the
occurrence. Sudden deaths always shock a community greatly. Even the
children did not want to play but sat on the porch steps and looked
into vacancy. Louis went up stairs directly after supper, but I heard
him pacing his room restlessly. I had put the little ones to bed and
was going down stairs when he called.

“Did you want anything?” I inquired.

“No—that is—are you busy?”

“Not especially.”

“I am going away so soon;” he said apologetically.

“And if I can do anything for you, I shall be glad to,” I made answer
cheerfully. “Shall I come in and read?”

“Thank you—I don’t care about that, I am in an odd, inconsequent mood
to night. Suppose you talk to me? I believe your voice has a soothing
effect.”

“Let us go down on the porch. It is cooler.”

“Where are the others?”

“Papa and Fanny have gone for a call. Mamma is in the nursery.”

“O, I wanted only you.”

“Come down then.”

I brought an easy chair out on the porch, and dropped into my own small
rocker. Tabby came along and crawled in my lap, turning round three
times and settling herself regardless of the welfare of her small
child, though I dare say she was asleep in some one’s slipper. The moon
was nearly at its full and made silvery shadows through the interstices
of the vines. The dewy air was fragrant and the night musical with
chirp and hum of countless insects.

“It is quite a relief to be rid of Stuart,” he began presently. “And
when I am gone you will doubtless feel still more comfortable.”

“I think you are quite comfortable to get on with now;” I said
cheerfully.

“Which implies—there was a time. Miss Endicott, do you think I have
improved _any_?”

“I do not know as it would be hardly fair to judge you by the first
week or two. You were on the eve of a severe illness, with your nervous
system completely disorganized.”

“But since then—be honest?”

“I think you have been pleasanter, more considerate, not so easily
ruffled;” I answered slowly.

“Please don’t fancy me fishing for compliments.”

“Compliments from me would not be so _very_ flattering to one’s vanity.
They do not carry weight enough.”

“You believe that one could overcome—any fault?” after a pause between
the words.

“With God’s help—yes.”

“Without God’s help—what then?”

I was always so afraid of going astray in these talks. I could feel
what I meant, but I could not explain it clearly.

“‘Every good and perfect gift cometh from God,’” I made answer. “And
the desire to be better or stronger, to overcome any fault, must
proceed from Him.”

“Then why doesn’t he make Christians perfect?”

“God gives us the work to do. He says, ‘My grace shall be sufficient
for thee.’ Therefore we are to strive ourselves. He shows us the right
way, but if we seek out other paths, or if we sink into indolence
waiting for an angel to come and move our idle hands or stir up our
languid wills, can we reasonably blame Him?”

“I had not thought of that, I must confess. I had a fancy that—religion
did all these things for you.”

“What then is the Christian warfare? You know that grand old St. Paul
had to fight to the last, that he might not be a cast-away. Yet I think
no one ever doubted the genuineness of his conversion.”

“But if a man of his own determination, resolved, he could do a great
deal.”

“I should be weak to deny it. People have achieved heroic victories,
suffered pain and shame and death bravely for pride, or some chosen
idea. Only when it is done for the sake of Him who saved us, it becomes
so much the more noble. It is obeying Him.”

“Is it an easy thing to be good, Miss Endicott?”

“Not for every one,” I said.

“You admit that natures are different?”

“I do, cheerfully. Some people have very little self-control, others a
great deal. But it is strengthened by use, like a limb.”

“I have very little?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you know I have.”

“Papa said your temperament and your health were against you!”

“Did he say that?” was the eager question. “Well there _are_ a hundred
things—I sometimes have such headaches that I can hardly tell where I
am, and if anything bothers me I feel as if I could stamp on it, crush
it out of existence. And if it is a person—”

“Oh,” I cried, “don’t please! That is murder in one’s heart.”

“And when any one annoys Stuart he laughs at him, flings, jeers and
exasperates. It is his way, yet every one thinks he has a lovely
temper. He makes others angry. I have seen him get half a class by the
ears, and in such a mess that no one knew what was the matter.—I do
not believe I ever in my life set about making another person angry.
But I cannot stand such things. They stir up all the bad blood in me.”

“So you need patience, first of all.”

“But I _can’t_ stop to think.”

“Ah, that is just it. Stopping to think saves us. And when we have our
great Captain to remember, and are endeavoring to walk in the path He
marked out for us, it makes it easier. We are trying for the sake of
one we love.”

“What else do I want?”

“Don’t ask me, please,” I entreated.

“Yes. I shall not let you evade me. Write me some copies to take with
me. Patience—what next?”

“Cheerfulness;” seeing that he compelled me to it. “Your nature is
morbid and melancholy. Just try to think that people will like you.

“But they do not.”

“Then you must give them something to like. Suppose we all hid away our
brightness?”

He laughed.

“It would be a rather blue world. But to try for admiration.”

“You don’t try for _admiration_. You give freely of the very best you
have. You remember about the little boy who hid his cake away until it
was mouldy and spoiled?”

“I believe you always give of the best here. And you never seem to have
any lack.”

“Did you ever break off a sprig of lemon verbena? Three new shoots
come in its place. When I was a little girl mamma explained it to me,
and said that if you nipped off one bit of pleasantness for a friend
or neighbor, something grew instantly for the next one. You never give
away all your joy and good feeling.”

He sighed a little, and said slowly—

“I believe I shall begin with my temper. I have always known that it
was bad, and expected to keep it all my life, but if it could be made a
little more reasonable!”

“I am sure it can, if you will try. It _is_ hard work to be fighting
continually, to be on your guard against surprises, and sometimes to
have your best efforts misunderstood, yet it seems to me a grand thing
to gain a victory over one’s self.”

“You make it so;” he replied in a half doubtful tone.

“I wish you could be good friends with papa. He is so much wiser, and
can explain the puzzles. When you came to know him well you would like
him, you couldn’t help it.”

“Sometime—when I want such a friend;” he answered a trifle coldly.

The voices sounded on the walk just then, and in a few moments they
came up. We had no special talk after that.

Mamma went over to Mrs. Fairlie’s the next day and met Miss Churchill
there. Kate had been in violent hysterics all night. They appeared so
utterly helpless. What should they do about black? There wasn’t any
thing decent in Wachusett! And could Mrs. Fairlie find a long widow’s
veil any where? There would not be time to send to the city.

“I am quite sure that Mrs. Silverthorne has one. Hers was very
beautiful and she never wore it but a little; and a plain bonnet will
do.”

“Thank you, Miss Churchill. How kind you are. But I cannot understand
_why_ this grief should come upon me.”

“God’s ways are not as our ways;” said mamma.

“But Mr. Fairlie was needed so much. I don’t know how I can live
without him!”

Mamma and Miss Churchill soothed and tried to comfort. Each took a few
orders on leaving.

“My objection to mourning is just this,” said Miss Churchill, when they
were seated in her basket phaeton. “In the midst of your grief you have
to stop and think wherewithal you shall be clothed. Dress-makers and
milliners are your constant care for the first month.”

“The fashion of this world;” mamma replied a little sadly.

That afternoon Louis received a telegram from his cousin. He would
meet him the next noon at the station in a through train, that there
might be no lost time. He only packed a valise, as his trunk would be
sent to Wilburton. We said our good-byes in quite a friendly fashion.
He appeared really grateful and sorry to leave us. Papa went to the
station with him and returned in an unusually grave mood.

We kept up to the tense point of excitement until after Mr. Fairlie’s
funeral. It was largely attended, and very solemn and affecting.
Indeed, nearly every heart ached for Kate and her mother.

“But I do believe Dick suffers the most;” Fanny said. “I never saw any
one so changed in a few days.”

Afterward the will was read. The farm was bequeathed to Richard.
Stocks, bonds and mortgages were divided between Mrs. Fairlie and Kate,
who were thus made quite rich women. They could go to Europe now.

I found myself wondering a little what Mr. Fairlie’s life would have
been with different surroundings. The Fairlies in their way were as
old and as good a family as the Churchills, only they did not happen
to settle at the West Side, and had gone a little more into active
business. But they did not lay claim to any special position or
grandeur. This had always seemed to mortify Mrs. Fairlie somewhat. “Mr.
Fairlie is so old-fashioned,” she would say complainingly. “There was
no getting him out of the one groove.” She wanted to make a show, to
have people admit that she was somebody.—She went to church regularly
and would have been much offended not to have been considered an
important member. She gave to the Christmas and Easter feasts and
adornings, but for the poor or the needy sick she rarely evinced any
sympathy. Her duty stopped at a certain point, the rest of her time,
money, and interest was distinctly her own. So the husband and wife
lived separate lives, as it were.

Would Richard’s fate repeat the same confused and tangled story? No
doubt his mother would desire him to marry well in worldly point of
view. She might even object to Fan on the score of money. Would he have
the courage to suit himself? For what he needed was a sweet, domestic
woman with the culture that did not disdain every day matters. His
tastes were simple and homelike, yet he was by no means dull. He wanted
a woman to honor him, to put him in his true position as head of the
family.

Would Providence bring him happiness, or discipline only?




CHAPTER XII.


The next thing that happened to us was—though to be exact, it was two
events. In the morning papa had a long, lovely letter from Stephen
Duncan, enclosing a check for two hundred dollars on the boys’ account,
and one for fifty to mamma, to fill up the chinks made by the sickness,
he said. The Doctor’s bill he would settle when he came home. Papa read
most of it aloud, and I saw mamma’s sweet, dark eyes fill with tears.

We were beginning a new week, and alone by ourselves. That always
reminds me of the story papa used to tell of a traveler who passed a
house where there were seven children sitting on the stoop, and seven
on the fence, all crying as hard as they could cry, so he paused to ask
what dreadful thing had happened.

“Oh,” said they with one voice, “our mother has gone away and left us
all alone!”

It was pretty much the same with us, only we did not cry for any one
gone away. It was delightful to have our house by ourselves.—Though it
seemed so queer that we lounged around and amused each other making
wonderful plans.

In the afternoon Mrs. Whitcomb arrived with her large basket. We all
rushed out and kissed her, and almost distracted her with our avalanche
of news. Fan untied her bonnet, I took her shawl and mamma turned one
glove into the other after her own careful fashion.

“The wear seems to have told most upon you, Mrs. Endicott,” she said
with sweet solicitude. “First of all, girls, your mother must have a
holiday!”

We looked at each other blankly, then laughed.

“She shall have whatever is best;” returned Fan with much dignity.

“Then she must go away. Let me see—among the mountains somewhere, to
an old farm-house where she can have milk, and sweet corn, and sleep
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. She must not take a stitch of
sewing.”

“Splendid!” I declared, clapping my hands.

“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “won’t you go to Auntie Vandevere’s, mamma?
They want you to come so much.”

“Now there is a place provided,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. “You know you were
going all last summer and did not get started. It is just the season to
enjoy yourself. The girls and I can keep house. We will have everything
bright as a new gilt button on your return.—And Edith is so good, or
you might take one of the children to mind her. Children come in so
handy.”

“O mamma, me!” and Tim jumped up and down as incoherently as her
sentence.

“The house cleaning—” protested mamma faintly, Tim’s arms being around
her neck in a strangling fashion by this time.

“We will clean house, mend the stockings, weed the flower beds, and
keep matters straight. You will hardly know the place when you return.”

“Here, Tim, look after your village! Baby has commenced to devour the
cows, and I think them a rather heavy article of diet for her just yet.”

“What is one little make-believe cow?” said Tim disdainfully.

“Well, pick up the fragments. And here is Miss Dolly looking tired and
sleepy. Then run out and play.”

“We don’t want to;” cried the younger ones in chorus.

“Well, have your own way;” and Fan sat down in mock despair. “I am
determined to be obeyed in some respect.”

After we had them all snugly tucked in bed that evening, the elders
discussed the plan again. Papa approved of it so strongly that he wrote
the letter immediately.

“But there is so much to do,” declared mamma. “I intended to change the
girls to the front chamber and put Nelly and Daisy in theirs. And we
want a new carpet for the study, and—oh, I don’t believe I can go!”

“There is always some path out of the woods;” said Mrs. Whitcomb when
our laugh had subsided. “You need the rest—that is the strongest
argument. And I have come to help. You cannot make me company if you
try.”

On the following day we had it all out straight. The three seniors were
to go to Westburg on Thursday and buy everything they could lay their
hands upon. Friday afternoon mamma was to take her journey. The next
week on Wednesday or Thursday papa was to go up after her, the two to
come home on Saturday. There it was all as plain and easy as “twice
two” in the multiplication table.

They started bright and early in the morning. Fan and I went at the
front chamber. There was not much to do, for the walls were papered.
Ann cleaned the paint, we washed windows and rubbed the paper with a
soft cloth, then she shook the carpet for us and we tacked it down.

“It seems odd to move over to this side of the house,” said Fan, “but I
shall like it ever so much. And Nell will be so pleased. She hates to
be packed like pins in a paper. But now comes the tug of war—clothes,
bureau drawers, odds and ends, and the plagues of Egypt.”

“O no;” I returned laughingly.

“Well—flies, anyhow. They are not all gone.”

There was a large old-fashioned chest of drawers in the room. We
brought in our dainty bureau with its pretty glass, and I gave up all
the drawers to Fan, taking the other. There was a nice wardrobe for
our dresses and boxes. When Nelly returned from school she helped with
our pictures and brackets, and we had ourselves as well as our room in
order before the travelers returned. Baby had been good as an angel all
day. I dressed her clean and put on one of the pretty bibs that Daisy
had crocheted, and Ann had the supper table in readiness.

They were all tired, enough, though we had bound them by solemn
promises not to do any of our fall shopping. They had made a few calls,
selected the carpet and made arrangements to have papa’s study chair
covered with Russia leather. So we kissed them and made them welcome,
both ladies being somewhat surprised by our day’s work.

It was beautiful on Friday, and there was not the least shadow of an
excuse for mamma to stay. Not that we were so very glad to have her go,
after all, but we knew it would bring forth good fruit in the end. Tim
was about half crazy and brought all her play-things to be packed up,
but mamma compromised by taking her large rag doll, as the baby could
play with that.

“Girls,” said Mrs. Whitcomb on Saturday morning, “suppose we begin
at the other rooms. Nelly and Daisy can do a good deal in the way
of helping. I want to get the house all in order before your mother
returns. And there will be the carpet to make the first of the week.”

“Agreed;” we all said, and went at it with a good will. Daisy declared
“that it was almost as splendid as moving, and she hoped sometime we
would move.” She was too young to remember the discomforts of our
coming to Wachusett.

This was a regular frolic. Mrs. Whitcomb was so charming with her ways
of quiet fun and odd bits of wisdom. Like mamma, she knew how to begin
at the right end, and make matters go on smoothly. There is such a
difference in that. She kept the children good-natured and we were all
as busy as bees.

Just as we were hurrying our utmost, about mid-afternoon a carriage
stopped. Daisy ran to the side window to reconnoitre.

“It is the Maynards,” she announced, “and a whole load of ladies.”

“Some one must go—Rose!”

“O, dear, no, not—”

“For Joe, to be slangy,” and Fan laughed. “But you have just finished
the carpet, and you are the eldest, and you can brush up your hair so
quickly. Here, wash your face and I’ll get out your dress.”

I washed and brushed, or rather just ran the comb through my hair
and twisted it in a great knot, put on some tidy slippers and a blue
cambric with ruffles at the wrist and throat. While I was fastening my
brooch Fan tied a pale blue ribbon in my hair.

“There, you look as sweet as a pink, only I never saw any blue pinks.
Don’t say you are just out of the soap-suds. Remember to uphold the
family credit.”

It was “all of the Maynards,” and a very elegant young gentleman. Mrs.
Silverthorne and the Misses Maynards were going West next week, and had
come to make a farewell call. They were very sorry to miss mamma—how
could we get along without her?

I said Mrs. Whitcomb was here taking charge of us.

“There;” began Mrs. Silverthorne, “Matilda, I don’t see why you can’t
get her to come and stay with grandma this winter, and you go to the
City for two months or so. I am sure if Mrs. Endicott feels it safe to
leave all of her children, you might leave just one person.”

“Mamma has the baby and my youngest sister with her,” I returned. “And
she only expects to stay a week.”

I could not see that the cases were at all parallel.

“Well, this Mrs. Whitcomb is a nice, trusty sort of person, is she not?
Doesn’t she take care of sick people?”

“Yes; she is very lovely.”

“_That_ is only for your equals, my child;” she returned patronizingly.

I flushed but made no answer.

“Whose crayon drawing?” asked Miss Maynard, making a tour of inspection
through the room.

“My sister Fanny’s.”

“O—the one with that lovely golden hair—is it not? Miss Lucy Churchill
raves about her. Why she has quite a talent. Does she think of
studying?”

“Not at present;” I replied.

“She is very young;” said Mrs. Maynard.

“If I were not going away I should be pleased to give her some lessons.
I think one ought to foster talent when one is in a position to do it.”

“Thank you;” I returned with a little pride. “Miss Churchill intends to
give her lessons.”

“Indeed! Well, I have some friends connected with the School of Design
in New York. I might do something for her there.”

I simply thanked her again.

They left regrets and kind messages, and swept through the hall in a
complacent fashion.

I ran up stairs and took off my dress in a hurry.

“It wasn’t worth the trouble;” I declared with some disgust. “I really
think I could find more intellectual enjoyment in tacking down carpets.
I am sure I could in hanging pictures.”

“What a depraved taste! And West Side people, too!”

“I can’t help it, Miss Churchill would have been charming.” Then I
repeated Miss Maynard’s offers.

“Very thoughtful of her;” said Fan dryly.—“People in her position can
do many nice things if they try. I would not have hung that picture in
the parlor if it had not been for papa.”

“Our parlor is our own,” replied I.

“No, it belongs in part to the parish.”

Mrs. Whitcomb laughed at that.

“Oh, won’t this room be lovely,” said Nelly. “Why, I could swing Tabby
around in it without hitting the children!”

“Let me catch you swinging Tabby! She has passed through purgatory.”

“And these book-shelves are just the thing. Daisy, they are mine, do
you understand? If I find one of your books here I shall put it in the
middle of the floor.”

“That will have one merit at least, I can see it there.”

We finished the two rooms by night, and then had callers all the
evening. But Sunday without mamma seemed quite out of the order of
things. I knew papa felt lost, though we all tried to do our best.
Once it came into my mind what the house would be without her forever,
and my eyes filled with tears. We sat together an hour after church,
talking about her.

We went to work again the first of the week. The carpet had come and
was very pretty. A mossy, fine figured vine in two shades of green,
with a dash of crimson here and there. The lounge had been covered the
year before with green reps and still looked bright.

“How pretty it will be!” I said, “I am all impatience to see it down
and the room in order. The carpet comes just like a present, doesn’t
it?”

“We have forgotten the work and the worry.”

“Perhaps it was a good thing for us. And somehow I do believe it will
prove good for Louis Duncan.”

“When will we go at the study, Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“Not until your father is out of the house.”

A ring at the bell startled us.

“West Side again;” said Mrs. Whitcomb;—“Miss Churchill.”

“O, please come in here;” exclaimed Fanny with a laugh. “It is only a
step from—dress-making to carpets.”

“Is it?” and she smiled. “Who is going to be so pretty?”

“Papa. Our study carpet was a thing of—shreds and patches, rather than
beauty. And we feel as if we had earned this money ourselves. When papa
goes to the mountains we shall have a thorough renovating.”

“I wish I could add something,” said Miss Churchill. “Let me take a
peep, perhaps I can discover a new need.”

She glanced around. Fanny explained about the chair.

“There is one thing girls, and I shall do it. This paper is soiled and
dingy, and a new one must be put on.”

“It is pretty nearly covered with the books and pictures,” returned
Fanny.

“But it is not nice. Wednesday, you said, Mr. Endicott was going. I
will send you over some help to get the furniture and the books out,
and on Thursday the man shall come to do it. It will not take long.”

“We can do the removing, please;” and Fan smiled archly.

“If you are saucy I will come myself. Here is a basket of pears. I
suppose I dare not ask you to visit me until you have all your fortune
spent, and are bankrupt.”

“You will be very good to take us in then,” I answered.

“I can make allowance for the pernicious influence of wealth;” she
returned gaily.

She was as good as her word. The coachman come over to help us lift, he
said. One end of the room and one side of the chimney had been put in
book-shelves. Mrs. Whitcomb thoughtfully made out a list so we could
tell where they belonged.

The paper and the man were according to promise. The first was a
delicate French gray with quite wide, rich bordering that gave the room
the effect of being frescoed. It was as pretty as a picture. When the
carpet was down, and the chair came home, which it did, Saturday noon,
we were happy as larks.

But the best of all was mamma and the baby. We kissed them and cried
over them a little out of pure joy. The old tired look had gone out of
mamma’s sweet face, and her voice was bright and cheery. And, oh, how
surprised and pleased they both were! Papa declared that it was as good
as a Christmas feast.

It was only a little after all. Some of the ladies in town spent as
much on one dress and then were dissatisfied. I begin to think it is
a rare art to get a good deal of happiness out of a small amount of
material. When you work for it yourself it does seem sweeter, if the
work is not too hard. Hunger is a good thing if one does not pass the
point of appetite, and faint.

Mamma thought we had accomplished wonders. Truly the pictures did
look better on the new paper, and the bright border gave a glow and
richness. The carpet proved just the thing. Papa called it his Castle
of Indolence, because it had such a dreamy, comfortable appearance.

“There is half of our fortune gone;” said Fanny, “but I don’t grudge a
penny of it. Indeed I feel like spending the rest on dear papa.”

“Papa has had his share, fully. Now I must do some shopping for you
girls. And I have a surprise in my mind for Mrs. Whitcomb.”

“A present, I know. O mamma, tell us at once.”

“She would not take any pay for her services in the summer, so I shall
spend part of my gift upon her. It is one of the chinks, and I think it
can best be filled with a new dress.”

“Just the thing. She has a nice black silk dress, so let this be a
poplin, a beautiful dark wine color. You know how pretty she looked in
the neck tie,” said Fan.

“I had been puzzling on a color. You and Rose and Nelly must have a new
winter dress apiece.”

“And mine shall be wine color. _Can_ we afford poplin, mamma, real
pretty, I mean?”

“Hardly, I think. You will want a walking suit and what with overskirt
and jacket—”

Fan made a mental calculation.

“No, mamma _mia_, it will never do. A dollar and a half a yard will
be our utmost limit. Well, there are lovely empress cloths. We will be
neat if we cannot be gorgeous. And if I could have velvet like it for a
hat, and a tiny real lace collar.”

“I will give you each thirty-five dollars. Will that answer?”

“We will make it, little mother;” I replied cheerfully.

We enjoyed shopping with our own money exceedingly. My dress was a dark
green with a bronze tint; and a felt hat to match, with trimmings a
shade lighter. Mamma gave us our gloves and some ribbons, and we felt
very grand. Nelly’s dress was a gold and black waterproof.

We bought Mrs. Whitcomb’s under her very eyes, and smiled over her
comments. But when she saw it the next morning with her name pinned
on it, and “her dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott” as donors, her
surprise and delight were good to witness. Fan declared that it was the
most satisfactory of all.

Afterward we had a regular dress-making “bee.” Mamma cut, Mrs. Whitcomb
and I basted, and Fan sewed on the machine. Miss Oldways insisted upon
coming one day, and we had a bright, cheerful time. We made Mrs.
Whitcomb’s too, though she said at first that we should not.

By this time it was the middle of October. We felt as if we had gained
a march upon the season, shopping and sewing so early, and we were
quite proud not to have taken papa’s money. The salary was not very
large, and sometimes it required considerable planning to make it do.
Mamma used to say it was the five loaves and the two small fishes among
many, but we _did_ often find a few fragments.

Mrs. Whitcomb had to say good-bye to us again. We fell back into our
old routine. Fanny being at home regularly gave me much more leisure.
We took up a course of reading with papa, and practiced our music
daily. There were walks and calls and parish visiting, so we were not
likely to be idle. The Churchills were very kind to us. Mr. Churchill
took the office of church warden, left vacant by Mr. Fairlie’s death.
He came over now and then to discuss church matters, and he did get a
great deal interested in the children.

Miss Helen Ogden was married early in December and went abroad. Mrs.
Ogden tried to persuade Miss Lucy to go to Florida with her, but she
confessed that she had not the courage. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate found
their loneliness insupportable, and were quite elated when she asked
them to join her. They wanted Dick to accompany them, but he would not,
declaring that he could not leave everything at loose ends.

Oddly enough, we rarely heard a word about Winthrop Ogden. He was in
a Bank in New York. He had not made his second visit as proposed.
We never said anything to each other concerning the love episode,
mamma thought it best not to be talked about. And though through all
the trouble and grief it had been impossible not to see Dick Fairlie
frequently, he and Fan fell into pleasantly fraternal ways.—Mamma
managed that there should be no awkwardness and but little chance for a
repetition. She used to sit with us evenings and make Dick talk to her.
Presently he became quite confidential with her. He had missed this
peculiar mother love and interest in his own life, and it seemed as if
he was hungering for it.

He improved unconsciously. He grew more manly and self-reliant. People
began to call him Mr. Richard Fairlie, as they had called his father.
He made little visits to cousins and one or two school friends, though
he kept his house open with the aid of an excellent servant.

It is strange how the roots of things all get together after a while,
as they stretch out feelers hither and thither. I used to think if
there was one woman in the parish who resembled mamma in the sweet
family interest that she managed to create about those who came within
her circle it was Mrs. Ryder. Their house was just lovely. The parlor
opened into the sitting-room, that into the dining-room, at the end
of the hall, and from thence into the kitchen. They lived all the way
through, as we did. You commenced in the parlor but you found every
place just as good. Flowers were everywhere, pictures everywhere, even
in the kitchen where hung “The Gossips,” a laughable engraving of
“Moving Day,” a pretty rustic catch-all wall-pocket, and a shelf of
geraniums across one window. It wasn’t much larger than a hall bedroom,
but it was always neat and picturesque, the more so when Jennie was in
it with her sleeves tucked up, baking or washing dishes.

I believe Dick recognized the resemblance between mamma and Mrs. Ryder
in this peculiar motherliness. He took her to ride now and then, and
began to bring odd specimens of ferns and dried leaves to them, and
sent them some nice fruit and vegetables from the farm. We went with
him quite often to spend the evening, but mamma had cautioned us about
dragging Jennie injudiciously forward.

One day Fan and mamma were talking about him quite confidentially, when
the latter said—

“You do not feel inclined to repent your decision, my dear?”

“No, mamma;” she answered with a little fitful color.

“You have only to go on then in this manner, and remain very cordial
friends. I shall be glad to have you. But if you should wish to repent,
now would be the auspicious time. He is a very worthy young man.”

“Would you like me to, mamma?” Fan asked in a tremor of alarm.

“Not unless you wish it above all things, then you would be wrong to
let a little false pride stand in the way.”

“I do not wish it above all things.”

“My darling, we should be sorry to give you away so soon,” and mamma
kissed her fondly. “We are a trifle selfish, you see.”

“May be I shall never go away,” Fan made answer slowly. “Perhaps I
shall be the old maid sister instead of Rose.”

Mamma laughed and said she should not mind.

But we could all understand that Richard Fairlie was considered a
most eligible young man. Allie West and Sue Barstow were very cordial
with him. He was asked to tea as he could not join the gay little
neighborhood parties, and the mothers took a great interest in him.




CHAPTER XIII.


Merry Christmas had come and gone with its ordinary festivities and
gifts. Ours had been unusually bright, and we were all well and happy.
Only one thing troubled papa and that was the boys.

Louis had spent nearly two months traveling around and then going
straight to Wilburton. He was pleasantly situated he wrote, quite well,
and had taken up his studies. Papa answered, giving him some friendly
counsel, but we had heard nothing since. Stuart had sent two chatty
epistles. Stephen was expected home every week.

“I feel as if I ought to have gone to Wilburton and looked after him;”
papa would say anxiously.

“You have been so very busy all the time with your duties here;”
mamma would reply reassuringly. “And Louis is one of those quietly
persistent young men who take their own way and learn, if they ever do,
from experience.”

I doubt if it would have made any difference in what occurred. Fan used
to say that we had gentle showers of misfortune and rains of adversity,
and this must have been both combined. The letter came from Stuart with
the bad news, which shocked us beyond description.

I will tell it more briefly than in his rambling, commenting fashion.
He had little of the brotherly love that desires to cover up faults, or
hide the worst of any untoward incident.

Louis’ boarding place might have proved a judicious home, but a month
after his being settled with Mrs. Fuller, a young clerk came to
share his comforts, one of those selfish, astute persons as Stephen
afterwards learned, who with his pleasing address and flattering
deference soon won Louis’ regard and confidence, and introduced him to
some dangerous companions. This was followed by late hours and gaming.
To a nervous, excitable nature these games of chance with an occasional
victory, became a dangerous fascination. Louis was no match for his
adversaries. They looked upon him as a rich, hot-headed, ignorant
young fellow and drew him on until he found himself heavily in debt.
The money sent for his current expenses was swallowed up, and proved
but a drop in the whirlpool.

One evening he had begun with the luck in his favor and felt
wonderfully elated. At midnight he would fain have left them, but they
bantered him to stay, rather hinting that a defection would be from
basely selfish motives. He was not to be dared and took his seat again,
losing heavily on the first play. The others had been drinking and
grown a trifle careless. He was watching with eager, restless eyes and
detected to his surprise, a play so unusual that it brought an instant
conviction to his mind that even his trusted friend might be in league
against him.

He mastered his indignation and went steadily on, every sense alert
with suspicion. Presently the trick was repeated, his opponent winning
triumphantly. But his endurance came to an end with this, and he burst
forth in angry vehemence, accusing everybody, and hurling passionate
epithets that roused the wrath of the small circle, which they resented
as warmly. A bitter taunt cost Louis the last remnant of self-control,
and he flew at his adversary with a tiger’s strength and quickness. One
tremendous blow ended the contest.

“Good Heavens! Duncan, you have killed him!” cried one of the party.
“You’ll rue this night’s work!”

His youth and his impulsiveness led him astray again. Like a flash he
beheld the disgrace, the awful crime, the consternation of all who knew
him. Obeying his first unreasoning impulse he fled from the place.
Whither should he go? Death would be preferable to arrest and scandal.

He had a small amount of money with him and it was but a few steps to
the station. The train made a moment’s halt and he stepped on board
in the darkness. If he had waited until morning it would have proved
only a disgraceful gambling brawl. The injured youth was brought
to consciousness and through the physician’s efforts saved from
congestion. A few day’s illness would be the result to him, but the
story spread like wild-fire, exaggerated in every respect. This was the
account that came from Stuart.

Papa was horror stricken at the first moment. He buried his face in
his hands and gave the letter to mother.

“Poor boy!” she said tenderly. “His unfortunate temper, his distrust
of those who would have proved his best friends, and his credulity in
other respects, have made him an easy victim. But what has become of
him?”

“I must go immediately,” papa exclaimed. “I am in some sense his
keeper. I ought to have looked after him before. Poor lad. How we
prayed for him to be spared last summer! Perhaps—”

“Dear papa,” said Fan, “if God had not thought best to save his life,
he would have been taken. Please do not blame yourself. It was our duty
to try, and to pray. The end is with God.”

“You are right, my darling, and I must act instead of doubting. Let me
think—I can reach Wilburton at eight this evening. I will do all I can.
If Stephen were only here!”

Half an hour afterward we received a telegram from him. He was in New
York. After a flying visit to the boys he would be with us.

“I had better meet him there;” said papa. “We can consult about the
best steps to be taken. And indeed, Louis may have returned to
Wilburton.

“Everything always does happen to us at once,” said Fan. “But this
is such a sorry happening! We have to take our share of other’s
misfortunes, but joys do not always go round so far.”

“I am sure we have had a great many joys;” returned mamma in her sweet
tone. “And no—”

“Bad boys of our own;” put in Fan. “Or good ones either for that
matter. But there _is_ one thing to be very thankful for, and that is,
that Louis Duncan has not the sin of murder on his soul.”

“True, true, Fanny;” returned papa.

An hour later he put a few articles in a hand satchel and bade us
good-bye. That was Wednesday and he did not return until Friday eve,
when Mr. Duncan came with him.

Six months of foreign life had changed him considerably. He was
stouter, looked older, and wore a full beard. I _did_ feel afraid of
him. I wondered how Fan could talk so freely. He was grave to the verge
of sadness; yet very sweet to mamma with that kind of reverential
sweetness so touching.

The victim of the affray was out of danger. Stephen had been
investigating his brother’s affairs, but found no extravagances
beside the gambling debts. Otherwise his course of conduct had not
been blamable. But there were no tidings of him. Stephen had inserted
advertisements in one or two papers, begging him to return, which was
all that could be done for the present.

The pleasure of the meeting was a good deal dampened by this
unfortunate affair. Mr. Duncan had counted so much upon his visit
to us, it would seem. He brought mamma a lovely black silk dress
from Paris, Edith a necklace and armlets that would make her pretty
bracelets by and by. For Fan a choice set of engravings in a beautiful
port-folio. Nelly some beautiful handkerchiefs, and the children each a
ring.

“And this is for you;” he said, handing me a little box. “I have heard
how good you were to my poor brother, and though it is only a trifle, I
hope you will accept it and my grateful thanks as well.”

It was a beautiful pearl cross in the most delicate setting. So white
and pure that I felt half afraid of it.

“O,” I exclaimed confusedly, “I did not do very much! I—mamma—thank
you!” and I turned away from his peculiar look.

“I feel as if I had brought a great deal of trouble upon you all,
but I will have no blame attached to any one, least of all you, Mr.
Endicott. I know you have done your duty like a Christian gentleman,
like a father, indeed. It is the poor boy’s misfortune that he is so
self-willed and ungovernable, and I must try, if God spares me, to
reclaim him. I was wrong not to begin earlier.”

“If I can be of any assistance command me to the utmost;” and papa
wrung Stephen’s hand. “It is my duty to search for the lost souls and
point out the way of repentance. I do feel that I have been sadly
remiss.”

That evening at twilight I was standing at the study window glancing
dreamily over the snowy road, when I heard a step beside me. I _felt_
immediately who it was.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he began in a low tone. “You were
disappointed in your gift, and I do not wonder. I ought not to have
bought you a cross. I had already laid one upon you unwittingly.
Forgive me.”

“It was too elegant,” I returned. “That was its only fault, if it had
one. I was—obliged for the kind remembrance.”

“But you will not like to wear it?”

I was silent, I could not tell why, but I should _not_ want to wear it.

“I never have had such a costly article;” I faltered.

“Well, put it away, out of sight. I seem to be unlucky—with you!”

His tone was almost impatient. He did not go away and I remained
awkwardly by his side.

Did some evil genius tempt me to say—

“I think you feel too hard and severe towards Louis. You don’t know
what it is to have such a temper—”

“Thank God, no!” he interrupted.

“And he has never had one good true friend in whom he could trust. He
is peculiar and sensitive.”

“I have made several attempts to win his confidence and failed. I
fancied perhaps, that coming here might have some effect upon him. It
is terrible to think of his being hardened in deceit and given over to
violence.”

“Oh, he is not;” I cried impulsively.

“Are you quite sure?”

Something in the tone offended me. I could not say what I wished.

“At least you will forgive him—if he comes back?”

“I can assure you he will not find me unbrotherly. But he must learn
that he is not quite his own master.”

Nelly ran in. I was glad to go away and leave him. And yet as we were
all singing together that evening, something in his voice touched me,
moved me to tears. How tender he could be, and yet how stern.

I told mamma afterward of the talks Louis and I had had. So far I had
held them in peculiar confidence. She was a little encouraged, and we
tried to hope for the best.

Stephen spent nearly a week with us. He and Fan and Nelly agreed
capitally. We went over to the Churchill’s, and the ladies were charmed
with him. But he seemed so much older to me than Dick Fairlie, and
several of the young villagers.

He took great pleasure in planning with mamma.

The estate owned a rather old-fashioned house in the upper part of the
city, which he meant to repair and furnish, and set up house-keeping.
If he could find some nice, cheerful, refined woman to take charge—did
we know of anybody?

“Oh!” exclaimed Fan, “Mrs. Whitcomb! It will be just magnificent! Only
she shall not come unless you promise her—let me see—three vacations a
year, to visit us.”

“A month at a time?”

“About that. We have the first claim. She can do everything and is a
lovely lady beside. And she is pretty too.”

“That is certainly in her favor,” and he laughed mischievously. “Could
we find this paragon?”

“She is at Oxford. If you were to invite me to go sleigh-riding, we
might;” said Fan demurely.

“Fanny!” in mamma’s gentle tone.

“Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to accompany me to Oxford
to-morrow?”

“Thank you, Mr. Duncan, I shall be happy to;” and Fan made a sweeping
curtsey.

They went off merrily in Mr. Fairlie’s dainty cutter, saw Mrs.
Whitcomb, with whom Mr. Duncan was charmed. She promised to consider
the matter.

We missed him ever so much when he was gone. Fan seemed odd and
restless. Papa was much engrossed with parish work, there being a
number of sick people, and at this season of the year the wants of the
poor became much more numerous. Employment was duller in the winter and
after the poorer class had used up their own subsistence, they became
necessarily somewhat dependent upon their neighbors. So papa used to
try and interest the richer ones in their behalf. The season had been
a pretty severe one. Miss Churchill came over one morning and he asked
her assistance.

“I should be glad to do anything in my power, Mr. Endicott,” she said.
“Tell me how to begin. For though I have given money, I am learning to
understand that something else is needed.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Most of these people are honest and industrious
and would work if they could get it to do. Charity in its broad, bold
sense does mortify them.”

“I heard Kenton speaking of some woodland he wanted cleared. One of our
men went away in the fall and we have been rather short-handed. Now if
some one would undertake it—”

“Just the thing,” interposed papa. “And—I wanted to send the Widow
Maxwell a barrel of flour. She has nothing but potatoes in the house, I
know.”

“Make out a list and I will see what I can do. We borrow Miss Fanny so
often that I wish to make all the return in my power. Lucy enjoys her
society so much.”

“And she gives me so much in return,” said Fanny, warmly. “Why, I
am getting to be quite an artist. I may be tempted to accept Miss
Maynard’s offer after all.”

“What was that?”

Fanny and I explained.

“I suppose it _is_ a temptation for a young girl to wish to distinguish
herself. And yet—you are all so happy here that I should be sorry to
see a break.”

“There will be none yet awhile,” replied mamma. “I want my girls to
learn some useful home lessons first. I do not know but there is as
high and worthy an art in managing and saving and in making happiness
as in earning money.”

“I think you are right, Mrs. Endicott. While I admit the necessity
of every woman knowing something whereby she can support herself, I
sometimes wonder if the reformers are not carrying the matter too far.
Girls are painters and poets and shop-keepers and teachers. When they
marry, housework is distasteful to them. They do not know how to cook a
dinner or make a dress, they cannot carry on a household in a pleasant,
agreeable manner. They must board or depend upon servants. There is
nothing but complaint and discouragement. They may be valuable members
of society, but their time is too precious to be wasted upon real
living. Every year homes become more rare.”

“It is too sadly true,” said papa. “There is a wide difference between
a fashionable house and a pleasant home. And home used to mean
something besides a place in which one slept and took his meals.”

“But some women never marry and never have a home,” interposed Fanny.

“There are exceptions. Yet many prefer the other course. I know
families of girls who might have assisted and comforted their mothers,
but who went to neighboring towns or cities, earning barely enough to
keep themselves, sleeping in miserable close attics when they could
have clean airy rooms at home, and exposed to flippant injurious
companionship that destroys all the finer graces of a woman’s soul.
Their mother has to depend upon Irish help whose waste and wages would
doubtless dress two daughters. She has no society at home and is
worried out of her life. What is it all for? Why can they not make each
other happy?”

“An imaginary liberty,” answered mamma. “I want to make my home so
pleasant that my girls will be sorry to leave it. I hope to instruct
them in such a manner that they will be able to make other happy homes,
and then I shall have no fear for them.”

“And when seven daughters rise up and call you blessed, you will be
overwhelmed, little mother,” returned Fan clasping her arms around
mamma’s neck. “It is what we expect to do by and by, when Edith is old
enough to fill out the row gracefully. Yet I do sometimes feel appalled
at the host to take care of. Clergymen may abound in grace but they
seldom do in this world’s goods. We are not ravens, nor lilies of the
field.”

“I think you will find it coming out rightly in the end,” said Miss
Churchill with a smile. “Your mother’s theories may not be like the
modern ones, but very good women were reared under them, and they
are not quite out of date. I would like to see them put in practise
oftener.”

Fan blushed vividly at the beginning of Miss Churchill’s sentence. I
wondered a little why?

“And now I must go,” declared Miss Churchill rising. “I always get
fascinated when I come here, and stay beyond reasonable limits. When
your charming nest becomes over-crowded, Mrs. Endicott, I will be glad
to take one birdie. You won’t forget the list, Mr. Endicott?”

“No, indeed. I shall be thankful for so good a helper.”

“And now good-bye till I come again,” said she.

We awaited the first letter from Stephen Duncan anxiously. There were
no tidings of Louis, and he was feeling very much alarmed. He had
inspected the house and was to begin repairs immediately. It was his
intention to have a home for himself and his brothers, and to do his
duty by them, with God’s help, in-so-far as he could. “And wherein I do
succeed,” he wrote, “the work will be in a great measure due to your
Christian counsel and solicitude. I shall always esteem it one of the
fortunate steps of my life that I came to you, my dear friend, when I
needed fatherly advice.”

February was dull and dreary, though we had little time to think of it.
Not one busy bee could have been spared from the hive. Miss Churchill
called ours a co-operative home, and I think it was. News came to Mr.
Fairlie that his mother and sister had decided to go to Europe with a
pleasant party. They would return to New York in April and sail in May.

“So I can look out for myself,” said Dick.

“Why do you not go with them?” asked Fan.

“I shouldn’t enjoy it if I did—to travel round with a parcel of women.
Now if one could go with a man like Mr. Duncan!”

“That would be just perfection,” she returned eagerly.

He glanced at her in a peculiar manner. Something flashed across my
mind at that instant. They liked each other very much. He was hurrying
to get his house in order—Mrs. Whitcomb would be there—yes, it would
all come around right.

It came faster than any one expected. The first week in March we were
surprised by a visit from him. He had commenced furnishing and was in a
quandary.

“And so I have come to consult, and to ask a tremendous favor of you,
Mrs. Endicott,” he said. “I have gained Mrs. Whitcomb’s consent to
come in company with you and see how she would like it. I want you and
Miss Fanny and my little god-daughter to go back with me next week,
and we will have a kind of family party. I have my dining-room and two
guest-chambers furnished, though they want a woman’s graceful fingers
to add some final touches. And now like Benedick ‘I will hear of
nothing to the contrary.’”

Mamma said at first it was quite impossible. Fan I could see was
strongly in favor of the idea. I knew that I could keep house very
well, and it would be delightful to have them go. So we talked and
talked. Mrs. Whitcomb came over and the matter was actually settled.

Stephen had found some trace of Louis and lost it again, but he was
confident that he could follow up the clue. He had grown exceedingly
anxious. He and papa had long talks on the subject.

“I heard of his keeping books for a few weeks at a factory,” he
explained. “I think he must have gone away nearly destitute, but this
effort at independence gives me much hope. Perhaps it will be a good
lesson for him—if he does not fall among evil associates.”

It was nothing but Stephen and Mr. Duncan. I began to grow almost
jealous. Did he suspect it, I wonder? He used to watch me so curiously,
though somehow we never talked. He and Fan were absolutely jolly. I
wondered how she dared be so saucy with that great grave-eyed man.

“You won’t mind being left alone for a little while?” he said to me. “I
will promise to take excellent care of your mother. I only wish it were
a pleasanter season of the year, but Miss Fanny will keep us bright
anywhere.”

That was true enough.

“And if I can induce Mrs. Whitcomb to stay I shall be quite satisfied
with my lot.”

Indeed, I think any one might have been satisfied with the prospect
before him.

We said good-bye to them on Monday morning, as mamma decided that she
must be at home by Saturday. I could not realize that they had gone
for more than the day until evening set in. Then it seemed so strange
and quiet. There was a little drizzle of hail and rain, and for a
wonder no one dropped in. The children went to bed, Nelly was busy
with her studies, papa read, and I sewed some trifle. I believe I felt
nervous and almost low-spirited.

“Come,” I said to myself, “this will never do.”

But I did have a little quiet cry when I went to bed. The house would
never be the same without Fan. I should miss her so much.

I felt better the next day and went at my work cheerfully. About noon
it cleared away bright and crisp.

“Rose,” said papa, “could you go down to old Mrs. Aitkens’ this
afternoon? She is very poorly and may want something done.”

“Yes,” I answered quickly. I would give moping no place to settle
itself to-day.

Mrs. Elsden came in after dinner and staid quite awhile, to cheer me
up, she said. If I was lonesome Addie should come over and spend the
day with me.

“I would be glad to see Addie,” I said, “but I should be too busy to
get lonesome.”

Then as I was going right by Jennie Ryder’s I remembered a book she
wanted, so I decided to call. She and her mother sat in their cheerful
parlor, as cosy as you please. I took the chair beside hers and there
right in the edge of her pretty willow work-stand lay a gentleman’s
glove with her needle in it. Our eyes fell on it at the same moment.
She blushed and tucked it out of sight, and then the next instant drew
it forth with an odd deliberateness and went on mending the rips.

I laughed a little, so did she.

“Richard left his gloves here last evening;” she said. “He has no one
to look after such matters now.”

“He will have quite a trial of loneliness,” I answered. “Mrs. Fairlie
and Kate expect to be in Europe two years or more. Kate will have her
darling wish.”

“Yes. I don’t know what he would do if you were not so good to him at
the Rectory.”

“But we do not mend his gloves,” I said teasingly.

“Oh, that is—nothing;” but she blushed again.

There was a vase of choice flowers on one window-sill, and I went to
inspect it.

“Why, I did not know you had an azalea,” I exclaimed in surprise.

“I have not. They—”

“Mr. Fairlie brought them over,” said Mrs. Ryder gravely. “He comforts
himself with flowers and birds and kittens. Harmless dissipation for a
young man.”

I felt mischievous enough to add,—“And Jennie,” but delicacy forbade
me. But I _was_ pleased. If ever anybody deserved a good husband it was
Jennie Ryder.

Then I went on to Mrs. Aitkens’. She kept me until dusk. I was hurrying
home in the cold March twilight and had just passed the Church when
some one from across the street paused and eyed me sharply. It was not
a familiar face I thought, and went on. The person came over which made
me quicken my steps.

“Miss Rose,” a voice said huskily, “Miss Endicott!”

I turned and stood an instant, speechless with surprise. When I could
get my breath I held out both hands and said—“Oh, Louis Duncan!”

“Then you don’t quite—hate the sight of me?”

[Illustration: MEETING OF ROSE AND LOUIS DUNCAN. Page 272.]

“If you only knew,” I answered eagerly.—“If you _could_ know how
anxious every one has felt, and how thankful we all are that you are
alive! O, come home with me!”

“Thankful! I had better be dead! But I am not.”

He was very thin and pale, and had a worn, tired look. My heart ached
for him.

“No,” I said, “it is better that you are alive. Stephen has been
searching for you. He was here last week.”

Louis turned deadly pale at that.

“Come,” I urged.

“I have been haunting your house all the afternoon. I thought I should
have to go without seeing you. You have heard—of course.”

“Everything, I believe.”

“I know how Stephen feels. His life has been so perfect! His temper is
angelic! And yet Rose—I _did_ mean to do better. I resolved—”

“In your own strength;” I said softly. “God let you see how weak that
was. And yet you must not be cast down. Even Christians have to try
many times. But there _is_ the promise. And God saves to the uttermost,
to the fartherest weakness, the blackest sin.”

“I was _so_ angry. I just understood how they had been cheating me
all along, and what a fool I had been. They added taunts and insults.
I struck out blindly and madly, not caring. _Was_ it God who saved
me from the commission of an awful crime? I fled thinking myself a
murderer. I hid in lanes and byways for three miserable days, knowing
how Cain felt when he said his punishment was greater than he could
bear. If Kelsey had died I think I should have thrown myself into the
river. Then I saw in a paper that he had been only temporarily injured.
The affair was headed—‘A gambling brawl,’ and even though I felt
relieved, the disgrace stung me so keenly.”

“But it has been forgotten by this time. And Stephen means that you
shall stay with him for some months at least. You can redeem all the
past. Oh, try.” I pleaded earnestly.

“Tell me about Stephen?” he said tremulously.

I went briefly over the incidents of his return, but I did lay great
stress upon Stephen’s anxiety, his willingness to forgive the past, for
I knew he would be less severe now than a month ago. I pictured the
home, and the pleasure there might be for both in it.

“And your sister is there,” he replied in an odd tone of voice that was
more comment than inquiry.

“Yes.” Did he guess? “Oh,” I said, “it may be—perhaps it is wrong for
me to hint it—but he likes her very much.”

“Yes,” this time almost harshly. “I understand. She is pretty and
bright, and good—but I wish it were you instead. I thought you liked
him. You used to take his part. Oh, Rose, if you were to be there I
believe I should go. If you were my sister you might save me. You are
so sweet, so patient; you know so many tender ways.”

“Why, I should be your sister then,” I said, trembling in shame and
confusion, for what, I hardly knew.

“You are so different from most people. I think Stephen would be
gentler with you—”

“Hush, he knows best. Come home with me and talk to papa. What have you
been doing all this while?”

“Earning my living for a change,” and he laughed bitterly. “I _can_
go West. Not that I mean to relinquish my fortune, but since I have
disgraced them all—”

“No, no;” I rejoined firmly. “You must not go.”

“What then?”

“Return to Stephen directly. Redeem the past with a brave, true,
upright manhood. You _can_ do it. I do not believe you will ever be
tempted in that way again.”

“You are right there. If you could know how I _have_ governed myself
during the past two months. I feel as if half my temper was gone,—since
that awful night. But to go back—to humble myself to him—”

“Have you not hurt his pride cruelly?” I said.

Louis was silent.

“Oh, please _do_ go for my sake,” I entreated. “Let papa—”

“No,” hoarsely. “I couldn’t talk to any one but you. I was wild to see
you. I wanted to know what you thought—if I was past redemption—”

“No, you are not. You do not understand how some of these very faults
may be transformed into virtues. Is it not braver to struggle than to
give up like a coward in despair.”

“I never _was_ cowardly.”

“Prove your bravery by going to Stephen. Start anew. God will give you
strength and grace. I know you can succeed.”

He glanced at me long and earnestly. There was a strange wistfulness in
his face that touched me.

“Promise!” I took his cold hand in mine.

“No, I cannot—quite. I must think of it. And I must go, also, I have
kept you too long in the cold.”

“But where are you going?”

“I shall take the train at seven;” evasively.

I pleaded again, warmly, earnestly. I fancied that I saw tears in his
eyes, but he would not promise me positively.

We said a lingering good-bye in the starlight. I felt assured that he
must come to a better sense of the matter.

Then I hurried home. They were through supper. Papa was putting on his
overcoat.

“I was just coming for you. Why how—excited you look! Is Mrs. Aitken
worse?”

“No, I have been walking rapidly.”

“Let me pour your tea;” began Nelly. “I was head of the table, and felt
quite grand.”

I tried to be composed. I had promised not to say a word about the
meeting, but it seemed strange to have such an important secret in my
keeping.

Before I went to bed that night I wrote to Stephen. I never could
remember what I said, for I sealed the letter without reading it over,
and sent it when Nelly went to school. But I begged him to be patient
and merciful to Louis.

Nothing else of importance happened in my week of house-keeping.
Thursday evening we received a letter from Fan that was sketchy and
funny and incoherent. I felt that she must really be in love. How
strangely the links of life join, I said to myself.

We were glad enough to get them home on Saturday afternoon. Edith
had a slight cold, but Fan was bright and rosy and glowing in her
descriptions. She had never had such fun in her life. They had bought
carpets, furniture, pictures, ornaments; the Duncan family silver was
wonderful to behold, and the house delightful, just old fashioned
enough not to be grand. Mrs. Whitcomb was installed house-keeper and
was as much in love with Stephen as everybody else. We were all to make
visits as often as we could, and during vacation he meant to have the
whole family.

He sent papa a set of new books which were just what he had been
wishing for.

“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “it will be splendid to go to New York like
everybody else. Children, we must begin to save our money.”

“Are there any tidings of Louis?” I asked with my heart in my throat.

“No. Mr. Duncan intends to begin a search himself next week. He is
resolved to find him.”

After supper papa came round to Fanny and played with her golden hair
and watched her as she talked. How much he loved her! Did he feel that
there might be a rival ere long, a break in the chain of girls? Yet she
seemed so gladly, so unconsciously happy.

It was the children’s bed time at last. They kissed round and round as
if they were never to see anybody again. I had to hurry them finally,
their good night was so lingering.

“Fanny,” papa said, “will you come in my study a few moments.”

She put her hand over his shoulder, and his arm was around her waist.
I saw them cross the hall, making such a pretty picture that I smiled.
Then the door shut.

This was what happened.

They walked together to the library table. Papa took up a letter,
fingered it idly and studied Fan’s sweet young face.

“I did not mean to speak of this until Monday,” he began, “but I have a
feeling that it may be best finished at once. I received a letter a few
days ago,—in which there was an enclosure for you—this.”

He took out a folded paper and handed it to her. She opened it
wonderingly. Out fell a faded rose with two or three buds.

She gave a low cry and hid her face on papa’s shoulder. He smoothed the
golden hair and presently said in a tremulous tone—

“Will you read my letter? I should like to have you.”

She raised her scarlet face, still keeping her eyes averted. It was
some seconds before she could begin to distinguish the words.

A manly straight-forward appeal to papa from Winthrop Ogden. He
confessed to having spoken hastily in the summer, and promising to wait
long enough to convince Miss Endicott that he was in earnest. His mind
had not wavered from that hour, and now he asked papa’s permission to
visit her and try his fate, convinced that his love was loyal and
earnest. His family admired Miss Endicott, and such an engagement would
meet with their approval, he knew. Might he hope for an answer soon?

“My darling!”

“Oh papa!” and the fair head went down again.

“Shall I send this young interloper about his business?”

There was no answer except as the soft arms crept up round his neck.

“My dear child, what is it?” finding a little place in the forehead to
kiss.

“Can I—do—” and the faltering voice paused.

“Just as you like, my darling. While I should be sorry to give you—to
another,” and there was a pathetic little break in the voice; “still
the young man _is_ unexceptionable. I believe the Churchills would
welcome you warmly. And marrying and being given in marriage is the way
of the world.”

“Then—papa—” and the remainder of the answer was a long, tender kiss.

“I thought perhaps—Stephen Duncan—”

“Oh, papa, he doesn’t love me—in that way.

“But I know his secret, that is I once saw it gleam out like a tiny
snow-drop in the sun. I am not to be the only happy girl in the world.”

Papa looked a little puzzled, then he sighed.

“Why,” said he dolorously—“there will be only five left!”




CHAPTER XIV.


It seemed so strange the next day to look at Fan and think what had
happened to her. I was glad to have it Sunday. The very church bells
appeared to have caught a deeper tone, an awe and sacredness, a being
set apart as it were from the ordinary uses. It was sweet and beautiful
to me, and I was filled with a kind of quiet excitement, a great
throbbing and trembling in every nerve, as if I stood on the threshold
of a new life. Other girls had been engaged or had lovers, but it did
not enter into my soul like this.

She was sweet and dreamy, saying very little. When she sang in Church
her voice had a peculiar tremulousness in it, as if it swept through
great waves of feeling. Mamma was very tender to her. When their eyes
met it was with a mutual understanding made manifest in the simplest
glance. I did not feel jealous. She and papa surely had the first right
to the mystery and blessedness of the new relation. Papa watched her
with wistful eyes, as if he could hardly resolve to relinquish her.

Thus two or three days passed. We were up in our room, I dusting, and
Fan folding some clothes, and laying ribbons orderly in a pretty box.

“That is so lovely,” and she shook out a delicate blonde blue. “Mr.
Duncan chose it for me. We went shopping one day with Mrs. Whitcomb, to
buy some table linen. It was such fun! I told him he wasted his money
in riotous living, the fine linen being a sure sign.”

Just then our heads met, mine going down and hers coming up. We laughed
and looked at each other in great confusion.

“O Fan,” I said just under my breath.

“My dear old darling! I want to tell you—”

“I have guessed,” I said quickly with conscious color. “It is just
right, you and Stephen will be so happy.”

“Stephen!” and she looked at me in surprise. “And papa thought so too!”
at which she laughed gayly.

“Isn’t it Stephen?” in blank amazement.

“Why, no, and mamma has not even hinted?”

“It cannot be Dick Fairlie,” I said wonderingly. “I am sure Jennie—”

“O you little goose! Now as there is just one other man left in the
world you can surely guess.”

I looked at her with that peculiar mental blindness where one may see,
but the thought is shaped to nothing.

“It is not—Winthrop Ogden.”

A great rift of scarlet rushed over her face. Her eyes were luminous
with the dewiness of joy that misses tears, and her lips trembled.

“Oh Fanny!”

I could only take her in my arms and kiss her.

“He wrote to papa. He cared more than we thought. And there was—I did
not tell you about the rose then. I felt afraid that he _was_ trifling
with me. And somehow—”

I understood it all when she did tell me in her sweet halting way. A
faint glimmering of love, or what might be love if there was truth for
a foundation stone.

“Are you quite certain that Stephen—?”

“Oh you dear, tender heart! Yes, quite sure that he does not love me
only in a friendly fashion. We suit, and can talk of everything. He
will not be so with the woman he loves—at first.”

“But it is so—queer;” and I smiled reflectively.

“Yes. We are not engaged, you know. He only asked for the privilege of
coming honorably. I thought he would wait a year—but he has not.”

“He is earnest, if impatient.”

“Yes. I believe I like the imperiousness.”

We went down stairs presently, Papa came in with a letter.

“For you, little woman;” he said, looking curiously at me.

I did not wonder at that. It was in Mr. Duncan’s hand, and of course he
was surprised at Mr. Duncan writing to _me_. But I knew all about it
and broke open the seal hurriedly. It was very brief.

 “MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND.

 Louis came to me on Sunday evening. I understand how much of the good
 work has been yours, and have no words to thank you as I ought. God
 bless you, always. Louis is quite ill. With love to you and yours.

  S. DUNCAN.”

I handed it to papa, saying—

“I shall have to tell you the story, first. I have had a secret since
last week, but I could not help it.”

“God be thanked for restoring this last son. Now what is it, Rose?”

I related the particulars of our meeting, and how I had urged Louis to
return, but that being bound by a promise of secrecy, I could only wait
the result.

“You were quite right;” replied papa. “The good seed has not been
utterly wasted. I have great hopes for this young man, after all.
Perhaps just this shock was needed to bring him to his senses. Peculiar
natures need peculiar discipline.”

“How brave and good you are in your quiet way Rose.” Fan said with her
arms around my neck.

I could not see what particular bravery there was in it. It had just
happened. The work had come to my hand, and I could not have turned
away.

“I am so glad Mrs. Whitcomb is there;” began mamma thoughtfully. “It
seems a special providence. She has so much wisdom and patience, she
can look beyond the little to-day, to the great end. She does not show
you how weak and miserable you are, but raises you up to her strength,
lends it to you, as it were, until you have some of your own.”

Then we went our ways again a shade more grave, perhaps, but with a
secret joy in our hearts over the “one sinner.” Just now we did not
need to remember the ninety and nine just ones.

The next event was a letter from Mr. Ogden to papa. He expected to
make a flying visit at the West Side, and would take great pleasure in
calling.

He reached the village late Saturday afternoon, and came over in the
evening. He and papa and Fan had a talk in the study, and then they
spent an hour by themselves. Fan looked bright and funny when she came
up stairs.

“Oh, you dear little grandmother;” she began, “how nice it is to have
some one to confess to, when you feel foolish and half sentimental. If
you want to laugh at me you can, there is no law in the Constitution to
forbid it. I am not very far gone in love yet, but I expect to be some
day. Meanwhile, let us be sensible.”

“I have not the slightest objection;” said I gayly.

“I will make my last will and testament while I am of sound mind, then.
Or rather part of this is papa’s. We are not to be really engaged
before Autumn, and in the meanwhile we are to find out on how many
points we agree. But Mr. Ogden is in desperate earnest.”

“You do not seem to be.”

“I really don’t know what I am. I have been tumbled up and down in my
mind and lost my mental equilibrium. But Rose, to think of Winthrop
that very evening telling his Aunt Lucy! And I have been there time and
again, never suspecting it. She has been very sweet to me.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot tell, only they are rich, and grand as people say, and I
feel quite small beside them. He doesn’t mean to tell his mother just
yet, but the rest of the family are—glad that it is so. But when his
Aunt Lucy wrote about Mr. Duncan being here he was in a flame at once.
He spoke last summer because he was jealous of Dick Fairlie, and now
because he was jealous of Mr. Duncan.”

“Do you like that?” I inquired gravely.

“Well—” reflectively, tying her hair ribbon around the pin-cushion,
and going off a step to view it, as if the becomingness of that was
the great point for consideration—“yes, I suppose it _is_ best. He
thinks so. I do believe I have a slight penchant for—flirting. It is
abominable in a clergyman’s daughter! Somehow I do not believe the old
Adam has been entirely eradicated in my case. I shall have to go on
fighting it awhile longer. And so—if I _know_ he is watching me and
will be made miserable over it, I _shall_ be more thoughtful.”

“But if you love him—?”

“It isn’t the love—it is the bits of fun that crop out now and then,
and when I laugh, somebody thinks it means something, when it does not.
I could not help about Dick, and I was very sorry. I am so glad he has
taken to Jennie Ryder. And I _know_ Mr. Duncan never had a thought
about marrying me. But it _is_ best to be careful, since there are men
in the world.”

“I think you had better come to bed,” I rejoined, much amused at her.

“I suppose I had. Good-bye, moralizing. ‘Be good and you will be
happy.’”

But she came and kissed me with rare tenderness.

Mr. Ogden walked home from church with us on Sunday, and came to tea in
the evening. He was very bright and gracious and made the children like
him.

After this they were to correspond until midsummer, when they would
meet again.

There was another embarrassment to be gone through with. A few days
afterward Miss Churchill came over. Obeying her first impulse, Fan ran
away with blushing cheeks. Mamma and Miss Churchill had a good long
talk to themselves. But after awhile Fan was compelled to make her
appearance.

“My dear child;” and Miss Churchill just took her in her arms and
kissed her. “We all think it very delightful to have a claim upon you.”

The tears sprang to Fan’s eyes. It was sweet indeed to be so warmly
welcomed. Mamma was a little touched by it, too.

“I was very much surprised, and I scolded Lucy roundly for keeping the
secret from me. But if we had chosen we could not have suited ourselves
better. And now, my dear, go get yourself ready, for I am going to take
you home with me and keep you all night. Lucy is wild to see you.”

Fanny looked at mamma who nodded assent, so she left us rather
lingeringly.

“My dear Mrs. Endicott,” and Miss Churchill came around, laying her
hand on mamma’s shoulder, “I think if I have ever envied any one in
the world, it is you, since I have come to know you thoroughly. These
charming girls growing up beside you should be a crown of content to
any woman.”

“I have been very happy with my husband and children;” and mamma’s eyes
glistened.

“Circumstances shut me out of such hopes. I suppose we all have our
little romances in youth. I too have had a pleasant life, and my sister
has needed my care, so that I do not feel wasted;” and she smiled. “But
I think I was in danger of making my life rather too narrow. We need
something fresh and different from ourselves. Even we who have the
strength to stand alone, like the sweet, tender sense of a trailing
vine reaching towards our hearts. A breath out of some other living
which enters into or demands our sympathy makes us so much more of kin
to the whole world.”

“Indeed it does,” replied mamma warmly. “When you learn to give and to
take out of each other’s sphere and experience, the actual richness and
breadth of existence is made manifest.”

“You have managed to get so much of real sympathy and heartiness
into your girls’ souls. They are natural. There is no aiming at any
superiority. They will always go into beautiful places because they fit
just like a statue in some niche. I cannot tell you what a pleasure
Fanny has been to us. I do not think Kenton is as fond of Helen, way
down in the depths of his heart, though we always had to coax her into
our lives, and alter the niches a little. So we are doubly glad to have
her.”

It was such a sweet, heart-felt welcome that the tears positively did
come to mamma’s eyes this time.

“Thank you a thousand times for your cordiality;” she murmured with a
great tremble in her voice.

“Winthrop is very young, but the Churchill blood is loyal to the last
drop. I think he will be true as steel through any probation. And since
they can have only one spring-time, one glad season of bright, eager,
joyous youth, we will all try to keep out the thorns and let them
ramble to the very mountain tops if they so elect. I dare say you fancy
me a foolish old woman!”

I thought her just splendid! Fan would be rich in love on every side.

“They are both young,” returned mamma. “Mr. Endicott considers it best
that there should be no formal engagement for the present, but I feel
as if it was quite a settled matter.”

“You must not become jealous if we should monopolize her a great deal.
She is such a comfort to Lucy, with her bright engaging ways. And I
seem to be almost sharing your bliss of motherhood.”

Fan returned just then fairly bewitching in her new timidity. We kissed
all round, and they drove away. I took up my sewing, but the house
seemed strangely still.

“Rose, dear,” mamma began presently, “this will bring a sense of
lonesomeness to you that may be depressing at first. I had hoped the
circle would not be broken quite so soon. But you must be a brave
little girl.”

“Oh,” I replied, “I am happy because she is. And then she will not
leave us for ever so long. But she is so bright and pretty that some
one would have fallen in love with her if it had not been Mr. Ogden.
You will not be robbed of me so soon—if that is any comfort.”

She smiled a little but did not answer.

The affection and honoring seemed to render Fan more humble than
before. She possessed a truly rich and noble nature which would not be
easily puffed up with pride.

Mrs. Fairlie and Kate returned, and a few days afterward we heard that
Mrs. Ogden was at her brother’s.

Kate came over to see us. She had changed indescribably. A languid
society air enveloped her as a garment. She talked with a slight drawl,
pronouncing her words in a very clear, delicate manner, as if she was
afraid of hurting them, Nelly said. All except the r’s, which she
rather ignored.

The months spent at the South had been just lovely. Such charming
people, (“cha_w_ming” she said,) so much cultivation, elegant, refined
manners, and oh, such dressing! How any one could exist in this dull
little town she did not see. And the stay in New York had been
splendid! They had become very intimate with Mrs. Ogden. We had seen
Winthrop, of course. Didn’t we think him a most entertaining young
man? She forgot though that we had but a _very_ slight opportunity of
judging. He had spent a number of evenings with her, and they had been
out together. He was quite an eligible “parti,” with a strong French
accent. The whole Churchill estate would have to be divided between
him and his sister presently, since there were only old maids and old
bachelors in the family. But she should not make up her mind about
marrying until after she had been abroad. American girls often married
very handsomely in foreign countries.

“French Counts for instance,” said Fan.

“O, but the _real_ article was to be had. And American gentlemen
traveled abroad now instead of going to native watering places. It was
so much more stylish. If Dick only would go with them! Mother had tried
to persuade him to hire the farm out.”

“He must be very lonesome;” said mamma.

“O, he is such an old hermit! He doesn’t care at all for society. Just
give him a book, or a dog, or a lot of kittens and he is perfectly
happy. He will end by being a bachelor like Mr. Churchill, yet I don’t
know as that is altogether to be deplored. Since mamma has a life right
there, it will be as well if there is no wife to interfere.”

She said this with the utmost complacency. I do not suppose she
imagined that it had a selfish sound.

Fan laughed a little afterward. “I shall tell Winthrop that he had
better wait. She _might_ come home from Europe and marry him.”

“I do not believe they will like Jennie Ryder;” I remarked.

“Kate snubbed her long ago. But Dick and she will have a chance to
get settled, I think, without any one’s interference. It is really
fortunate that they are going.”

We saw Mrs. Ogden twice during her stay. She was not as lovely as Miss
Esther, being more worldly-minded, but she had the Churchill breeding
and was a lady.

There was one little feast that we kept by ourselves—baby’s birthday.
She could walk and began to utter pretty words with one syllable left
off, and was the quaintest, cunningest baby in the wide world as we
knew—very well.

“What a short year;” said Fanny. “How many things have been crowded
into it.”

“And we are glad to have you, dear little Dot, if there are seven of
us,” exclaimed Nelly, kissing her extravagantly.

“But Mr. Duncan said he owned her and that he meant to take her away
some day;” declared tiny Tim, who was fast outgrowing her pet name. It
seemed to me that they were all a great deal taller than a year ago.

“We won’t let him have her just yet,” answered papa. “Or perhaps some
one might go in her place.”

The children glanced at each other in dismay; and papa laughed heartily.

The birds began to sing and the trees were coming out again. We went to
the woods for wild flowers and had our house fragrant with them. But in
the wake of spring came house-cleaning and gardening, and then—all the
sewing.

“The same thing year after year;” I said to mamma.

“And yet not quite the same either. There is a gradual outgrowing and
ingrowing. There should be a corresponding strength and sweetness and
patience and faith. By and by we come to the whole stature. But it is
the growth of a good many springs, the heat and toil and watching of
many summers, and the ripening of repeated autumns.”

“I did not take it as high as that.”

“But are we not to?” and mamma’s face was at its sweetest. “I often
think we work, in types. We clean our houses and dust finds lodgement
in them again, we purify our souls by prayer and good works, and we
find the rubbish of indolence and impatience and selfishness. So we go
at it and have another trial.”

“We ought to get strong;” I said thoughtfully.

“We _do_ grow stronger, I hope. And we become more watchful over our
work. You know when our house is first made nice and tidy how careful
we are of littering it again. And when God has helped us by his grace
to purify our souls how earnestly we should try to keep them so. For
they are His temples.”

I thought it over by myself. Yes, everything spoke. The true meanings
of life were not so hard to get at, after all. It was—believe and do.
They went hand in hand.

And yet it was a curious jumble. You had to come back from the grand
thoughts to the common every-day doings. Dresses and skirts and aprons,
sheets and towels, washing and ironing, and the inevitable eating. The
charm lay in making it as good and as pretty as possible, with the
outside harmony of taste and appropriateness, and the minor graces of
love and kindness.

Fan had taken upon herself some new, odd ways. She began to grow very
motherly with the children, she spent a part of every day in the
kitchen with Ann, and she had a box in one corner of the bureau-drawer
with which she held mysterious consultations. Wonderful were the
patterns of tatting that went into it, the bits of fine crocheting, the
puffs and rufflings gathered and stitched in dainty fashionings.

For her there could be no expensive trousseau ordered at some first
class city store. It would have to be a labor of love and necessity.

She was quite demure and precise for awhile, then Harry Denham came
home from the West, and she broke out into a regular frolic. Nothing
very bad or harmful, but her olden self that could not be altogether
repressed. Mamma came in with a guiding hand, and I think she
understood that she was being led over a dangerous place. Oh, wise and
tender mothers, what should we do without you?

I went to Mrs. Ryder’s one afternoon to tea, Jennie had asked me
specially on Sunday. “Come early,” she said, “so that we can have a
nice talk while mother is taking her rest.”

I could imagine what we were to talk about. Jennie kissed me with a
sweet, earnest tenderness, seated me in a low chair by the window and
began to take off my hat, and shawl.

“Your mother is not any worse?” I began by way of getting into the
common-places of talk before we should feel awkward.

“O no. Indeed I think she improves a little. She walks better than she
did.”

“I am so glad of that.”

“Not that she will ever regain the entire use of her limbs. That would
be too great a hope. But it is so nice to have her even this way. I
sometimes think how lonely and forlorn I should have been without one
dear friend of my very own.”

“I could not spare any one,” I returned, looking away.

“And you have so many.”

At that I smiled a little.

“A year or so ago mamma used to worry a great deal in her sweet way
that was not actual complaining, about being such a burthen. She
thought it was dreadful to have all my plans brought to nought, when
I loved teaching so much. And sometimes I could not see just why that
misfortune had to happen to me.”

“It is clearer now.”

“The way is clearer,—yes. But it is only lately that I have understood
the great truth.”

“I am sure you were always patient and good-tempered.”

“Isn’t there something still higher than that, or wider, maybe? We do
not live to ourselves, after all, or we ought not.”

“No;” I returned a little wonderingly, studying the bright thoughtful
face.

“The knowledge came—with something else. Every day there is a new
unfolding. And I wanted to tell you—”

Her voice trembled and the sweet eyes were downcast, while a soft flush
crept up to her temples.

“Oh, Jennie, we guessed—and we are all so glad. It is about Richard.”

“Yes.”

Here I was in the midst of another confidence.

“I wanted you to come alone to-day so that we might talk it over. It is
not that I love Fan any less.”

It was my turn to blush now. I did it with a sense of pain and shame.
As if she divined my distress, she said—

“Richard told me about the day last summer. He did love Fanny very
much—he loves her still in one way. But he understands how different
their natures are.”

“That is just it;” I exclaimed with a sense of relief.

“She wants some one to guide and strengthen her, to be tender, and yet
self-assertive. I do not believe she could ever have made the _best_
of Richard. And I love to teach. I like the unfolding, the evolving,
something to _do_, beside living straight along and enjoying one’s
self. And Richard needs to go to school. That is nothing derogatory to
him.”

“No. It is because he has had a rather repressed life. No one cared for
the things which pleased him, except his father.”

“And the woman who takes it ought to spend all her energy in making it
blossom, in bringing it to its best and richest fruitage.”

“As you will.”

“I hope to try. It is the kind of work that I like. But do you not
think—” with much hesitation in her tone, “that it is great good
fortune for me?”

“But you deserve it, every bit. I rejoice that God did send it to you.
Once in awhile some event comes out just right in this world.”

She smiled. “I want to tell you a few of our plans. I cannot help but
think it best that Mrs. Fairlie and Kate have gone abroad. I shall feel
more free, and he will have no opposition to encounter. Though I was
afraid at first that it was not quite fair nor honest.”

“It certainly was best. And if they consult their own fancies and leave
him alone they cannot blame him for marrying.”

“He wanted it to be very soon, though we have been engaged barely a
month. I put it off until Autumn. There are so many things to think
about. And he is _so_ good.”

“He is. There can be no doubt on that point.”

“You know I could never leave mother. I told him so when he first
spoke. I must have her with me, do for her while she lives, share part
of my interest with her, and take much of hers. A person who cannot go
out is so very dependant. He said that her home should be always with
us, there was plenty of room in the house, and he meant to be a son to
her; that he had never had a real mother like her. I am to make over
all right in this place to her, and she can sell it or rent it, and
have a little income of her own.”

“It is delightful. I shall be thankful to have you in _that_ house. You
will make a home of it, which it never has been.”

“We are going on in a quiet old fashioned way. I suppose people will
_think_,” and an arch light crossed her face.

“They have not thought very much about it yet.”

“I wanted to tell you first. And your mother and Fanny.”

“Yes;” I replied softly.

That seemed taking the matter too tamely. I ran to her and clasped my
arms around her neck, making an extravagant speech between my kisses.

Then we branched into relative topics, side issues that presented
themselves in a chance fashion. How wide her range of sight was! Some
way we touched upon position and station.

“That is part of the knowledge;” she said in her bright, sweet way. “I
have learned a lesson that I mean to put in practice if God does give
me the opportunity. It is—holding up, and not pushing down.”

I understood her inconsequent little speech.

“Rich people can do so many pleasant things. Their position keeps them
quite free. They are not misunderstood, at least no one can accuse them
of unworthy motives. It seems to me that they might sometimes hold out
their hands to the next best. It would not hurt them. I don’t want ever
to forget this.”

I knew she would not.

“It has been hard;” I said softly, thinking of the past.

“Why was I not as good and refined and lady-like? What difference was
it whether I worked for the mothers of children one way or another,
teaching them, or sewing for them? I was not likely to crowd in without
an invitation. And how much better shall I be as mistress of Mr.
Fairlie’s house than I am now?”

“It is one of the bitter and unjust ways of the world.”

“I feel as if I should not like to be taken into favor again solely
for the money. I know the setting usually displays the stone to a
better advantage, but why cannot people see it before the gold begins
to glitter? The only drawback to perfect happiness is that Richard’s
mother and sister would _not_ approve. Yet once Kate Fairlie and I were
very good friends.”

“Kate is not really a fair test. There are others—”

“I know it. I ought to be ashamed to find any fault. But I hope I never
shall forget how it feels to be crowded out of bright and pleasant
things.”

There was a little stir, and a soft voice called—“Jennie.” Presently
Mrs. Ryder made her appearance, and then the real visiting began. We
chatted about the village people, the sick and the well, the babies and
the old folks, mamma’s visit to New York which was not an old story
here. I could see they too, suspected Stephen Duncan of a penchant for
Fanny.

Jennie walked home with me part of the way for exercise, and we came
back to Richard in our talk. She _did_ love him very much. The money
had not tempted her.

I had a thought that afternoon too. As soon as I was alone with Fan
I put it into execution. First I told her of the engagement, and she
rejoiced as thoroughly as I.

“Fan,” I said, “there is one thing that it would be just lovely to do,
if you could manage it. If Miss Churchill and you could call on Jennie
Ryder, and have it look every-day-like and social.”

“What a bright idea, Rose! Miss Churchill will like her ever so much.
It is odd how many nice things you find in people when you come to know
them well. We will bring the West Side over here and make them admire
us.”




CHAPTER XV.


There was quite a lively time in the parish for a fortnight. Papa had
two marriages in Church, one of which was Annie Fellows and Mr. Hunter.
Then Miss Maynard was married at home in a very exclusive and elegant
manner. Fifty-five dollars for all of it. Wedding fees were mamma’s
money.

“I don’t know as we need spend it just now;” she said, “I think I will
lay it away against time of necessity;” smilingly.

I imagined what that meant. Days and weeks went on so fast.

Then papa’s sister came from Philadelphia to make us a visit; Aunt
Margaret for whom Daisy had been named. She brought with her a piece of
pretty Nainsook muslin and some laces for gifts. There were the three
younger children provided with new summer dresses.

She was sweet and gracious, with that indescribable lady-like charm,
and then she insisted upon helping everywhere. Altering dresses,
dusting rooms, talking to papa or tying up vines and flowers in the
garden—nothing came amiss to her. She petitioned that Daisy should be
lent to her for the remainder of the summer. She had one son at home,
but her two daughters were married and away.

Papa thought at first that it would not be possible to spare her. Mamma
said that she was not prepared for so long a visit.

“Never mind that, Frances,” returned Aunt Margaret, “I will attend to
what is needful. I don’t see how you get along with such a host of
little ones. If Edith had not come—”

“Oh, but Edith is the crown of all;” declared Fan. “She brought rare
good luck with her. So many lovely things have happened to us during
the year. And now we couldn’t spare her.”

Aunt Margaret smiled. “You have been very fortunate in your children,”
she said, glancing at mamma.

Miss Churchill came over with the barouche and took the elders riding.
It was a lovely afternoon late in May, and the whole world was abloom
with beauty and sweetness.

She and Fanny had dropped in one day at Mrs. Ryder’s and had a charming
call. Afterward Fan had whispered the secret.

“The young man is to be congratulated;” declared Miss Churchill. “She
will make a pretty, cheerful wife, and that will be much to a man like
Mr. Fairlie. I am glad he has been so sensible and I must see more of
her before she leaves her old station. My dear, I am afraid I shall
turn into a regular village gossip, I am so fond of young girls and
their affairs.”

It began to be guessed at elsewhere as well, for the two went out
driving now and then of an afternoon.

Allie West and Dora Hyde were over one evening and it happened to be
touched upon.

“I don’t believe there is anything in it;” exclaimed Dora. “Dick
Fairlie will not throw himself away in that style! Why, he could have
the best in the town with that handsome place of his.”

“I am sure Jennie is quite pretty;” said Fan, “and nicely educated.
She reads French and German, is well up in history and house-keeping,
sings beautifully and sews in the same fashion. What better can a man
want?”

“O, you know what I mean! And she is poor.”

“He has enough for both. And the Ryders are a respectable old family.”

“I know she is a favorite of yours,” returned Dora loftily, “but I
never discovered anything special about her. And I do not see how she
can leave her mother, I should think her duty would be there.”

Fan laughed at that.

“I shall not believe it until I hear it from a better source. Some
people make so much out of a trifle of ordinary politeness.”

“Indeed I would not,” Fan continued seriously.

“There, you see Fanny doesn’t believe it;” said Allie West triumphantly.

“As if any one in her senses could!” Dora added.

After they went away Fan sat glancing out of the window thoughtfully.

“I allowed them to think what was not quite true,” she said slowly,
“but I did not want the fact to leak out. Some very smart young woman
might write to Kate and alarm her. It had better go on quietly.”

We missed Daisy ever so much. You would hardly think it among so many.

Then came a letter from Mr. Duncan, stating that he intended to
follow it in time to keep the festival of baby’s christening. There
were some business matters on which he wished to consult papa, and
he was longing for a sight of the household, from least to greatest.
Louis was much better. Mrs. Whitcomb was well and had utterly refused
her first vacation. What did Fanny expect to do in such a case of
insubordination? He was sorry he had proved so attractive, but it was
more his misfortune than his fault, so she must not visit him too
heavily with her displeasure.

We all had a good laugh over it. I arranged the guest-chamber in the
morning, flowers and all, and in the afternoon went cantering round
the parish, as Fan often expressed it. She had been smitten with such
a passion for sewing, and the Churchills took up so much of her time
that I had to visit for both. I was beginning to feel quite grave and
staid with my eighteen and a half years. The fact of Fan’s having a
real lover affected me in a rather curious fashion. It seemed as if the
romance was to begin with her and go down. It shut me out as it were;
but never having counted myself in, I did not feel much disappointed. I
was to be the house-daughter. Already I could see that papa had begun
to depend more upon me. He brought his gloves to be mended, and used to
ask me now and then to find various little matters for him. True, mamma
was much occupied with Edith. I liked the growing nearer though, the
tender confidence and trust.

I could see how it would be. One by one the birdlings would fly out of
the home nest. I was an every-day useful body and would be needed to
help the others, make some ready to go and comfort those who staid.
I didn’t suppose the sweet grace and patience that glorified Miss
Oldway’s face would ever come in mine. It was such a round, funny
little face, and would get so sun-burned in summer. No one could ever
call me fair and dainty.

I laughed over it softly to myself, I was in such a merry mood. In
ten years I should be twenty-eight, getting on the “list” a wee
bit, visiting round the same as usual, carrying broths and jellies,
listening to sorrows and complaints, and by that time, perhaps, a
little better, a little nearer the Great ensample so that I could say
my say without faltering.

My basket was emptied at length. I leaned over the fence awhile and
talked with Mrs. Day, who “could not see why,” about something. Aunt
Letty Perkins came along, puffing and wheezing. She had been confined
to the house a good deal since Christmas, with the asthma, and if it
was not irreverent I should say—“Israel had had peace.”

“All well, I suppose?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I never see such folks. You don’t have a bit of sickness or trouble
like other people!”

“No,” said Mrs. Day, as if she felt personally aggrieved. “I never saw
the match to that baby, and my poor lamb in the church-yard!”

I wanted to reply that it was the care and watchfulness, the love and
tenderness that never tired. We did not suffer real heart-felt trouble,
but there were hard pinches and perplexities, many things given up that
we longed to have, hours of patient industry, self-denial and all that.
Do discontented people ever realize what steady courage and grace it
takes to make many lives look fair and sweet?

“Well, it’s out of its trouble,” pursued Aunt Letty. “You never can
tell what children are coming to. Goin’ to take boarders agen this
summer?”

That last to me. I started and colored at the impertinence. I wanted to
resent it, but I knew that would not help for an example.

“Mr. Duncan is at home and can take care of his brothers;” I replied
quietly.

“Well, they want much addition to the neighborhood. That young one was
a master-hand at mischief. I should have wanted a good deal of money to
pay me.”

“Good-night;” I said rather abruptly, “I must be going.”

“Why don’t you come in? I haven’t seen your ma in an age. Nobody drops
in when I am sick, though if I do say it myself, I’ve always been
neighborly. No one can say I ever went on the other side like the
publican.”

“Indeed they could not,” I thought to myself with a smile.

All this made me later than I expected to be. As I came up the road I
saw Fanny and Mr. Duncan walking slowly to meet me.

Something dreadful flashed into my mind at that moment and made my
face scarlet. I remembered that in my talk with Louis I had spoken of
the probability of Stephen’s marrying Fanny. What if he had repeated
that bit of idle gossip? Stuart would have done so from pure love of
teasing.

“Why, Rose, how you have hurried! You are as red as your reddest
namesake. Do stop and cool off a moment, child!”

That from Fanny did not make me any paler. I felt the contrast very
keenly. She tall and elegant, with her graceful self-possession, and I
such a little budget! I don’t know why I should have cared just at that
moment, but I felt mortified enough to cry.

Mr. Duncan put out his hand. I just touched the tips of his fingers.

“I am glad to see you.” Then he looked me all over with those strange
eyes of his that could be so dark and piercing.

“Isn’t it late?” I asked. “I am sure supper must be ready. Please
excuse me,” and I hurried on.

They turned as well. I rushed up-stairs, bathed my face and gave my
hair a brush. Then I went to the glass a moment to pull it out. No, I
was not a beauty. If Mr. Duncan had _not_ come to-day! He could spend
Sunday without starting as early as Friday afternoon!

When I went down they were all gathered around the table. He glanced up
sharply again, and I was foolish enough to blush.

Not an unnecessary word did I utter. I had a constricted feeling about
my throat and tongue and could not tell what was the matter with me, I
believe I felt cross. I was glad to go to the study afterward and give
papa the messages that had been sent for him.

Nelly called me to see about a skirt she was letting down. Tim and Lily
put themselves to bed now, and I had only to go in and pick up their
clothes. Fanny and Mr. Duncan were singing in the parlor, but I did
not go down until I heard mamma’s voice. They were talking about Mrs.
Whitcomb.

He had found her so admirable. Lady-like and refined, yet not weak;
clear-eyed and resolute, yet without any hardness.

“She is always in bloom, I believe. The winter, and the desert, and the
bare, bristling hill-tops may be a short distance off, but just around
her it is spring.”

    “There everlasting spring abides,
     And never withering flowers;”—

Fan murmured softly.

“That is just it. She has had some troubles, also.”

“Indeed she has,” returned mamma, “Losses, deaths and trials. But now
she has gone out of her own life. Her perceptions are so quick, tender
and unerring. She seems to discern from afar off the needs and wants of
human souls and ministers gently to your own thought, not hers.”

“What is it, Mrs. Endicott?”

Mamma answered with a smile and said it all. She often talked with the
expressions of her face in that sweet instantaneous manner, explaining
a subject better than many words would have done.

“I begin to believe that religion _has_ something in it. There is a
point beyond natural amiability.”

“Have you been doubting?”

He blushed and laughed in an embarrassed, school-boy fashion.

“I don’t know that I have exactly doubted, but I have not believed in
any vital way. Still I considered myself a Christian gentleman until
very recently.”

“And what then?”

“I found myself a proud and honorable gentleman instead, who abhorred
meanness, falsehood, dishonesty and the whole catalogue of those sins
because they were blots and stains, hideous in my sight. I had no
patience with them in that they never tempted me. I liked my life to
be pure and just, but it was for myself alone. I did not think of what
God might require; the higher aim. After all, it is _His_ relation with
every human soul, His holding out the faith and love and atonement to
us, made for us so long ago in His great wisdom, and which is for us
whether we take it or not. But we want to try _our_ wisdom first.”

“That leads to the trouble and the clashing. We so often set up our
own will and when we are buffeted about take it as a sort of direct
martyrdom, when it is only a natural result of an ordinary cause. We
sometimes cry out—‘Why has God sent this upon me?’ when we bring the
trials upon ourselves.”

“Yes. Then we have to go back. We find the plans and specifications and
the materials all right, left on the highway, while we used stones and
timber of our own, changed the plan according to our liking. We have
to take out a good deal of work in this life.”

“And we learn by degrees to be careful, to come to Him, to ask first of
all—‘Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?’”

“And learning to follow it, is the great lesson.”

He turned his head a trifle and lapsed into deep thought. Fan glanced
over at me in a peculiar manner as if she triumphed in what he said,
and it was only proving a well established point. She puzzled me.
Why, when she liked him so well herself, was there not the deeper and
farther-reaching sympathy of love? He was really nobler than Winthrop
Ogden.

We did not have any confidence until late Saturday afternoon. Fan was
writing a letter in her room and mamma had gone to visit some sick
people. I had Edith fenced off in a corner of the porch and was amusing
her while I sewed a little.

He came and studied me curiously. That was what I did not like. If I
had been as pretty as Fan, or if my hair were any other color!

“You have not asked me a word about your friend. Have you lost interest
in him now that he is delivered over to my keeping?”

I understood whom he meant.

“Why, we have all talked—I have heard—” and I paused in surprise, for a
tiny frown came in his brow.

“But the work was so much yours.”

“You exaggerate it, Mr. Duncan.”

I might have spoken coldly. Somehow I could not let myself be praised
in his words, and with his eyes upon me.

“Are you so used to good deeds that you consider this nothing?”

I flushed and felt a lump rising in my throat.

“I would have done it for any one.”

“I believe you, Miss Endicott. Louis is not so admirable that he should
be singled out.”

“He is—you don’t do him justice;” I said almost ready to cry.

“I did _not_ I will admit, but I am trying to now. Will you not accept
my penitence and my sincere desire to be tender as well as just?”

“I know you mean to do the very best. I think you will.”

“Thank you. I am afraid you consider us all rather heathenish. I have
only recently come to understand the full duty that I owe my brothers.
I had left them in my uncle’s hands, quite satisfied, and believing
that boys came up, somehow. _I_ had no great trouble.”

“Because you were stronger. And Louis’ health and temperament are so
different.”

“I have learned that I could not make him come to me, so I have gone to
him.”

“He did come—”

“Yes; that was not the point I referred to, however. It is in the
matter of confidence. He is so very reserved, so sensitive, so
_touchy_, to use a common phrase. At a word he draws into his shell and
keeps silence.”

“I found that out last summer,” I said with a smile.

“How did you manage?”

“I don’t know,” I answered looking over at the distant hills. “It just
came, I think. When he wouldn’t talk on any subject I let it drop.”

“Ah, wise little one, there may be a secret, in that. I fancy that I
have a failing in my desire to convince people. I want them to see the
right.”

“It is easier seen than confessed, sometimes.”

“True. And Louis has a giant of pride. If he is hurt he will not stop
to explain. If you misunderstand, he will not set you right. You have
to grope your way along in perplexity. Yet I think we are coming a
little nearer to each other, through you.”

“And Mrs. Whitcomb. She has a way of uniting people, of healing
differences.”

“I am doubly fortunate in having her. Otherwise I must have
borrowed—your mother.”

I smiled a little at this. It made me think of the Churchills borrowing
Fan. Isn’t it so the world over? The sweetness and brightness of other
lives comes into ours, sometimes the darkness and sorrow. We rarely
stand alone.

“I believe I like frank, open natures the best;” he went on. “And
cheerfulness. A great outgiving like the world and the sunshine.”

“But when one has been in a cave a long while the light dazzles. Some
people do not want to take in but a little at a time, and perhaps we
hurt them by thrusting so much into their very souls.”

“Yes,” he answered, “When a man is starving you do not feast him at
once. I must remember that.”

Edith began to worry. I took her up in my arms and hushed her softly.

Mr. Duncan was not looking at me, but a strange, tender light came
into his face, a half smile that brought the dawn to my mind by way of
comparison. He seemed to pay no attention to me for many minutes, but
just to be occupied with his own reflections. I rose to take Edith in,
as she evinced unmistakable symptoms of hunger.

He put his arm over her and partly over my shoulder.

“I cannot let you go without an acknowledgement,” he began hurriedly.
“I should like to tell you _just_ how Louis came back. There was a
manliness in his penitence that has given me a great deal of hope.
Yet I know that he did not come out of actual love for me. If we ever
_could_ reach that state, but I must wait patiently. I have thought
so little of him all these years, except to look after his personal
comfort, that I must not complain if I reap weeds instead of flowers.
You were brave and strong in your advice to him, and God above knows
how deeply and sincerely I thank you. Your note to me was wisdom
itself. Only—”

There was a peculiar wistfulness in his face that somehow gave him a
little look of Louis.

“Only what?” If there was any fault to find let us have it out now.

“If you _could_ have trusted me unreservedly. Do you think I am so very
stern and rigid and unforgiving?”

“I was afraid you might—I did not know—” and I stopped, distressed and
blushing.

“Will you have a little more faith in me?”

He uttered the words slowly.

“I know you desire to do what is best.”

He looked a trifle disappointed, I thought, but I went in with Edith
and left him standing there.

After all I had not done anything very wonderful that there should be
such a fuss and thanks and all that bother. It annoyed me. I could not
carry triumphs gracefully as Fan did, sit in the centre and have an
admiring audience around me.

One part of the visit proved an unalloyed delight, and that was papa’s
enjoyment of it. He and Mr. Duncan fitted, if you can understand the
term. It was almost like father and son. Plans were talked over, the
boys’ future discussed, and in Stephen’s newer experience there was
a great charm. Like the young man who came to Christ, he had kept
the commandments from his youth up, he had been truth and integrity
itself, but the one greater thing had come to him now. It crowned
his manliness. He did not speak of it in a shame-faced way, as if it
was something to be kept on one side of his life and rather in the
background, but he set it in the very midst. A rare, almost boyish
humility was discernable in his conversations with papa. I liked so
much better to listen than to have him talk to me.

“I am afraid I shall grow proud in my old days,” said papa a few
evenings afterward. “Such first fruits as Mr. Duncan and Miss Churchill
seem a whole harvest. I shall never be discouraged again.”

Indeed, Miss Churchill had become the Lady Bountiful of the parish. I
do not mean simply among the poor. The rich need the gospel of charity
and loving kindness as well. They were meeting together, being incited
to good works, losing the narrow feelings and prejudices.

Fan and I had a lovely episode this summer. Just at the beginning
of the hot weather Miss Lucy had a spell of feeling very weak and
miserable.

“She must have a change,” declared good old Doctor Hawley. “She has
been among the mountains so long that she has worn them out. Take her
away to the sea-side.”

“I can’t go,” said Miss Lucy in faint protest. “I do not like strange
faces nor places, and the worry and bustle will consume what little
strength I have.”

“You will wear out this old strength and get some new. You are tired
to death of this, though you are so set in your way that you will not
confess it. I know what is best for you! Miss Esther, if you want to
keep Christmas with her, take her away now.”

Then he thumped his cane resolutely on the floor, a way he had when he
was very much in earnest.

When it came to that something must be done.

They talked it over—Miss Churchill and her brother, then Miss Churchill
and mamma. And this came out of it all, as if we were to be in the
midst of everything.

They would go to Martha’s Vineyard. In earlier years they had spent
whole summers there. And she and Miss Lucy wanted us. We had seen so
little outside of our own home, that the change would do us good. There
was the great sea, the islands all about, and a new world, so to speak.

“I don’t know how to get both of them ready,” mamma exclaimed in a
hopeless puzzle.

“You are thinking of the dresses—but we are not going to be
fashionable. Some nice light worsted goods for traveling, and beyond
that there is nothing as pretty as white. We shall have a cottage to
ourselves and our meals sent in. Then I intend to take Martha, who is
an excellent laundress, so the dresses will be no trouble. Kenton is
counting on the pleasure, and you must not refuse.”

“It is a great—favor,” said mamma timidly.

“I don’t want you to think of it in that light. Kenton and I are
getting along in years, and Lucy will not last forever. We might as
well take and give a little pleasure. It is just as if a sister asked
you.”

And it actually came about. We had new gray dresses trimmed with bands
of pongee; Fan’s a shade lighter and mine two or three shades darker
than the material. When they were all finished they had cost but
twenty-three dollars. Our spring straw hats were retrimmed, our gloves
and ribbons and boots looked over.

“One trunk will hold our modest wardrobe,” declared Fan. “I often think
of the Vicar of Wakefield and the many devices the girls resorted to.
It is rather funny to be poor, after all! You are not so much worried
and fidgeted and dissatisfied. You take the best you can get, and
you _know_ you cannot do any better. So you enjoy the tour or the
journey or whatever it is, because you are altogether outside of your
troublesome self.”

“But you will be—very well off—some day,” I said with bashful
hesitation.

“I don’t think of that, any more. Until the very day of my marriage
my life is _here_. What papa can give me will always be infinitely
precious to me. We will have all the happiness out of our poverty that
we can.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And I know just how Miss Churchill is giving us this. So far as
the money goes she will never feel it. We will afford her pleasure,
satisfaction and delight in return, which will make it quite an even
thing.”

We remained three weeks and it was enchanting. The great ocean with its
ceaseless surges and swells, its floods of molten gold at sunset, the
showers and one tremendous storm, the walks and rides on the sands, the
short sails hither and thither, the quaint cottages, the strange people
from almost everywhere, some of whom we soon became acquainted with,
the newness and the variety was splendid! We enjoyed every moment.
Sometimes I felt quite wild indeed, as if I could race along the sea
sands and shout with the wildest of the birds.

The last week was the crowning point. Winthrop came and Miss Churchill
took us to Newport for one night and two days. There was elegance and
fashion at the hotel to be sure, but Fan in her pretty white over-dress
and the bloom of her fresh, sweet youth, attracted many a glance of
admiration on the one side, and almost envy from some of the worn and
faded women. It was a bit of Arabian Nights’ Entertainment brought into
our own lives.

Miss Lucy did improve ever so much. She could not bathe to be sure, but
the pungent air revived and strengthened her. We were all so bright and
happy, so full of fun and whims and oddities. There is a fascinating
queerness about almost every person when the true self comes out and
you forget that any one is watching you.

It was so delightful that we came home with almost a sigh, until we
reached the familiar places. It was the first time that we had ever
been so long away from mamma, and when we thought of that our hearts
were full to overflowing.

There was Mrs. Whitcomb in the midst helping to keep house, filling up
our vacant places.

“You need not think you are the only ones who can have a holiday!” she
exclaimed laughingly.

Oh, the blessedness of being right among the accustomed faces, to be
kissed and kissed again, to be pulled about hither and yon, to be shown
this and that, “which was not so when you went away;” the atmosphere of
home-living and thinking, which is so different from railroad cars and
hotels, or even other people’s cottages.

“But the sea still sings in my ears,” I said to Fan as I laid my head
on my pillow.

“And to-morrow morning it will be robins or swallows ‘twittering’ under
the eaves. What a great, grand thing it is to live and be happy! Rose,
if people could realize the satisfying joy they put in the lives of
others when they share their pleasures I think the whole world would
go at it. It would be giving and receiving all round the wide earth.”

Are we thankful enough for happiness, I wonder? For that is something
a little apart from life, one of the things not surely promised, like
the peace of God. Should there not be a special thanksgiving for
every blessed day, for the breath of fragrance, the pleasantness of
sunshine, and the subtle essence of delight that wafts itself across
our sky—tender human love?




CHAPTER XVI.


Stephen Duncan had taken the boys West, and would be gone a month or
more. They had grown so much, Mrs. Whitcomb said, and were almost men.

“Which do _you_ like best?” asked Fan.

“I think Louis will make the nobler character. Stuart would rather
take life just as it is, picking out the best for himself, to be sure,
and not minding much what scraps fall to other people. He may feed the
hungry after he is satisfied, he never will before.”

“Everybody likes him,” I replied.

“Yes. He is fascinating.”

“And you don’t need real virtues to be fascinated with,” I said rather
blunderingly, the thought being more than the sentence.

“No, only outside pleasantnesses. That is, they answer. Sometimes
when you are down deep in the heart of things, you cannot take quite
so much pains with the finishing. Not but what I consider finishing
a great deal. Clean paths beautify a garden so much, but I have seen
people just hoe off the tops and sprinkle gravel or sand over them. The
weeds spring up after a rain.”

“Has not Louis the outside and inside faults as well?” asked Fan.

“Yes. Only his weeds are seldom covered up. Some folks never can cover
up anything. He cannot be good outside until he has killed the weeds
inside. Stuart may be fair all his life without any fighting.”

“He _is_ good-tempered;” I subjoined.

“He has a pleasant, sunny temper, perfect health, and no nerves to
speak of. It is no effort for him to be jolly. He is gentlemanly
by instinct, he likes to be in the centre, shooting rays in every
direction. Is it wonderful if somebody comes within their radius? The
somebody may think this particular brightness is meant for him, but in
an instant Stuart may wheel round and leave this very person in the
dark.”

“I am glad you have some hope of Louis;” I said.

She seemed to study Fan, the great column of wisteria and me, all at
the same moment.

“There are some special providences in this world, I do believe,” she
began. “Mr. Duncan’s coming here was one, and your taking the boys
another.”

“Which we should not have done if we had _not_ been very poor,” said
Fan with an odd pucker in her face.

“Well, we will give poverty the credit. Mr. Duncan’s visit here taught
him some new ideas of duty. Not but what he would have been a just,
even a kind brother in any event. But relationship counts for so little
now-a-days. Very few people expect to be their brothers’ keepers. They
are willing to do grand things for others, for the heathen, for some
great accident that stirs up the sympathy of the whole world, but the
common every day duties are tiresome.”

“They are,” said Fan. “It may be heterodox, but it is true all the
same.”

“That is just it,” and Mrs. Whitcomb gave her sweet, tender smile that
was worth a week of June sunshine. “God knew how tiresome they would
be, or he would not have given such continual lessons of patience and
love, of working and waiting. Think of the mustard seed and the corn,
and the candle; the piece of money and the one lost sheep. It is nearly
all little things. And when He saith—‘If a man love not his brother
whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath _not_ seen.’ It is
the home love that is going to save the world. Stephen saw it here, and
it roused his dormant affection.”

“You see it would not do for us to quarrel,” said Fan drolly. “We
are packed in like peas in a pod, or birds in a nest, or bricks in a
sidewalk. There isn’t any room.”

“I am glad you have learned that. I think too, it is the lesson you are
all to teach the world.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Fan with a blush of real humility.

“We must be poor and barren indeed, if we do not teach something.
And the influence last summer did a great deal for Louis. It was the
beginning of his salvation. It was the beginning of Stephen’s higher
life, also. Before that he would have saved his brothers for pride’s
sake, now he will endeavor to do it for God’s sake, because he has been
redeemed in the love, as well.”

“It is sermons in everything,” said Fanny.

“Mrs. Whitcomb,” I began presently, “do you know anything about—Louis
when he came home?” Somehow I could never have asked Stephen, much as I
wanted to know.

“It was late in the afternoon, just growing dusky. I did not know him
when he asked for Mr. Duncan, but before I had crossed the hall I
guessed, so I took him to the library, and summoned Stephen from his
room up stairs. They talked for a long while and then Stephen asked
that tea might be brought to them. Louis lay on the sofa while I spread
the little table. I could hear the sound of tears in Stephen’s voice
at every word he spoke. At nine, perhaps, he took Louis up to the
chamber that had been prepared for him. When he came down I was busy
putting the library in order. I just asked—‘Is it all right?’ and he
answered—‘It is the beginning of right.’ And then he added—shall I tell
you Rose?—‘I think Louis and I will owe something of what is best in
our lives to Rose Endicott!’”

“I wish they wouldn’t;” I cried in distress. “But it _is_ all made up
between them?”

“Yes, in a better manner than if the trouble had not happened. Out of
it all they have learned to love each other. Louis has a great, shy,
morbid, hungry heart, and a most unfortunate temper.”

“And we are as poor as church mice, and angelic;” said Fan in her
gayest mood. “After all, the gifts and graces are pretty fairly
distributed.”

We went into supper and had other topics of conversation. One of the
most important was sending papa away for a little vacation. When Mr.
Churchill heard of that he held up both hands, and they were not empty.
Papa must stay over one Sunday and he would see about a clergyman. It
was very odd to be without a head to our household that length of time.
He went to Long Island, to Cape May and Philadelphia, bringing Daisy
home with him.

In the meanwhile Fan and I were in the midst of a small excitement.
Jennie Ryder was to be married and wanted us both for bridesmaids,
“that is,” she said—“I want you, and Richard wants Fan. And I don’t
wish you to make a bit of fuss. I am going to be married in church at
eight in the morning, in white organdie, because Richard loves white so
much. Otherwise I should take my traveling dress. We do not intend to
send out any invitations, and you must be simple, so as not to outshine
me.”

“I am glad you have instructed us. We _might_ have rushed into some
extravagance. May we have our white gowns done up fresh, please?” asked
Fan comically.

Jennie laughed. She was very happy, one could see that. A connection
had come to stay with Mrs. Ryder while Jennie was away, for Richard had
insisted upon Niagara and the Canadas. Afterward they were to move into
the great house.

Papa came home on Saturday night, looking brown and bright and rested.
On Tuesday morning Jennie was married. Winthrop came to stand with Fan,
I think he would not have trusted any one else. He was troubled with an
insane belief that every body wanted Fan, “which is _werry_ flattering
on his part,” said Fan, “considering that the only other lover I ever
had has gone off and married some one else, never breaking his heart a
bit!”

“Would you have had him, Fanny?”

“No, little goosie! And he has the best wife that he could have found
in the wide world.”

The fact had been noised abroad, and the marriage was quite largely
attended. It provoked various comments. I think there were some who did
envy Jennie Ryder her good fortune, and many who rejoiced in it. Still
there was a feeling that Richard’s mother would not quite approve. He
had written to her and Kate, not giving them time to answer by the
marriage date.

I felt my own heart beat as I stood there so still and solemn. There
was a great awe in going out of the old life and putting on the new,
belonging to yourself one moment, and the next having the sense of
ownership irrevocably taken away. I shivered a little wondering how any
one could be glad to do it. Some day Fan would stand there, and I would
feel her gone out of my life.

Then Mrs. Whitcomb had to return to get the house in order. Louis
expected to enter Columbia College. Stephen thought it better on
account of his health, and the home influence. Stuart would be away
another year.

Enclosed in her letter was a note to mamma. Would it be agreeable for
Louis to spend a week or ten days with us? He was very anxious so to
do.

“Of course,” answered mamma.

Indeed we were pleased with the opportunity of seeing him. Somehow he
had become quite a hero in our eyes.

I really do not think I should have known him elsewhere. I was up in my
room sitting on the low window-sill in the breeze, reading a magazine.
The blinds were tied a little apart, bowed, and as I heard the gate
click I looked down. He was nearly as tall as Stephen, and though
slender had filled out to a certain manly roundness. He nodded to some
one, threw back his head and laughed, and he was positively handsome.
His complexion was dark but no longer sallow, it had the bronze tint of
exposure and a healthful red in the cheeks. His black hair was cropped
pretty close, but it showed his broad forehead, and there was a tiny
line of dark moustache that contrasted with the fresh scarlet of his
lips.

I ran down. Mamma and Edith were on the porch. I do really believe that
mamma had been kissing him, at all events his face was flushed and his
eyes had a soft, dewy look.

“You are the same, you haven’t altered a bit! It was so good of you to
let me come.”

“Why, we wanted to see you,” replied mamma.

He was still holding my hands, and I could not help blushing under his
steady gaze.

“But you have grown and changed out of all reason.”

“Minnesota did that! For the first time in my life I am not absolutely
scrawny! We had such a splendid tour! Stephen was just royal, as much
of a boy as either of us. We have climbed mountains, camped out, hunted
and fished and everything! I did not want to come back.”

“I am glad to see you so much improved,” and mamma glanced him over
with a sort of motherly pride.

He sat down on the step at her feet, and began to play with Edith who
affected baby shyness. We did not have him long to ourselves though,
for Nelly came and in a moment or two the children. They were all
surprised.

I watched him as he talked. He was so much more fluent and
self-possessed. It was not Stuart’s brightness, but more like Stephen’s
reliance, and a peculiar command of self, an earnestness that sat well
upon him.

“You cannot think how I wanted to see this place once more. How good
you were to me when I lay sick up-stairs. Miss Rose, do you remember
getting me some honeysuckle blooms one afternoon? I shall always
associate them with you. I shall be glad to the latest day of my life
that Stephen sent me here, though I made a desperate fight to go to
Lake George with some school-fellows.”

“It was fortunate that you did not, for you would have been ill in any
event,” answered mamma quietly.

“Yes. How is—everybody? And that Mr. Fairlie is married? Does Miss
Churchill come as she used?”

She was still among our best friends, we told him. Fanny was there
spending the day.

Presently papa returned and he was full of joy at the improvement. Why,
it was almost like having a boy of one’s very own! I would not have
believed that he could be so agreeable if I had not seen it, or else I
wondered if we had not made a mistake last summer.

There was supper and music after that, and Fan’s return, and the next
day papa invited him to go over the river with him, as he had a horse
and wagon. Consequently I saw nothing of him until evening. Mamma asked
me to take some grapes to a sick parishioner.

“Allow me to accompany you;” he said, getting his hat.

It was very foolish but I could not help the color coming into my face
as we walked down the path. He had such a grown-up, gentlemanly air; he
opened the gate and closed it again, and took the outside of the walk
and glanced at me in a kind of protecting fashion.

“Do you know that you are very little?” he began presently.

“Fully five feet.”

“But then I am getting to be such a great fellow!”

I looked at him and laughed.

“What now?” and he colored suddenly.

“I was thinking—of something so absurd! Fan used to accuse me of
preaching—”

“And very good sermons they were. I may want you to preach again.”

“I should be afraid,” glancing up at him.

He laughed then. After a moment or two another expression crossed his
face, and it grew more and more serious.

“I believe the sermons saved me. There was a time when I should have
hated to own such a thing—and from a woman, too; so you may know how I
have conquered myself.”

“The best of all victories.”

“Looking back at myself I wonder how you tolerated me last summer. I
was ill and nervous to the last degree, but I had a frightful temper. I
was proud and sullen, and—ungrateful.”

“Not always that.”

“I think I hated almost everybody. I did not want to be governed or
counseled. And Stephen was so—rigid and prompt. He treated me like a
little boy—”

“Oh, hush!” I interrupted.

“Some of it is true. He admits it. And when that awful affair happened
I expected he would disown me. He is so proud, then he never did
anything bad in all his life. So I felt that I had no mercy to expect
from him.”

“But you were mistaken,” I said eagerly.

“I couldn’t have gone there and in that way but for you. Perhaps he has
told you—” and his eyes questioned mine.

“No,” I answered, glad that we had not discussed it.

“I went to him. I believe it was the first manly step of my life. But,
oh, I felt so forlorn and miserable—I can’t tell you! If he had been
cold and cross I believe I should have gone and thrown myself in the
river.”

“He was not.”

“Oh, Rose, it was like the story of the prodigal son. ‘Fell upon his
neck and kissed him.’ I remember his kissing me the day father was
buried, and I do not believe any one ever did since till then. It
melted all my soul. Somehow I think he is wonderfully changed. His
goodness is so tender.”

“And you love him?”

“Love isn’t any word. I absolutely adore him! I did not think it was in
me, or in him. And all through the weeks that followed, for I was very
ill and miserable, he was so good. I never talked to any one before,
except you, somehow I could not. But he found his way to my heart and
said he would help me, that we would both try together, for he had many
faults to correct, that God had given us the tie of brotherhood for a
high and holy purpose, that we were to help and strengthen each other;
as if, Rose—as if I _could_ do anything for him!”

“Yes, you can,” I replied. “You can keep him tender and cordial and
brotherly.”

“So he said. We did not come to this all at once, and Mrs. Whitcomb’s
cheerfulness helped. I had to try hard to be patient. I was so used
to flying out at everything. You see, at uncle’s they all knew that I
had a bad temper, they expected me to explode or sulk on the slightest
provocation, and only laughed or tormented me. If I had been taught to
control myself, it would never have been so dreadful.”

“It is good to have the lesson learned now.”

“I never can forget it, never! I am not an angel yet, Rose, cherubim or
seraphim, I suppose Miss Fanny would say;” and he smiled oddly, “but
I _am_ trying. I do not disdain the helps as I used to. I do not feel
that patience and self-control are exclusively girlish virtues.”

“No,” I returned, “we girls will not rob you of them.”

“You are generous. But then you always were. I am beginning to learn
that the grand corner-stones for the human soul are truth and love, the
truth that leads us to be fair and just to others, and the love to our
neighbor.”

“Here we are,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”

He followed me and we did our errand.

“I could not understand last summer why you loved to do these things;”
he began when we were homeward-bound.

“You considered it an evidence of a depraved taste?”

He smiled rather sadly.

“I supposed people consulted their _own_ pleasure first. Doing any
rather distasteful deed and hunting around until you found a bright
side to it was like so much Sanscrit to me.”

“He came not to please—Himself;” I said solemnly.

“I understand a little now. Yet when He had redeemed the world there
must have been a great joy in His own mind, as well as in heaven.”

“We cannot do anything like that,” I said. “But as He loved us, so we
are to love the brethren, the whole world.”

“To be willing to do for them. To seek not our own pleasure altogether.
It is very hard, Rose, and sometimes I get discouraged. Then Stephen
tells me of his failures. It doesn’t go on continually. It is a little
doing all the time, work and healing, and he says it will have to be so
in this world.”

“Yes,” I answered. “We cannot hinder nor change. God sets the work
before us, and though the pleasant fields are all about us, we have no
right to choose our own paths. He knows best in what ways He wants us
to walk.”

“I talked to your father yesterday. I did not think I could talk to
anybody but you and Stephen. I was sorry for all the pain and anxiety I
had caused him—and—it was almost like having a father of one’s own. I
don’t wonder that you all have such sweet pleasant natures.”

We met Lily and Tim taking a walk, their hands full of grasses and wild
flowers, so we turned them about and all went home together.

The visit proved a very delightful one. We went to the Cascade one day,
taking a lunch with us, and on another day the Churchills sent their
family carriage over and we had a royal time, crowding it full, and
taking turns in driving.

We all noticed the great change in Louis. Not that he was perfect or
saintly. In fact I think he was more of a boy, when it came to that,
than the summer before. He still had a dangerous tendency to quickness
of temper, sometimes he would flush deeply when annoyed, but he always
spoke afterward in a low, even tone of voice, as if he had gained
the mastery within. His feelings were more healthy-toned, he had a
heartsomeness that was genuine. You never mistrusted it as you did
Stuart’s.

We ended the festivities with a croquet and tea-party on Saturday
afternoon, asking in a half dozen young people who all enjoyed
themselves amazingly. To the surprise of everybody, right in the midst
of the gayety who should drop down upon us but Stephen Duncan.

“I was homesick to see you all,” he began, with a comically lugubrious
face.

“If you think you are going to be purely ornamental you are much
mistaken;” declared Fanny. “Here is a mallet and here is a place.”

“If you will excuse me—”

“But I will not. No running away to the study to talk with papa, or to
play with Edith. If you will come uninvited to a party you must take
the consequences.”

“Can I not soften your heart, if like the old man I should ‘sit on the
stile and continue to smile?’”

“Not any smiles. I am obdurate.”

He pretended to be much aggrieved, but in reality he was very gay. I
had never seen him so amusing and entertaining.

“I don’t see how you get acquainted with such loads of nice people;”
said Allie West. “And you always have such good times here.”

The good times came without any trying. There are numberless gates
called Beautiful all along life, at which you give such as you have,
and find it more precious than silver or gold.

It was a lovely moonlight night, so after supper we walked part of the
way with the merry crowd. It did not seem to me that I had ever been
so happy in my life. I could not tell why but I felt as if I must have
wings somewhere that were lifting me off the ground at every step.

We rambled around under the trees and by the way side. Louis came back
to my vicinity and we fell into a rather grave talk about the future.

“I never thought I should _want_ to stay here so much,” he said. “I was
glad enough to get away last summer. I cannot forgive myself for being
such a boor! Now I shall want to come again and again.”

“Well why not?” I returned.

“I am afraid you will become tired of me.”

“Try us and see. We are not easily wearied.”

“You are all so generous with yourselves.”

I smiled a little. “Why not give of your best?”

“True.” Then there was a silence. We reached the gate presently. “Do
not go in just yet;” he pleaded, so we remained in the silvery light
that was flooding the whole earth. Moonlight always stirs the tender
and thoughtful side of one’s soul.

“I am glad that to-morrow will be Sunday. I can just think how I shall
enjoy going to church and hearing your father preach.”

This from him who had despised religion and sneered at sermons. It did
startle me.

“And to have Stephen here.”

“I am rejoiced that you feel so kindly toward one another,” I replied.
“You are getting to be brothers indeed.”

“And then will come weeks and weeks of study,” he went on in a musing
tone. “I like it. Books seem to me—well, better than some people.
Only—if you could all come down in the winter. Stephen and Mrs.
Whitcomb were planning for it, but there! it was a secret and I have
betrayed it.”

“I can keep secrets;” and I smiled up into his remorseful face.

“Yes; I have proved that. Rose”—after a pause—“I have half a mind to
tell you another, to ask some—advice; at least, I would like to know
how it appears to you.”

“Will it be of any real avail?” I asked, noting the perplexed lines
on his countenance. “I am not as wise as you think. Because I just
happened to stumble into one matter without making a mess of it—”

“This is only an idea. I cannot ask Stephen. I think it would please
him and he might judge wrongfully.”

“If I _can_ help you;” I replied encouragingly.

“It is about the future. It may never come to anything to be sure, and
perhaps I never _can_ be good enough. Stuart will go into business. He
does not love study and he needs an active life. He wanted Stephen to
put him in a store this Autumn. But I—”

I knew then what he meant. Somehow I could not help laying my hand on
his arm with a touch of confidence.

“Whether I ever _could_ so govern my temper and my impatient desires;”
bowing his head humbly. “But if I had some guard about me, if I felt
that I _must_ try continually—would it be wrong to think of it?”

“Surely not;” I returned warmly. “Nor to do it if God gives the
strength and the grace.”

“I like to think of that grand, earnest Saint Paul, with his ‘thorn in
the flesh.’ Perhaps it was some giant temper or desire. I fancy it must
have been, for you know how he persecuted the Christians unto death.
And though God would not take it away, there was the promise of His
grace being sufficient.”

“As it is, always.”

“There are some years to live before I decide positively. But if they
were spent in a worthy manner, and I mean them to be, with God’s help.”

“Oh, you could, surely. And papa would be your best friend;” I rejoined
eagerly.

“Keep my secret—I have your promise,” he said in a hurried manner, for
a step sounded on the walk.

“It is sacred to me until you wish to take others into your confidence.”

Stephen spoke and we turned, walking slowly up to the house. Louis
sat down on the step beside papa. I stood undecided whether to go in
or not, when Stephen took my arm and drew me around the corner of the
porch. There was a long grape arbor whose gloom was made a pleasant
twilight by the silver sifted through the openings between the leaves,
and we took a turn up and down.

“I want to tell you,” he began almost abruptly, and his voice had a
hard, strained sound, “that I heard—the last of what you said. I could
not help it. And I know your secret.”

I was a trifle annoyed, but I controlled myself.

“Oh,” I said, “then you will be tender and helpful and do all in your
power to strengthen Louis. He feels so humble. I would hardly have
thought it of him. And there are so few young men who have any desire
to take such a life upon them. With his means and his talents he can do
so much good.”

He stopped suddenly. “Rose, what are you talking about?” he asked. “Did
not Louis—”

“He confessed to me his desire—no, it was hardly that, as he is afraid
he can never be good enough for a clergyman. But you _will_ assist
him—you do not disapprove of it?”

“Louis! Ah, I understand. It would be the delight of my heart. But I
thought—I knew he liked you so much. Oh, my little darling!”

He turned and gathered me in his arms. My heart beat and my cheeks were
in a blaze as the whole story came to me, dazing me with its strange,
sweet suddenness. I believe I cried and then I laughed hysterically,
but somehow the cool, steady voice quieted me and made me feel the
truth and earnestness of what he was saying, so presently I grew still
with a great awe.

“You will come,” he was saying. “We both need you. We want just this
steady, cheerful, loving influence. I think I have a tendency to be
impatient when people cannot see my ways, perhaps requiring a little
too much, and your sweetness will temper this. Then we can both help
him.”

Could I? How strange that any one should care for me alone. Not for
mamma, or Fanny, but to want _me_!

“Mr. Duncan,” I began as we were going back to the porch—“have you
forgotten that my hair is—red?”

“Well, what of that?” in a gay tone.

“I do not believe you—like it.”

“You foolish little girl, set your heart at rest. Do you remember when
I came upon you suddenly last summer? You were standing on the porch
in a tiny glint of sunshine, and looked like some of the old pictures!
Why, I believe it _was_ your hair that I fell in love with first of
all.”

“I am glad it was, for I am not half as good as you imagine I am.”

“Children,” mamma said, standing on the porch step. “Do you realize how
late it is?”

I felt that she knew all, perhaps had known it long before, indeed. But
I was glad that the knowledge had come to me so suddenly, and not any
sooner. Even now I was half afraid of it. Her kiss and tender clasp
re-assured me.

“Mother!” Stephen Duncan said with reverent sweetness.




CHAPTER XVII.


I wished there could be no such thing as breakfast the next morning,
but there was, and I had to go through with it, feeling that I was
no longer I, that Rosalind Endicott was some dream-girl of the past.
Stephen was very good and did not notice me much, and Fan appeared
wonderfully pre-occupied. Mamma helped me over the trying places, and
papa just said with his tender morning kiss,—“And this little girl,
too.”

When I was all dressed for church I opened a little drawer to get my
gloves. There lay the box containing Stephen’s gift. I had never worn
it, but it seemed to me as if I ought to put it on now. He liked me and
the misunderstandings were at an end. I had accepted a share of his
burthens, his crosses, whatever they might be, so I clasped it around
my neck. It was so beautiful. I did not envy the queen her diadem.

We walked to church together. Louis glanced back now and then. I
believe he began to suspect.

It was quite different from the Sunday when I had gone to church with
that strange sense of Fan’s new love. I felt quiet and restful, yet it
was such a great thing to have another’s heart in one’s keeping, to
take in a new life beside the old.

They both left us on Monday. Stephen was to come up soon again. In the
meanwhile, letters.

“I have one of yours to begin with,” he whispered.

It was a silent day for us. No one appeared to care about talking, yet
we were not gloomy. Indeed, I think mother, Fan and I understood as we
never had before, how much we loved one another.

I went on wearing my cross. In the first letter there came a pearl
ring for me. Fan had a handsome diamond but she seldom wore it except
when she was going to the Churchills. I slipped mine on my finger with
a slight presentiment that I should turn the pearl inside if any one
looked at me.

Richard Fairlie and Jennie came home bright and happy as birds. They
took possession of the great house, altered a little, re-arranged to
their liking and had Mrs. Ryder in their midst. There was no grand
party, but some pleasant tea-drinkings and hosts of calls. No one could
afford to slight Mrs. Fairlie, and people began to realize what a noble
girl Jennie Ryder had always been.

I am almost ashamed to confess how much talking it took to settle our
affairs. Stephen wanted to be married in the Spring. That was too soon,
mamma and I thought. But there were so many good reasons.

Miss Churchill heard of it presently and came over to have a
consultation with mamma.

“It will have to be sometime,” she said. “It will make a little
confusion, a break, and no end of strangeness in adapting yourselves to
the new order. But here are Nellie and Daisy right behind.”

“I don’t want to lose all my girls in this fashion,” said mamma.

Miss Churchill smiled and then admitted that _she_ had a plan to
propose.

They wanted Fanny. The murder was out then.

“Kenton and I have discussed the matter a good while. Winthrop will
have the farm when we are done with it—he is the only nephew. Kenton
has been sorry for some years that we did not take him when his father
died. He is very fond of country life, and surely there are enough to
toil and moil in the cities. Then, although Lucy was improved by her
summer trip, we can understand that it is _not_ permanent. She wears
out slowly. I should like her to have a happy year or two with Fanny,
and I should like the marriage well out of the way of any sad memories.”

“You are very thoughtful,” returned mamma.

“And it will hardly be like parting with Fanny, for you—as you can see
her every day. One thing and another has brought us so near together.
Kenton and I are growing old and the presence of these young people
will keep us from getting too queer and whimsical.”

It was settled some time in January.

“We shall have to do the best we can,” said mamma. “The wardrobes must
be simple. It is _our_ station that they go out of, and we never have
been ashamed of our poverty.”

“What does a few clothes signify,” commented papa. “If the young men
are not satisfied we will give them a double portion of dry-goods and
keep our girls.”

Fan laughed over the idea.

So it was arranged that she and Fanny should go to New York. I did not
desire to accompany them, and I was sure they could choose as well for
me as if I hunted the whole town over. Besides, I wanted the nice quiet
time with papa, since I was the one who would have to go away.

“Isn’t it funny!” said Fan. “I feel like the heroine of some hundred
year old novel, going up to town to buy wedding clothes, instead of a
girl of the period of puffs, paniers, chignons, Grecian bends, and all
that! Why Rose, think of it! We have never had a silk dress in all our
lives, except that once we had one ruffled with an old one of mamma’s;
and we have been very tolerably happy.”

“Yes, just as happy as one need be. All that could be crowded into our
small lives.”

“I dare say we should be absolute curiosities to some people. Everybody
now-a-days has a silk walking-suit, and some handsome thread lace, and
I don’t believe there are any _poor_ people but just us. But then we
have had the love and comfort and enjoyment and no time to worry about
our rich neighbors. It has been a life full of pleasantness and peace.”

That was true enough. There were many, many things beside raiment, if
one could only get at the real completeness and harmony, the secret of
soul life.

Jennie Fairlie _would_ help us sew. With their good servant she
declared she had nothing to do. Miss Churchill sent us both an
elegant poplin suit, or at least the materials. It _was_ a simple
wardrobe to be sure. One pretty light silk dress, one dark silk with
a walking-jacket. We made morning robes and some inexpensive house
garments. Then it would be summer so soon, and there was nothing equal
to fresh, cool white. We were not used to crying for the moon, we had
found early in life that it was quite a useless proceeding.

Altogether we kept our secrets pretty well, and when the truth leaked
out at last, everybody was so surprised that they could only exclaim.
Aunt Letty Perkins was brave enough to come and see if it was really so.

“Well, I _am_ beat!” she declared. “And doing well, too! I always said
there never was anyone like Mis’ Endicott for luck. Girls often do hang
on so where there is a lot, and you’ve enough left. Fanny _is_ the
flower of the family to be sure, but she is making a big step to get in
with the Churchills. Ain’t afraid she’ll be puffed up with pride and
vanity, are you?”

“I think I can trust her,” replied mamma with a funny smile in the
corners of her mouth.

I remember the morning as one recalls a half dream, the misty
impression between sleeping and waking. The peculiar confusion
pervading the house, the strange mislaying of handkerchiefs and gloves,
the voices that were so full of tears and gay little laughs, the half
sentences, the clasp of hands as one went in or out of a room, the
long, loving glances as if each would fain garner all the past into
one sweet remembrance. Winthrop and Stephen, one rather grave but
very tender to mamma and the little ones, the other full of life and
vivacity, the happiest of the happy.

Fan had one little say though her eyes were bright with tears.

“I hope I can be as good and sweet in my life as mamma has been in
hers. And I will not ask any higher happiness.”

We walked up the church aisle. The children stood around, back of them
Louis, Nelly and mamma, and then a host of eager parish faces. Does any
one take it all in then, the solemn questions, the still more solemn
promises?

Mr. Churchill gave us both away. Papa’s voice had a little falter in
it, and I dared not look up. “For better, for worse,” “till death do us
part,” rang clearly in heart and brain. The forever of human love, when
it _is_ love and no base counterfeit.

A little kissing, a few tears, some tremulous whispers and sad, sad
good-byes. We whose farthest journey had been the brief sojourn at
Martha’s Vineyard, took up the great pilgrimage of a new life.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot tell you anything about it, or Stephen. It was a happy
confusion of strange places and watchful care, bits of affection
shining out of the tiniest rift. Honeymoons, I suppose, are much alike,
but it is right for each to think his and hers the best and most
delightful.

One afternoon the carriage set us down in so quiet a street that I
could hardly believe it was New York. And when I entered the house,
_my_ new house, I doubted more than ever, for everybody was there. One
kissed me until I thought the breath of life was surely gone, then
another took me up. I have a dim suspicion that my sleeves were worn
threadbare, and if my hair had not been all fast in my head, I am
afraid the difference would have been discoverable.

“Why you are rounder and rosier than ever!” declared Fan, inspecting me.

She was elegant as a princess, and had her light silk dress trimmed
with applique lace.

It seemed as if I never could get done looking at mamma, and papa
hovered around me as if I was indeed an unusual sight.

Somehow I managed to get up-stairs to my own pretty room, to wash my
face, what there was left of it, and straighten my gown. And there was
Beauty, my lovely half-grown kitten that some one had brought from the
old home.

I heard Stuart’s voice outside the door and called him in.

“Stuart,” I said with much dignity, “this is Miss Beauty Endicott,
a nice, orderly, well brought-up kitten, and _mine_. I want you to
respect her and treat her with the courtesy of a gentleman.”

“Oh, fudge!” he returned. “What are you doing with a kitten when you
are married? I thought it was only old maids who were death on cats.”

“It is boys who are death on cats,” I replied severely. “And then—I
never _did_ expect to be married. I always supposed—”

“Oh, you couldn’t have been an old maid! your nose never _can_ be
sharp, and your chin has that great dimple in it, and you are such
a funny little dumpling altogether! If you say much I’ll put you in
my pocket and carry you off. No doubt Stephen would feel immensely
relieved, but what _could_ the cat do?”

“You are an incorrigible boy!”

“But we will have jolly times for all that,” and he whistled to Tim,
who put her head within the door.

“Fan,” I exclaimed with remorseful tenderness as I was going down
stairs with her arm over my shoulder; “I have Mrs. Whitcomb. But you
know you half gave her to Stephen. And as you are not to keep house—”

“I will lend her to you a little while longer.”

We had such a merry, enjoyable supper, such a lovely long evening, and
were brimfull of happiness.

But the next morning papa gathered up his flock, “what there was left
of them,” he said with a certain comical grimace.

“I don’t know as you need lament,” answered Stephen. “I think the sons
are coming in pretty rapidly.”

“And if there should be seven! Mother what would we do with them all?”

Mamma smiled a little as Stephen went around and kissed her.

“Remember that I am the first one; I will never be crowded out of _my_
place.”

“No,” she answered softly.

They all went away that noon, and left us to begin our home life.
We had talked it over, what we were to do for the boys, what for
ourselves, and what for the world outside. For the true life is not
bounded with a narrow—thou and I. The world takes us in, and over and
above all, God takes us in. His vineyard, His day, and first and always
His everlasting love.




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hands of the school boy or girl than this series of the records of
noted travellers. The heroism displayed by these men was certainly as
great as that ever shown by conquering warrior; and it was exercised
in a far nobler cause,—the cause of knowledge and discovery, which has
made the nineteenth century what it is.”—_Graphic._


RALEGH:

HIS EXPLOITS AND VOYAGES.

“This belongs to the ‘Young Folks’ Heroes of History’ series, and deals
with a greater and more interesting man than any of its predecessors.
With all the black spots on his fame, there are few more brilliant and
striking figures in English history than the soldier, sailor, courtier,
author, and explorer, Sir Walter Ralegh. Even at this distance of
time, more than two hundred and fifty years after his head fell on the
scaffold, we cannot read his story without emotion. It is graphically
written, and is pleasant reading, not only for young folks, but for old
folks with young hearts.”—_Woman’s Journal._


DRAKE:

THE SEA-LION OF DEVON.

Drake was the foremost sea-captain of his age, the first English
admiral to send a ship completely round the world, the hero of the
magnificent victory which the English won over the Invincible Armada.
His career was stirring, bold, and adventurous, from early youth to old
age.

_Sold by all Booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._


  LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers      BOSTON.




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 64 Changed: She smiled in her irresistable fashion,
             to: She smiled in her irresistible fashion,

  pg 128 Changed: papa would say,” was my rejoiner
              to: papa would say,” was my rejoinder

  pg 150 Changed: And she enjoys everything so thorougly.
              to: And she enjoys everything so thoroughly.

  pg 168 Changed: our engagements and geting everything
              to: our engagements and getting everything

  pg 183 Changed: Here were sandwitches dripping with jelly
              to: Here were sandwiches dripping with jelly

  pg 185 Changed: great double lucious blossoms
              to: great double luscious blossoms

  pg 208 Changed: with a certain funny lugubriouness
              to: with a certain funny lugubriousness

  pg 238 Changed: Dosn’t she take care of sick people
              to: Doesn’t she take care of sick people

  pg 264 Changed: nothing but complaint and discouragment
              to: nothing but complaint and discouragement

  pg 264 Changed: went to neigboring towns
              to: went to neighboring towns

  pg 274 Changed: I struck out blindy
              to: I struck out blindly

  pg 284 Changed: I have gussed
              to: I have guessed

  pg 285 Changed: It is not—Winthop Ogden.
              to: It is not—Winthrop Ogden.

  pg 287 Changed: bound by a promise of secresy
              to: bound by a promise of secrecy

  pg 300 Changed: no expensive trosseau
              to: no expensive trousseau

  pg 317 Changed: spoken of the probabilty
              to: spoken of the probability

  pg 337 Changed: It was the begining
              to: It was the beginning