REAL FOLKS

by

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY

1893

CONTENTS

 I. THIS WAY, AND THAT II. LUCLARION III. BY STORY-RAIL: TWENTY-SIX YEARS AN HOUR IV. AFTERWARDS IS A LONG TIME V. HOW THE NEWS CAME TO HOMESWORTH VI. AND VII. WAKING UP VIII. EAVESDROPPING IN ASPEN STREET IX. HAZEL'S INSPIRATION X. COCKLES AND CRAMBO XI. MORE WITCH-WORK XII. CRUMBS XIII. PIECES OF WORLDS XIV. "SESAME; AND LILIES" XV. WITH ALL ONE'S MIGHT XVI. SWARMING XVII. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS XVIII. ALL AT ONCE XIX. INSIDE XX. NEIGHBORS AND NEXT OF KIN XXI. THE HORSESHOE XXII. MORNING GLORIES

I. 

THIS WAY, AND THAT. 

The parlor blinds were shut, and all the windows of the third-storyrooms were shaded; but the pantry window, looking out on a long lowshed, such as city houses have to keep their wood in and to drytheir clothes upon, was open; and out at this window had come twolittle girls, with quiet steps and hushed voices, and carried theirbooks and crickets to the very further end, establishing themselvesthere, where the shade of a tall, round fir tree, planted at thefoot of the yard below, fell across the building of a morning. 

"It was prettier down on the bricks, " Luclarion had told them. Butthey thought otherwise. 

"Luclarion doesn't know, " said Frank. "People _don't_ know things, Ithink. I wonder why, when they've got old, and ought to? It's likethe sea-shore here, I guess, only the stones are all stuck down, andyou mustn't pick up the loose ones either. "

Frank touched lightly, as she spoke, the white and black and graybits of gravel that covered the flat roof. 

"And it smells--like the pine forests!"

The sun was hot and bright upon the fir branches and along thetar-cemented roof. 

"How do you know about sea-shores and pine forests?" asked Laura, with crushing common sense. 

"I don't know; but I do, " said Frank. 

"You don't know anything but stories and pictures and one tree, anda little gravel, all stuck down tight. "

"I'm glad I've got one tree. And the rest of it, --why listen! It'sin the _word_, Laura. _Forest_. Doesn't that sound like thousands ofthem, all fresh and rustling? And Ellen went to the sea-shore, inthat book; and picked up pebbles; and the sea came up to her feet, just as the air comes up here, and you can't get any farther, "--saidFrank, walking to the very edge and putting one foot out over, whilethe wind blew in her face up the long opening between rows of brickhouses of which theirs was in the midst upon one side. 

"A great sea!" exclaimed Laura, contemptuously. "With all thoseother wood-sheds right out in it, all the way down!"

"Well, there's another side to the sea; and capes, and islands, "answered Frank, turning back. "Besides, I don't pretend it _is_; Ionly think it seems a little bit like it. I'm often put in mind ofthings. I don't know why. "

"I'll tell you what it is like, " said Laura. "It's like the galleryat church, where the singers stand up in a row, and look down, andall the people look up at them. I like high places. I like Cecilia, in the 'Bracelets, ' sitting at the top, behind, when her name wascalled out for the prize; and 'they all made way, and she was on thefloor in an instant. ' I should like to have been Cecilia!"

"Leonora was a great deal the best. "

"I know it; but she don't _stand out_. "

"Laura! You're just like the Pharisees! You're always wishing forlong clothes and high seats!"

"There ain't any Pharisees, nowadays, " said Laura, securely. Afterwhich, of course, there was nothing more to be insisted. 

Mrs. Lake, the housekeeper, came to the middle upper window, andmoved the blind a little. Frank and Laura were behind the fir. Theysaw her through the branches. She, through the farther thickness ofthe tree, did not notice them. 

"That was good, " said Laura. "She would have beckoned us in. I hatethat forefinger of hers; it's always hushing or beckoning. It's onlytwo inches long. What makes us have to mind it so?"

"She puts it all into those two inches, " answered Frank. "All the_must_ there is in the house. And then you've got to. "

"I wouldn't--if father wasn't sick. "

"Laura, " said Frank, gravely, "I don't believe father is going toget well. What do you suppose they're letting us stay at home fromschool for?"

"O, that, " said Laura, "was because Mrs. Lake didn't have time tosew the sleeves into your brown dress. "

"I could have worn my gingham, Laura. What if he should die prettysoon? I heard her tell Luclarion that there must be a change beforelong. They talk in little bits, Laura, and they say it solemn. "

The children were silent for a few minutes. Frank sat lookingthrough the fir-tree at the far-off flecks of blue. 

Mr. Shiere had been ill a long time. They could hardly think, now, what it would seem again not to have a sick father; and they had hadno mother for several years, --many out of their short remembrance oflife. Mrs. Lake had kept the house, and mended their clothes, andheld up her forefinger at them. Even when Mr. Shiere was well, hehad been a reserved man, much absorbed in business since his wife'sdeath, he had been a very sad man. He loved his children, but he wasvery little with them. Frank and Laura could not feel the shock andloss that children feel when death comes and robs them suddenly of aclose companionship. 

"What do you suppose would happen then?" asked Laura, after awhile. "We shouldn't be anybody's children. "

"Yes, we should, " said Frank; "we should be God's. '

"Everybody else is that, --_besides_, " said Laura. 

"We shall have black silk pantalets again, I suppose, "--she began, afresh, looking down at her white ones with double crimpedruffles, --"and Mrs. Gibbs will come in and help, and we shall haveto pipe and overcast. "

"O, Laura, how nice it was ever so long ago!" cried Frank, suddenly, never heeding the pantalets, "when mother sent us out to ask companyto tea, --that pleasant Saturday, you know, --and made lace pelerinesfor our dolls while we were gone! It's horrid, when other girls havemothers, only to have a _housekeeper_! And pretty soon we sha'n'thave anything, only a little corner, away back, that we can't hardlyrecollect. "

"They'll do something with us; they always do, " said Laura, composedly. 

The children of this world, even _as_ children, are wisest in theirgeneration. Frank believed they would be God's children; she couldnot see exactly what was to come of that, though, practically. Lauraknew that people always did something; something would be sure tobe done with them. She was not frightened; she was even a littlecurious. 

A head came up at the corner of the shed behind them, a pair ofshoulders, --high, square, turned forward; a pair of arms, longthence to the elbows, as they say women's are who might be goodnurses of children; the hands held on to the sides of the steepsteps that led up from the bricked yard. The young woman's face wasthin and strong; two great, clear, hazel eyes looked straight out, like arrow shots; it was a clear, undeviating glance; it neverwandered, or searched, or wavered, any more than a sunbeam; itstruck full upon whatever was there; it struck _through_ many thingsthat were transparent to their quality. She had square, white, strong teeth, that set together like the faces of a die; they showedeasily when she spoke, but the lips closed over them absolutely andfirmly. Yet they were pleasant lips, and had a smile in them thatnever went quite out; it lay in all the muscles of the mouth andchin; it lay behind, in the living spirit that had moulded to itselfthe muscles. 

This was Luclarion. 

"Your Aunt Oldways and Mrs. Oferr have come. Hurry in!"

Now Mrs. Oldways was only an uncle's wife; Mrs. Oferr was theirfather's sister. But Mrs. Oferr was a rich woman who lived in NewYork, and who came on grand and potent, with a scarf or a pair ofshoe-bows for each of the children in her big trunk, and a hundredand one suggestions for their ordering and behavior at her tongue'send, once a year. Mrs. Oldways lived up in the country, and was"aunt" to half the neighborhood at home, and turned into an auntinstantly, wherever she went and found children. If there were nochildren, perhaps older folks did not call her by the name, but theyfelt the special human kinship that is of no-blood or law, but isnext to motherhood in the spirit. 

Mrs. Oferr found the open pantry window, before the children hadgot in. 

"Out there!" she exclaimed, "in the eyes of all the neighbors in thecircumstances of the family! Who does, or _don't_ look after you?"

"Hearts'-sake!" came up the pleasant tones of Mrs. Oldways frombehind, "how can they help it? There isn't any other out-doors. Ifthey were down at Homesworth now, there'd be the lilac garden andthe old chestnuts, and the seat under the wall. Poor little souls!"she added, pitifully, as she lifted them in, and kissed them. "It'swell they can take any comfort. Let 'em have all there is. "

Mrs. Oferr drew the blinds, and closed the window. 

Frank and Laura remembered the strangeness of that day all theirlives. How they sat, shy and silent, while Luclarion brought in cakeand wine; how Mrs. Oferr sat in the large morocco easy-chair andtook some; and Mrs. Oldways lifted Laura, great girl as she was, into her lap first, and broke a slice for her; how Mrs. Oldways wentup-stairs to Mrs. Lake, and then down into the kitchen to dosomething that was needed; and Mrs. Oferr, after she had visited herbrother, lay down in the spare chamber for a nap, tired with herlong journey from New York, though it had been by boat and cars, while there was a long staging from Homesworth down to Nashua, onMrs. Oldways' route. Mrs. Oldways, however, was "used, " she said, "to stepping round. " It was the sitting that had tired her. 

How they were told not to go out any more, or to run up anddown-stairs; and how they sat in the front windows, looking outthrough the green slats at so much of the street world as they couldsee in strips; how they obtained surreptitious bits of bread fromdinner, and opened a bit of the sash, and shoved out crumbs underthe blinds for the pigeons that flew down upon the sidewalk; howthey wondered what kind of a day it was in other houses, where therewere not circumstances in the family, where children played, andfathers were not ill, but came and went to and from their stores;and where two aunts had not come, both at once, from great ways off, to wait for something strange and awful that was likely to befall. 

When they were taken in, at bedtime, to kiss their father and saygood-night, there was something portentous in the stillness there;in the look of the sick man, raised high against the pillows, andturning his eyes wistfully toward them, with no slightest movementof the head; in the waiting aspect of all things, --the appearance asof everybody being to sit up all night except themselves. 

Edward Shiere brought his children close to him with the magnetismof that look; they bent down to receive his kiss and his good-night, so long and solemn. He had not been in the way of talking to themabout religion in his life. He had only insisted on their truth andobedience; that was the beginning of all religion. Now it was givenhim in the hour of his death what he should speak; and because hehad never said many such words to them before, they fell like thevery touch of the Holy Ghost upon their young spirits now, --

"Love God, and keep His commandments. Good-by. "

In the morning, when they woke, Mrs. Lake was in their room, talkingin a low voice with Mrs. Oferr, who stood by an open bureau. Theyheard Luclarion dusting down the stairs. 

Who was taking care of their father?

They did not ask. In the night, he had been taken care of. It wasmorning with him, now, also. 

Mrs. Lake and Mrs. Oferr were calculating, --about black pantalets, and other things. 

This story is not with the details of their early orphan life. WhenEdward Shiere was buried came family consultations. The two auntswere the nearest friends. Nobody thought of Mr. Titus Oldways. Henever was counted. He was Mrs. Shiere's uncle, --Aunt Oldways'uncle-in-law, therefore, and grand-uncle to these children. ButTitus Oldways never took up any family responsibilities; he had beenshy of them all his single, solitary life. He seemed to think hecould not drop them as he could other things, if he did not findthem satisfactory. Besides, what would he know about two younggirls?

He saw the death in the paper, and came to the funeral; then he wentaway again to his house in Greenley Street at the far West End, andto his stiff old housekeeper, Mrs. Froke, who knew his stiff oldways. And, turning his back on everybody, everybody forgot all abouthim. Except as now and then, at intervals of years, there broke outhere or there, at some distant point in some family crisis, a suddenrecollection from which would spring a half suggestion, "Why, there's Uncle Titus! If he was only, "--or, "if he would only, "--andthere it ended. Much as it might be with a housewife, who says ofsome stored-away possession forty times, perhaps, before it everturns out available, "Why, there's that old gray taffety! If it wereonly green, now!" or, "If there were three or four yards more ofit!"

Uncle Titus was just Uncle Titus, neither more nor less; so Mrs. Oferr and Aunt Oldways consulted about their own measures andmaterials; and never reckoned the old taffety at all. There wasmoney enough to clothe and educate; little more. 

"I will take home _one_, " said Mrs. Oferr, distinctly. 

So, they were to be separated?

They did not realize what this was, however. They were told ofletters and visits; of sweet country-living, of city sights andpleasures; of kittens and birds' nests, and the great barns; ofmusic and dancing lessons, and little parties, --"by-and-by, when itwas proper. "

"Let me go to Homesworth, " whispered Frank to Aunt Oldways. 

Laura gravitated as surely to the streets and shops, and the greatschool of young ladies. 

"One taken and the other left, " quoted Luclarion, over the packingof the two small trunks. 

"We're both going, " says Laura, surprised. "_One_ taken? Where?"

"Where the carcass is, " answered Luclarion. 

"There's one thing you'll have to see to for yourselves. I can'tpack it. It won't go into the trunks. "

"What, Luclarion?"

"What your father said to you that night. "

They were silent. Presently Frank answered, softly, --"I hope Ishan't forget that. "

Laura, the pause once broken, remarked, rather glibly, that she "wasafraid there wouldn't be much chance to recollect things at AuntOferr's. "

"She isn't exactly what I call a heavenly-minded woman, " saidLuclarion, quietly. 

"She is very much _occupied_, " replied Laura, grandly taking up theOferr style. "She visits a great deal, and she goes out in thecarriage. You have to change your dress every day for dinner, andI'm to take French lessons. "

The absurd little sinner was actually proud of her magnificenttemptations. She was only a child. Men and women never are, ofcourse. 

"I'm afraid it will be pretty hard to remember, " repeated Laura, with condescension. 

"_That's_ your stump!"

Luclarion fixed the steadfast arrow of her look straight upon her, and drew the bow with this twang. 

II. 

LUCLARION. 

How Mrs. Grapp ever came to, was the wonder. Her having the baby wasnothing. Her having the name for it was the astonishment. 

Her own name was Lucy; her husband's Luther: that, perhaps, accounted for the first syllable; afterwards, whether her mindlapsed off into combinations of such outshining appellatives as"Clara" and "Marion, " or whether Mr. Grapp having played theclarionet, and wooed her sweetly with it in her youth, had anythingto do with it, cannot be told; but in those prescriptive days ofquiet which followed the domestic advent, the name did somehow growtogether in the fancy of Mrs. Luther; and in due time the life-atomwhich had been born indistinguishable into the natural world, wasbaptized into the Christian Church as "Luclarion" Grapp. Thenceforth, and no wonder, it took to itself a very especialindividuality, and became what this story will partly tell. 

Marcus Grapp, who had the start of Luclarion in this "meander, "--astheir father called the vale of tears, --by just two years' time, andwas y-_clipped_, by everybody but his mother "Mark, "--in his turn, as they grew old together, cut his sister down to "Luke. " ThenLuther Grapp called them both "The Apostles. " And not far wrong;since if ever the kingdom of heaven does send forth itsApostles--nay, its little Christs--into the work on earth, in thesedays, it is as little children into loving homes. 

The Apostles got up early one autumn morning, when Mark was aboutsix years old, and Luke four. They crept out of their smalltrundle-bed in their mother's room adjoining the great kitchen, andmade their way out softly to the warm wide hearth. 

There were new shoes, a pair apiece, brought home from the Mills thenight before, set under the little crickets in the corners. Thesehad got into their dreams, somehow, and into the red rooster's firsthalloo from the end room roof, and into the streak of pale daylightthat just stirred and lifted the darkness, and showed doors andwindows, but not yet the blue meeting-houses on the yellowwall-paper, by which they always knew when it was really morning;and while Mrs. Grapp was taking that last beguiling nap in which oneis conscious that one means to get up presently, and rests sosweetly on one's good intentions, letting the hazy mirage of theday's work that is to be done play along the horizon of dim thoughtswith its unrisen activities, --two little flannel night-gowns werecuddled in small heaps by the chimney-side, little bare feet weretrying themselves into the new shoes, and lifting themselves up, crippled with two inches of stout string between the heels. 

Then the shoes were turned into spans of horses, and chirruped andtrotted softly into their cricket-stables; and then--what else wasthere to do, until the strings were cut, and the flannel night-gownstaken off?

It was so still out here, in the big, busy, day-time room; it waslike getting back where the world had not begun; surely one must dosomething wonderful with the materials all lying round, and such anopportunity as that. 

It was old-time then, when kitchens had fire-places; or rather thehouse was chiefly fire-place, in front of and about which was moreor less of kitchen-space. In the deep fire-place lay a huge mound ofgray ashes, a Vesuvius, under which red bowels of fire lay hidden. In one corner of the chimney leaned an iron bar, used sometimes insome forgotten, old fashioned way, across dogs or pothooks, --whoknows now? At any rate, there it always was. 

Mark, ambitious, put all his little strength to it this morning anddrew it down, carefully, without much clatter, on the hearth. Thenhe thought how it would turn red under those ashes, where the bigcoals were, and how it would shine and sparkle when he pulled it outagain, like the red-hot, hissing iron Jack-the-Giant-Killer struckinto the one-eyed monster's eye. So he shoved it in; and forgot itthere, while he told Luke--very much twisted and dislocated, andmisjoined--the leading incidents of the giant story; and then lapsedoff, by some queer association, into the Scripture narrative ofJoseph and his brethren, who "pulled his red coat off, and put himin a _fit_, and left him there. "

"And then what?" says Luke. 

"Then, --O, my iron's done! See here, Luke!"--and taking it prudentlywith the tongs, he pulled back the rod, till the glowing end, a footor more of live, palpitating, flamy red, lay out upon the broad openbricks. 

"There, Luke! You daresn't put your foot on _that_!"

Dear little Luke, who wouldn't, at even four years old, be dared!

And dear little white, tender, pink-and-lily foot!

The next instant, a shriek of pain shot through Mrs. Grapp's ears, and sent her out of her dreams and out of her bed, and with onesingle impulse into the kitchen, with her own bare feet, and in hernight-gown. 

The little foot had only touched; a dainty, timid, yet mostresolute touch; but the sweet flesh shriveled, and the fierceanguish ran up every fibre of the baby body, to the very heart andbrain. 

"O! O, O!" came the long, pitiful, shivering cries, as the mothergathered her in her arms. 

"What is it? What did you do? How came you to?" And all the whileshe moved quickly here and there, to cupboard and press-drawer, holding the child fast, and picking up as she could with one hand, cotton wool, and sweet-oil flask, and old linen bits; and so shebound it up, saying still, every now and again, as all she couldsay, --"What _did_ you do? How came you to?"

Till, in a little lull of the fearful smart, as the air was shutaway, and the oil felt momentarily cool upon the ache, Luke answeredher, --

"He hed I dare-hn't, and ho I did!"

"You little fool!"

The rough word was half reaction of relief, that the child couldspeak at all, half horrible spasm of all her own motherly nervesthat thrilled through and through with every pang that touched thelittle frame, hers also. Mothers never do part bonds with babiesthey have borne. Until the day they die, each quiver of their lifegoes back straight to the heart beside which it began. 

"You Marcus! What did you mean?"

"I meant she darsn't; and she no business to 'a dars't, " said Mark, pale with remorse and fright, but standing up stiff and manful, withbare common sense, when brought to bay. And then he marched awayinto his mother's bedroom, plunged his head down into the clothes, and cried, --harder than Luclarion. 

Nobody wore any new shoes that day; Mark for a punishment, --thoughhe flouted at the penalty as such, with an, "I guess you'd see me!"And there were many days before poor little Luclarion could wear anyshoes at all. 

The foot got well, however, without hindrance. But Luke was the samelittle fool as ever; that was not burnt out. She would never be"dared" to anything. 

They called it "stumps" as they grew older. They played "stumps" allthrough the barns and woods and meadows; over walls and rocks, andrafters and house-roofs. But the burnt foot saved Luke's neck scoresof times, doubtless. Mark remembered it; he never "stumped" her toany certain hurt, or where he could not lead the way himself. 

The mischief they got into and out of is no part of my story; butone day something happened--things do happen as far back in lives asthat--which gave Luclarion her clew to the world. 

They had got into the best parlor, --that sacred place of the NewEngland farm-house, that is only entered by the high-prieststhemselves on solemn festivals, weddings and burials, Thanksgivingsand quiltings; or devoutly, now and then to set the shrine in order, shut the blinds again, and so depart, leaving it to gather the gloomand grandeur that things and places and people do when they are goodfor nothing else. 

The children had been left alone; for their mother had gone to asewing society, and Grashy, the girl, was up-stairs in herkitchen-chamber-bedroom, with a nail over the door-latch to keepthem out while she "fixed over" her best gown. 

"Le's play Lake Ontario, " says Marcus. 

Now Lake Ontario, however they had pitched upon it, stood with themfor all the waters that are upon the face of the earth, and all theconfusion and peril of them. To play it, they turned the room intoone vast shipwreck, of upset and piled up chairs, stools, boxes, buckets, and what else they could lay hands on; and among and overthem they navigated their difficult and hilarious way. By no meanswere they to touch the floor; that was the Lake, --that were todrown. 

It was Columbus sometimes; sometimes it was Captain Cook; to-day, itwas no less than Jason sailing after the golden fleece. 

Out of odd volumes in the garret, and out of "best books" taken downfrom the secretary in the "settin'-room, " and put into their hands, with charges, of a Sunday, to keep them still, they had got thesethings, jumbled into strange far-off and near fantasies in theirchildish minds. "Lake Ontario" included and connected all. 

"I'll tell you what it is, " said Marcus, tumbling up against theparlor door and an idea at once. "In here!"

"What?" asked Luke, breathless, without looking up, and paddlingwith the shovel, from an inverted rocking-chair. 

"The golden thing! Hush!"

At this moment Grashy came into the kitchen, took a little tinkettle from a nail over the dresser, and her sun-bonnet from anotherbehind the door, and made her way through the apartment as well asshe could for bristling chair-legs, with exemplary placidity. Shewas used to "Lake Ontario. "

"Don't get into any mischief, you Apostles, " was her injunction. "I'm goin' down to Miss Ruddock's for some 'east. "

"Good, "; says Mark, the instant the door was shut "Now this isColchis, and I'm going in. "

He pronounced it much like "cold-cheese, " and it never occurred tohim that he was naming any unusual or ancient locality. There was a"Jason" in the Mills Village. He kept a grocer's shop. Colchis mightbe close by for all he knew; out beyond the wall, perhaps, among theold barrels. Children _place_ all they read or hear about, or evenall they imagine, within a very limited horizon. They cannot gobeyond their world. Why should they? Neither could those veryvenerable ancients. 

"'Tain't, " says Luclarion, with unbeguiled practicality. "It's justma's best parlor, and you mustn't. "

It was the "mustn't" that was the whole of it. If Mark had assertedthat the back kitchen, or the cellar-way closet was Colchis, shewould have indorsed it with enthusiasm, and followed on like a loyalArgonaut, as she was. But her imagination here was prepossessed. Nothing in old fable could be more environed with awe and mysterythan this best parlor. 

"And, besides, " said Luclarion, "I don't care for the goldenfleece; I'm tired of it. Let's play something else. "

"I'll tell you what there is in here, " persisted Mark. "There's twoenchanted children. I've seen 'em!"

"Just as though, " said Luke contemptuously. "Ma ain't a witch. "

"Tain't ma. She don't know. They ain't visible to her. _She_ thinksit's nothing but the best parlor. But it opens out, right into thewitch country, --not for her. 'Twill if we go. See if it don't. "

He had got hold of her now; Luclarion could not resist that. Anything might be true of that wonderful best room, after all. Itwas the farthest Euxine, the witch-land, everything, to them. 

So Mark turned the latch and they crept in

"We must open a shutter, " Mark said, groping his way. 

"Grashy will be back, " suggested Luke, fearfully. 

"Guess so!" said Mark. "She ain't got coaxed to take her sun-bonnetoff yet, an' it'll take her ninety-'leven hours to get it on again. "

He had let in the light now from the south window. 

The red carpet on the floor; the high sofa of figured hair-cloth, with brass-headed nails, and brass rosettes in the ends of the hard, cylinder pillows; the tall, carved cupboard press, its doors anddrawers glittering with hanging brass handles; right opposite thedoor by which they had come in, the large, leaning mirror, gilt--garnished with grooved and beaded rim and an eagle andball-chains over the top, --all this, opening right in from thefamiliar every-day kitchen and their Lake Ontario, --it certainlymeant something that such a place should be. It meant a great dealmore than sixteen feet square could hold, and what it really was didnot stop short at the gray-and-crimson stenciled walls. 

The two were all alone in it; perhaps they had never been all alonein it before. I think, notwithstanding their mischief andenterprise, they never had. 

And deep in the mirror, face to face with them, coming down, itseemed, the red slant of an inner and more brilliant floor, they sawtwo other little figures. Their own they knew, really, but elsewherethey never saw their own figures entire. There was not anotherlooking-glass in the house that was more than two feet long, andthey were all hung up so high!

"There!" whispered Mark. "There they are, and they can't get out. "

"Of course they can't, " said sensible Luclarion. 

"If we only knew the right thing to say, or do, they might, " saidMark. "It's that they're waiting for, you see. They always do. It'slike the sleeping beauty Grashy told us. "

"Then they've got to wait a hundred years, " said Luke. 

"Who knows when they began?"

"They do everything that we do, " said Luclarion, her imaginationkindling, but as under protest. "If we could jump in perhaps theywould jump out. "

"We might jump _at_ 'em, " said Marcus. "Jest get 'em going, andmay-be they'd jump over. Le's try. "

So they set up two chairs from Lake Ontario in the kitchen doorway, to jump from; but they could only jump to the middle round of thecarpet, and who could expect that the shadow children should bebeguiled by that into a leap over bounds? They only came to themiddle round of _their_ carpet. 

"We must go nearer; we must set the chairs in the middle, and jumpclose. Jest _shave_, you know, " said Marcus. 

"O, I'm afraid, " said Luclarion. 

"I'll tell you what! Le's _run_ and jump! Clear from the other sideof the kitchen, you know. Then they'll have to run too, and may-bethey can't stop. "

So they picked up chairs and made a path, and ran from across thebroad kitchen into the parlor doorway, quite on to the middle roundof the carpet, and then with great leaps came down bodily upon thefloor close in front of the large glass that, leaned over them, withtwo little fallen figures in it, rolling aside quickly also, overthe slanting red carpet. 

But, O dear what did it?

Had the time come, anyhow, for the old string to part its lastfibre, that held the mirror tilting from the wall, --or was it thecrash of a completed spell?

There came a snap, --a strain, --as some nails or screws that held itotherwise gave way before the forward pressing weight, and down, flat-face upon the floor, between the children, covering them withfragments of splintered glass and gilded wood, --eagle, ball-chains, and all, --that whole magnificence and mystery lay prostrate. 

Behind, where it had been, was a blank, brown-stained cobwebbedwall, thrown up harsh and sudden against them, making the roomsmall, and all the enchanted chamber, with its red slanting carpet, and its far reflected corners, gone. 

The house hushed up again after that terrible noise, and stood justthe same as ever. When a thing like that happens, it tells its ownstory, just once, and then it is over. _People_ are different. Theykeep talking. 

There was Grashy to come home. She had not got there in time to hearthe house tell it. She must learn it from the children. Why?

"Because they knew, " Luclarion said. "Because, then, they could notwait and let it be found out. "

"We never touched it, " said Mark. 

"We jumped, " said Luke. 

"We couldn't help it, if _that_ did it. S'posin' we'd jumped in thekitchen, or--the--flat-irons had tumbled down, --or anything? Thatold string was all wore out. "

"Well, we was here, and we jumped; and we know. "

"We was here, of course; and of course we couldn't help knowing, with all that slam-bang. Why, it almost upset Lake Ontario! We cantell how it slammed, and how we thought the house was coming down. Idid. "

"And how we were in the best parlor, and how we jumped, " reiteratedLuclarion, slowly. "Marcus, it's a stump!"

They were out in the middle of Lake Ontario now, sitting right downunderneath the wrecks, upon the floor; that is, under water, withoutever thinking of it. The parlor door was shut, with all thatdisaster and dismay behind it. 

"Go ahead, then!" said Marcus, and he laid himself back desperatelyon the floor. "There's Grashy!"

"Sakes and patience!" ejaculated Grashy, merrily, coming in. "They're drownded, --dead, both of 'em; down to the bottom of LakeOntariah!"

"No we ain't, " said Luclarion, quietly. "It isn't Lake Ontario now. It's nothing but a clutter. But there's an awful thing in the bestparlor, and we don't know whether we did it or not. We were inthere, and we jumped. "

Grashy went straight to the parlor door, and opened it. She lookedin, turned pale, and said "'Lection!"

That is a word the women have, up in the country, for solemnsurprise, or exceeding emergency, or dire confusion. I do not knowwhether it is derived from religion or politics. It denotes a vitalcrisis, either way, and your hands full. Perhaps it had thetheological association in Grashy's mind, for the next thing shesaid was, "My soul!"

"Do you know what that's a sign of, you children?"

"Sign the old thing was rotten, " said Marcus, rather sullenly. 

"Wish that was all, " said Grashy, her lips white yet. "Hope theremayn't nothin' dreadful happen in this house before the year's out. It's wuss'n thirteen at the table. "

"Do you s'pose we did it?" asked Luke, anxiously. 

"Where was you when it tumbled?"

"Right in front of it. But we were rolling away. _We_ tumbled. "

"'Twould er come down the fust jar, anyway, if a door had slammed. The string's cut right through, " said Grashy, looking at the twoends sticking up stiff and straight from the top fragment of theframe. "But the mercy is you war'n't smashed yourselves to bits andflinders. Think o'that!"

"Do you s'pose ma'll think of that?" asked Luclarion. 

"Well--yes; but it may make her kinder madder, --just at first, youknow. Between you and me and the lookin'-glass, you see, --well, yerma is a pretty strong-feelin' woman, " said Grashy, reflectively. "'Fi was you I wouldn't say nothin' about it. What's the use? _I_shan't. "

"It's a stump, " repeated Luclarion, sadly, but in very resoluteearnest. 

Grashy stared. 

"Well, if you ain't the curiousest young one, Luke Grapp!" said she, only half comprehending. 

When Mrs. Grapp came home, Luclarion went into her bedroom afterher, and told her the whole story. Mrs. Grapp went into the parlor, viewed the scene of calamity, took in the sense of loss and narrowlyescaped danger, laid the whole weight of them upon the disobedienceto be dealt with, and just as she had said, "You little fool!" outof the very shock of her own distress when Luke had burned her babyfoot, she turned back now, took the two children up-stairs insilence, gave them each a good old orthodox whipping, and tuckedthem into their beds. 

They slept one on each side of the great kitchen-chamber. 

"Mark, " whispered Luke, tenderly, after Mrs. Grapp's step had diedaway down the stairs. "How do you feel?"

"Hot!" said Mark. "How do you?"

"You ain't mad with me, be you?"

"No. "

"Then I feel real cleared up and comfortable. But it _was_ a stump, wasn't it?"

 * * * * *

From that time forward, Luclarion Grapp had got her light to go by. She understood life. It was "stumps" all through. The Lord set them, and let them; she found that out afterward, when she was older, and"experienced religion. " I think she was mistaken in the dates, though; it was _recognition_, this later thing; the experience wasaway back, --at Lake Ontario. 

It was a stump when her father died, and her mother had to managethe farm, and she to help her. The mortgage they had to work off wasa stump; but faith and Luclarion's dairy did it. It was a stump whenMarcus wanted to go to college, and they undertook that, after themortgage. It was a stump when Adam Burge wanted her to marry him, and go and live in the long red cottage at Side Hill, and she couldnot go till they had got through with helping Marcus. It was aterrible stump when Adam Burge married Persis Cone instead, and shehad to live on and bear it. It was a stump when her mother died, andthe farm was sold. 

Marcus married; he never knew; he had a belles-lettres professorshipin a new college up in D----. He would not take a cent of the farmmoney; he had had his share long ago; the four thousand dollarswere invested for Luke. He did the best he could, and all he knew;but human creatures can never pay each other back. Only God can dothat, either way. 

Luclarion did not stay in ----. There were too few there now, andtoo many. She came down to Boston. Her two hundred and eightydollars a year was very good, as far as it went, but it would notkeep her idle; neither did she wish to live idle. She learneddress-making; she had taste and knack; she was doing well; sheenjoyed going about from house to house for her days' work, and thencoming back to her snug room at night, and her cup of tea and herbook. 

Then it turned out that so much sewing was not good for her; herhealth was threatened; she had been used to farm work and "allout-doors. " It was a "stump" again. That was all she called it; shedid not talk piously about a "cross. " What difference did it make?There is another word, also, for "cross" in Hebrew. 

Luclarion came at last to live with Mrs. Edward Shiere. And in thathousehold, at eight and twenty, we have just found her. 

III. 

BY STORY-RAIL: TWENTY-SIX YEARS AN HOUR. 

Laura Shiere did not think much about the "stump, " when, in her darkgray merino travelling dress, and her black ribbons, nicelyappointed, as Mrs. Oferr's niece should be, down to her black kidgloves and broad-hemmed pocket-handkerchief, and little black strawtravelling-basket (for morocco bags were not yet in those days), shestepped into the train with her aunt at the Providence Station, onher way to Stonington and New York. 

The world seemed easily laid out before her. She was like a cousinin a story-book, going to arrive presently at a new home, and begina new life, in which she would be very interesting to herself and tothose about her. She felt rather important, too, with her moneyindependence--there being really "property" of hers to be spoken ofas she had heard it of late. She had her mother's diamond ring onher third finger, and was comfortably conscious of it when she drewoff her left-hand glove. Laura Shiere's nature had only beenstirred, as yet, a very little below the surface, and the surfacerippled pleasantly in the sunlight that was breaking forth from thebrief clouds. 

Among the disreputable and vociferous crowd of New York hackdrivers, that swarmed upon the pier as the _Massachusetts_ glidedinto her dock, it was good to see that subduedly respectable andconsciously private and superior man in the drab overcoat and thenice gloves and boots, who came forward and touched his hat to Mrs. Oferr, took her shawl and basket, and led the way, among theaggravated public menials, to a handsome private carriage waiting onthe street. 

"All well at home, David?" asked Mrs. Oferr. 

"All well, ma'am, thank you, " replied David. 

And another man sat upon the box, in another drab coat, and touched_his_ hat; and when they reached Waverley Place and alighted, Mrs. Oferr had something to say to him of certain directions, andaddressed him as "Moses. "

It was very grand and wonderful to order "David" and "Moses" about. Laura felt as if her aunt were something only a little less than"Michael with the sword. " Laura had a susceptibility for dignities;she appreciated, as we have seen out upon the wood-shed, "highplaces, and all the people looking up. "

David and Moses were brothers, she found out; she supposed that wasthe reason they dressed alike, in drab coats; as she and Frank usedto wear their red merinos, and their blue ginghams. A little spasmdid come up in her throat for a minute, as she thought of the oldfrocks and the old times already dropped so far behind; but Aliceand Geraldine Oferr met her the next instant on the broad staircaseat the back of the marble-paved hall, looking slight and delicate, and princess-like, in the grand space built about them for theirlives to move in; and in the distance and magnificence of it all, the faint little momentary image of Frank faded away. 

She went up with them out of the great square hall, over the statelystaircase, past the open doors of drawing-rooms and library, stretching back in a long suite, with the conservatory gleaminggreen from the far end over the garden, up the second stairway tothe floor where their rooms were; bedrooms and nursery, --this lastcalled so still, though the great, airy front-room was the placeused now for their books and amusements as growing youngladies, --all leading one into another around the skylighted upperhall, into which the sunshine came streaked with amber and violetfrom the richly colored glass. She had a little side apartment givento her for her own, with a recessed window, in which were blossomingplants just set there from the conservatory; opposite stood a white, low bed in a curtained alcove, and beyond was a dressing-closet. Laura thought she should not be able to sleep there at all for anight or two, for the beauty of it and the good time she should behaving. 

At that same moment Frank and her Aunt Oldways were getting downfrom the stage that had brought them over from Ipsley, where theyslept after their day's journey from Boston, --at the doorstone ofthe low, broad-roofed, wide-built, roomy old farm-house inHomesworth. 

Right in the edge of the town it stood, its fields stretching overthe south slope of green hills in sunny uplands, and down in meadowyrichness to the wild, hidden, sequestered river-side, where thebrown water ran through a narrow, rocky valley, --Swift River theycalled it. There are a great many Swift Rivers in New England. Itwas only a vehement little tributary of a larger stream, besidewhich lay larger towns; it was doing no work for the world, apparently, at present; there were no mills, except a littlegrist-mill to which the farmers brought their corn, cuddled amongthe rocks and wild birches and alders, at a turn where the road camedown, and half a dozen planks made a bit of a bridge. 

"O, what beautiful places!" cried Frank, as they crossed the littlebridge, and glanced either way into a green, gray, silvery vista ofshrubs and rocks, and rushing water, with the white spires ofmeadow-sweet and the pink hardback, and the first bright plumes ofthe golden rod nodding and shining against the shade, --as theypassed the head of a narrow, grassy lane, trod by cows' feet, andsmelling of their milky breaths, and the sweetness of hay-barns, --asthey came up, at length, over the long slope of turf that carpetedthe way, as for a bride's feet, from the roadside to the verythreshold. She looked along the low, treble-piled garden wall, too, and out to the open sheds, deep with pine chips; and upon the broadbrown house-roof, with its long, gradual decline, till its eaveswere within reach of a child's fingers from the ground; and herquick eye took in facilities. 

"O, if Laura could see this! After the old shed-top in Brier Street, and the one tree!"

But Laura had got what the shed-top stood for with her; it wasFrank who had hearkened to whole forests in the stir of the onebrick-rooted fir. To that which each child had, it was alreadygiven. 

In a week or two Frank wrote Laura a letter. It was an old-fashionedletter, you know; a big sheet, written close, four pages, all but the middle of the last page, which was left for the"superscription. " Then it was folded, the first leaf turned downtwice, lengthwise; then the two ends laid over, toward each other;then the last doubling, or rather trebling, across; and the openedge slipped over the folds. A wafer sealed it, and a thimblepressed it, --and there were twenty-five cents postage to pay. Thatwas a letter in the old times, when Laura and Frank Shiere werelittle girls. And this was that letter:--

 DEAR LAURA, --We got here safe, Aunt Oldways and I, a week ago last Saturday, and it is _beautiful_. There is a green lane, --almost everybody has a green lane, --and the cows go up and down, and the swallows build in the barn-eaves. They fly out at sundown, and fill all the sky up. It is like the specks we used to watch in the sunshine when it came in across the kitchen, and they danced up and down and through and away, and seemed to be live things; only we couldn't tell, you know, what they were, or if they really did know how good it was. But these are big and real, and you can see their wings, and you know what they mean by it. I guess it is all the same thing, only some things are little and some are big. You can see the stars here, too, --such a sky full. And that is all the same again. 

 There are beautiful roofs and walls here. I guess you would think you were high up! Harett and I go up from under the cheese-room windows right over the whole house, and we sit on the peak by the chimney. Harett is Mrs. Dillon's girl. Not the girl that lives with her, --her daughter. But the girls that live with people are daughters here. Somebody's else, I mean. They are all alike. I suppose her name is Harriet, but they all call her Harett. I don't like to ask her for fear she should think I thought they didn't know how to pronounce. 

 I go to school with Harett; up to the West District. We carry brown bread and butter, and doughnuts, and cheese, and apple-pie in tin pails, for luncheon. Don't you remember the brown cupboard in Aunt Oldways' kitchen, how sagey, and doughnutty, and good it always smelt? It smells just so now, and everything tastes just the same. 

 There is a great rock under an oak tree half way up to school, by the side of the road. We always stop there to rest, coming home. Three of the girls come the same way as far as that, and we always save some of our dinner to eat up there, and we tell stories. I tell them about dancing-school, and the time we went to the theatre to see "Cinderella, " and going shopping with mother, and our little tea-parties, and the Dutch dolls we made up in the long front chamber. O, _don't_ you remember, Laura? What different pieces we have got into our remembrances already! I feel as if I was making patchwork. Some-time, may-be, I shall tell somebody about living _here_. Well, they will be beautiful stories! Homesworth is an elegant place to live in. You will see when you come next summer. 

 There is an apple tree down in the south orchard that bends just like a horse's back. Then the branches come up over your head and shade you. We ride there, and we sit and eat summer apples there. Little rosy apples with dark streaks in them all warm with the sun. You can't think what a smell they have, just like pinks and spice boxes. Why don't they keep a little way off from each other in cities, and so have room for apple trees? I don't see why they need to crowd so. I hate to think of you all shut up tight when I am let right out into green grass, and blue sky, and apple orchards. That puts me in mind of something! Zebiah Jane, Aunt Oldways' girl, always washes her face in the morning at the pump-basin out in the back dooryard, just like the ducks. She says she can't spatter round in a room; she wants all creation for a slop-bowl. I feel as if we had all creation for everything up here. But I can't put all creation in a letter if I try. _That_ would spatter dreadfully. 

 I expect a long letter from you every day now. But I don't see what you will make it out of. I think I have got all the _things_ and you won't have anything left but the _words_. I am sure you don't sit out on the wood-shed at Aunt Oferr's, and I don't believe you pound stones and bricks, and make colors. Do you know when we rubbed our new shoes with pounded stone and made them gray?

 I never told you about Luclarion. She came up as soon as the things were all sent off, and she lives at the minister's. Where she used to live is only two miles from here, but other people live there now, and it is built on to and painted straw color, with a green door. 

 Your affectionate sister, FRANCES SHIERE. 

When Laura's letter came this was it:--

 DEAR FRANK, --I received your kind letter a week ago, but we have been very busy having a dressmaker and doing all our fall shopping, and I have not had time to answer it before. We shall begin to go to school next week, for the vacations are over, and then I shall have ever so much studying to do. I am to take lessons on the piano, too, and shall have to practice two hours a day. In the winter we shall have dancing-school and practicing parties. Aunt has had a new bonnet made for me. She did not like the plain black silk one. This is of _gros d'Afrique_, with little bands and cordings round the crown and front; and I have a dress of _gros d'Afrique_, too, trimmed with double folds piped on. For every-day I have a new black _mousseline_ with white clover leaves on it, and an all-black French chally to wear to dinner. I don't wear my black and white calico at all. Next summer aunt means to have me wear white almost all the time, with lavender and violet ribbons. I shall have a white muslin with three skirts and a black sash to wear to parties and to Public Saturdays, next winter. They have Public Saturdays at dancing-school every three weeks. But only the parents and relations can come. Alice and Geraldine dance the shawl-dance with Helena Pomeroy, with crimson and white Canton crape scarfs. They have showed me some of it at home. Aunt Oferr says I shall learn the _gavotte_. 

 Aunt Oferr's house is splendid. The drawing-room is full of sofas, and divans, and ottomans, and a _causeuse_, a little S-shaped seat for two people. Everything is covered with blue velvet, and there are blue silk curtains to the windows, and great looking-glasses between, that you can see all down into through rooms and rooms, as if there were a hundred of them. Do you remember the story Luclarion used to tell us of when she and her brother Mark were little children and used to play that the looking-glass-things were real, and that two children lived in them, in the other room, and how we used to make believe too in the slanting chimney glass? You could make believe it here with _forty_ children. But I don't make believe much now. There is such a lot that is real, and it is all so grown up. It would seem so silly to have such plays, you know. I can't help thinking the things that come into my head though, and it seems sometimes just like a piece of a story, when I walk into the drawing-room all alone, just before company comes, with my _gros d'Afrique_ on, and my puffed lace collar, and my hair tied back with long new black ribbons. It all goes through my head just how I look coming in, and how grand it is, and what the words would be in a book about it, and I seem to act a little bit, just to myself as if I were a girl in a story, and it seems to say, "And Laura walked up the long drawing-room and took a book bound in crimson morocco from the white marble pier table and sat down upon the velvet ottoman in the balcony window. " But what happened then it never tells. I suppose it will by and by. I am getting used to it all, though; it isn't so _awfully_ splendid as it was at first. 

 I forgot to tell you that my new bonnet flares a great deal, and that I have white lace quilling round the face with little black dotty things in it on stems. They don't wear those close cottage bonnets now. And aunt has had my dresses made longer and my pantalettes shorter, so that they hardly show at all. She says I shall soon wear long dresses, I am getting so tall. Alice wears them now, and her feet look so pretty, and she has such pretty slippers: little French purple ones, and sometimes dark green, and sometimes beautiful light gray, to go with different dresses. I don't care for anything but the slippers, but I _should_ like such ones as hers. Aunt says I can't, of course, as long as I wear black, but I can have purple ones next summer to wear with my white dresses. That will be when I come to see you. 

 I am afraid you will think this is a very _wearing_ kind of a letter, there are so many 'wears' in it. I have been reading it over so far, but I can't put in any other word. 

 Your affectionate sister, LAURA SHIERE. 

 P. S. Aunt Oferr says Laura Shiere is such a good sounding name. It doesn't seem at all common. I am glad of it. I should hate to be common. 

I do not think I shall give you any more of it just here than thesetwo letters tell. We are not going through all Frank and Laura'sstory. That with which we have especially to do lies on beyond. Butit takes its roots in this, as all stories take their roots far backand underneath. 

Two years after, Laura was in Homesworth for her second summer visitat the farm. It was convenient, while the Oferrs were at Saratoga. Mrs. Oferr was very much occupied now, of course, with introducingher own daughters. A year or two later, she meant to give Laura aseason at the Springs. "All in turn, my dear, and good time, " shesaid. 

The winter before, Frank had been a few weeks in New York. But ittired her dreadfully, she said. She liked the theatres and theconcerts, and walking out and seeing the shops. But there was "noplace to get out of it into. " It didn't seem as if she ever reallygot home and took off her things. She told Laura it was like thatfirst old letter of hers; it was just "wearing, " all the time. 

Laura laughed. "But how can you live _without_ wearing?" said she. 

Frank stood by, wondering, while Laura unpacked her trunks thatmorning after her second arrival at Aunt Oldways'. She had done noweven with the simplicity of white and violet, and her wardrobeblossomed out like the flush of a summer garden. 

She unfolded a rose-colored muslin, with little raised embroideredspots, and threw it over the bed. 

"Where _will_ you wear that, up here?" asked Frank, in purebewilderment. 

"Why, I wear it to church, with my white Swiss mantle, " answeredLaura. "Or taking tea, or anything. I've a black silk _visite_ forcool days. That looks nice with it. And see here, --I've a pinksunshade. They don't have them much yet, even in New York. Mr. Pemberton Oferr brought these home from Paris, for Gerry and Alice, and me. Gerry's is blue. See! it tips back. " And Laura set the dashylittle thing with its head on one side, and held it up coquettishly. 

"They used them in carriages in Paris, he said, and in St. Petersburg, driving out on the Nevskoi Prospekt. "

"But where are your common things?"

"Down at the bottom; I haven't come to them. They were put in first, because they would bear squeezing. I've two French calicoes, withpattern trimmings; and a lilac jaconet, with ruffles, open down thefront. "

Laura wore long dresses now; and open wrappers were the height ofthe style. 

Laura astonished Homesworth the first Sunday of this visit, with herrose-colored toilet. Bonnet of shirred pink silk with moss rosebudsand a little pink lace veil; the pink muslin, full-skirted over twostarched petticoats; even her pink belt had gay little borders oftiny buds and leaves, and her fan had a pink tassel. 

"They're the things I wear; why shouldn't I?" she said to Frank'sremonstrance. 

"But up here!" said Frank. "It would seem nicer to wearsomething--stiller. "

So it would; a few years afterward Laura herself would have seenthat it was more elegant; though Laura Shiere was always rathergiven to doing the utmost--in apparel--that the occasion tolerated. Fashions grew stiller in years after. But this June Sunday, somewhere in the last thirties or the first forties, she went intothe village church like an Aurora, and the village long rememberedthe resplendence. Frank had on a white cambric dress, with a realrose in the bosom, cool and fresh, with large green leaves; and her"cottage straw" was trimmed with white lutestring, crossed over thecrown. 

"Do you feel any better?" asked Aunt Oldways of Laura, when theycame home to the country tea-dinner. 

"Better--how?" asked Laura, in surprise. 

"After all that 'wear' and _stare_, " said Aunt Oldways, quietly. 

Aunt Oldways might have been astonished, but she was by no meansawestruck, evidently; and Aunt Oldways generally spoke her mind. 

Somehow, with Laura Shiere, pink was pinker, and ribbons were morerustling than with most people. Upon some quiet unconscious folks, silk makes no spread, and color little show; with Laura every gleamtold, every fibre asserted itself. It was the live Aurora, bristlingand tingling to its farthest electric point. She did not toss orflaunt, either; she had learned better of Signor Pirotti how tocarry herself; but she was in conscious _rapport_ with every thingand stitch she had about her. Some persons only put clothes on totheir bodies; others really seem to contrive to put them on to theirsouls. 

Laura Shiere came up to Homesworth three years later, with somethingmore wonderful than a pink embossed muslin:--she had a lover. 

Mrs. Oferr and her daughters were on their way to the mountains;Laura was to be left with the Oldways. Grant Ledwith accompaniedthem all thus far on their way; then he had to go back to Boston. 

"I can't think of anything but that pink sunshade she used to carryround canted all to one side over her shoulder, " said Aunt Oldways, looking after them down the dusty road the morning that he wentaway. Laura, in her white dress and her straw hat and her sillylittle bronze-and-blue-silk slippers printing the roadside gravel, leaning on Grant Ledwith's arm, seemed only to have gained a fresh, graceful adjunct to set off her own pretty goings and comings with, and to heighten the outside interest of that little point ofeternity that she called her life. Mr. Ledwith was not so much a manwho had won a woman, as Laura was a girl who had "got a beau. "

She had sixteen tucked and trimmed white skirts, too, she toldFrank; she should have eight more before she was married; peoplewore ever so many skirts now, at a time. She had been to a party alittle while ago where she wore _seven_. 

There were deep French embroidery bands around some of these whiteskirts; those were beautiful for morning dresses. Geraldine Oferrwas married last winter; Laura had been her bridesmaid; Gerry had awhite brocade from Paris, and a point-lace veil. She had three dozenof everything, right through. They had gone to housekeeping up town, in West Sixteenth Street. Frank would have to come to New York nextwinter, or in the spring, to be _her_ bridesmaid; then she wouldsee; then--who knew!

Frank was only sixteen, and she lived away up here in Homesworthamong the hills; she had not "seen, " but she had her own littlesecret, for all that; something she neither told nor thought, yetwhich was there; and it came across her with a queer little thrillfrom the hidden, unlooked-at place below thought, that "Who"_didn't_ know. 

Laura waited a year for Grant Ledwith's salary to be raised tomarrying point; he was in a wholesale woolen house in Boston; he wasa handsome fellow, with gentlemanly and taking address, --capital, this, for a young salesman; and they put his pay up to two thousanddollars within that twelvemonth. Upon this, in the spring, theymarried; took a house in Filbert Street, down by the river, and setup their little gods. These were: a sprinkle of black walnut andbrocatelle in the drawing-room, a Sheffield-plate tea-service, and acrimson-and-giltedged dinner set that Mrs. Oferr gave them; twilledturkey-red curtains, that looked like thibet, in the best chamber;and the twenty-four white skirts and the silk dresses, and whatevercorresponded to them on the bride-groom's part, in their wardrobes. All that was left of Laura's money, and all that was given them byGrant Ledwith's father, and Mr. Titus Oldways' astounding present ofthree hundred dollars, without note or comment, --the first reminderthey had had of him since Edward Shiere's funeral, "and goodnessknew how he heard anything now, " Aunt Oferr said, --had gone to thisoutfit. But they were well set up and started in the world; soeverybody said, and so they, taking the world into their young, confident hands for a plaything, not knowing it for the perilousloaded shell it is, thought, merrily, themselves. 

Up in Homesworth people did not have to wait for two thousand dollarsalaries. They would not get them if they did. 

Oliver Ripwinkley, the minister's son, finished his medical studiesand city hospital practice that year, and came back, as he hadalways said he should do, to settle down for a country doctor. OldDoctor Parrish, the parson's friend of fifty years, with no child ofhis own, kept the place for Oliver, and hung up his old-fashionedsaddle-bags in the garret the very day the young man came home. Hewas there to be "called in, " however, and with this backing, and theperforce of there being nobody else, young Doctor Ripwinkley had tenpatients within the first week; thereby opportunity for shewinghimself in the eyes of ten families as a young man who "appeared toknow pretty well what he was about. "

So that when he gave further proof of the same, by asking, withinthe week that followed, the prettiest girl in Homesworth, FrancesShiere, to come and begin the world with him at Mile Hill village, nobody, not even Frank herself, was astonished. 

She bought three new gowns, a shawl, a black silk mantle, and astraw bonnet. She made six each of every pretty white garment that awoman wears; and one bright mellow evening in September, they tooktheir first tea in the brown-carpeted, white-shaded little cornerroom in the old "Rankin house;" a bigger place than they reallywanted yet, and not all to be used at first; but rented"reasonable, " central, sunshiny, and convenient; a place that theyhoped they should buy sometime; facing on the broad sidegreen of thevillage street, and running back, with its field and meadowbelongings, away to the foot of great, gray, sheltering Mile Hill. 

And the vast, solemn globe, heedless of what lit here or there uponits breadth, or took up this or that life in its little frecklingcities, or between the imperceptible foldings of its hills, --onlycarrying way-passengers for the centuries, --went plunging on itstrack, around and around, and swept them all, a score of times, through its summer and its winter solstices. 

IV. 

AFTERWARDS IS A LONG TIME. 

Old Mr. Marmaduke Wharne had come down from Outledge, in themountains, on his way home to New York. He had stopped in Boston toattend to some affairs of his own, --if one can call them so, sinceMarmaduke Wharne never had any "own" affairs that did not chieflyconcern, to their advantage, somebody else, --in which his friend Mr. Titus Oldways was interested, not personally, but Wharne fashion. Now, reader, you know something about Mr. Titus Oldways, which up tothis moment, only God, and Marmaduke Wharne, and Rachel Froke, whokept Mr. Oldways' house, and wore a Friend's drab dress and whitecap, and said "Titus, " and "Marmaduke" to the two old gentlemen, and"thee" and "thou" to everybody, --have ever known. In a general wayand relation, I mean; separate persons knew particular things; buteach separate person thought the particular thing he knew to be awhimsical exception. 

Mr. Oldways did not belong to any church: but he had an EnglishPrayer-book under his Bible on his study table, and Baxter andFenelon and à Kempis and "Wesley's Hymns, " and Swedenborg's "Heavenand Hell" and "Arcana Celestia, " and Lowell's "Sir Launfal, " andDickens's "Christmas Carol, " all on the same set of shelves, --thatheld, he told Marmaduke, his religion; or as much of it as he couldget together. And he had this woman, who was a Friend, and whowalked by the Inner Light, and in outer charity, if ever a womandid, to keep his house. "For, " said he, "the blessed truth is, thatthe Word of God is in the world. Alive in it. When you know that, and wherever you can get hold of his souls, then and there you'vegot your religion, --a piece at a time. To prove and sort yourpieces, and to straighten the tangle you might otherwise get into, there's _this_, " and he laid his hand down on the Four Gospels, bound in white morocco, with a silver cross upon the cover, --avolume that no earthly creature, again, knew of, save Titus andMarmaduke and Rachel Froke, who laid it into a drawer when she sweptand dusted, and placed it between the crimson folds of its quiltedsilken wrapper when she had finished, burnishing the silver crossgently with a scrap of chamois leather cut from a clean piece everytime. There was nothing else delicate and exquisite in all the plainand grim establishment; and the crimson wrapper was comfortablyworn, and nobody would notice it, lying on the table there, with analmanac, a directory, the big, open Worcester's Dictionary, and thescattered pamphlets and newspapers of the day. 

Out in the world, Titus Oldways went about with visor down. 

He gave to no fairs nor public charities; "let them get all theycould that way, it wasn't his way, " he said to Rachel Froke. Theworld thought he gave nothing, either of purse or life. 

There was a plan they had together, --he and Marmaduke Wharne, --thisgirls' story-book will not hold the details nor the idea ofit, --about a farm they owned, and people working it that could gonowhere else to work anything; and a mill-privilege that might beutilized and expanded, to make--not money so much as safe and honesthuman life by way of making money; and they sat and talked this planover, and settled its arrangements, in the days that MarmadukeWharne was staying on in Boston, waiting for his other friend, MissCraydocke, who had taken the River Road down from Outledge, and socome round by Z----, where she was staying a few days with theGoldthwaites and the Inglesides. Miss Craydocke had a share or twoin the farm and in the mill. 

And now, Titus Oldways wanted to know of Marmaduke Wharne what hewas to do for Afterwards. 

It was a question that had puzzled and troubled him. Afterwards. 

"While I live, " he said, "I will do what I can, and _as_ I can. Iwill hand over my doing, and the wherewith, to no society orcorporation. I'll pay no salaries nor circumlocutions. Neither willI--afterwards. And how is my money going to work on?"

"_Your_ money?"

"Well, --God's money. "

"How did it work when it came to you?"

Mr. Oldways was silent. 

"He chose to send it to you. He made it in the order of things thatit should come to you. You began, yourself, to work for money. Youdid not understand, then, that the money would be from God and wasfor Him. "

"He made me understand. "

"Yes. He looked out for that part of it too. He can look out for itagain. His word shall not return unto him void. "

"He has given me this, though, to pass on; and I will not put itinto a machine. I want to give some living soul a body for itsliving. Dead charities are dead. It's of no use to will it to you, Marmaduke; I'm as likely to stay on, perhaps, as you are. "

"And the youngest life might drop, the day after your own. You can'ttake it out of God's hand. "

"I must either let it go by law, or will it--here and there. I knowenough whom it would help; but I want to invest, not spend it; toinvest it in a life--or lives--that will carry it on from where Ileave it. How shall I know?"

"He giveth it a body as it pleaseth Him, " quoted Marmaduke Wharne, thoughtfully. "I am English, you know, Oldways; I can't helpreverencing the claims of next of kin. Unless one is plainly shownotherwise, it seems the appointment. How can we set aside his waysuntil He clearly points us out his own exception?"

"My 'next' are two women whom I don't know, my niece's children. Shedied thirty years ago. "

"Perhaps you ought to know them. "

"I know _about_ them; I've kept the run; but I've held clear offamily. They didn't need me, and I had no right to put it into theirheads they did, unless I fully meant"--

He broke off. 

"They're like everybody else, Wharne; neither better nor worse, Idare say; but the world is full of just such women. How do I knowthis money would be well in their hands--even for themselves?"

"Find out. "

"One of 'em was brought up by an Oferr woman!"

The tone in which he _commonized_ the name to a satiric generalterm, is not to be written down, and needed not to be interpreted. 

"The other is well enough, " he went on, "and contented enough. A doctor's widow, with a little property, a farm and twochildren, --her older ones died very young, --up in New Hampshire. Imight spoil _her_; and the other, --well, you see as I said, I _don'tknow_. "

"Find out, " said Marmaduke Wharne, again. 

"People are not found out till they are tried. "

"Try 'em!"

Mr. Oldways had been sitting with his head bent, thoughtfully, hiseyes looking down, his hands on the two stiff, old-fashioned arms ofhis chair. At this last spondaic response from Marmaduke, he liftedhis eyes and eyebrows, --not his head, --and raised himself slightlywith his two hands pressing on the chair arms; the keen glance andthe half-movement were impulsively toward his friend. 

"Eh?" said he. 

"Try 'em, " repeated Marmaduke Wharne. "Give God's way a chance. "

Mr. Oldways, seated back in his chair again, looked at him intently;made a little vibration, as it were, with his body, that moved hishead up and down almost imperceptibly, with a kind of gradualassenting apprehension, and kept utterly silent. 

So, their talk being palpably over for this time, Marmaduke Wharnegot up presently to go. They nodded at each other, friendlily, as helooked back from the door. 

Left alone, Mr. Titus Oldways turned in his swivel-chair, around tohis desk beside which he was sitting. 

"Next of kin?" he repeated to himself. "God's way?--Well! Afterwardsis a long time. A man must give it up somewhere. Everything escheatsto the king at last. "

And he took a pen in his hand and wrote a letter. 

V. 

HOW THE NEWS CAME TO HOMESWORTH. 

"I wish I lived in the city, and had a best friend, " said HazelRipwinkley to Diana, as they sat together on the long, red, slopingkitchen roof under the arches of the willow-tree, hemming towels fortheir afternoon "stent. " They did this because their mother sat onthe shed roof under the fir, when she was a child, and had told themof it. Imagination is so much greater than fact, that thesechildren, who had now all that little Frank Shiere had dreamed ofwith the tar smell and the gravel stones and the one tree, --whomight run free in the wide woods and up the breezy hillsides, --likedbest of all to get out on the kitchen roof and play "old times, " andgo back into their mother's dream. 

"I wish I lived in a block of houses, and could see across thecorner into my best friend's room when she got up in the morning!"

"And could have that party!" said Diana. 

"Think of the clean, smooth streets, with red sidewalks, and peopleliving all along, door after door! I like things set in rows, andpeople having places, like the desks at school. Why, you've got togo way round Sand Hill to get to Elizabeth Ann Dorridon's. I shouldlike to go up steps, and ring bells!"

"I don't know, " said Diana, slowly. "I think birds that build littlenests about anywhere in the cunning, separate places, in the woods, or among the bushes, have the best time. "

"Birds, Dine! It ain't birds, it's people! What has that to do withit?"

"I mean I think nests are better than martin-boxes. "

"Let's go in and get her to tell us that story. She's in the roundroom. "

The round room was a half ellipse, running in against the curve ofthe staircase. It was a bit of a place, with the window at one end, and the bow at the other. It had been Doctor Ripwinkley's office, and Mrs. Ripwinkley sat there with her work on summer afternoons. The door opened out, close at the front, upon a great flat stone inan angle, where was also entrance into the hall by the house-door, at the right hand. The door of the office stood open, and across thestone one could look down, between a range of lilac bushes and theparlor windows, through a green door-yard into the street. 

"Now, Mother Frank, tell us about the party!"

They called her "Mother Frank" when they wished to be particularlycoaxing. They had taken up their father's name for her, with theirown prefix, when they were very little ones, before he went away andleft nobody to call her Frank, every day, any more. 

"That same little old story? Won't you ever be tired of it, --yougreat girls?" asked the mother; for she had told it to them eversince they were six and eight years old. 

"Yes! No, never!" said the children. 

For how _should_ they outgrow it? It was a sunny little bit out oftheir mother's own child-life. We shall go back to smaller things, one day, maybe, and find them yet more beautiful. It is the _going_back, together. 

"The same old way?"

"Yes; the very same old way. "

"We had little open-work straw hats and muslin pelisses, --your AuntLaura and I, "--began Mrs. Ripwinkley, as she had begun all thosescores of times before. "Mother put them on for us, --she dressed usjust alike, always, --and told us to take each other's hands, and goup Brier and down Hickory streets, and stop at all the houses thatshe named, and that we knew; and we were to give her love andcompliments, and ask the mothers in each house, --Mrs. Dayton, andMrs. Holridge (she lived up the long steps), and Mrs. Waldow, andthe rest of them, to let Caroline and Grace and Fanny and Susan, andthe rest of _them_, come at four o'clock, to spend the afternoon andtake tea, if it was convenient. "

"O, mother!" said Hazel, "you didn't say that when you _asked_people, you know. "

"O, no!" said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "That was when we went to stop alittle while ourselves, without being asked. Well, it was to pleaseto let them come. And all the ladies were at home, because it wasonly ten o'clock; and they all sent their love and compliments, andthey were much obliged, and the little girls would be very happy. 

"It was a warm June day; up Brier Street was a steep walk; downHickory we were glad to keep on the shady side, and thought it wasnice that Mrs. Bemys and Mrs. Waldow lived there. The strings of ourhats were very moist and clinging when we got home, and Laura had ablue mark under her chin from the green ribbon. 

"Mother was in her room, in her white dimity morning gown, withlittle bows up the front, the ends trimmed with cambric edging. Shetook off our hats and our pelisses, --the tight little sleeves cameoff wrong side out, --sponged our faces with cool water, and brushedout Laura's curls. That was the only difference between us. Ihadn't any curls, and my hair had to be kept cropped. Then she wentto her upper bureau drawer and took out two little paper boxes. 

"'Something has come for Blanche and Clorinda, since you have beengone, ' she said, smiling. 'I suppose you have been shopping?' Wetook the paper boxes, laughing back at her with a happyunderstanding. We were used to these little plays of mother's, andshe couldn't really surprise us with her kindnesses. We went and satdown in the window-seat, and opened them as deliberately and in asgrown-up a way as we could. Inside them were two little lacepelerines lined with rose-colored silk. The boxes had a faint smellof musk. The things were so much better for coming in boxes! Motherknew that. 

"Well, we dressed our dolls, and it was a great long sunshinyforenoon. Mother and Luclarion had done something in the kitchen, and there was a smell of sweet baking in the house. Every now andthen we sniffed, and looked at each other, and at mother, andlaughed. After dinner we had on our white French calicoes with bluesprigs, and mother said she should take a little nap, and we mightgo into the parlor and be ready for our company. She always let usreceive our own company ourselves at first. And exactly at fouro'clock the door-bell rang, and they began to come. 

"Caroline and Fanny Dayton had on white cambric dresses, and greenkid slippers. That was being very much dressed, indeed. Lucy Waldowwore a pink lawn, and Grace Holridge a buff French print. SusanBemys said her little sister couldn't come because they couldn'tfind her best shoes. Her mother thought she had thrown them out ofthe window. 

"When they all got there we began to play 'Lady Fair;' and we hadjust got all the 'lady fairs, ' one after another, into our ring, andwere dancing and singing up and down and round and round, when thedoor opened and mother walked in. 

"We always thought our mother was the prettiest of any of the girls'mothers. She had such bright shining hair, and she put it up withshell combs into such little curly puffs. And she never seemed fussyor old, but she came in among us with such a beautiful, smiling way, as if she knew beforehand that it was all right, and there was nodanger of any mischief, or that we shouldn't behave well, but sheonly wanted to see the good time. That day she had on a white muslindress with little purple flowers on it, and a bow of purple ribbonright in the side of her hair. She had a little piece of fine workin her hand, and after she had spoken to all the little girls andasked them how their mothers were, she went and sat down in one ofthe front windows, and made little scollops and eyelets. I rememberher long ivory stiletto, with a loop of green ribbon through thehead of it, and the sharp, tiny, big-bowed scissors that lay in herlap, and the bright, tapering silver thimble on her finger. 

"Pretty soon the door opened again, softly; a tray appeared, withHannah behind it. On the tray were little glass saucers withconfectionery in them; old-fashioned confectionery, --gibraltars, andcolored caraways, and cockles with mottoes. We were in the middle of'So says the Grand Mufti, ' and Grace Holridge was the Grand Mufti. Hannah went up to her first, as she stood there alone, and Gracetook a saucer and held it up before the row of us, and said, '_Thus_says the Grand Mufti!' and then she bit a red gibraltar, andeverybody laughed. She did it so quickly and so prettily, puttingit right into the play. It was good of her not to say, '_So_ saysthe Grand Mufti. ' At least we thought so then, though Susan Bemyssaid it would have been funnier. 

"We had a great many plays in those days, and it took a longafternoon to get through with them. We had not begun to wonder whatwe should do next, when tea time came, and we went down into thebasement room. It wasn't tea, though; it was milk in little clear, pink mugs, some that mother only had out for our parties, and coldwater in crimped-edge glasses, and little biscuits, andsponge-cakes, and small round pound-cakes frosted. These were whathad smelt so good in the morning. 

"We stood round the table; there was not room for all of us to sit, and mother helped us, and Hannah passed things round. Susan Bemystook cake three times, and Lucy Waldow opened her eyes wide, andFanny Dayton touched me softly under the table. 

"After tea mother played and sung some little songs to us; and thenshe played the 'Fisher's Hornpipe' and 'Money Musk, ' and we danced alittle contra-dance. The girls did not all know cotillons, and someof them had not begun to go to dancing-school. Father came home andhad his tea after we had done ours, and then he came up into theparlor and watched us dancing. Mr. Dayton came in, too. At abouthalf past eight some of the other fathers called, and some of themothers sent their girls, and everybody was fetched away. It wasnine o'clock when Laura and I went to bed, and we couldn't go tosleep until after the clock struck ten, for thinking and saying whata beautiful time we had had, and anticipating how the girls wouldtalk it all over next day at school. That, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, when she had finished, "was the kind of a party we used to have inBoston when I was a little girl. I don't know what the little girlshave now. "

"Boston!" said Luclarion, catching the last words as she came in, with her pink cape bonnet on, from the Homesworth variety andfinding store, and post-office. "You'll talk them children off toBoston, finally, Mrs. Ripwinkley! Nothing ever tugs so at one end, but there's something tugging at the other; and there's never a hintnor a hearing to anybody, that something more doesn't turn upconcerning it. Here's a letter, Mrs. Ripwinkley!"

Mrs. Ripwinkley took it with some surprise. It was not her sister'shandwriting nor Mr. Ledwith's, on the cover; and she rarely had aletter from them that was posted in Boston, now. They had beenliving at a place out of town for several years. Mrs. Ledwith knewbetter than to give her letters to her husband for posting. They gotlost in his big wallet, and stayed there till they grew old. 

Who should write to Mrs. Ripwinkley, after all these years, fromBoston?

She looked up at Luclarion, and smiled. "It didn't take a Solomon, "said she, pointing to the postmark. 

"No, nor yet a black smooch, with only four letters plain, on aninvelup. 'Taint that, it's the drift of things. Those girls have gotBoston in their minds as hard and fast as they've got heaven; and Imistrust mightily they'll get there first somehow!"

The girls were out of hearing, as she said this; they had got theirstory, and gone back to their red roof and their willow tree. 

"Why, Luclarion!" exclaimed Mrs. Ripwinkley, as she drew out andunfolded the letter sheet. "It's from Uncle Titus Oldways. "

"Then he ain't dead, " remarked Luclarion, and went away into thekitchen. 

 "MY DEAR FRANCES, --I am seventy-eight years old. It is time I got acquainted with some of my relations. I've had other work to do in the world heretofore (at least I thought I had), and so, I believe, have they. But I have a wish now to get you and your sister to come and live nearer to me, that we may find out whether we really are anything to each other or not. It seems natural, I suppose, that we might be; but kinship doesn't all run in the veins. 

 "I do not ask you to do this with reference to any possible intentions of mine that might concern you after my death; my wish is to do what is right by you, in return for your consenting to my pleasure in the matter, while I am alive. It will cost you more to live in Boston than where you do now, and I have no business to expect you to break up and come to a new home unless I can make it an object to you in some way. You can do some things for your children here that you could not do in Homesworth. I will give you two thousand dollars a year to live on, and secure the same to you if I die. I have a house here in Aspen Street, not far from where I live myself, which I will give to either of you that it may suit. That you can settle between you when you come. It is rather a large house, and Mrs. Ledwith's family is larger, I think, than yours. The estate is worth ten thousand dollars, and I will give the same sum to the one who prefers, to put into a house elsewhere. I wish you to reckon this as all you are ever to expect from me, except the regard I am willing to believe I may come to have for you. I shall look to hear from you by the end of the week. 

 "I remain, yours truly, "TITUS OLDWAYS. "

"Luclarion!" cried Mrs. Ripwinkley, with excitement, "come here andhelp me think!"

"Only four days to make my mind up in, " she said again, whenLuclarion had read the letter through. 

Luclarion folded it and gave it back. 

"It won't take God four days to think, " she answered quietly; "andyou can ask _Him_ in four minutes. You and I can talk afterwards. "And Luclarion got up and went away a second time into the kitchen. 

That night, after Diana and Hazel were gone to bed, their mother andLuclarion Grapp had some last words about it, sitting by thewhite-scoured kitchen table, where Luclarion had just done mixingbread and covered it away for rising. Mrs. Ripwinkley was apt tocome out and talk things over at this time of the kneading. Shecould get more from Luclarion then than at any other opportunity. Perhaps that was because Miss Grapp could not walk off from thebread-trough; or it might be that there was some sympathy betweenthe mixing of her flour and yeast into a sweet and livelyperfection, and the bringing of her mental leaven wholesomely tobear. 

"It looks as if it were meant, Luclarion, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, atlast. "And just think what it will be for the children. "

"I guess it's meant fast enough, " replied Luclarion. "But as forwhat it will be for the children, --why, that's according to what youall make of it. And that's the stump. "

Luclarion Grapp was fifty-four years old; but her views of life wereprecisely the same that they had been at twenty-eight. 

VI. 

AND. 

There is a piece of Z----, just over the river, that they call"And. "

It began among the school-girls; Barbara Holabird had christened it, with the shrewdness and mischief of fourteen years old. She said the"and-so-forths" lived there. 

It was a little supplementary neighborhood; an after-growth, comingup with the railroad improvements, when they got a freight stationestablished on that side for the East Z---- mills. "After Z----, what should it be but 'And?'" Barbara Holabird wanted to know. Thepeople who lived there called it East Square; but what differencedid that make?

It was two miles Boston-ward from Z---- centre, where the downtrains stopped first; that was five minutes gained in the timebetween it and the city. Land was cheap at first, and sure to comeup in value; so there were some streets laid out at right angles, and a lot of houses put up after a pattern, as if they had all beenturned out of blanc-mange moulds, and there was "East Square. " Thenpeople began by-and-by to build for themselves, and a little varietyand a good deal of ambition came in. They had got to French roofsnow; this was just before the day of the multitudinous little papercollar-boxes with beveled covers, that are set down everywhere now, and look as if they could be lifted up by the chimneys, any time, and be carried off with a thumb and finger. Two and a half storyhouses, Mansarded, looked grand; and the East Square people thoughtnothing slight of themselves, though the "old places" and the realZ---- families were all over on West Hill. 

Mrs. Megilp boarded in And for the summer. 

"Since Oswald had been in business she couldn't go far from thecars, you know; and Oswald had a boat on the river, and he andGlossy enjoyed that so much. Besides, she had friends in Z----, which made it pleasant; and she was tired, for her part, of crowdsand fashion. All she wanted was a quiet country place. She knew theGoldthwaites and the Haddens; she had met them one year atJefferson. "

Mrs. Megilp had found out that she could get larger rooms in Andthan she could have at the mountains or the sea-shore, and at halfthe price; but this she did not mention. Yet there was nothingshabby in it, except her carefully _not_ mentioning it. 

Mrs. Megilp was Mrs. Grant Ledwith's chief intimate and counselor. She was a good deal the elder; that was why it was mutuallyadvantageous. Grant Ledwith was one of the out-in-the-world, up-to-the-times men of the day; the day in which everything isgoing, and everybody that is in active life has, somehow or other, all that is going. Grant Ledwith got a good salary, an inflatedcurrency salary; and he spent it all. His daughters were growing up, and they were stylish and pretty; Mrs. Megilp took a great interestin Agatha and Florence Ledwith, and was always urging their motherto "do them justice. " "Agatha and Florence were girls who had aright to every advantage. " Mrs. Megilp was almost old enough to beLaura Ledwith's mother; she had great experience, and knowledge ofthe world; and she sat behind Laura's conscience and drove it tandemwith her inclination. 

Per contra, it was nice for Mrs. Megilp, who was a widow, and whoseincome did not stretch with the elasticity of the times, to havefriends who lived like the Ledwiths, and who always made herwelcome; it was a good thing for Glossy to be so fond of Agatha andFlorence, and to have them so fond of her. "She needed youngsociety, " her mother said. One reason that Glossy Megilp neededyoung society might be in the fact that she herself was twenty-six. 

Mrs. Megilp had advised the Ledwiths to buy a house in Z----. "Itwas just far enough not to be suburban, but to have a society of itsown; and there _was_ excellent society in Z----, everybody knew. Boston was hard work, nowadays; the distances were getting to be sogreat. " Up to the West and South Ends, --the material distances, --shemeant to be understood to say; but there was an inner sense to Mrs. Megilp's utterances, also. 

"One might as well be quite out of town; and then it was alwayssomething, even in such city connection as one might care to keepup, to hail from a well-recognized social independency; to belong toZ---- was a standing, always. It wasn't like going to Forest Dell, or Lakegrove, or Bellair; cheap little got-up places with fancynames, that were strung out on the railroads like French gilt beadson a chain. "

But for all that, Mrs. Ledwith had only got into "And;" and Mrs. Megilp knew it. 

Laura did not realize it much; she had bowing and speakingacquaintance with the Haddens and the Hendees, and even with theMarchbankses, over on West Hill; and the Goldthwaites and theHolabirds, down in the town, she knew very well. She did not care tocome much nearer; she did not want to be bound by any verystringent and exclusive social limits; it was a bother to keep upto all the demands of such a small, old-established set. Mrs. Hendeewould not notice, far less be impressed by the advent of hernew-style Brussels carpet with a border, or her full, fresh, Nottingham lace curtains, or the new covering of her drawing-roomset with cuir-colored terry. Mrs. Tom Friske and Mrs. Philgry, downhere at East Square, would run in, and appreciate, and admire, andtalk it all over, and go away perhaps breaking the tenth commandmentamiably in their hearts. 

Mrs. Ledwith's nerves had extended since we saw her as a girl; theydid not then go beyond the floating ends of her blue or rose-coloredribbons, or, at furthest, the tip of her jaunty laced sunshade; nowthey ramified, --for life still grows in some direction, --to herchairs, and her china, and her curtains, and her ruffledpillow-shams. Also, savingly, to her children's "suits, " and partydresses, and pic-nic hats, and double button gloves. Savingly; forthere is a leaven of grace in mother-care, even though it beexpended upon these. Her friend, Mrs. Inchdeepe, in Helvellyn Park, with whom she dined when she went shopping in Boston, had _nothing_but her modern improvements and her furniture. "My house is mylife, " she used to say, going round with a Canton crape duster, touching tenderly carvings and inlayings and gildings. 

Mrs. Megilp was spending the day with Laura Ledwith; Glossy was goneto town, and thence down to the sea-shore, with some friends. 

Mrs. Megilp spent a good many days with Laura. She had large, brightrooms at her boarding-house, but then she had very gristly veal piesand thin tapioca puddings for dinner; and Mrs. Megilp's constitutionrequired something more generous. She was apt to happen in at thisseason, when Laura had potted pigeons. A little bird told her; adozen little birds, I mean, with their legs tied together in abunch; for she could see the market wagon from her window, when itturned up Mr. Ledwith's avenue. 

Laura had always the claret pitcher on her dinner table, too; andclaret and water, well-sugared, went deliciously with the savorystew. 

They were up-stairs now, in Laura's chamber; the bed and sofa werecovered with silk and millinery; Laura was looking over the girls'"fall things;" there was a smell of sweet marjoram and thyme andcloves, and general richness coming up from the kitchen; there was abland sense of the goodness of Providence in Mrs. Megilp's--no, notheart, for her heart was not very hungry; but in her eyes andnostrils. 

She was advising Mrs. Ledwith to take Desire and Helena's two greensilks and make them over into one for Helena. 

"You can get two whole back breadths then, by piecing it up underthe sash; and you _can't_ have all those gores again; they are quitedone with. Everybody puts in whole breadths now. There's just asmuch difference in the _way_ of goring a skirt, as there is betweengores and straight selvages. "

"They do hang well, though; they have such a nice slope. "

"Yes, --but the stripes and the seams! Those tell the story six rodsoff; and then there _must_ be sashes, or postillions, or something;they don't make anything without them; there isn't any finish to around waist unless you have something behind. "

"They wore belts last year, and I bought those expensive giltbuckles. I'm sure they used to look sweetly. But there! a fashiondoesn't last nowadays while you're putting a thing on and walkingout of the house!"

"And don't put in more than three plaits, " pursued Mrs. Megilp, intent on the fate of the green silks. "Everything is gathered; yousee that is what requires the sashes; round waists and gathers havea queer look without. "

"If you once begin to alter, you've got to make all over, " said Mrs. Ledwith, a little fractiously, putting the scissors in withunwilling fingers. She knew there was a good four days' work beforeher, and she was quick with her needle, too. 

"Never mind; the making over doesn't cost anything; you turn offwork so easily; and then you've got a really stylish thing. "

"But with all the ripping and remodelling, I don't get time to turnround, myself, and _live_! It is all fall work, and spring work, andsummer work and winter work. One drive rushes pell-mell right overanother. There isn't time enough to make things and have them; thegood of them, I mean. "

"The girls get it; we have to live in our children, " said Mrs. Megilp, self-renouncingly. "I can never rest until Glossy isprovided with everything; and you know, Laura, I _am_ obliged tocontrive. "

Mrs. Megilp and her daughter Glaucia spent about a thousand dollarsa year, between them, on their dress. In these days, this is alimited allowance--for the Megilps. But Mrs. Megilp was a woman ofstrict pecuniary principle; the other fifteen hundred must pay allthe rest; she submitted cheerfully to the Divine allotment, andpunctually made the two ends meet. She will have this to show, whenthe Lord of these servants cometh and reckoneth with them, and thatman who has been also in narrow circumstances, brings his nicelykept talent out of his napkin. 

Desire Ledwith, a girl of sixteen, spoke suddenly from a cornerwhere she sat with a book, --

"I do wonder who '_they_' are, mamma!"

"Who?" said Mrs. Ledwith, half rising from her chair, and lettingsome breadths of silk slide down upon the floor from her lap, as sheglanced anxiously from the window down the avenue. She did not wantany company this morning. 

"Not that, mamma; I don't mean anybody coming. The 'theys' thatwear, and don't wear, things; the theys you have to be just like, and keep ripping and piecing for. "

"You absurd child!" exclaimed Mrs. Ledwith, pettishly. "To make mespill a whole lapful of work for that! They? Why, everybody, ofcourse. "

"Everybody complains of them, though. Jean Friske says her mother isall discouraged and worn out. There isn't a thing they had last yearthat won't have to be made over this, because they put in a breadthmore behind, and they only gore side seams. And they don't wearblack capes or cloth sacks any more with all kinds of dresses; youmust have suits, clear through. It seems to me 'they' is a nuisance. And if it's everybody, we must be part, of it. Why doesn't somebodystop?"

"Desire, I wish you'd put away your book, and help, instead ofasking silly questions. You can't make the world over, with 'whydon'ts?'"

"I'll _rip_, " said Desire, with a slight emphasis; putting her bookdown, and coming over for a skirt and a pair of scissors. "But youknow I'm no good at putting together again. And about making theworld over, I don't know but that might be as easy as making overall its clothes, I'd as lief try, of the two. "

Desire was never cross or disagreeable; she was only"impracticable, " her mother said. "And besides that, she didn't knowwhat she really did want. She was born hungry and asking, with thosesharp little eyes, and her mouth always open while she was a baby. 'It was a sign, ' the nurse said, when she was three weeks old. Andthen the other sign, --that she should have to be called 'Desire!'"

Mrs. Megilp--for Mrs. Megilp had been in office as long ago asthat--had suggested ways of getting over or around the difficulty, when Aunt Desire had stipulated to have the baby named for her, andhad made certain persuasive conditions. 

"There's the pretty French turn you might give it, --'Desirée. ' Onlyone more 'e, ' and an accent. That is so sweet, and graceful, anddistinguished!"

"But Aunt Desire won't have the name twisted. It is to be real, plain Desire, or not at all. "

Mrs. Megilp had shrugged her shoulders. 

"Well, of course it can be that, to christen by, and marry by, andbe buried by. But between whiles, --people pick up names, --you'llsee!"

Mrs. Megilp began to call her "Daisy" when she was two years old. Nobody could help what Mrs. Megilp took a fancy to call her by wayof endearment, of course; and Daisy she was growing to be in thefamily, when one day, at seven years old, she heard Mrs. Megilp sayto her mother, --

"I don't see but that you've all got your _Desire_, after all. Theold lady is satisfied; and away up there in Hanover, what can itsignify to her? The child is 'Daisy, ' practically, now, as long asshe lives. "

The sharp, eager little gray eyes, so close together in the high, delicate head, glanced up quickly at speaker and hearer. 

"What old lady, mamma, away up in Hanover?"

"Your Aunt Desire, Daisy, whom you were named for. She lives inHanover. You are to go and see her there, this summer. "

"Will she call me Daisy?"

The little difficulty suggested in this question had singularlynever occurred to Mrs. Ledwith before. Miss Desire Ledwith nevercame down to Boston; there was no danger at home. 

"No. She is old-fashioned, and doesn't like pet names. She will callyou Desire. That is your name, you know. "

"Would it signify if she thought you called me Daisy?" asked thechild frowning half absently over her doll, whose arm she wasstruggling to force into rather a tight sleeve of her ownmanufacture. 

"Well, perhaps she might not exactly understand. People always wentby their names when she was a child, and now hardly anybody does. She was very particular about having you called for her, and you_are_, you know. I always write 'Desire Ledwith' in all your books, and--well, I always _shall_ write it so, and so will you. But youcan be Daisy when we make much of you here at home, just as Florenceis Flossie. "

"No, I can't, " said the little girl, very decidedly, getting up anddropping her doll. "Aunt Desire, away up in Hanover, is thinking allthe time that there is a little Desire Ledwith growing up down here. I don't mean to have her cheated. I'm going to went by my name, asshe did. Don't call me Daisy any more, all of you; for I shan'tcome!"

The gray eyes sparkled; the whole little face scintillated, as itwere. Desire Ledwith had a keen, charged little face; and whensomething quick and strong shone through it, it was as if somewherebehind it there had been struck fire. 

She was true to that through all the years after; going to schoolwith Mabels and Ethels and Graces and Ediths, --not a girl she knewbut had a pretty modern name, --and they all wondering at that stifflittle "Desire" of hers that she would go by. When she was twelveyears old, the old lady up in Hanover had died, and left her a goldwatch, large and old-fashioned, which she could only keep on a standin her room, --a good solid silver tea-set, and all her spoons, andtwenty-five shares in the Hanover Bank. 

Mrs. Megilp called her Daisy, with gentle inadvertence, one dayafter that. Desire lifted her eyes slowly at her, with no otherreply in her face, or else. 

"You might please your mother now, I think, " said Mrs. Megilp. "There is no old lady to be troubled by it. "

"A promise isn't ever dead, Mrs. Megilp, " said Desire, briefly. "Ishall keep our words. "

"After all, " Mrs. Megilp said privately to the mother, "there issomething quietly aristocratic in an old, plain, family name. Idon't know that it isn't good taste in the child. Everybodyunderstands that it was a condition, and an inheritance. "

Mrs. Megilp had taken care of that. She was watchful for the smallimpressions she could make in behalf of her particular friends. Shecarried about with her a little social circumference in which allwas preëminently as it should be. 

But, --as I would say if you could not see it for yourself--this isa digression. We will go back again. 

"If it were any use!" said Desire, shaking out the deep plaits asshe unfastened them from the band. "But you're only a piece ofeverybody after all. You haven't anything really new or particularto yourself, when you've done. And it takes up so much time. Lastyear, this was so pretty! _Isn't_ anything actually pretty initself, or can't they settle what it is? I should think they hadbeen at it long enough. "

"Fashions never were so graceful as they are this minute, " said Mrs. Megilp. "Of course it is art, like everything else, and progress. The world is getting educated to a higher refinement in it, everyday. Why, it's duty, child!" she continued, exaltedly. "Think whatthe world would be if nobody cared. We ought to make life beautiful. It's meant to be. There's not only no virtue in ugliness, but almostno virtue _with_ it, I think. People are more polite andgood-natured when they are well dressed and comfortable. "

"_That's_ dress, too, though, " said Desire, sententiously. "You'vegot to stay at home four days, and rip, and be tired, and cross, andtried-on-to, and have no chance to do anything else, before you canput it all on and go out and be good-natured and bland, and help putthe beautiful face on the world, _one_ day. I don't believe it'spolitical economy. "

"Everybody doesn't have to do it for themselves. Really, when I hearpeople blamed for dress and elegance, --why, the very ones who havethe most of it are those who sacrifice the least time to it. Theyjust go and order what they want, and there's the end of it. When itcomes home, they put it on, and it might as well be a flounced silkas a plain calico. "

"But we _do_ have to think, Mrs. Megilp. And work and worry. Andthen we _can't_ turn right round in the things we know every stitchof and have bothered over from beginning to end, and just be liliesof the field!"

"A great many people do have to wash their own dishes, and sweep, and scour; but that is no reason it ought not to be done. I alwaysthought it was rather a pity that was said, _just so_, " Mrs. Megilpproceeded, with a mild deprecation of the Scripture. "There _is_toiling and spinning; and will be to the end of time, for some ofus. "

"There's cauliflower brought for dinner, Mrs. Ledwith, " saidChristina, the parlor girl, coming in. "And Hannah says it won't gowith the pigeons. Will she put it on the ice for to-morrow?"

"I suppose so, " said Mrs. Ledwith, absently, considering a breadththat had a little hitch in it. "Though what we shall have to-morrowI'm sure I don't know, " she added, rousing up. "I wish Mr. Ledwithwouldn't send home the first thing he sees, without any reference. "

"And here's the milkman's bill, and a letter, " continued Christina, laying them down on a chair beside her mistress, and then departing. 

Great things come into life so easily, when they do come, rightalongside of milk-bills and cabbages! And yet one may wait so longsometimes for anything to happen _but_ cabbages!

The letter was in a very broad, thick envelope, and sealed with wax. 

Mrs. Ledwith looked at it curiously before she opened it. Shedid not receive many letters. She had very little time forcorrespondence. It was addressed to "Mrs. Laura Ledwith. " Thatwas odd and unusual, too. 

Mrs. Megilp glanced at her over the tortoise-shell rims of hereye-glasses, but sat very quiet, lest she should delay the opening. She would like to know what could be in that very business-likelooking despatch, and Laura would be sure to tell her. It must besomething pretty positive, one way or another; it was nocommon-place negative communication. Laura might have had propertyleft her. Mrs. Megilp always thought of possibilities like that. 

When Laura Ledwith had unfolded the large commercial sheet, andglanced down the open lines of square, upright characters, whosepurport could be taken in at sight, like print, she turned very redwith a sudden excitement. Then all the color dropped away, and therewas nothing in her face but blank, pale, intense surprise. 

"It is a most _won_derful thing!" said she, at last, slowly; and herbreath came like a gasp with her words. "My great-uncle, Mr. Oldways. "

She spoke those four words as if from them Mrs. Megilp couldunderstand everything. 

Mrs. Megilp thought she did. 

"Ah! Gone?" she asked, pathetically. 

"Gone! No, indeed!" said Mrs. Ledwith. "He wrote the letter. Hewants me to _come_; me, and all of us, --to Boston, to live; and toget acquainted with him. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Megilp, with the promptness and benignity of aChristian apostle, "it's your duty to go. "

"And he offers me a house, and two thousand dollars a year. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Megilp, "it is _emphatically_ your duty to go. "

All at once something strange came over Laura Ledwith. She crumpledthe letter tight in her hands with a clutch of quick excitement, andbegan to choke with a little sob, and to laugh at the same time. 

"Don't give way!" cried Mrs. Megilp, coming to her and giving her alittle shake and a slap. "If you do once you will again, and you're_not_ hystericky!"

"He's sent for Frank, too. Frank and I will be together again indear old Boston! But--we can't be children and sit on the shed anymore; and--it _isn't_ dear old Boston, either!"

And then Laura gave right up, and had a good cry for five minutes. After that she felt better, and asked Mrs. Megilp how she thought ahouse in Spiller Street would do. 

But she couldn't rip any more of those breadths that morning. 

Agatha and Florence came in from some calls at the Goldthwaites andthe Haddens, and the news was told, and they had their bonnets totake off, and the dinner-bell rang, and the smell of the spicypigeon-stew came up the stairs, all together. And they went down, talking fast; and one said "house, " and another "carpets, " andanother "music and German;" and Desire, trailing a breadth of greensilk in her hand that she had never let go since the letter wasread, cried out, "oratorios!" And nobody quite knew what they weregoing down stairs for, or had presence of mind to realize thepigeons, or help each other or themselves properly, when they gotthere! Except Mrs. Megilp, who was polite and hospitable to themall, and picked two birds in the most composed and elegant manner. 

When the dessert was put upon the table, and Christina, confusedlyenlightened as to the family excitement, and excessively curious, had gone away into the kitchen, Mrs. Ledwith said to Mrs. Megilp, --

"I'm not sure I should fancy Spiller Street, after all; it's a sortof a corner. Westmoreland Street or Helvellyn Park might be nice. Iknow people down that way, --Mrs. Inchdeepe. "

"Mrs. Inchdeepe isn't exactly 'people, '" said Mrs. Megilp, in aquiet way that implied more than grammar. "Don't get into 'And' inBoston, Laura!--With such an addition to your income, and what youruncle gives you toward a house, I don't see why you might not thinkof Republic Avenue. "

"We shall have plenty of thinking to do about everything, " saidLaura. 

"Mamma, " said Agatha, insinuatingly, "I'm thinking, already; aboutthat rose-pink paper for my room. I'm glad now I didn't have ithere. "

Agatha had been restless for white lace, and rose-pink, and aBrussels carpet ever since her friend Zarah Thoole had come homefrom Europe and furnished a morning-room. 

All this time Mr. Grant Ledwith, quite unconscious of the impendingchanges with which his family were so far advanced in imagination, was busy among bales and samples in Devonshire Street. It got to bean old story by the time the seven o'clock train was in, and hereached home. It was almost as if it had all happened a year ago, and they had been waiting for him to come home from Australia. 

There was so much to explain to him that it was really hard to makehim understand, and to bring him up to the point from which theycould go on together. 

VII. 

WAKING UP. 

The Ledwiths took apartments in Boston for a month. They packed awaythe furniture they wanted to keep for upper rooms, in the attics oftheir house at Z----. They had an auction of all the furniture oftheir drawing-room, dining-room, library, and first floor ofsleeping-rooms. Then they were to let their house. Meanwhile, onewas to be fixed upon and fitted up in Boston. In all this Mrs. Megilp advised, invaluably. 

"It's of no use to move things, " she said. "Three removes are as badas a fire; and nothing ever fits in to new places. Old wine and newbottles, you know! Clear all off with a country auction. Everybodycomes, and they all fight for everything. Things bring more thantheir original cost. Then you've nothing to do but order accordingto your taste. "

Mr. Oldways had invited both his nieces to his own house on theirarrival. But here again Mrs. Megilp advised, --so judiciously. 

"There are too many of you; it would be a positive infliction. Andthen you'll have all your running about and planning and calculatingto do, and the good old gentleman would think he had pulled halfBoston down about his ears. Your sister can go there; it would beonly generous and thoughtful to give way to her. There are onlythree of them, and they are strange, you know, to every thing, andwouldn't know which way to turn. I can put you in the way of roomsat the Bellevue, exactly the thing, for a hundred and fifty amonth. No servants, you see; meals at the restaurant, and very good, too. The Wedringtons are to give them up unexpectedly; going toEurope; poor Mrs. Wedrington is so out of health. And about thehouse; don't decide in a hurry; see what your uncle says, and yoursister. It's very likely she'll prefer the Aspen Street house; andit _would_ be out of the way for you. Still it is not to be_refused_, you know; of course it is very desirable in manyrespects; roomy, old-fashioned, and a garden. I think your sisterwill like those things; they're what she has been used to. If shedoes, why it's all comfortably settled, and nobody refuses. It is soungracious to appear to object; a gift horse, you know. "

"Not to be refused; only by no means to be taken; masterlyinactivity till somebody else is hooked; and then somebody else isto be grateful for the preference. I wish Mrs. Megilp wouldn't shinethings up so; and that mother wouldn't go to her to black all herboots!"

Desire said this in secret, indignant discomfort, to Helena, thefourth in the family, her chum-sister. Helena did very well to talkto; she heard anything; then she pranced round the room and chaffedthe canary. 

"Chee! chee! chee! chiddle, iddle, iddle, iddle, e-e-ee! Where doyou keep all your noise and your breath? You're great, aren't you?You do that to spite people that have to work up one note at a time. You don't take it in away down under your belt, do you? You're notparticular about that. You don't know much, after all. You don'tknow _how_ you do it. You aren't learning of Madame Caroletti. Andyou haven't learned two quarters, any way. You were only just bornlast spring. Set up! Tr-r-r-r-e-e-ee! I can do that myself. I don'tbelieve you've got an octave in you. Poh!"

Mrs. Ripwinkley came down from the country with a bonnet on thathad a crown, and with not a particle of a chignon. When she wasmarried, twenty-five years before, she wore a French twist, --herhair turned up in waves from her neck as prettily as it did awayfrom her forehead, --and two thick coiled loops were knotted andfastened gracefully at the top. She had kept on twisting her hairso, all these years; and the rippling folds turned naturally underher fingers into their places. The color was bright still, and ithad not thinned. Over her brows it parted richly, with no fuzz orcrimp; but a sweet natural wreathing look that made her face young. Mrs. Ledwith had done hers over slate-pencils till she had burned itoff; and now tied on a friz, that came low down, for fashion's sake, and left visible only a little bunch of puckers between her eyebrowsand the crowsfeet at the corners. The back of her head was weighteddown by an immense excrescence in a bag. Behind her ears were bareplaces. Mrs. Ledwith began to look old-young. And a woman cannot getinto a worse stage of looks than that. Still, she was a showywoman--a good exponent of the reigning style; and she washandsome--she and her millinery--of an evening, or in the street. 

When I began that last paragraph I meant to tell you what else Mrs. Ripwinkley brought with her, down out of the country and the oldtimes; but hair takes up a deal of room. She brought down all herdear old furniture. That is, it came after her in boxes, when shehad made up her mind to take the Aspen Street house. 

"Why, that's the sofa Oliver used to lie down on when he came hometired from his patients, and that's the rocking-chair I nursed mybabies in; and this is the old oak table we've sat round three timesa day, the family of us growing and thinning, as the time went on, all through these years. It's like a communion table, now, Laura. Ofcourse such things had to come. "

This was what she answered, when Laura ejaculated her amazement ather having brought "old Homesworth truck" to Boston. 

"You see it isn't the walls that make the home; we can go away fromthem and not break our hearts, so long as our own goes with us. Thelittle things that we have used, and that have grown around us withour living, --they are all of living that we can handle and hold onto; and if I went to Spitzbergen, I should take as many of them as Icould. "

The Aspen Street house just suited Mrs. Ripwinkley, and Diana, andHazel. 

In the first place, it was wooden; built side to the street, so thatyou went up a little paved walk, in a shade of trees, to get to thedoor; and then the yard, on the right hand side as you came in, waslaid out in narrow walks between borders of blossoming plants. Therewere vines against the brick end of the next building, --creepers andmorning-glories, and white and scarlet runners; and a littlemartin-box was set upon a pole in the still, farther corner. 

The rooms of the house were low, but large; and some of the windowshad twelve-paned sashes, --twenty-four to a window. Mrs. Ripwinkleywas charmed with these also. They were like the windows at MileHill. 

Mrs. Ledwith, although greatly relieved by her sister's promptdecision for the house which she did _not_ want, felt it in herconscience to remonstrate a little. 

"You have just come down from the mountains, Frank, after yourtwenty-five years' sleep; you've seen nothing by and by you willthink differently. This house is fearfully old-fashioned, _fearfully_; and it's away down here on the wrong side of the hill. You can never get up over Summit Street from here. "

"We are used to hills, and walking. "

"But I mean--that isn't all. There are other things you won't beable to get over. You'll never shake off Aspen Street dust, --you northe children. "

"I don't think it is dusty. It is quiet, and sheltered, and clean. Ilike it ever so much, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. 

"O, dear, you don't understand in the least! It's wicked to let yougo on so! You poor, dear, simple little old soul!"

"Never mind, " said Mrs. Megilp. "It's all well enough for thepresent. It pleases the old gentleman, you know; and after all he'sdone, he ought to be pleased. One of you should certainly be in hisneighborhood. _He_ has been here from time immemorial; and any placegrows respectable by staying in it long enough--from _choice_. Nobody will wonder at Mrs. Ripwinkley's coming here at his request. And when she _does_ move, you see, she will know exactly what she isabout. "

"I almost doubt if she ever _will_ know what she is about, " saidLaura. 

"In that case, --well, "--said Mrs. Megilp, and stopped, because itreally was not in the least needful to say more. 

Mrs. Megilp felt it judicious, for many reasons, that Mrs. Ripwinkley should he hidden away for awhile, to get that mountainsleep out of her eyes, if it should prove possible; just as we rubold metal with oil and put it by till the rust comes off. 

The Ledwiths decided upon a house in Shubarton Place that would notseem quite like taking old Uncle Titus's money and rushing awaywith it as far as city limits would allow; and Laura really did wishto have the comfort of her sister's society, in a cozy way, ofmornings, up in her room; that was her chief idea about it. Therewere a good many times and things in which she scarcely expectedmuch companionship from Frank. She would not have said even toherself, that Frank was rusty; and she would do her faithful andgood-natured best to rub her up; but there was an instinct with herof the congruous and the incongruous; and she would not do herBath-brick polishing out on the public promenade. 

They began by going together to the carpet stores and the paperwarehouses; but they ended in detailing themselves for separatework; their ideas clashed ridiculously, and perpetually confusedeach other. Frank remembered loyally her old brown sofa and chairs;she would not have gay colors to put them out of countenance; foreven if she re-covered them, she said they should have the same oldhomey complexion. So she chose a fair, soft buff, with a pattern ofbrown leaves, for her parlor paper; Mrs. Ledwith, meanwhile, plunging headlong into glories of crimson and garnet and gold. Agatha had her blush pink, in panels, with heart-of-rose borders, set on with delicate gilt beadings; you would have thought she wasgoing to put herself up, in a fancy-box, like a French _mouchoir_ ora _bonbon_. 

"Why _don't_ you put your old brown things all together in anup-stairs room, and call it Mile Hill? You could keep it for oldtimes' sake, and sit there mornings; the house is big enough; andthen have furniture like other people's in the parlor?"

"You see it wouldn't be _me_. " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, simply. 

"They keep saying it 'looks, ' and 'it looks, '" said Diana to hermother, at home. "Why must everything _look_ somehow?"

"And every_body_, too, " said Hazel. "Why, when we meet any one inthe street that Agatha and Florence know, the minute they have goneby they say, 'She didn't look well to-day, ' or, 'How pretty she didlook in that new hat!' And after the great party they went to atthat Miss Hitchler's, they never told a word about it except howgirls 'looked. ' I wonder what they _did_, or where the good timewas. Seems to me people ain't living, --they are only just looking;or _is_ this the same old Boston that you told about, and where arethe real folks, mother?"

"We shall find them, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, cheerily; "and the realof these, too, when the outsides are settled. In the meantime, we'llmake our house say, and not look. Say something true, of course. Things won't say anything else, you see; if you try to make them, they don't speak out; they only stand in a dumb show and makefaces. "

"That's looking!" said Hazel. "Now I know. "

"How those children do grow!" said Mrs. Ripwinkley, as they went offtogether. "Two months ago they were sitting out on the kitchen roof, and coming to me to hear the old stories!"

"Transplantin', " said Luclarion. "That's done it. "

At twelve and fourteen, Hazel and Diana could be simple asbirds, --simpler yet, as human children waiting for all things, --intheir country life and their little dreams of the world. Two months'contact with people and things in a great city had started the lifethat was in them, so that it showed what manner of growth it was tobe of. 

And little Hazel Ripwinkley had got hold already of the small end ofa very large problem. 

But she could not make it out that this was the same old Bostonthat her mother had told about, or where the nice neighbors werethat would be likely to have little tea-parties for their children. 

VIII. 

EAVESDROPPING IN ASPEN STREET. 

Some of the old builders, --not the _very_ old ones, for they builtnothing but rope-walks down behind the hill, --but some of those whobegan to go northwest from the State House to live, made a pleasantgroup of streets down there on the level stretching away to theriver, and called them by fresh, fragrant, country-suggestingnames. Names of trees and fields and gardens, fruits and blossoms;and they built houses with gardens around them. In between theblocks were deep, shady places; and the smell of flowers was tossedback and forth by summer winds between the walls. Some nice oldpeople stayed on there, and a few of their descendants stay on therestill, though they are built in closely now, for the most part, andcoarse, common things have much intruded, and Summit Streetovershadows them with its palaces. 

Here and there a wooden house, set back a little, like this of theRipwinkleys in Aspen Street, gives you a feeling of Boston in thefar back times, as you go by; and here and there, if you could getinto the life of the neighborhood, you might perhaps find ahousehold keeping itself almost untouched with change, though therehas been such a rush and surge for years up and over into the newerand prouder places. 

At any rate, Titus Oldways lived here in Greenley Street; and heowned the Aspen Street house, and another over in Meadow Place, andanother in Field Court. He meant to stretch his control over them aslong as he could, and keep them for families; therefore he valuedthem at such rates as they would bring for dwellings; he would notsell or lease them for any kind of "improvements;" he would not havetheir little door-yards choked up, or their larger garden spacesdestroyed, while he could help it. 

Round in Orchard Street lived Miss Craydocke. She was away again, now, staying a little while with the Josselyns in New York. UncleTitus told Mrs. Ripwinkley that when Miss Craydocke came back itwould be a neighborhood, and they could go round; now it was onlyback and forth between them and him and Rachel Froke. There wereother people, too, but they would be longer finding them out. "You'll know Miss Craydocke as soon as you see her; she is one ofthose you always seem to have seen before. "

Now Uncle Titus would not have said this to everybody; not even ifeverybody had been his niece, and had come to live beside him. 

Orchard Street is wide and sunny and pleasant; the river air comesover it and makes it sweet; and Miss Craydocke's is a big, generoushouse, of which she only uses a very little part herself, becauseshe lets the rest to nice people who want pleasant rooms and can'tafford to pay much rent; an old gentleman who has had a hard time inthe world, but has kept himself a gentleman through it all, and hislittle cheery old lady-wife who puts her round glasses on andstitches away at fine women's under-garments and flannelembroideries, to keep things even, have the two very best rooms; anda clergyman's widow, who copies for lawyers, and writes littlestories for children, has another; and two orphan sisters who keepschool have another; and Miss Craydocke calls her house the Beehive, and buzzes up and down in it, and out and in, on little "seeing-to"errands of care and kindness all day long, as never any queen-beedid in any beehive before, but in a way that makes her more trulyqueen than any sitting in the middle cell of state to be fed onroyal jelly. Behind the Beehive, is a garden, as there should be;great patches of lily-of-the valley grow there that Miss Craydocketies up bunches from in the spring and gives away to littlechildren, and carries into all the sick rooms she knows of, and thepoor places. I always think of those lilies of the valley when Ithink of Miss Craydocke. It seems somehow as if they were bloomingabout her all the year through; and so they are, perhaps, invisibly. The other flowers come in their season; the crocuses have been donewith first of all; the gay tulips and the snowballs have made thechildren glad when they stopped at the gate and got them, going toschool. Miss Craydocke is always out in her garden at school-time. By and by there are the tall white lilies, standing cool and serenein the July heats; then Miss Craydocke is away at the mountains, pressing ferns and drying grasses for winter parlors; but there issomebody on duty at the garden dispensary always, and there areflower-pensioners who know they may come in and take the gracioustoll. 

Late in the autumn, the nasturtiums and verbenas and marigolds arebright; and the asters quill themselves into the biggest globes theycan, of white and purple and rose, as if it were to make the lastglory the best, and to do the very utmost of the year. Then thechrysanthemums go into the house and bloom there for Christmas-time. 

There is nothing else like Miss Craydocke's house and garden, I dobelieve, in all the city of the Three Hills. It is none too big forher, left alone with it, the last of her family; the world is nonetoo big for her; she is glad to know it is all there. She has a usefor everything as fast as it comes, and a work to do for everybody, as fast as she finds them out. And everybody, --almost, --catches itas she goes along, and around her there is always springing up abusy and a spreading crystallizing of shining and blessed elements. The world is none too big for her, or for any such, of course, because, --it has been told why better than I can tell it, --because"ten times one is always ten. "

It was a gray, gusty morning. It had not set in to raincontinuously; but the wind wrung handfuls of drops suddenly from theclouds, and flung them against the panes and into the wayfarers'faces. 

Over in the house opposite the Ripwinkley's, at the second storywindows, sat two busy young persons. Hazel, sitting at her window, in "mother's room, " where each had a corner, could see across; andhad got into the way of innocent watching. Up in Homesworth, she hadused to watch the robins in the elm-trees; here, there was humanlife, in little human nests, all about her. 

"It's the same thing, mother, " she would say, "isn't it, now? Don'tyou remember in that book of the 'New England Housekeeper, ' that youused to have, what the woman said about the human nature of thebeans? It's in beans, and birds, and bird's nests; and folks, andfolks' nests. It don't make much difference. It's just snugness, andgetting along. And it's so nice to see!"

Hazel put her elbows up on the window-sill, and looked straight overinto that opposite room, undisguisedly. 

The young man, in one window, said to his sister in the other, atthe same moment, --

"Our company's come! There's that bright little girl again!"

And the sister said, "Well, it's pretty much all the company we cantake in! She brings her own seat and her own window; and she doesn'tinterrupt. It's just the kind for us, Kentie!"

"She's writing, --copying something, --music, it looks like; see itthere, set up against the shutter. She always goes out with a musicroll in her hand. I wonder whether she gives or takes?" said Diana, stopping on her way to her own seat to look out over Hazel'sshoulder. 

"Both, I guess, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "Most people do. Why don'tyou put your flowers in the window, Hazel?"

"Why, so I will!"

They were a great bunch of snowy white and deep crimson asters, withgreen ivy leaves, in a tall gray glass vase. Rachel Froke had justbrought them in from Miss Craydocke's garden. 

"They're looking, mother! Only I do think it's half too bad! Thatgirl seems as if she would almost reach across after them. Perhapsthey came from the country, and haven't had any flowers. "

"Thee might take them over some, " said Mrs. Froke, simply. 

"O, I shouldn't dare! There are other people in the house, and Idon't know their names, or anything. I wish I could, though. "

"I can, " said Rachel Froke. "Thee'll grow tall enough to step overpebbles one of these days. Never mind; I'll fetch thee moreto-morrow; and thee'll let the vase go for a while? Likely they'venothing better than a tumbler. "

Rachel Froke went down the stairs, and out along the paved walk, into the street. She stopped an instant on the curb-stone before shecrossed, and looked up at those second story windows. Hazel watchedher. She held up the vase slightly with one hand, nodding her littlegray bonnet kindly, and beckoned with the other. 

The young girl started from her seat. 

In another minute Hazel saw them together in the doorway. 

There was a blush and a smile, and an eager brightness in the face, and a quick speaking thanks, that one could read without hearing, from the parted lips, on the one side, and the quiet, unflutterablegray bonnet calmly horizontal on the other; and then the door wasshut, and Rachel Froke was crossing the damp pavement again. 

"I'm so glad Aspen Street is narrow!" said Hazel. "I should hate tobe way off out of sight of people. What did you say to her, Mrs. Froke?" she asked, as the Friend reentered. Hazel could by no meanstake the awful liberty of "Rachel. "

"I said the young girl, Hazel Ripwinkley, being from the country, knew how good flowers were to strangers in the town, and that shethought they might be strange, and might like some. "

Hazel flushed all up. At that same instant, a gentle nod and smilecame across from window to window, and she flushed more, till thetears sprung with the shy, glad excitement, as she returned it andthen shrunk away. 

"And she said, 'Thank her, with Dorris Kincaid's love, '" proceededRachel Froke. 

"O, _mother_!" exclaimed Hazel. "And you did it all, right off so, Mrs. Froke. I don't see how grown up people dare, and know how!"

Up the stairs ran quick feet in little clattering heeled boots. Desire Ledwith, with a purple waterproof on, came in. 

"I couldn't stay at home to-day, " she said, "I wanted to be whereit was all-togetherish. It never is at our house. Now it's set up, they don't do anything with it. "

"That's because it '_looks_'--so elegant, " said Hazel, catchingherself up in dismay. 

"It's because it's the crust, I think, " said Desire. "Puff paste, like an oyster patty; and they haven't got anything cooked yet forthe middle. I wonder when they will. I had a call yesterday, all tomyself, " she went on, with a sudden change of tone and topic. "Agatha was hopping and I wouldn't tell her what I said, or how Ibehaved. That new parlor girl of ours thinks we're all or any of us'Miss Ledwith, ' mamma included, and so she let him in. He had onlavender pantaloons and a waxed moustache. "

"The rain is just pouring down!" said Diana, at the garden window. 

"Yes; I'm caught. That's what I meant, " said Desire. "You've got tokeep me all day, now. How will you get home, Mrs. Froke? Or won'tyou have to stay, too?"

"Thee may call me Rachel, Desire Ledwith, if thee pleases. I like itbetter. I am no mistress. And for getting home, it is but just roundthe corner. But there is no need yet. I came for an hour, to sithere with friend Frances. And my hour is not yet up. "

"I'm glad of that, for there is something I want you to tell me. Ihaven't quite got at it myself, yet; so as to ask, I mean. Wait aminute!" And she put her elbows up on her knees, and held her thumbsagainst her ears, and her fingers across her forehead; sittingsquarely opposite the window to which she had drawn up her chairbeside Diane, and looking intently at the driving streams thatrushed and ran down against the glass. 

"I was sitting in the bay-window at home, when it began thismorning; that made me think. All the world dripping wet, and I justput there dry and safe in the middle of the storm, shut up behindthose great clear panes and tight sashes. How they did have tocontrive, and work, before there were such places made for people!What if they had got into their first scratchy little houses, andsat behind the logs as we do behind glass windows and thought, as Iwas thinking, how nice it was just to be covered up from the rain?Is it all finished now? Hasn't anybody got to contrive anythingmore? And who's going to do it--and everything. And what are we goodfor, --just _we_, --to come and expect it all, modern-improved! Idon't think much of our place among things, do you, Mrs. Froke?--There, I believe that's it, as near as I can!'"

"Why does thee ask me, Desire?"

"I don't know. I don't know any whys or what fors. 'Behold we knownot anything, '--Tennyson and I! But you seem so--pacified--I supposeI thought you must have settled most things in your mind. "

"Every builder--every little joiner--did his piece, --thought histhought out, I think likely. There's no little groove or moulding orfitting or finish, but is a bit of somebody's living; and lifegrows, going on. We've all got our piece to do, " said Rachel. 

"I asked Mrs. Mig, " Desire pursued, "and she said some people's partwas to buy and employ and encourage; and that spending money helpsall the world; and then she put another cushion to her back, andwent on tatting. "

"Perhaps it does--in spite of the world, " said Rachel Froke, quietly. 

"But I guess nobody is to sit by and _only_ encourage; God hasgiven out no such portion as that, I do believe. We can encourageeach other, and every one do his own piece too. "

"I didn't really suppose Mrs. Mig knew, " said Desire, demurely. "Shenever began at the bottom of anything. She only finishes off. Shebuys pattern worsted work, and fills it in. That's what she's doingnow, when she don't tat; a great bunch of white lilies, grounding itwith olive. It's lovely; but I'd rather have made the lilies. She'llgive it to mother, and then Glossy will come and spend the winterwith us. Mrs. Mig is going to Nassau with a sick friend; she'sawfully useful--for little overseeings and general touchings up, after all the hard part is done. Mrs. Mig's sick friends always havenurses and waiting maids--Mrs. F---- Rachel! Do you know, I haven'tgot any piece!"

"No, I don't know; nor does thee either, yet, " said Rachel Froke. 

 * * * * *

"It's all such bosh!" said Kenneth Kincaid, flinging down a handfulof papers. "I've no right, I solemnly think, to help such stuff outinto the world! A man can't take hold anywhere, it seems, withoutsmutting his fingers!"

Kenneth Kincaid was correcting proof for a publisher. What he had towork on this morning was the first chapters of a flimsy novel. 

"It isn't even confectionery, " said he. "It's terra alba andcochineal. And when it comes to the sensation, it will be benzinefor whiskey. Real things are bad enough, for the most part, in thisworld; but when it comes to sham fictions and adulterated poisons, Dorris, I'd rather help bake bread, if it were an honest loaf, ormake strong shoes for laboring men!"

"You don't always get things like that, " said Dorris. "And you knowyou're not responsible. Why will you torment yourself so?"

"I was so determined not to do anything but genuine work; work thatthe world wanted; and to have it come down to this!"

"Only for a time, while you are waiting. "

"Yes; people must eat while they are waiting; that's the--devil ofit! I'm not swearing, Dorris, dear; it came truly into my head, thatminute, about the Temptation in the Wilderness. " Kenneth's voice wasreverent, saying this; and there was an earnest thought in his face. 

"You'll never like anything heartily but your Sunday work. "

"That's what keeps me here. My week-day work might be wantedsomewhere else. And perhaps I ought to go. There's Sunday workeverywhere. "

"If you've found one half, hold on to it;" said Dorris. "The othercan't be far off. "

"I suppose there are a score or two of young architects in thiscity, waiting for a name or a chance to make one, as I am. If itisn't here for all of them, somebody has got to quit. "

"And somebody has got to hold on, " repeated Dorris. "You are morbid, Kent, about this 'work of the world. '"

"It's overdone, everywhere. Fifth wheels trying to hitch on to everycoach. I'd rather be the one wheel of a barrow. "

"The Lord is Wheelwright, and Builder, " said Dorris, very simply. "You _are_ a wheel, and He has made you; He'll find an axle for youand put you on; and you shall go about his business, so that youshall wonder to remember that you were ever leaning up against awall. Do you know, Kentie, life seems to me like the game we usedto play at home in the twilight. When we shut our eyes and let eachother lead us, until we did not know where we were going, or in whatplace we should come out. I should not care to walk up a broad pathwith my eyes wide open, now. I'd rather feel the leading. To-morrowalways makes a turn. It's beautiful! People don't know, who _never_shut their eyes!"

Kenneth had taken up a newspaper. 

"The pretenses at doing! The dodges and go-betweens that make a shamwork between every two real ones! There's hardly a true businesscarried on, and if there is, you don't know where or which. Look atthe advertisements. Why, they cheat with their very tops and faces!See this man who puts in big capitals: 'Lost! $5, 000! $1, 000reward!' and then tells you, in small type, that five thousanddollars are lost every year by breaking glass and china, that hiscement will mend! What business has he to cry 'Wolf!' to thehindrance of the next man who may have a real wolf to catch? Andwhat business has the printer, whom the next man will pay toadvertise his loss, to help on a lie like this beforehand? I'm onlytwenty-six years old, Dorris, and I'm getting ashamed of the world!"

"Don't grow hard, Kenneth. 'The Son of Man came not to condemn theworld, but to save it. ' Let's each try to save our little piece!"

We are listening across the street, you see; between the windows inthe rain; it is strange what chords one catches that do not catcheach other, and were never planned to be played together, --by the_players_. 

Kenneth Kincaid's father Robert had been a ship-builder. Whenshipping went down in the whirlpool of 1857, Robert Kincaid'sbuilding had gone; and afterward he had died leaving his childrenlittle beside their education, which he thanked God was secured, anda good repute that belonged to their name, but was easily forgottenin the crowd of young and forward ones, and in the strife andscramble of a new business growth. 

Between college and technical studies Kenneth had been to the war. After that he had a chance to make a fortune in Wall Street. Hisfather's brother, James, offered to take him in with him to buy andsell stocks and gold, to watch the market, to touch little unseensprings, to put the difference into his own pocket every time thetide of value shifted, or could be made to seem to shift. He mighthave been one of James R. Kincaid and Company. He would have none ofit. He told his uncle plainly that he wanted real work; that he hadnot come back from fighting to--well, there he stopped, for he couldnot fling the truth in his uncle's face; he said there were thingshe meant to finish learning, and would try to do; and if nobodywanted them of him he would learn something else that was needed. Sowith what was left to his share from his father's little remnant ofproperty, he had two years at the Technological School, and here hewas in Boston waiting. You can see what he meant by real work, andhow deep his theories and distinctions lay. You can see that itmight be a hard thing for one young man, here or there, to take upthe world on these terms now, in this year of our Lord eighteenhundred and sixty-nine. 

Over the way Desire Ledwith was beginning again, after a pause inwhich we have made our little chassée. 

"I know a girl, " she said, "who has got a studio. And she talksabout art, and she knows styles, and who has done what, and she runsabout to see pictures, and she copies things, and she has littleplaster legs and toes and things hanging round everywhere. Shethinks it is something great; but it's only Mig, after all. Everything is. Florence Migs into music. And I won't Mig, if I neverdo anything. I'm come here this morning to darn stockings. " And shepulled out of her big waterproof pocket a bundle of stockings and agreat white ball of darning cotton and a wooden egg. 

"There is always one thing that is real, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, gently, "and that shows the way surely to all the rest. "

"I know what you mean, " said Desire, "of course; but they've mixedthat all up too, like everything else, so that you don't know whereit is. Glossy Megilp has a velvet prayer-book, and she blacks hereyelashes and goes to church. We've all been baptized, and we'velearned the Lord's Prayer, and we're all Christians. What is theremore about it? I wish, sometimes, they had let it all alone. I thinkthey vaccinated us with religion, Aunt Frank, for fear we shouldtake it the natural way. "

"Thee is restless, " said Rachel Froke, tying on her gray cloak. "Andto make us so is oftentimes the first thing the Lord does for us. Itwas the first thing He did for the world. Then He said, 'Let therebe light!' In the meantime, thee is right; just darn thy stockings. "And Rachel went. 

They had a nice morning, after that, "leaving frets alone, " as Dianasaid. Diana Ripwinkley was happy in things just as they were. If thesun shone, she rejoiced in the glory; if the rain fell, it shut herin sweetly to the heart of home, and the outside world grew fragrantfor her breathing. There was never anything in her day that shecould spare out of it, and there were no holes in the hours either. "Whether she was most bird or bee, it was hard to tell, " her mothersaid of her; from the time she used to sweep and dust her garretbaby-house along the big beams in the old house at Homesworth, andmake little cheeses, and set them to press in wooden pill-boxes fromwhich she had punched the bottoms out, till now, that she began totake upon herself the daily freshening of the new parlors in AspenStreet, and had long lessons of geometry to learn, whose drydemonstrations she set to odd little improvised recitatives ofmusic, and chanted over while she ran up and down putting away cleanlinen for her mother, that Luclarion brought up from the wash. 

As for Hazel, she was only another variation upon the same sweetnature. There was more of outgo and enterprise with her. Diana madethe thing or the place pleasant that she was in or doing. Hazelsought out new and blessed inventions. "There was always somethingcoming to the child that wouldn't ever have come to no one else, "Luclarion said. "And besides that, she was a real 'Witch Hazel;' shecould tell where the springs were, and what's more, where theywarn't. "

Luclarion Grapp would never have pleaded guilty to "dropping intopoetry" in any light whatsoever; but what she meant by this was notexactly according to the letter, as one may easily see. 

IX. 

HAZEL'S INSPIRATION. 

What was the use of "looking, " unless things were looked at? Mrs. Ledwith found at the end of the winter that she ought to give aparty. Not a general one; Mrs. Ledwith always said "not a generalone, " as if it were an exception, whereas she knew better than everto undertake a general party; her list would be _too_ general, andheterogeneous. It would simply be a physical, as well as a social, impossibility. She knew quantities of people separately and verycordially, in her easy have-a-good-time-when-you-can style, that shecould by no means mix, or even gather together. She picked upacquaintances on summer journeys, she accepted civilities wherevershe might be, she asked everybody to her house who took a fancy toher, or would admire her establishment, and if she had had a springcleaning or a new carpeting, or a furbishing up in any way, the nextthing was always to light up and play it off, --to try it on tosomebody. What were houses for? And there was always somebody whoought to be paid attention to; somebody staying with a friend, or acouple just engaged, or if nothing else, it was her turn to have thesewing-society; and so her rooms got aired. Of course she had to airthem now! The drawing-room, with its apricot and coffee-brownfurnishings, was lovely in the evening, and the crimson and garnetin the dining-room was rich and cozy, and set off brilliantly hershow of silver and cut-glass; and then, there was the new, real, sea-green China. 

So the party was had. There were some people in town from New York;she invited them and about a hundred more. The house lit upbeautifully; the only pity was that Mrs. Ledwith could not wear herfavorite and most becoming colors, buff and chestnut, because shehad taken that family of tints for her furniture; but she found alovely shade of violet that would hold by gas-light, and she woreblack Fayal lace with it, and white roses upon her hair. Mrs. Treweek was enchanted with the brown and apricot drawing-room, andwondered where on earth they had got that particular shade, for "mydear! she had ransacked Paris for hangings in just that perfect, soft, ripe color that she had in her mind and never could hit upon. "Mrs. MacMichael had pushed the grapes back upon her plate to examinethe pattern of the bit of china, and had said how lovely thecoloring was, with the purple and pale green of the fruit. And thesethings, and a few more like them, were the residuum of the whole, and Laura Ledwith was satisfied. 

Afterward, "while they were in the way of it, " Florence had a little_musicale_; and the first season in Shubarton Place was over. 

It turned out, however, as it did in the old rhyme, --they shod thehorse, and shod the mare, and let the little colt go bare. Helenawas disgusted because she could not have a "German. "

"We shall have to be careful, now that we have fairly settled down, "said Laura to her sister; "for every bit of Grant's salary will havebeen taken up with this winter's expenses. But one wants to beginright, and after that one can go on moderately. I'm good atcontriving, Frank; only give me something to contrive with. "

"Isn't it a responsibility, " Frank ventured, "to think what we shallcontrive _for_?"

"Of course, " returned Mrs. Ledwith, glibly. "And my first duty isto my children. I don't mean to encourage them to recklessextravagance; as Mrs. Megilp says, there's always a limit; but it'sone's duty to make life beautiful, and one can't do too much forhome. I want my children to be satisfied with theirs, and I want tocultivate their tastes and accustom them to society. I can't do_everything_ for them; they will dress on three hundred a yearapiece, Agatha and Florence; and I can assure you it needsmanagement to accomplish that, in these days!"

Mrs. Ripwinkley laughed, gently. 

"It would require management with us to get rid of that, uponourselves. "

"O, my dear, don't I tell you continually, you haven't waked up yet?Just rub your eyes a while longer, --or let the girls do it foryou, --and you'll see! Why, I know of girls, --girls whose mothershave limited incomes, too, --who have been kept plain, actually_plain_, all their school days, but who must have now six and eighthundred a year to go into society with. And really I wouldn'tundertake it for less, myself, if I expected to keep up witheverything. But I must treat mine all alike, and we must becontented with what we have. There's Helena, now, crazy for a youngparty; but I couldn't think of it. Young parties are ten times worsethan old ones; there's really no _end_ to the expense, with theGerman, and everything. Helena will have to wait; and yet, --ofcourse, if I could, it is desirable, almost necessary; acquaintancesbegin in the school-room, --society, indeed; and a great deal woulddepend upon it. The truth is, you're no sooner born, now-a-days, than you have to begin to keep up; or else--you're dropped out. "

"O, Laura! do you remember the dear little parties our mother usedto make for us? From four till half-past eight, with games, and teaat six, and the fathers looking in?"

"And cockles, and mottoes, and printed cambric dresses, and milk andwater! Where are the children, do you suppose, you dear old Frau VanWinkle, that would come to such a party now?"

"Children must be born simple, as they were then. There's nothing mygirls would like better, even at their age, than to help at justsuch a party. It is a dream of theirs. Why shouldn't somebody do it, just to show how good it is?"

"You can lead a horse to water, you know, Frank, but you can't makehim drink. And the colts are forty times worse. I believe you mightget some of the mothers together for an ancient tea-drink, just inthe name of old association; but the _babies_ would all turn uptheir new-fashioned little noses. "

"O, dear!" sighed Frau Van Winkle. "I wish I knew people!"

"By the time you do, you'll know the reason why, and be like all therest. "

Hazel Ripwinkley went to Mrs. Hilman's school, with her cousinHelena. That was because the school was a thoroughly good one; thebest her mother could learn of; not because it was kept in parlorsin Dorset Street, and there were girls there who came from palaceswest of the Common, in the grand avenues and the ABC streets; nordid Hazel wear her best gray and black velvet suit for every day, though the rich colored poplins with their over-skirts and sashes, and the gay ribbons for hair and neck made the long green baizecovered tables look like gardenplots with beds of bloom, and quiteextinguished with their brilliancy the quiet, one skirted brownmerino that she brushed and folded every night, and put on withfresh linen cuffs and collar every morning. 

"It is an idiosyncrasy of Aunt Frances, " Helena explained, with thegrandest phrase she could pick out of her "Synonymes, " to cow downthose who "wondered. "

Privately, Helena held long lamentations with Hazel, going to andfro, about the party that she could not have. 

"I'm actually ashamed to go to school. There isn't a girl there, whocan pretend to have anything, that hasn't had some kind of a companythis winter. I've been to them all, and I feel real mean, --sneaky. What's 'next year?' Mamma puts me off with that. Poh? Next yearthey'll all begin again. You can't skip birthdays. "

"I'll tell you what!" said Hazel, suddenly, inspired by much thesame idea that had occurred to Mrs. Ripwinkley; "I mean to ask mymother to let _me_ have a party!"

"You! Down in Aspen Street! Don't, for pity's sake, Hazel!"

"I don't believe but what it could be done over again!" said Hazel, irrelevantly, intent upon her own thought. 

"It couldn't be done _once_! For gracious grandmother's sake, don'tthink of it!" cried the little world-woman of thirteen. 

"It's gracious grandmother's sake that made me think of it, " saidHazel, laughing. "The way she used to do. "

"Why don't you ask them to help you hunt up old Noah, and all getback into the ark, pigeons and all?"

"Well, I guess they had pretty nice times there, any how; and ifanother big rain comes, perhaps they'll have to!"

Hazel did not intend her full meaning; but there is many a faint, small prophecy hid under a clover-leaf. 

Hazel did not let go things; her little witch-wand, once pointed, held its divining angle with the might of magic until somebody brokeground. 

"It's awful!" Helena declared to her mother and sisters, with tearsof consternation. "And she wants me to go round with her and carry'compliments!' It'll never be got over, --never! I wish I could goaway to boarding-school!"

For Mrs. Ripwinkley had made up her unsophisticated mind to try thisthing; to put this grain of a pure, potent salt, right into theseethe and glitter of little Boston, and find out what it woulddecompose or precipitate. For was not she a mother, testing theworld's chalice for her children? What did she care for the hiss andthe bubble, if they came?

She was wider awake than Mrs. Ledwith knew; perhaps they who comedown from the mountain heights of long seclusion can measure theworld's paces and changes better than they who have been hurried inthe midst of them, on and on, or round and round. 

Worst of all, old Uncle Titus took it up. 

It was funny, --or it would have been funny, reader, if anybody butyou and I and Rachel Froke knew exactly how, --to watch Uncle Titusas he kept his quiet eye on all these things, --the things that hehad set going, --and read their revelations; sheltered, disguised, under a character that the world had chosen to put upon him, likeHaroun Alraschid in the merchant's cloak. 

They took their tea with him, --the two families, --every Sundaynight. Agatha Ledwith "filled him in" a pair of slippers that veryfirst Christmas; he sat there in the corner with his old leatherones on, when they came, and left them, for the most part, to theirown mutual entertainment, until the tea was ready. It was a sort offamily exchange; all the plans and topics came up, particularly onthe Ledwith side, for Mrs. Ripwinkley was a good listener, and Lauraa good talker; and the fun, --that you and I and Rachel Froke couldguess, --yes, and a good deal of unsuspected earnest, also, --was allthere behind the old gentleman's "Christian Age, " as over briefmentions of sermons, or words about books, or little brevities offamily inquiries and household news, broke small floods ofexcitement like water over pebbles, as Laura and her daughtersdiscussed and argued volubly the matching and the flouncing of asilk, or the new flowering and higher pitching of a bonnet, --since"they are wearing everything all on the top, you know, and minelooks terribly meek;" or else descanted diffusely on theunaccountableness of the somebodies not having called, or the botherand forwardness of the some-other-bodies who had, and theeighty-three visits that were left on the list to be paid, and"never being able to take a day to sit down for anything. "

"What is it all for?" Mrs. Ripwinkley would ask, over again, thesame old burden of the world's weariness falling upon her from hersister's life, and making her feel as if it were her business toclear it away somehow. 

"Why, to live!" Mrs. Ledwith would reply. "You've got it all to do, you see. "

"But I don't really see, Laura, where the living comes in. "

Laura opens her eyes. 

"_Slang_?" says she. "Where did you get hold of that?"

"Is it slang? I'm sure I don't know. I mean it. "

"Well, you _are_ the funniest! You don't _catch_ anything. Even aby-word must come first-hand from you, and mean something!"

"It seems to me such a hard-working, getting-ready-to-be, and thennot being. There's no place left for it, --because it's all place. "

"Gracious me, Frank! If you are going to sift everything so, and getback of everything! I can't live in metaphysics: I have to live inthe things themselves, amongst other people. "

"But isn't it scene and costume, a good deal of it, without theplay? It may be that I don't understand, because I have not got intothe heart of your city life; but what comes of the parties, forinstance? The grand question, beforehand, is about wearing, and thenthere's a retrospection of what was worn, and how people looked. Itseems to be all surface. I should think they might almost send intheir best gowns, or perhaps a photograph, --if photographs ever werebecoming, --as they do visiting cards. "

"Aunt Frank, " said Desire, "I don't believe the 'heart of city life'is in the parties, or the parlors. I believe there's a great lot ofus knocking round amongst the dry goods and the furniture that neverget any further. People must be _living_, somewhere, _behind_ thefixings. But there are so many people, nowadays, that have neverquite got fixed!"

"You might live all your days here, " said Mrs. Ledwith to hersister, passing over Desire, "and never get into the heart of it, for that matter, unless you were born into it. I don't care so much, for my part. I know plenty of nice people, and I like to have thingsnice about me, and to have a pleasant time, and to let my childrenenjoy themselves. The 'heart, ' if the truth was known, is adreadful still place. I'm satisfied. "

Uncle Titus's paper was folded across the middle; just then hereversed the lower half; that brought the printing upside down; buthe went on reading all the same. 

"_I_'m going to have a real party, " said Hazel, "a real, gracious-grandmother party; just such as you and mother had, AuntLaura, when you were little. "

Her Aunt Laura laughed good-naturedly. 

"I guess you'll have to go round and knock up the grandmothers tocome to it, then, " said she. "You'd better make it a fancy dressaffair at once, and then it will be accounted for. "

"No; I'm going round to invite; and they are to come at four, andtake tea at six; and they're just to wear their afternoon dresses;and Miss Craydocke is coming at any rate; and she knows all the oldplays, and lots of new ones; and she is going to show how. "

"I'm coming, too, " said Uncle Titus, over his newspaper, with hiseyes over his glasses. 

"That's good, " said Hazel, simply, least surprised of any of theconclave. 

"And you'll have to play the muffin man. 'O, don't you know, '"--shebegan to sing, and danced two little steps toward Mr. Oldways. "O, Iforgot it was Sunday!" she said, suddenly stopping. 

"Not much wonder, " said Uncle Titus. "And not much matter. _Your_Sunday's good enough. "

And then he turned his paper right side up; but, before he beganreally to read again, he swung half round toward them in hisswivel-chair, and said, --

"Leave the sugar-plums to me, Hazel; I'll come early and bring 'emin my pocket. "

"It's the first thing he's taken the slightest notice of, orinterest in, that any one of us has been doing, " said AgathaLedwith, with a spice of momentary indignation, as they walked alongBridgeley Street to take the car. 

For Uncle Titus had not come to the Ledwith party. "He never wentvisiting, and he hadn't any best coat, " he told Laura, in verbalreply to the invitation that had come written on a square satinsheet, once folded, in an envelope with a big monogram. 

"It's of no consequence, " said Mrs. Ledwith, "any way. Only achild's play. "

"But it will be, mother; you don't know, " said Helena. "She's goingright in everywhere, with that ridiculous little invitation; to theAshburnes and the Geoffreys, and all! She hasn't the least idea ofany difference; and just think what the girls will say, and how theywill stare, and laugh! I wish she wasn't my cousin!"

"Helena!"

Mrs. Ledwith spoke with real displeasure; for she was good-naturedand affectionate in her way; and her worldly ambitions were ratherwide than high, as we have seen. 

"Well, I can't help it; you don't know, mother, " Helena repeated. "It's horrid to go to school with all those stiffies, that don'tcare a snap for you, and only laugh. "

"Laughing is vulgar, " said Agatha. If any indirect question wereever thrown upon the family position, Agatha immediately beganexpounding the ethics of high breeding, as one who had attained. 

"It is only half-way people who laugh, " she said. "Ada Geoffrey andLilian Ashburne never laugh--_at_ anybody--I am sure. "

"No, they don't; not right out. They're awfully polite. But you canfeel it, underneath. They have a way of keeping so still, when youknow they would laugh if they did anything. "

"Well, they'll neither laugh nor keep still, about this. You neednot be concerned. They'll just not go, and that will be the end ofit. "

Agatha Ledwith was mistaken. She had been mistaken about two thingsto-night. The other was when she had said that this was the firsttime Uncle Oldways had noticed or been interested in anything theydid. 

X. 

COCKLES AND CRAMBO. 

Hazel Ripwinkley put on her nankeen sack and skirt, and her littleround, brown straw hat. For May had come, and almost gone, and itwas a day of early summer warmth. 

Hazel's dress was not a "suit;" it had been made and worn twosummers before suits were thought of; yet it suited very well, aspeople's things are apt to do, after all, who do not troublethemselves about minutiæ of fashion, and so get no particularantediluvian marks upon them that show when the flood subsides. 

Her mother knew some things that Hazel did not. Mrs. Ripwinkley, ifshe had been asleep for five and twenty years, had lost none of herperceptive faculties in the trance. But she did not hamper her childwith any doubts; she let her go on her simple way, under the shieldof her simplicity, to test this world that she had come into, forherself. 

Hazel had written down her little list of the girls' names that shewould like to ask; and Mrs. Ripwinkley looked at it with a smile. There was Ada Geoffrey, the banker's daughter, and Lilian Ashburne, the professor's, --heiresses each, of double lines of birth andwealth. She could remember how, in her childhood, the old namessounded, with the respect that was in men's tones when they werespoken; and underneath were Lois James and Katie Kilburnie, childrenof a printer and a hatter. They had all been chosen for their purelypersonal qualities. A child, let alone, chooses as an angel chooses. 

It remained to be seen how they would come together. 

At the very head, in large, fair letters, was, --

 "MISS CRAYDOCKE. "

Down at the bottom, she had just added, --

 "MR. KINCAID AND DORRIS. "

"For, if I have _some_ grown folks, mother, perhaps I ought to have_other_ grown folks, --'to keep the balance true. ' Besides, Mr. Kincaid and Dorris always like the _little_ nice times. "

From the day when Dorris Kincaid had come over with the gray glassvase and her repeated thanks, when the flowers had done theirministry and faded, there had been little simple courtesies, eachway, between the opposite houses; and once Kenneth and his sisterhad taken tea with the Ripwinkleys, and they had played "crambo"and "consequences" in the evening. The real little game of"consequences, " of which this present friendliness was a link, wasgoing on all the time, though they did not stop to read the lines asthey folded them down, and "what the world said" was not one of theitems in their scheme of it at all. 

It would have been something worth while to have followed Hazel asshe went her rounds, asking quietly at each house to see Mrs. Thisor That, "as she had a message;" and being shown, like a littlerepresentative of an almost extinct period, up into the parlor, orthe dressing-room of each lady, and giving her quaint errand. 

"I am Hazel Ripwinkley, " she would say, "and my mother sends hercompliments, and would like to have Lilian, "--or whoeverelse, --"come at four o'clock to-day, and spend the afternoon andtake tea. I'm to have a little party such as she used to have, andnobody is to be much dressed up, and we are only to play games. "

"Why, that is charming!" cried Mrs. Ashburne; for the feeling ofher own sweet early days, and the old B---- Square house, came overher as she heard the words. "It is Lilian's music afternoon; butnever mind; give my kind compliments to your mother, and she will bevery happy to come. "

And Mrs. Ashburne stooped down and kissed Hazel, when she went away. 

She stood in the deep carved stone entrance-way to Mrs. Geoffrey'shouse, in the same fearless, Red Riding Hood fashion, just as shewould have waited in any little country porch up in Homesworth, where she had need indeed to knock. 

Not a whit dismayed was she either, when the tall manservant openedto her, and admitted her into the square, high, marble-paved hall, out of which great doors were set wide into rooms rich and quietwith noble adorning and soft shading, --where pictures made such amagic upon the walls, and books were piled from floor to ceiling;and where her little figure was lost as she went in, and shehesitated to take a seat anywhere, lest she should be quite hiddenin some great arm-chair or sofa corner, and Mrs. Geoffrey should notsee her when she came down. 

So, as the lady entered, there she was, upright and waiting, on hertwo feet, in her nankeen dress, just within the library doors, withher face turned toward the staircase. 

"I am Hazel Ripwinkley, " she began; as if she had said, I amPease-blossom or Mustard-seed; "I go to school with Ada. " And wenton, then, with her compliments and her party. And at the end shesaid, very simply, --

"Miss Craydocke is coming, and she knows the games. "

"Miss Craydocke, of Orchard Street? And where do you live?"

"In Aspen Street, close by, in Uncle Oldways' house. We haven'tlived there very long, --only this winter; before that we alwayslived in Homesworth. "

"And Homesworth is in the country? Don't you miss that?"

"Yes; but Aspen Street isn't very bad; we've got a garden. Besides, we like streets and neighbors. "

Then she added, --for her little witch-stick felt spiritually thequality of what she spoke to, --"Wouldn't Mr. Geoffrey come for Adain the evening?"

"I haven't the least doubt he would!" said Mrs. Geoffrey, her faceall alive with exquisite and kindly amusement, and catching thespirit of the thing from the inimitable simplicity before her, suchas never, she did believe, had walked into anybody's house before, in this place and generation, and was no more to be snubbed than aflower or a breeze or an angel. 

It was a piece of Witch Hazel's witchery, or inspiration, that shenamed Miss Craydocke; for Miss Craydocke was an old, dear friend ofMrs. Geoffrey's, in that "heart of things" behind the fashions, where the kingdom is growing up. But of course Hazel could not haveknown that; something in the lady's face just made her think of thesame thing in Miss Craydocke's, and so she spoke, forgetting toexplain, nor wondering in the very least, when she was met withknowledge. 

It was all divining, though, from the beginning to the end. That waswhat took her into these homes, rather than to a score of otherplaces up and down the self-same streets, where, if she had got inat all, she would have met strange, lofty stares, and freezing"thank you's, " and "engagements. "

"I've found the real folks, mother, and they're all coming!" shecried, joyfully, running in where Mrs. Ripwinkley was setting littlevases and baskets about on shelf and table, between the white, plain, muslin draperies of the long parlor windows. In vases andbaskets were sweet May flowers; bunches of deep-hued, rich-scentedviolets, stars of blue and white periwinkle, and Miss Craydocke'slilies of the valley in their tall, cool leaves; each kind gatheredby itself in clusters and handfuls. Inside the wide, open fireplace, behind the high brass fender and the shining andirons, was a"chimney flower pot, " country fashion, of green lilac boughs, --notblossoms, --and woodbine sprays, and crimson and white tulips. Theroom was fair and fragrant, and the windows were wide open uponvines and grass. 

"It looks like you, mother, just as Mrs. Geoffrey's house looks likeher. Houses ought to look like people, I think. "

"There's your surprise, children. We shouldn't be doing it rightwithout a surprise, you know. "

And the surprise was not dolls' pelerines, but books. "Little Women"was one, which sent Diana and Hazel off for a delicious two hours'read up in their own room until dinner. 

After dinner, Miss Craydocke came, in her purple and white stripedmohair and her white lace neckerchief; and at three o'clock UncleTitus walked in, with his coat pockets so bulgy and rustling andodorous of peppermint and sassafras, that it was no use to pretendto wait and be unconscious, but a pure mercy to unload him so thathe might be able to sit down. 

Nobody knows to this day where he got them; he must have orderedthem somewhere, one would think, long enough before to have specialmoulds and implements made; but there were large, beautifulcockles, --not of the old flour-paste sort, but of clear, sparklingsugar, rose-color, and amber, and white, with little slips of tintedpaper tucked within, and these printed delicately with pretty rhymesand couplets, from real poets; things to be truly treasured, yetsimple, for children's apprehension, and fancy, and fun. And therewere "Salem gibraltars, " such as we only get out of Essex County nowand then, for a big charitable Fair, when Salem and everywhere elsegets its spirit up to send its best and most especial; and therewere toys and devices in sugar--flowers and animals, hats, bonnets, and boots, apples, and cucumbers, --such as Diana and Hazel, and evenDesire and Helena had never seen before. 

"It isn't quite fair, " said good Miss Craydocke. "We were to go backto the old, simple fashions of things; and here you are beginningover again already with sumptuous inventions. It's the very way itcame about before, till it was all spoilt. "

"No, " said Uncle Titus, stoutly. "It's only 'Old _and_ New, '--thevery selfsame good old notions brought to a little modernperfection. They're not French flummery, either; and there's not adrop of gin, or a flavor of prussic acid, or any other abominablechemical, in one of those contrivances. They're as innocent as theylook; good honest mint and spice and checkerberry and lemon androse. I know the man that made 'em!"

Helena Ledwith began to think that the first person, singular orplural, might have a good time; but that awful third! Helena's"they" was as potent and tremendous as her mother's. 

"It's nice, " she said to Hazel; "but they don't have inch things. Inever saw them at a party. And they don't play games; they alwaysdance. And it's broad, hot daylight; and--you haven't asked a singleboy!"

"Why, I don't know any! Only Jimmy Scarup; and I guess he'd ratherplay ball, and break windows!"

"Jimmy Scarup!" And Helena turned away, hopeless of Hazel'scomprehending. 

But "they" came; and "they" turned right into "we. "

It was not a party; it was something altogether fresh and new; thehouse was a new, beautiful place; it was like the country. And AspenStreet, when you got down there, was so still and shady and sweetsmelling and pleasant. They experienced the delight of finding outsomething. 

Miss Craydocke and Hazel set them at it, --their good time; they hadplanned it all out, and there was no stiff, shy waiting. They began, right off, with the "Muffin Man. " Hazel danced up to Desire:--

 "O, _do_ you know the Muffin Man, The Muffin Man, the Muffin Man? O, _do_ you know the Muffin Man That lives in Drury Lane?"

 "O, yes, I know the Muffin Man, The Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, O, yes, I know the Muffin Man That lives in Drury Lane. "

And so they danced off together:--

 "Two of us know the Muffin Man, The Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, Two of us know the Muffin Man That lives in Drury Lane. "

And then they besieged Miss Craydocke; and then the three met AdaGeoffrey, just as she had come in and spoken to Diana and Mrs. Ripwinkley; and Ada had caught the refrain, and responded instantly;and _four_ of them knew the Muffin Man. 

"I know they'll think it's common and queer, and they'll laughto-morrow, " whispered Helena to Diana, as Hazel drew the lengtheningstring to Dorris Kincaid's corner and caught her up; but the nextminute they were around Helena in her turn, and they were laughingalready, with pure glee; and five faces bent toward her, and fivevoices sang, --

 "O, _don't_ you know the Muffin Man?"

And Helena had to sing back that she did; and then the six made aperfect snarl around Mrs. Ripwinkley herself, and drew her in; andthen they all swept off and came down across the room upon Mr. Oldways, who muttered, under the singing, "seven women! Well, theBible says so, and I suppose it's come!" and then he held out bothhands, while his hard face unbent in every wrinkle, with a smilethat overflowed through all their furrowed channels, up to his veryeyes; like some sparkling water that must find its level; and therewere eight that knew the Muffin Man. 

So nine, and ten, and up to fifteen; and then, as their line brokeaway into fragments, still breathless with fun, Miss Craydockesaid, --her eyes brimming over with laughing tears, that always camewhen she was gay, --

"There, now! we all know the 'Muffin Man;' therefore it follows, mathematically, I believe, that we must all know each other. I thinkwe'll try a sitting-down game next. I'll give you all something. Desire, you can tell them what to do with it, and Miss Ashburneshall predict me consequences. "

So they had the "Presentation Game;" and the gifts, and thedispositions, and the consequences, when the whispers were over, andthey were all declared aloud, were such hits and jumbles of senseand nonsense as were almost too queer to have been believed. 

"Miss Craydocke gave me a butter firkin, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "Iwas to put it in the parlor and plant vanilla beans in it; and theconsequence would be that Birnam Wood would come to Dunsinane. "

"She gave me a wax doll, " said Helena. "I was to buy it a pair ofhigh-heeled boots and a chignon; and the consequence would be thatshe would have to stand on her head. "

"She gave me, " said Mr. Oldways, "an iron spoon. I was to deal outsugar-plums with it; and the consequence would be that you would allgo home. "

"She gave me, " said Lois James, "Woman's Rights. I shouldn't knowwhat to do with them; and the consequence would be a terriblemortification to all my friends. "

"She gave me, " said Hazel, "a real good time. I was to pass itround; and the consequence would be an earthquake. "

Then they had "Scandal;" a whisper, repeated rapidly from ear toear. It began with, "Luclarion is in the kitchen makingtea-biscuits;" and it ended with the horrible announcement thatthere were "two hundred gallons of hot pitch ready, and thateverybody was to be tipped into it. "

"Characters, " and "Twenty Questions, " and "How, When, and Where, "followed; and then they were ready for a run again, and they played"Boston, " in which Mr. Oldways, being "Sceattle, " was continuallybeing left out, whereupon he declared at last, that he didn'tbelieve there was any place for him, or even that he was downanywhere on the map, and it wasn't fair, and he was going to secede;and that broke up the play; for the groat fun of all the games hadcome to be Miss Craydocke and Uncle Titus, as it always is the greatfun to the young ones when the elders join in, --the older and thesoberer, the better sport; there is always something in the "fatherslooking on;" that is the way I think it is among them who always dobehold the Face of the Father in heaven, --smiling upon their smiles, glowing upon their gladness. 

In the tea-room, it was all even more delightful yet; it was furtherout into the garden, shaded at the back by the deep leafiness ofgrape-vines, and a trellis work with arches in it that ran up at theside, and would be gay by and by with scarlet runners, andmorning-glories, and nasturtiums, that were shooting up strong andswift already, from the neatly weeded beds. 

Inside, was the tall old semicircular sideboard, with gingerbreadgrooves carved all over it; and the real brass "dogs, " with heads ontheir fore-paws, were lying in the fire-place, under the lilacboughs; and the square, plain table stood in the midst, with itsglossy white cloth that touched the floor at the corners, and on itwere the identical pink mugs, and a tall glass pitcher of milk, andplates of the thinnest and sweetest bread and butter, and earlystrawberries in a white basket lined with leaves, and thetraditional round frosted cakes upon a silver plate with a networkrim. 

And Luclarion and Mrs. Ripwinkley waited upon them all, and it wasstill no party, to be compared or thought of with any salad andice-pudding and Germania-band affair, such as they had had allwinter; but something utterly fresh and new and by itself, --place, and entertainment, and people, and all. 

After tea, they went out into the garden; and there, under the shadyhorse-chestnuts, was a swing; and there were balls with which Hazelshowed them how to play "class;" tossing in turn against the highbrick wall, and taking their places up and down, according to thenumber of their catches. It was only Miss Craydocke's "Thread theNeedle" that got them in again; and after that, she showed themanother simple old dancing game, the "Winding Circle, " from whichthey were all merrily and mysteriously untwisting themselves withMiss Craydocke's bright little thin face and her fluttering capribbons, and her spry little trot leading them successfully off, when the door opened, and the grand Mr. Geoffrey walked in; the manwho could manage State Street, and who had stood at the right handof Governor and President, with his clear brain, and big purse, andgenerous hand, through the years of the long, terrible war; the manwhom it was something for great people to get to their dinners, orto have walk late into an evening drawing-room and dignify anoccasion for the last half hour. 

Mrs. Ripwinkley was just simply glad to see him; so she was to seeKenneth Kincaid, who came a few minutes after, just as Luclarionbrought the tray of sweetmeats in, which Mrs. Ripwinkley had so farinnovated upon the gracious-grandmother plan as to have after tea, instead of before. 

The beautiful cockles and their rhymes got their heads all togetheraround the large table, for the eating and the reading. Mr. Geoffreyand Uncle Titus sat talking European politics together, a littleaside. The sugar-plums lasted a good while, with the chatter overthem; and then, before they quite knew what it was all for, they hadgot slips of paper and lead pencils before them, and there was to bea round of "Crambo" to wind up. 

"O, I don't know how!" and "I never can!" were the first words, asthey always are, when it was explained to the uninitiated; but MissCraydocke assured them that "everybody could;" and Hazel said that"nobody expected real poetry; it needn't be more than two lines, andthose might be blank verse, if they were _very_ hard, but jingleswere better;" and so the questions and the wards were written andfolded, and the papers were shuffled and opened amid outcries of, "O, this is awful!" "_What_ a word to get in!" "Why, they haven'tthe least thing to do with each other!"

"That's the beauty of it, " said Miss Craydocke, unrelentingly; "to_make_ them have; and it is funny how much things do have to do witheach other when they once happen to come across. "

Then there were knit brows, and desperate scratchings, and suchsilence that Mr. Geoffrey and Uncle Titus stopped short on theAlabama question, and looked round to see what the matter was. 

Kenneth Kincaid had been modestly listening to the older gentlemen, and now and then venturing to inquire or remark something, with anintelligence that attracted Mr. Geoffrey; and presently it came outthat he had been south with the army; and then Mr. Geoffrey askedquestions of him, and they got upon Reconstruction business, andcomparing facts and exchanging conclusions, quite as if one was nota mere youth with only his eyes and his brains and his conscience tohelp him in his first grapple with the world in the tangle andcrisis at which he found it, and the other a grave, practiced, keen-judging man, the counsellor of national leaders. 

After all, they had no business to bring the great, troublesome, heavy-weighted world into a child's party. I wish man never would;though it did not happen badly, as it all turned out, that they dida little of it in this instance. If they had thought of it, "Crambo" was good for them too, for a change; and presently they didthink of it; for Dorris called out in distress, real or pretended, from the table, --

"Kentie, here's something you must really take off my hands! Ihaven't the least idea what to do with it. "

And then came a cry from Hazel, --

"No fair! We're all just as badly off, and there isn't one of usthat has got a brother to turn to. Here's another for Mr. Kincaid. "

"There are plenty more. Come, Mr. Oldways, Mr. Geoffrey, won't youtry 'Crambo?' There's a good deal in it, as there is in mostnonsense. "

"We'll come and see what it is, " said Mr. Geoffrey; and so thechairs were drawn up, and the gray, grave heads looked on over theyoung ones. 

"Why, Hazel's got through!" said Lois, scratching violently at herpaper, and obliterating three obstinate lines. 

"O, I didn't bother, you see! I just stuck the word right in, like apin into a pincushion, and let it go. There wasn't anything else todo with it. "

"I've got to make my pincushion, " said Dorris. 

"I should think you had! Look at her! She's writing her paper allover! O, my gracious, she must have done it before!"

"Mother and Mr. Geoffrey are doing heaps, too! We shall have topublish a book, " said Diana, biting the end of her pencil, andtaking it easy. Diana hardly ever got the rhymes made in time; butthen she always admired everybody's else, which was a good thing forsomebody to be at leisure to do. 

"Uncle Oldways and Lilian are folding up, " said Hazel. 

"Five minutes more, " said Miss Craydocke, keeping the time with herwatch before her. "Hush!"

When the five minutes were rapped out, there were seven papers to beread. People who had not finished this time might go on when theothers took fresh questions. 

Hazel began reading, because she had been ready first. 

"'What is the difference between sponge-cake and doughnuts?''Hallelujah. '"

 "Airiness, lightness, and insipidity; Twistiness, spiciness, and solidity. Hallelujah! I've got through! That is the best that I can do!'"

There was a shout at Hazel's pinsticking. 

"Now, Uncle Titus! You finished next. "

"My question is a very comprehensive one, " said Uncle Titus, "with avery concise and suggestive word. 'How wags the world?' 'Slambang. '"

 "'The world wags on With lies and slang; With show and vanity, Pride and inanity, Greed and insanity, And a great slambang!'"

"That's only _one_ verse, " said Miss Craydocke. "There's another;but he didn't write it down. "

Uncle Titus laughed, and tossed his Crambo on the table. "It's true, so far, anyway, " said he. 

"_So far_ is hardly ever quite true, " said Miss Craydocke

Lilian Ashburne had to answer the question whether she had ever read"Young's Night Thoughts;" and her word was "Comet. "

 "'Pray might I be allowed a pun, To help me through with just this one? I've tried to read Young's Thoughts of Night, But never yet could come it, quite. '"

"O, O, O! That's just like Lilian, with her soft little 'prays' and'allow me's, ' and her little pussy-cat ways of sliding through tightplaces, just touching her whiskers!"

"It's quite fair, " said Lilian, smiling, "to slide through if youcan. "

"Now, Mr. Geoffrey. "

And Mr. Geoffrey read, --

"'What is your favorite color?' 'One-hoss. '"

 "'Do you mean, my friend, for a one-hoss shay, Or the horse himself, --black, roan, or bay? In truth, I think I can hardly say; I believe, for a nag, "I bet on the gray. "

 "'For a shay, I would rather not have yellow, Or any outright, staring color, That makes the crowd look after a fellow, And the little _gamins_ hoot and bellow. 

 "'Do you mean for ribbons? or gowns? or eyes? Or flowers? or gems? or in sunset skies? For many questions, as many replies, Drops of a rainbow take rainbow dyes. 

 "'The world is full, and the world is bright; Each thing to its nature parts the light; And each for its own to the Perfect sight Wears that which is comely, and sweet, and right. '"

"O, Mr. Geoffrey! That's lovely!" cried the girl voices, all aroundhim. And Ada made a pair of great eyes at her father, and said, --

"What an awful humbug you have been, papa! To have kept the otherside up with care all your life! Who ever suspected _that_ of you?"

Diana and Hazel were not taken so much by surprise, their motherhad improvised little nursery jingles for them all their baby days, and had played Crambo with them since; so they were very confidentwith their "Now, mother:" and looked calmly for somethingcreditable. 

"'What is your favorite name?'" read Mrs. Ripwinkley. "And the wordis 'Stuff. '"

 "'When I was a little child, Looking very meek and mild, I liked grand, heroic names, -- Of warriors, or stately dames: Zenobia, and Cleopatra; (No rhyme for that this side Sumatra;) Wallace, and Helen Mar, --Clotilda, Berengaria, and Brunhilda; Maximilian; Alexandra; Hector, Juno, and Cassandra; Charlemagne and Britomarte, Washington and Bonaparte; Victoria and Guinevere, And Lady Clara Vere de Vere. --Shall I go on with all this stuff, Or do you think it is enough? I cannot tell you what dear name I love the best; I play a game; And tender earnest doth belong To quiet speech, not silly song. '"

"That's just like mother; I should have stopped as soon as I'd gotthe 'stuff' in; but she always shapes off with a little morriowl, "said Hazel. "Now, Desire!"

Desire frantically scribbled a long line at the end of what she hadwritten; below, that is, a great black morass of scratches thatrepresented significantly the "Slough of Despond" she had got intoover the winding up, and then gave, --

"'Which way would you rather travel, --north or south?''Goosey-gander. '"

 "'O, goosey-gander! If I might wander, It should be toward the sun; The blessed South Should fill my mouth With ripeness just begun. For bleak hills, bare, With stunted, spare, And scrubby, piney trees, Her gardens rare, And vineyards fair, And her rose-scented breeze. For fearful blast, Skies overcast, And sudden blare and scare Long, stormless moons, And placid noons, And--all sorts of comfortablenesses, --there!'"

"That makes me think of father's horse running away with him once, "said Helena, "when he had to head him right up against a brick wall, and knock everything all to smash before he could stop!"

"Anybody else?"

"Miss Kincaid, I think, " said Mr. Geoffrey. He had been watchingDorris's face through the play, flashing and smiling with theexcitement of her rhyming, and the slender, nervous fingers twistingtremulously the penciled slip while she had listened to the others. 

"If it isn't all rubbed out, " said Dorris, coloring and laughing tofind how badly she had been treating her own effusion. 

"You see it _was_ rather an awful question, --'What do you wantmost?' And the word is, 'Thirteen. '"

She caught her breath a little quickly as she began:--

 "'Between yourself, dear, myself, and the post, There are the thirteen things that I want the most. I want to be, sometimes, a little stronger; I want the days to be a little longer; I'd like to have a few less things to do; I'd better like to better do the few: I want--and this might almost lead my wishes, -- A bigger place to keep my mops and dishes. I want a horse; I want a little buggy, To ride in when the days grow hot and muggy; I want a garden; and, --perhaps it's funny, -- But now and then I want a little money. I want an easy way to do my hair; I want an extra dress or two to wear; I want more patience; and when all is given, I think I want to die and go to heaven!'"

"I never saw such bright people in all my life!" said Ada Geoffrey, when the outcry of applause for Dorris had subsided, and they beganto rise to go. "But the _worst_ of all is papa! I'll never get overit of you, see if I do! Such a cheat! Why, it's like playing dumball your life, and then just speaking up suddenly in a quiet way, some day, as if it was nothing particular, and nobody cared!"

With Hazel's little divining-rod, Mrs. Ripwinkley had reached out, testing the world for her, to see what some of it might be reallymade of. Mrs. Geoffrey, from her side, had reached out in turn, also, into this fresh and simple opportunity, to see what might bethere worth while. 

"How was it, Aleck?" she asked of her husband, as they sat togetherin her dressing-room, while she brushed out her beautiful hair. 

"Brightest people I have been among for a long time--and nicest, "said the banker, concisely. "A real, fresh little home, with amother in it. Good place for Ada to go, and good girls for her toknow; like the ones I fell in love with a hundred years ago. "

"That rhymed oracle, --to say nothing of the _fraction_ of acompliment, --ought to settle it, " said Mrs. Geoffrey, laughing. 

"Rhymes have been the order of the evening. I expect to talk inverse for a week at least. "

And then he told her about the "Crambo. "

A week after, Mrs. Ledwith was astonished to find, lying on themantel in her sister's room, a card that had been sent up the daybefore, --

 "MRS. ALEXANDER H. GEOFFREY. "

XI. 

MORE WITCH-WORK. 

Hazel was asked to the Geoffreys' to dinner. 

Before this, she and Diana had both been asked to take tea, andspend an evening, but this was Hazel's little especial "invite, " asshe called it, because she and Ada were writing a dialogue togetherfor a composition at school. 

The Geoffreys dined at the good old-fashioned hour of half past two, except when they had formal dinner company; and Hazel was to comeright home from school with Ada, and stay and spend the afternoon. 

"What intimacy!" Florence Ledwith had exclaimed, when she heard ofit. 

"But it isn't at all on the grand style side; people like theGeoffreys do such things quite apart from their regular connection;it is a sort of 'behind the scenes;'" said Glossy Megilp, who wasstanding at Florence's dressing-glass, touching up the little heapof "friz" across her forehead. 

"Where's my poker?" she asked, suddenly, breaking off from theGeoffrey subject, and rummaging in a dressing box, intent upontutoring some little obstinate loop of hair that would be _too_frizzy. 

"I should think a 'blower' might be a good thing to add to yourtools, Glossy, " said Desire. "You have brush, poker, and tongs, now, to say nothing of coal-hod, " she added, glancing at the little openjapanned box that held some kind of black powder which had to dowith the shadow of Glossy's eyelashes upon occasion, and theemphasis upon the delicate line of her brows. 

"No secret, " said Glossy, magnanimously. "There it is! It is nogreater sin than violet powder, or false tails, for that matter; andthe little gap in my left eyebrow was never deliberately designed. It was a 'lapsus naturæ;' I only follow out the hint, and completethe intention. Something _is_ left to ourselves; as the child saidabout the Lord curling her hair for her when she was a baby andletting her do it herself after she grew big enough. What are ourartistic perceptions given to us for, unless we're to make the bestof ourselves in the first place?"

"But it isn't all eyebrows, " said Desire, half aloud. 

"Of course not, " said Glossy Megilp. "Twice a day I have to domyself up somehow, and why shouldn't it be as well as I can? Otherthings come in their turn, and I do them. "

"But, you see, the friz and the fix has to be, anyhow, whether orno. Everything isn't done, whether or no. I guess it's the 'firstplace, ' that's the matter. "

"I think you have a very theoretical mind, Des, and a slightlyobscure style. You can't be satisfied till everything is all mappedout, and organized, and justified, and you get into horrible snarlstrying to do it. If I were you, I would take things a little more asthey come. "

"I can't, " said Desire. "They come hind side before and upsidedown. "

"Well, if everybody is upside down, there's a view of it that makesit all right side up, isn't there? It seems to be an establishedfact that we must dress and undress, and that the first duty of theday is to get up and put on our clothes. We aren't ready for muchuntil we do. And one person's dressing may require one thing, andanother's another. Some people have a cork leg to put on, and somepeople have false teeth; and they wouldn't any of them come hobblingor mumbling out without them, unless there was a fire or anearthquake, I suppose. "

Glossy Megilp's arguments and analogies perplexed Desire, always. They sometimes silenced her; but they did not always answer her. Shewent back to what they had been discussing before. 

"To 'lay down the shubbel and the hoe, '--here's your poker, underthe table-flounce, Glossy, --and to 'take up the fiddle and the bow, 'again, --I think it's real nice and beautiful for Hazel--"

"To 'go where the good darkies go'?"

"Yes. It's the _good_ of her that's got her in. And I believe youand Florence both would give your best boots to be there too, if it_is_ behind. Behind the fixings and the fashions is where people_live_; 'dere's vat I za-ay!'" she ended, quoting herself and RipVan Winkle. 

"Maybe, " said Florence, carelessly; "but I'd as lief be _in_ thefashion, after all. And that's where Hazel Ripwinkley never willget, with all her taking little novelties. "

Meanwhile, Hazel Ripwinkley was deep in the delights of a greatportfolio of rare engravings; prints of glorious frescoes in oldchurches, and designs of splendid architecture; and Mrs. Geoffrey, seeing her real pleasure, was sitting beside her, turning over thelarge sheets, and explaining them; telling her, as she gazed intothe wonderful faces of the Saints and the Evangelists in Correggio'sfrescoes of the church of San Giovanni at Parma, how the whole domewas one radiant vision of heavenly glory, with clouds and angelfaces, and adoring apostles, and Christ the Lord high over all; andthat these were but the filling in between the springing curves ofthe magnificent arches; describing to her the Abbess's room in SanPaolo, with its strange, beautiful heathen picture over the mantel, of Diana mounting her stag-drawn car, and its circular walls paintedwith trellis-work and medallioned with windows, where the heads oflittle laughing children, and graceful, gentle animals peeped infrom among vines and flowers. 

Mrs. Geoffrey did not wonder that Hazel lingered with delight overthese or over the groups by Raphael in the Sistine Chapel, --thequiet pendentives, where the waiting of the world for its salvationwas typified in the dream-like, reclining forms upon the still, desert sand; or the wonderful scenes from the "Creation, "--themajestic "Let there be Light!" and the Breathing of the breath oflife into Man. She watched the surprise and awe with which the childbeheld for the first time the daring of inspiration in thetremendous embodiment of the Almighty, and waited while she couldhardly take her eyes away. But when, afterward, they turned to aportfolio of Architecture, and she found her eager to examine spiresand arches and capitals, rich reliefs and stately facades andsculptured gates, and exclaiming with pleasure at the coloreddrawings of Florentine ornamentation, she wondered, and questionedher, --

"Have you ever seen such things before? Do you draw? I should hardlythink you would care so much, at your age. "

"I like the prettiness, " said Hazel, simply, "and the grandness; butI don't suppose I should care so much if it wasn't for Dorris andMr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid draws buildings; he's an architect; only hehasn't architected much yet, because the people that build thingsdon't know him. Dorris was so glad to give him a Christmas presentof 'Daguerreotypes de Paris, ' with the churches and arches andbridges and things; she got it at a sale; I wonder what they wouldsay to all these beauties!"

Then Mrs. Geoffrey found what still more greatly enchanted her, avolume of engravings, of English Home Architecture; interiors of oldHalls, magnificent staircases, lofty libraries and galleries dimwith space; exteriors, gabled, turreted and towered; long, ramblingpiles of manor houses, with mixed styles of many centuries. 

"They look as if they were brimfull of stories!" Hazel cried. "O, ifI could only carry it home to show to the Kincaids!"

"You may, " said Mrs. Geoffrey, as simply, in her turn, as if shewere lending a copy of "Robinson Crusoe;' never letting the childguess by a breath of hesitation the value of what she had asked. 

"And tell me more about these Kincaids. They are friends of yours?"

"Yes; we've known them all winter. They live right opposite, and sitin the windows, drawing and writing. Dorris keeps house up there intwo rooms. The little one is her bedroom; and Mr. Kincaid sleeps onthe big sofa. Dorris makes crackle-cakes, and asks us over. Shecooks with a little gas-stove. I think it is beautiful to keep housewith not very much money. She goes out with a cunning white basketand buys her things; and she does all her work up in a corner on awhite table, with a piece of oil-cloth on the floor; and then shecomes over into her parlor, she says, and sits by the window. It's akind of a play all the time. "

"And Mr. Kincaid?"

"Dorris says he might have been rich by this time, if he had goneinto his Uncle James's office in New York. Mr. James Kincaid is abroker, and buys gold. But Kenneth says gold stands for work, and ifhe ever has any he'll buy it with work. He wants to do some realthing. Don't you think that's nice of him?"

"Yes, I do, " said Mrs. Geoffrey. "And Dorris is that bright girlwho wanted thirteen things, and rhymed them into 'Crambo?' Mr. Geoffrey told me. "

"Yes, ma'am; Dorris can do almost anything. "

"I should like to see Dorris, sometime. Will you bring her here, Hazel?"

Hazel's little witch-rod felt the almost impassible something in theway. 

"I don't know as she would be _brought_, " she said. 

Mrs. Geoffrey laughed. 

"You have an instinct for the fine proprieties, without a bit ofrespect for any conventional fences, " she said. "I'll _ask_ Dorris. "

"Then I'm sure she'll come, " said Hazel, understanding quite welland gladly the last three words, and passing over the first phraseas if it had been a Greek motto, put there to be skipped. 

"Ada has stopped practicing, " said Mrs. Geoffrey, who had undertakenthe entertainment of her little guest during her daughter's halfhour of music. "She will be waiting for you now. "

Hazel instantly jumped up. 

But she paused after three steps toward the door, to say gently, looking back over her shoulder with a shy glance out of her timidlyclear eyes, --

"Perhaps, --I hope I haven't, --stayed too long!"

"Come back, you little hazel-sprite!" cried Mrs. Geoffrey; and whenshe got her within reach again, she put her hands one each side ofthe little blushing, gleaming face, and kissed it, saying, --

"I don't _think_, --I'm slow, usually, in making up my mind aboutpeople, big or little, --but I don't think you can stay too long, --orcome too often, dear!"

"I've found another for you, Aleck, " she said, that night at thehair-brushing, to her husband. 

He always came to sit in her dressing-room, then; and it was at thisquiet time that they gave each other, out of the day they had livedin their partly separate ways and duties, that which made it foreach like a day lived twice, so that the years of their life countedup double. 

"He is a young architect, who hasn't architected much, because hedoesn't know the people who build things; and he wouldn't be a goldbroker with his uncle in New York, because he believes in doingmoney's worth in the world for the world's money. Isn't he one?"

"Sounds like it, " said Mr. Geoffrey. "What is his name?"

"Kincaid. "

"Nephew of James R. Kincaid?" said Mr. Geoffrey, with aninterrogation that was also an exclamation. "And wouldn't go in withhim! Why, it was just to have picked up dollars!"

"Exactly, " replied his wife. "That was what he objected to. "

"I should like to see the fellow. "

"Don't you remember? You have seen him! The night you went for Adato the Aspen Street party, and got into 'Crambo. ' He was there; andit was his sister who wanted thirteen things. I guess they do!"

"Ask them here, " said the banker. 

"I mean to, " Mrs. Geoffrey answered. "That is, after I've seenHapsie Craydocke. She knows everything. I'll go there to-morrowmorning. "

 * * * * *

"'Behind' is a pretty good way to get in--to some places, " saidDesire Ledwith, coming into the rose-pink room with news. "Especially an omnibus. And the Ripwinkleys, and the Kincaids, andold Miss Craydocke, and for all I know, Mrs. Scarup and LuclarionGrapp are going to Summit Street to tea to-night. Boston istopsy-turvey; Holmes was a prophet; and 'Brattle Street and TemplePlace are interchanging cards!' Mother, we ought to get intimatewith the family over the grocer's shop. Who knows what would come ofit? There are fairies about in disguise, I'm sure; or else it's themillennium. Whichever it is, it's all right for Hazel, though; she'sready. Don't you feel like foolish virgins, Flo and Nag? I do. "

I am afraid it was when Desire felt a little inclination to "nag"her elder sister, that she called her by that reprehensible name. Agatha only looked lofty, and vouchsafed no reply; but Florencesaid, --

"There's no need of any little triumphs or mortifications. Nobodycrows, and nobody cries. _I_'m glad. Diana's a dear, and Hazel's aduck, besides being my cousins; why shouldn't I? Only there _is_ alarge hole for the cats, and a little hole for the kittens; and I'das lief, myself, go in with the cats. "

"The Marchbankses are staying there, and Professor Gregory. I don'tknow about cats, " said Desire, demurely. 

"It's a reason-why party, for all that, " said Agatha, carelessly, recovering her good humor. 

"Well, when any nice people ask me, I hope there _will_ be a 'reasonwhy. ' It's the persons of consequence that make the 'reason why. '"

And Desire had the last word. 

 * * * * *

Hazel Ripwinkley was thinking neither of large holes nor littleones, --cats nor kittens; she was saying to Luclarion, sitting in hershady down-stairs room behind the kitchen, that looked out into thegreen yard corner, "how nicely things came out, after all!"

"They seemed so hobblety at first, when I went up there and saw allthose beautiful books, and pictures, and people living amongst themevery day, and the poor Kincaids not getting the least bit of astretch out of their corner, ever. I'll tell you what I thought, Luclarion;" and here she almost whispered, "I truly did. I thoughtGod was making a mistake. "

Luclarion put out her lips into a round, deprecating pucker, atthat, and drew in her breath, --

"Oo--sh!"

"Well, I mean it seemed as if there was a mistake somewhere; andthat I'd no business, at any rate, with what they wanted so. Icouldn't get over it until I asked for those pictures; and mothersaid it was such a bold thing to do!"

"It was bold, " said Luclarion; "but it wasn't forrud. It was gi'nyou, and it hit right. That was looked out for. "

"It's a stumpy world, " said Luclarion Grapp to Mrs. Ripwinkley, afterward; "but some folks step right over their stumps athoutscarcely knowin' when!"

XII. 

CRUMBS. 

Desire Ledwith was, at this epoch, a perplexity and a worry, --even apositive terror sometimes, --to her mother. 

It was not a case of the hen hatching ducks, it was rather as if ahen had got a hawk in her brood. 

Desire's demurs and questions, --her dissatisfactions, sittings andcontempts, --threatened now and then to swoop down upon the familylife and comfort with destroying talons. 

"She'll be an awful, strong-minded, radical, progressive, overturning woman, " Laura said, in despair, to her friend Mrs. Megilp. "And Greenley Street, and Aspen Street, and that everlastingMiss Craydocke, are making her worse. And what can I do? Becausethere's Uncle. "

Right before Desire, --not knowing the cloud of real bewildermentthat was upon her young spiritual perceptions, getting their firstglimpse of a tangled and conflicting and distorted world, --she drewwondering comparisons between her elder children and this odd, anxious, restless, sharp-spoken girl. 

"I don't understand it, " she would say. "It isn't a bit like a childof mine. I always took things easy, and got the comfort of themsomehow; I think the world is a pretty pleasant place to live in, and there's lots of satisfaction to be had; and Agatha and Florencetake after me; they are nice, good-natured, contented girls;managing their allowances, --that I wish were more, --trimming theirown bonnets, and enjoying themselves with their friends, girl-fashion. "

Which was true. Agatha and Florence were neither fretful nordissatisfied; they were never disrespectful, perhaps because Mrs. Ledwith demanded less of deferential observance than of a kind ofjolly companionship from her daughters; a go-and-come easiness inand out of what they called their home, but which was rather thetrimming-up and outfitting place, --a sort of Holmes' Hole, --wherethey put in spring and fall, for a thorough overhaul and rig; and atother times, in intervals or emergencies, between their various andcontinual social trips and cruises. They were hardly everall-togetherish, as Desire had said, if they ever were, it was overhouse cleaning and millinery; when the ordering was complete, --whenthe wardrobes were finished, --then the world was let in, or they letthemselves out, and--"looked. "

"Desire is different, " said Mrs. Ledwith. "She's like Grant'sfather, and her Aunt Desire, --pudgicky and queer. "

"Well, mamma, " said the child, once, driven to desperate logic fordefense, "I don't see how it can be helped. If you _will_ marry intothe Ledwith family, you can't expect to have your children allShieres!"

Which, again, was very true. Laura laughed at the clever sharpnessof it, and was more than half proud of her bold chick-of-prey, afterall. 

Yet Desire remembered that her Aunt Frances was a Shiere, also; andshe thought there might easily be two sides to the same family; whynot, since there were two sides still further back, always? Therewas Uncle Titus; who knew but it was the Oldways streak in him afterall?

Desire took refuge, more and more, with Miss Craydocke, and RachelFroke, and the Ripwinkleys; she even went to Luclarion withquestions, to get her quaint notions of things; and she had venturedinto Uncle Titus's study, and taken down volumes of Swedenborg topry into, while he looked at her with long keen regards over hisspectacles, and she did not know that she was watched. 

"That young girl, Desire, is restless, Titus, " Rachel Froke said tohim one day. "She is feeling after something; she wants somethingreal to do; and it appears likely to me that she will do it, if theydon't take care. "

After that, Uncle Titus fixed his attention upon her yet moreclosely; and at this time Desire stumbled upon things in a strangeway among his bookshelves, and thought that Rachel Froke was growingless precise in her fashion of putting to rights. Books were tuckedin beside each other as if they had been picked up and bestowedanyhow; between "Heaven and Hell" and the "Four Leading Doctrines, "she found, one day, "Macdonald's Unspoken Sermons, " and there was aleaf doubled lengthwise in the chapter about the White Stone and theNew Name. Another time, a little book of poems, by the same author, was slid in, open, over the volumes of Darwin and Huxley, and thepages upon whose outspread faces it lay were those that bore therhyme of the blind Bartimeus:--

 "O Jesus Christ! I am deaf and blind; Nothing comes through into my mind, I only am not dumb: Although I see Thee not, nor hear, I cry because Thou mayst be near O Son of Mary! come!"

Do you think a girl of seventeen may not be feeling out into thespiritual dark, --may not be stretching helpless hands, vaguely, toward the Hands that help? Desire Ledwith laid the book down again, with a great swelling breath coming up slowly out of her bosom, andwith a warmth of tears in her earnest little eyes. And Uncle TitusOldways sat there among his papers, and never moved, or seemed tolook, but saw it all. 

He never said a word to her himself; it was not Uncle Titus's way totalk, and few suspected him of having anything to say in suchmatters; but he went to Friend Froke and asked her, --

"Haven't you got any light that might shine a little for that child, Rachel?"

And the next Sunday, in the forenoon, Desire came in; came in, without knowing it, for her little light. 

She had left home with the family on their way to church; she wasdressed in her buff silk pongee suit trimmed with golden brown bandsand quillings; she had on a lovely new brown hat with tea roses init; her gloves and boots were exquisite and many buttoned; Agathaand Florence could not think what was the matter when she turnedback, up Dorset Street, saying suddenly, "I won't go, after all. "And then she had walked straight over the hill and down to GreenleyStreet, and came in upon Rachel, sitting alone in a quiet grayparlor that was her own, where there were ferns and ivies in thewindow, and a little canary, dressed in brown and gold like Desireherself, swung over them in a white wire cage. 

When Desire saw how still it was, and how Rachel Froke sat therewith her open window and her open book, all by herself, she stoppedin the doorway with a sudden feeling of intrusion, which had notoccurred to her as she came. 

"It's just what I want to come into; but if I do, it won't bethere. I've no right to spoil it. Don't mind, Rachel. I'll go away. "

She said it softly and sadly, as if she could not help it, and wasturning back into the hall. 

"But I do mind, " said Rachel, speaking quickly. "Thee will come in, and sit down. Whatever it is thee wants, is here for thee. Is it thestillness? Then we will be still. "

"That's so easy to say. But you can't do it for me. _You_ will bestill, and I shall be all in a stir. I want so to be just hushedup!"

"Fed, and hushed up, in somebody's arms, like a baby. I know, " saidRachel Froke. 

"How does she know?" thought Desire; but she only looked at her withsurprised eyes, saying nothing. 

"Hungry and restless; that's what we all are, " said Rachel Froke, "until"--

"Well, --until?" demanded the strange girl, impetuously, as Rachelpaused. "I've been hungry ever since I was born, mother says. "

"Until He takes us up and feeds us. "

"Why don't He?--Mrs. Froke, when does He give it out? Once a month, in church, they have the bread and the wine? Does that do it?"

"Thee knows we do not hold by ordinances, we Friends, " said Rachel. "But He gives the bread of life. Not once a month, or in any place;it is his word. Does thee get no word when thee goes to church? Doesnothing come to thee?"

"I don't know; it's mixed up; the church is full of bonnets; andpeople settle their gowns when they come in, and shake out theirhitches and puffs when they go out, and there's professional musicat one end, and--I suppose it's because I'm bad, but I don't know;half the time it seems to me it's only Mig at the other. Somethingall fixed up, and patted down, and smoothed over, and salted andbuttered, like the potato hills they used to make on my plate for meat dinner, when I was little. But it's soggy after all, and has anunderground taste. It isn't anything that has just grown, up in thelight, like the ears of corn they rubbed in their hands. Breakfastis better than dinner. Bread, with yeast in it, risen up new. Theydon't feed with bread very often. "

"The yeast in the bread, and the sparkle in the wine they are thelife of it; they are what make the signs. "

"If they only gave it out fresh, and a little of it! But they keepit over, and it grows cold and tough and flat, and people sit roundand pretend, but they don't eat. They've eaten other things, --allsorts of trash, --before they came. They've spoiled their appetites. Mine was spoiled, to-day. I felt so new and fussy, in these brownthings. So I turned round, and came here. "

Mr. Oldways' saying came back into Mrs. Froke's mind:--

"Haven't you got any light, Rachel, that might shine a little forthat child?"

Perhaps that was what the child had come for. 

What had the word of the Spirit been to Rachel Froke this day? Thenew, fresh word, with the leaven in it? "A little of it;" that waswhat she wanted. 

Rachel took up the small red Bible that lay on the lightstand besideher. 

"I'll will give thee my First-Day crumb, Desire, " she said. "It maytaste sweet to thee. "

She turned to Revelation, seventh chapter. 

"Look over with me; thee will see then where the crumb is, " shesaid; and as Desire came near and looked over her upon the page, she read from the last two verses:--

"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more. 

"For the _Tenderness_ that is in the midst of the _Almightiness_shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water;and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. "

Her voice lingered over the words she put for the "Lamb" and the"Throne, " so that she said "Tenderness" with its own very yearninginflection, and "Almightiness" with a strong fullness, glad in thatwhich can never fall short or be exhausted. Then she softly laidover the cover, and sat perfectly still. It was the Quaker silencethat falls upon them in their assemblies, leaving each heart toitself and that which the Spirit has given. 

Desire was hushed all through; something living and real hadthrilled into her thought; her restlessness quieted suddenly underit, as Mary stood quiet before the message of the angel. 

When she did speak again, after a time, as Rachel Froke broke themotionless pause by laying the book gently back again upon thetable, it was to say, --

"Why don't they preach like that, and leave the rest to preachitself? A Sermon means a Word; why don't they just say the word, andlet it go?"

The Friend made no reply. 

"I never could--quite--like that about the 'Lamb, ' before, " saidDesire, hesitatingly. "It seemed, --I don't know, --putting Him_down_, somehow; making him tame; taking the grandness away thatmade the gentleness any good. But, --'Tenderness;' that is beautiful!Does it mean so in the other place? About taking away the sins, --doyou think?"

"'The Tenderness of God--the Compassion--that taketh away the sinsof the world?'" Mrs. Froke repeated, half inquiringly. "JesusChrist, God's Heart of Love toward man? I think it is so. I think, child, thee has got thy crumb also, to-day. "

But not all yet. 

Pretty soon, they heard the front door open, and Uncle Titus comein. Another step was behind his; and Kenneth Kincaid's voice wasspeaking, about some book he had called to take. 

Desire's face flushed, and her manner grew suddenly flurried. 

"I must go, " she said, starting up; yet when she got to the door, she paused and delayed. 

The voices were talking on, in the study; somehow, Desire had lastwords also, to say to Mrs. Froke. 

She was partly shy about going past that open door, and partlyafraid they might not notice her if she did. Back in her girlishthought was a secret suggestion that she was pushing at all the timewith a certain self-scorn and denial, that it might happen that sheand Kenneth Kincaid would go out at the same moment; if so, he wouldwalk up the street with her, and Kenneth Kincaid was one of the fewpersons whom Desire Ledwith thoroughly believed in and liked. "Therewas no Mig about him, " she said. It is hazardous when a girl ofseventeen makes one of her rare exceptions in her estimate ofcharacter in favor of a man of six and twenty. 

Yet Desire Ledwith hated "nonsense;" she wouldn't have anybodysending her bouquets as they did to Agatha and Florence; she had anutter contempt for lavender pantaloons and waxed moustaches; but forKenneth Kincaid, with his honest, clear look at life, and his highstrong purpose, to say friendly things, --tell her a little now andthen of how the world looked to him and what it demanded, --thislifted her up; this made it seem worth while to speak and to hear. 

So she was very glad when Uncle Titus saw her go down the hall, after she had made up her mind that that way lay her straight path, and that things contrived were not things worth happening, --andspoke out her name, so that she had to stop, and turn to the opendoorway and reply; and Kenneth Kincaid came over and held out hishand to her. He had two books in the other, --a volume of Bunsen anda copy of "Guild Court, "--and he was just ready to go. 

"Not been to church to-day?" said Uncle Titus to Desire. 

"I've been--to Friend's Meeting, " the girl answered. 

"Get anything by that?" he asked, gruffly, letting the shag downover his eyes that behind it beamed softly. 

"Yes; a morsel, " replied Desire. "All I wanted. "

"All you wanted? Well, that's a Sunday-full!"

"Yes, sir, I think it is, " said she. 

When they got out upon the sidewalk, Kenneth Kincaid asked, "Was itone of the morsels that may be shared, Miss Desire? Some crumbsmultiply by dividing, you know. "

"It was only a verse out of the Bible, with a new word in it. "

"A new word? Well, I think Bible verses often have that. I supposeit was what they were made for. "

Desire's glance at him had a question in it. 

"Made to look different at different times, as everything does thathas life in it. Isn't that true? Clouds, trees, faces, --do they everlook twice the same?"

"Yes, " said Desire, thinking especially of the faces. "I think theydo, or ought to. But they may look _more_. "

"I didn't say _contradictory_. To look more, there must be adifference; a fresh aspect. And that is what the world is full of;and the world is the word of God. "

"The world?" said Desire, who had been taught in a dried up, mechanical sort of way, that the Bible is the word of God; andpractically left to infer that, that point once settled, it might besafely shut, up between its covers and not much meddled with, certainly not over freely interpreted. 

"Yes. What God had to say. In the beginning was the Word, and theWord was God. Without him was not anything made that was made. "

Desire's face brightened. She knew those words by heart. They werethe first Sunday-school lesson she ever committed to memory, out ofthe New Testament; "down to 'grace and truth, '" as she recollected. What a jumble of repetitions it had been to her, then! Sentences somuch alike that she could not remember them apart, or which way theycame. All at once the simple, beautiful meaning was given to her. 

_What God had to say. _

And it took a world, --millions, of worlds, --to say it with. 

"And the Bible, too?" she said, simply following out her own mentalperception, without giving the link. It was not needed. They wereupon one track. 

"Yes; all things; and all _souls_. The world-word comes throughthings; the Bible came through souls. And it is all the more alive, and full, and deep, and changing; like a river. "

"Living fountains of waters! that was part of the morsel to-day, "Desire repeated impulsively, and then shyly explained. 

"And the new word?"

Desire shrunk into silence for a moment; she was not used to, orfond of Bible quoting, or even Bible talk; yet sin was hungering allthe time for Bible truth. 

Mr. Kincaid waited. 

So she repeated it presently; for Desire never made a fuss; she wastoo really sensitive for that. 

"'The Tenderness in the midst of the Almightiness shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of water. '"

Mr. Kincaid recognized the "new word, " and his face lit up. 

"'The Lamb in the midst of the Throne, '" he said. "Out of the Heartof God, the Christ. Who was there before; the intent by which allthings were made. The same yesterday, and to-day, and forever; whoever liveth to make intercession for us. Christ _had to be_. TheWord, full of grace, must be made flesh. Why need people disputeabout Eternity and Divinity, if they can only see that?--Was thatMrs. Froke's reading?"

"Yes; that was Rachel's sermon. "

"It is an illumination. "

They walked all up Orchard Street without another word. 

Then Kenneth Kincaid said, --"Miss Desire, why won't you come andteach in the Mission School?"

"I teach? Why, I've got everything to learn!"

"But as fast as you _do_ learn; the morsels, you know. That is theway they are given out. That is the wonder of the kingdom of heaven. There is no need to go away and buy three hundred pennyworth beforewe begin, that every one may take a little; the bread given as theMaster breaks it feeds them till they are filled; and there arebaskets full of fragments to gather up. "

Kenneth Kincaid's heart was in his Sunday work, as his sister hadsaid. The more gladly now, that the outward daily bread was beinggiven. 

Mr. Geoffrey, --one of those busy men, so busy that they do promptlythat which their hands find to do, --had put Kenneth in the way ofwork. It only needed a word from him, and the surveying and layingout of some new streets and avenues down there where Boston isgrowing so big and grand and strange, were put into his charge. Kenneth was busy now, cheerily busy, from Monday morning to Saturdaynight; and restfully busy on the Sunday, straightening the paths andlaying out the ways for souls to walk in. He felt the harmony andthe illustration between his week and his Sunday, and the onestrengthening the other, as all true outward work does harmonizewith and show forth, and help the spiritual doing. It could not havebeen so with that gold work, or any little feverish hitching on toother men's business; producing nothing, advancing nothing, onlystanding between to snatch what might fall, or to keep a premium forpassing from hand to hand. 

Our great cities are so full, --our whole country is sooverrun, --with these officious middle-men whom the world does nottruly want; chiffonniers of trade, who only pick up a living out ofthe great press and waste and overflow; and our boys are so eager toslip in to some such easy, ready-made opportunity, --to get somecrossing to sweep. 

What will come of it all, as the pretenses multiply? Will there bealways pennies for every little broom? Will two, and three, and sixsweeps be tolerated between side and side? By and by, I think, theywill have to turn to and lay pavements. Hard, honest work, and theday's pay for it; that is what we have got to go back to; that andthe day's snug, patient living, which the pay achieves. 

Then, as I say, the week shall illustrate the Sunday, and the Sundayshall glorify the week; and what men do and build shall stand truetypes, again, for the inner growth and the invisible building; sothat if this outer tabernacle were dissolved, there should be seenglorious behind it, the house not made with hands, --eternal. 

As Desire Ledwith met this young Kenneth Kincaid from day to day, seeing him so often at her Aunt Ripwinkley's, where he and Dorriswent in and out now, almost like a son and daughter, --as she walkedbeside him this morning, hearing him say these things, at whichthe heart-longing in her burned anew toward the real andsatisfying, --what wonder was it that her restlessness grasped atthat in his life which was strong and full of rest; that she feltglad and proud to have him tell his thought to her; that without anysilliness, --despising all silliness, --she should yet be conscious, as girls of seventeen are conscious, of something that made her daysufficient when she had so met him, --of a temptation to turn intothose streets in her walks that led his way? Or that she often, withher blunt truth, toward herself as well as others, and her quickcontempt of sham and subterfuge, should snub herself mentally, andturn herself round as by a grasp of her own shoulders, and makeherself walk off stoutly in a far and opposite direction, when, without due need and excuse, she caught herself out in these things?

What wonder that this stood in her way, for very pleasantness, whenKenneth asked her to come and teach in the school? That she wasashamed to let herself do a thing--even a good thing, that her lifeneeded, --when there was this conscious charm in the asking; thissecret thought--that she should walk up home with him every Sunday!

She remembered Agatha and Florence, and she imagined, perhaps, morethan they would really have thought of it at home; and so as theyturned into Shubarton Place, --for he had kept on all the way alongBridgeley and up Dorset Street with her, --she checked her stepssuddenly as they came near the door, and said brusquely, --

"No, Mr. Kincaid; I can't come to the Mission. I might learn A, andteach them that; but how do I know I shall ever learn B, myself?"

He had left his question, as their talk went on, meaning to ask itagain before they separated. He thought it was prevailing with her, and that the help that comes of helping others would reach her need;it was for her sake he asked it; he was disappointed at the sudden, almost trivial turn she gave it. 

"You have taken up another analogy, Miss Desire, " he said. "We weretalking about crumbs and feeding. The five loaves and the fivethousand. 'Why reason ye because ye have no bread? How is it that yedo not understand?'"

Kenneth quoted these words naturally, pleasantly; as he might quoteanything that had been spoken to them both out of a love andauthority they both recognized, a little while ago. 

But Desire was suddenly sharp and fractious. If it had not touchedsome deep, live place in her, she would not have minded so much. Itwas partly, too, the coming toward home. She had got away out of thepure, clear spaces where such things seemed to be fit andunstrained, into the edge of her earth atmosphere again, where, falling, they took fire. Presently she would be in that ridiculouspink room, and Glossy Megilp would be chattering about "those lovelypurple poppies with the black grass, " that she had been lamentingall the morning she had not bought for her chip hat, instead of thepomegranate flowers. And Agatha would be on the bed, in her cashmeresack, reading Miss Braddon. 

"It would sound nice to tell them she was going down to the MissionSchool to give out crumbs!"

Besides, I suppose that persons of a certain temperament never uttera more ungracious "No, " than when they are longing all the time tosay "Yes. "

So she turned round on the lower step to Kenneth, when he had askedthat grave, sweet question of the Lord's, and said perversely, --

"I thought you did not believe in any brokering kind of business. It's all there, --for everybody. Why should I set up to fetch andcarry?"

She did not look in his face as she said it; she was not audaciousenough to do that; she poked with the stick of her sunshade betweenthe uneven bricks of the sidewalk, keeping her eyes down, as if shewatched for some truth she expected to pry up. But she only wedgedthe stick in so that she could not get it out; and Kenneth Kincaidmaking her absolutely no answer at all, she had to stand there, growing red and ashamed, held fast by her own silly trap. 

"Take care; you will break it, " said Kenneth, quietly, as she gaveit a twist and a wrench. And he put out his hand, and took it fromhers, and drew gently upward in the line in which she had thrust itin. 

"You were bearing off at an angle. It wanted a straight pull. "

"I never pull straight at anything. I always get into a crook, somehow. You didn't answer me, Mr. Kincaid. I didn't mean to berude--or wicked. I didn't mean--"

"What you said. I know that; and it's no use to answer what peopledon't mean. That makes the crookedest crook of all. "

"But I think I did mean it partly; only not contrarimindedly. I domean that I have no business--yet awhile. It would only be--Miggingat gospel!"

And with this remarkable application of her favorite illustrativeexpression, she made a friendly but abrupt motion of leave-taking, and went into the house. 

Up into her own room, in the third story, where the old furniturewas, and no "fadging, "--and sat down, bonnet, gloves, sunshade, andall, in her little cane rocking-chair by the window. 

Helena was down in the pink room, listening with charmed ears to thegrown up young-ladyisms of her elder sisters and Glossy Megilp. 

Desire sat still until the dinner-bell rang, forgetful of her dress, forgetful of all but one thought that she spoke out as she rose atlast at the summons to take off her things in a hurry, --

"I wonder, --I _wonder_--if I shall ever live anything all straightout!"

XIII. 

PIECES OF WORLDS. 

Mr. Dickens never put a truer thought into any book, than he put atthe beginning of "Little Dorrit. "

That, from over land and sea, from hundreds, thousands of milesaway, are coming the people with whom we are to have to do in ourlives; and that, "what is set to us to do to them, and what is setfor them to do to us, will all be done. "

Not only from far places in this earth, over land and sea, --but fromout the eternities, before and after, --from which souls are born, and into which they die, --all the lines of life are movingcontinually which are to meet and join, and bend, and cross our own. 

But it is only with a little piece of this world, as far as we cansee it in this short and simple story, that we have now to do. 

Rosamond Holabird was coming down to Boston. 

With all her pretty, fresh, delicate, high-lady ways, with herbeautiful looks, and her sweet readiness for true things and nobleliving, she was coming, for a few days only, --the cooperativehousekeeping was going on at Westover, and she could not be sparedlong, --right in among them here in Aspen Street, and ShubartonPlace, and Orchard Street, and Harrisburg Square, where Mrs. Scherman lived whom she was going to stay with. But a few days maybe a great deal. 

Rosamond Holabird was coming for far more than she knew. Amongother things she was coming to get a lesson; a lesson right on in acourse she was just now learning; a lesson of next things, and bestthings, and real folks. 

You see how it happened, --where the links were; Miss Craydocke, andSin Scherman, and Leslie Goldthwaite, were dear friends, made toeach other one summer among the mountains. Leslie had had Sin andMiss Craydocke up at Z----, and Rosamond and Leslie were friends, also. 

Mrs. Frank Scherman had a pretty house in Harrisburg Square. She hadnot much time for paying fashionable calls, or party-going, orparty-giving. As to the last, she did not think Frank had moneyenough yet to "circumfuse, " she said, in that way. 

But she had six lovely little harlequin cups on a side-shelf in herchina closet, and six different-patterned breakfast plates, withcolored borders to match the cups; rose, and brown, and gray, andvermilion, and green, and blue. These were all the real china shehad, and were for Frank and herself and the friends whom she madewelcome, --and who might come four at once, --for day and night. Shedelighted in "little stays;" in girls who would go into the nurserywith her, and see Sinsie in her bath; or into the kitchen, and helpher mix up "little delectabilities to surprise Frank with;" only thetrouble had got to be now, that the surprise occurred when thedelectabilities did not. Frank had got demoralized, and expectedthem. She rejoiced to have Miss Craydocke drop in of a morning andcome right up stairs, with her little petticoats and things to workon; and she and Frank returned these visits in a social, cosy way, after Sinsie was in her crib for the night. Frank's boots never wenton with a struggle for a walk down to Orchard Street; but they wereterribly impossible for Continuation Avenue. 

So it had come about long ago, though I have not had a corner tomention it in, that they "knew the Muffin Man, " in an Aspen Streetsense; and were no strangers to the charm of Mrs. Ripwinkley's"evenings. " There was always an "evening" in the "Mile Hill House, "as the little family and friendly coterie had come to call it. 

Rosamond and Leslie had been down together for a week once, at theSchermans; and this time Rosamond was coming alone. She had businessin Boston for a day or two, and had written to ask Asenath "if shemight. " There were things to buy for Barbara, who was going to bemarried in a "navy hurry, " besides an especial matter that haddetermined her just at this time to come. 

And Asenath answered, "that the scarlet and gray, and green and bluewere pining and fading on the shelf; and four days would be the veryleast to give them all a turn and treat them fairly; for such thingshad their delicate susceptibilities, as Hans Andersen had taught usto know, and might starve and suffer, --why not? being made ofprotoplasm, same as anybody. "

Rosamond's especial errand to the city was one that just a littleset her up, innocently, in her mind. She had not wholly got thebetter, --when it interfered with no good-will or generousdealing, --of a certain little instinctive reverence for imposingoutsides and grand ways of daily doing; and she was somewhatcomplacent at the idea of having to go, --with kindly and needfulinformation, --to Madam Mucklegrand, in Spreadsplendid Park. 

Madam Mucklegrand was a well-born Boston lady, who had gone toEurope in her early youth, and married a Scottish gentleman with aSir before his name. Consequently, she was quite entitled to becalled "my lady;" and some people who liked the opportunity oftouching their republican tongues to the salt of Europeandignitaries, addressed her so; but, for the most part, she assumedand received simply the style of "Madam. " A queen may be called"Madam, " you know. It covers an indefinite greatness. But when shespoke of her late, --very long ago, --husband, she always named him as"Sir Archibald. "

Madam Mucklegrand's daughter wanted a wet-nurse for her little baby. 

Up in Z----, there was a poor woman whose husband, a young brakemanon the railroad, had been suddenly killed three months ago, beforeher child was born. There was a sister here in Boston, who couldtake care of it for her if she could go to be foster-mother to somerich little baby, who was yet so poor as this--to need one. SoRosamond Holabird, who was especially interested for Mrs. Jopson, had written to Asenath, and had an advertisement put in the"Transcript, " referring to Mrs. Scherman for information. And theMucklegrand carriage had rolled up, the next day, to the house inHarrisburg Square. 

They wanted to see the woman, of course, and to hear all abouther, --more than Mrs. Scherman was quite able to tell; therefore whenshe sent a little note up to Z----, by the evening mail, Rosamondreplied with her "Might she come?"

She brought Jane Jopson and the baby down with her, left them overnight at Mrs. Ginnever's, in Sheafe Street, and was to go for themnext morning and take them up to Spreadsplendid Park. She had sent agraceful, polite little note to Madam Mucklegrand, dated "Westover, Z----, " and signed, "Rosamond Holabird, " offering to do this, thatthere might not be the danger of Jane's losing the chance in themeanwhile. 

It was certainly to accomplish the good deed that Rosamond caredthe most; but it was also certainly something to accomplish it inthat very high quarter. It lent a piquancy to the occasion. 

She came down to breakfast very nicely and discriminatingly dressed, with the elegant quietness of a lady who knew what was simplyappropriate to such an errand and the early hour, but who meant tobe recognized as the lady in every unmistakable touch; and there wasa carriage ordered for her at half past nine. 

Sin Scherman was a cute little matron; she discerned the dash ofsubdued importance in Rosamond's air; and she thought it verylikely, in the Boston nature of things, that it would getwholesomely and civilly toned down. 

Just at this moment, Rosamond, putting on her little straw bonnetwith real lace upon it, and her simple little narrow-bordered greenshawl, that was yet, as far as it went, veritable cashmere, --had aconsciousness, in a still, modest way, not only of her own personaldignity as Rosamond Holabird, who was the same going to see MadamMucklegrand, or walking over to Madam Pennington's, and as much inher place with one as the other; but of the dignity of Westoveritself, and Westover ladyhood, represented by her among the palacesof Boston-Appendix to-day. 

She was only twenty, this fair and pleasant Rosamond of ours, andcountry simple, with all her native tact and grace; and she forgot, or did not know how full of impressions a life like MadamMucklegrand's might be, and how very trifling and fleeting must beany that she might chance to make. 

She drove away down to the North End, and took Jane Jopson and herbaby in, --very clean and shiny, both of them, --and Janeparticularly nice in the little black crape bonnet that Rosamondherself had made, and the plain black shawl that Mrs. Holabird hadgiven her. 

She stood at the head of the high, broad steps, with her mind verymuch made up in regard to her complete and well-bred self-possession, and the manner of her quietly assured self-introduction. She had hercard all ready that should explain for her; and to the servant'sreply that Madam Mucklegrand was in, she responded by moving forwardwith only enough of voluntary hesitation to allow him to indicate toher the reception room, at the door of which she gave him the littlepasteboard, with, --

"Take that to her, if you please, " and so sat down, very much as ifshe had been in such places frequently before, which she never had. One may be quite used to the fine, free essence of gentle living, and never in all one's life have anything to do with such solid, concrete expression of it as Rosamond saw here. 

Very high, to begin with, the ceiled and paneled room was; reachingup into space as if it had really been of no consequence to thebuilders where they should put the cover on; and with no remotestsuggestion of any reserve for further superstructure upon the samefoundation. 

Very dark, and polished, and deeply carved, and heavily ornamentedwere its wainscotings, and frames, and cornices; out of the new lookof the streets, which it will take them yet a great while tooutgrow, she had stepped at once into a grand, and mellow, andancient stateliness. 

There were dim old portraits on the walls, and paintings that hintedat old mastership filled whole panels; and the tall, high-backed, wonderfully wrought oaken chairs had heraldic devices in relief upontheir bars and corners; and there was a great, round mosaic table, in soft, rich, dark colors, of most precious stones; these, inturn, hidden with piles of rare engravings. 

The floor was of dark woods, inlaid; and sumptuous rugs were putabout upon it for the feet, each one of which was wide enough tocall a carpet. 

And nothing of it all was _new_; there was nothing in the room butsome plants in a jardiniere by the window, that seemed to have a bitof yesterday's growth upon it. 

A great, calm, marble face of Jove looked down from high up, out ofthe shadows. 

Underneath sat Rosamond Holabird, holding on to her identity and herself-confidence. 

Madam Mucklegrand came in plainly enough dressed, --in black; youwould not notice what she had on; but you would notice instantly theconsummate usedness to the world and the hardening into the mouldthereof that was set and furrowed upon eye and lip and brow. 

She sailed down upon Rosamond like a frigate upon a graceful littlepinnace; and brought to within a pace or two of her, continuing tostand an instant, as Rosamond rose, just long enough for the shadowof a suggestion that it might not be altogether material that sheshould be seated again at all. 

But Rosamond made a movement backward to her chair, and laid herhand upon its arm, and then Madam Mucklegrand decided to sit down. 

"You called about the nurse, I conclude, Miss--Holabird?"

"Yes, ma'am; I thought you had some questions you wished to ask, andthat I had better come myself. I have her with me, in the carriage. "

"Thank you, " said Madam Mucklegrand, politely. 

But it was rather a _de haut en bas_ politeness; she exercised italso toward her footman. 

Then followed inquiries about age, and health, and character. Rosamond told all she knew, clearly and sufficiently, with somelittle sympathetic touches that she could not help, in giving herstory. 

Madam Mucklegrand met her nowhere, however, on any common ground;she passed over all personal interest; instead of two womenbefriending a third in her need, who in turn was to give life to alittle child waiting helplessly for some such ministry, it mighthave been the leasing of a house, or the dealing about somemerchandise, that was between them. 

Rosamond proposed, at last, to send Jane Jopson in. 

Jane and her baby were had in, and had up-stairs; the physician andattending nurse pronounced upon her; she was brought down again, togo home and dispose of her child, and return. Rosamond, meanwhile, had been sitting under the marble Jove. 

There was nothing really rude in it; she was there on business; whatmore could she expect? But then she knew all the time, that she toowas a lady, and was taking trouble to do a kind thing. It was not sothat Madam Mucklegrand would have been treated at Westover. 

Rosamond was feeling pretty proud by the time Madam Mucklegrand camedown stairs. 

"We have engaged the young woman: the doctor quite approves; shewill return without delay, I hope?"

As if Rosamond were somehow responsible all through. 

"I have no doubt she will; good morning, madam. "

"Good morning. I am, really, very much obliged. You have been ofgreat service. "

Rosamond turned quietly round upon the threshold. 

"That was what I was very anxious to be, " she said, in her perfectlysweet and musical voice, --"to the poor woman. "

Italics would indicate too coarsely the impalpable emphasis she putupon the last two words. But Mrs. Mucklegrand caught it. 

Rosamond went away quite as sure of her own self-respect as ever, but very considerably cured of Spreadsplendidism. 

This was but one phase of it, she knew; there are real folks, also, in Spreadsplendid Park; they are a good deal covered up, there, tobe sure; but they can't help that. It is what always happens tosomebody when Pyramids are built. Madam Mucklegrand herself was, perhaps, only a good deal covered up. 

How lovely it was to go down into Orchard Street after that, andtake tea with Miss Craydocke! How human and true it seemed, --thefriendliness that shone and breathed there, among them all. Howkingdom-of-heaven-like the air was, and into what pleasantness ofspeech it was born!

And then Hazel Ripwinkley came over, like a little spirit fromanother blessed society, to tell that "the picture-book things wereall ready, and that it would take everybody to help. "

That was Rosamond's first glimpse of Witch Hazel, who found her outinstantly, --the real, Holabirdy part of her, --and set her down atonce among her "folks. "

It was bright and cheery in Mrs. Ripwinkley's parlor; you couldhardly tell whence the cheeriness radiated, either. 

The bright German lamp was cheery, in the middle of the round table;the table was cheery, covered with glossy linen cut into large, square book-sheets laid in piles, and with gay pictures of allkinds, brightly colored; and the scissors, --or scissorses, --therewere ever so many shining pairs of them, --and the little mucilagebottles, and the very scrap-baskets, --all looked cozy andcomfortable, and as if people were going to have a real good timeamong them, somehow. 

And the somehow was in making great beautiful, everlastingpicture-books for the little orphans in Miss Craydocke's Home, --theHome, that is, out of several blessed and similar ones that she wasespecially interested in, and where Hazel and Diana had been withher until they knew all the little waifs by sight and name andheart, and had their especial chosen property among them, as theyused to have among the chickens and the little yellow ducks atHomesworth Farm. 

Mrs. Ripwinkley was cheery; it might be a question whether all thelight did not come from her first, in some way, and perhaps it did;but then Hazel was luminous, and she fluttered about with quick, happy motions, till like a little glancing taper she had shone uponand lit up everybody and everything; and Dorris was sunny with clearcontent, and Kenneth was blithe, and Desire was scintillant, as shealways was either with snaps or smiles; and here came in beamingMiss Craydocke, and gay Asenath and her handsome husband; and ourRosa Mundi; there, --how can you tell? It was all round; and it wasmore every minute. 

There were cutters and pasters and stitchers and binders and everypart was beautiful work, and nobody could tell which waspleasantest. Cutting out was nice, of course; who doesn't likecutting out pictures? Some were done beforehand, but there were asmany left as there would be time for. And pasting, on the fine, smooth linen, making it glow out with charming groups and tints offlowers and birds and children in gay clothes, --that wasdelightful; and the stitchers had the pleasure of combining andarranging it all; and the binders, --Mrs. Ripwinkley and MissCraydocke, --finished all off with the pretty ribbons and the graycovers, and theirs being the completing touch, thought _they_ hadthe best of it. 

"But I don't think finishing is best, mother, " said Hazel, who wasdiligently snipping in and out around rose leaves or baby faces, asit happened. "I think beginning is always beautiful. I never want toend off, --anything nice, I mean. "

"Well, we don't end off this, " said Diana. "There's the giving, next. "

"And then their little laughs and Oo's, " said Hazel. 

"And their delight day after day; and the comfort of them in theirlittle sicknesses, " said Miss Craydocke. 

"And the stories that have got to be told about every picture, " saidDorris. 

"No; nothing really nice does end; it goes on and on, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. 

"Of course!" said Hazel, triumphantly, turning on the Drummond lightof her child-faith. "We're forever and ever people, you know!"

"Please paste some more flowers, Mr. Kincaid, " said Rosamond, whosat next him, stitching. "I want to make an all-flower book of this. No, --not roses; I've a whole page already; this great white lily, Ithink. That's beautiful!"

"Wouldn't it do to put in this laurel bush next, with the bird'snest in it?"

"O, those lovely pink and white laurels! Yes. Where did you get suchpictures, Miss Hazel?"

"O, everybody gave them to us, all summer, ever since we began. Mrs. Geoffrey gave those flowers; and mother painted some. She did thatlaurel. But don't call me Miss Hazel, please; it seems to send meoff into a corner. "

Rosamond answered by a little irresistible caress; leaning her headdown to Hazel, on her other side, until her cheek touched thechild's bright curls, quickly and softly. There was magnetismbetween those two. 

Ah, the magnetism ran round!

"For a child's picture-book, Mrs. Ripwinkley?" said Mrs. Scherman, reaching over for the laurel picture. "Aren't these almosttoo exquisite? They would like a big scarlet poppy just aswell, --perhaps better. Or a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails, " she added, whimsically. 

"There _is_ a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "Iremember how I used to delight in them as a child, --the real ones. "

"Pictures are to _tell_ things, " said Desire, in her brief way. 

"These little city refugees _must_ see them, somehow, " saidRosamond, gently. "I understand. They will never get up on themountains, maybe, where the laurels grow, or into the shady swampsamong the flags and the cat-o'-nine-tails. You have _picked out_pictures to give them, Mrs. Ripwinkley. "

Kenneth Kincaid's scissors stopped a moment, as he looked atRosamond, pausing also over the placing of her leaves. 

Desire saw that from the other side; she saw how beautiful andgracious this girl was--this Rosamond Holabird; and there was astrange little twinge in her heart, as she felt, suddenly, that letthere be ever so much that was true and kindly, or even tender, inher, it could never come up in her eyes or play upon her lips likethat she could never say it out sweetly and in due place everythingwas a spasm with her; and nobody would ever look at her just asKenneth Kincaid looked at Rosamond then. 

She said to herself, with her harsh, unsparing honesty, that it mustbe a "hitch inside;" a cramp or an awkwardness born in her, that sether eyes, peering and sharp, so near together, and put that knotinto her brows instead of their widening placidly, like Rosamond's, and made her jerky in her speech. It was no use; she couldn't lookand behave, because she couldn't _be_; she must just go boggling andkinking on, and--losing everything, she supposed. 

The smiles went down, under a swift, bitter little cloud, and thehard twist came into her face with the inward pinching she wasgiving herself; and all at once there crackled out one of her sharp, strange questions; for it was true that she could not do otherwise;everything was sudden and crepitant with her. 

"Why need all the good be done up in batches, I wonder? Why can't itbe spread round, a little more even? There must have been a gooddeal left out somewhere, to make it come in a heap, so, upon you, Miss Craydocke!"

Hazel looked up. 

"I know what Desire means, " she said. "It seemed just so to me, _one_ way. Why oughtn't there to be _little_ homes, done-by-handhomes, for all these little children, instead of--well--machiningthem all up together?"

And Hazel laughed at her own conceit. 

"It's nice; but then--it isn't just the way. If we were all broughtup like that we shouldn't know, you see!"

"You wouldn't want to be brought up in a platoon, Hazel?" saidKenneth Kincaid. "No; neither should I. "

"I think it was better, " said Hazel, "to have my turn of being alittle child, all to myself; _the_ little child, I mean, with therest of the folks bigger. To make much of me, you know. I shouldn'twant to have missed that. I shouldn't like to be _loved_ in aplatoon. "

"Nobody is meant to be, " said Miss Craydocke. 

"Then why--" began Asenath Scherman, and stopped. 

"Why what, dear?"

"Revelations, " replied Sin, laconically. "There are loads of peoplethere, all dressed alike, you know; and--well--it's platoony, Ithink, rather! And down here, such a world-full; and the sky--fullof worlds. There doesn't seem to be much notion of one at a time, inthe general plan of things. "

"Ah, but we've got the key to all that, " said Miss Craydocke. "'Thevery hairs of your head are all numbered. ' It may be impossible withus, you know, but not with Him. "

"Miss Hapsie! you always did put me down, just when I thought I wassmart, " said Sin Scherman. 

Asenath loved to say "Miss Hapsie, " now and then, to her friend, ever since she had found out what she called her "squee littlename. "

"But the little children, Miss Craydocke, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "Itseems to me Desire has got a right thought about it. "

Mrs. Ripwinkley and Hazel always struck the same note. The samedelicate instinct moved them both. Hazel "knew what Desire meant;"her mother did not let it be lost sight of that it was Desire whohad led the way in this thought of the children; so that the abruptbeginning--the little flash out of the cloud--was quite forgottenpresently, in the tone of hearty understanding and genuine interestwith which the talk went on; and it was as if all that was generousand mindfully suggestive in it had first and truly come from her. They unfolded herself for her--these friendly ones--as she could notdo; out of her bluntness grew a graciousness that lay softly overit; the cloud itself melted away and floated off; and Desire beganto sparkle again more lambently. For she was not one of the kind tobe meanly or enviously "put out. "

"It seemed to me there must be a great many spare little cornerssomewhere, for all these spare little children, " she said, "andthat, lumped up together so, there was something they did not get. "

"That is precisely the thing, " said Miss Craydocke, emphatically. "Iwonder, sometimes, " she went on, tenderly, "if whenever God makes alittle empty place in a home, it isn't really on purpose that itmight be filled with one of these, --if people only thought. "

"Miss Craydocke, " said Hazel, "how did you begin your beehive?"

"I!" said the good lady. "I didn't. It began itself. "

"Well, then, how did you _let_ it begin?"

"Ah!"

The tone was admissive, and as if she had said, "_That_ is anotherthing!" She could not contradict that she had let it be. 

"I'll tell you a queer story, " she said, "of what they say they usedto do, in old Roman Catholic times and places, when they wanted to_keep up_ a beehive that was in any danger of dwindling or growingunprofitable. I read it somewhere in a book of popular beliefs andcustoms about bees and other interesting animals. An old woman oncewent to her friend, and asked her what she did to make her hive sogainful. And this was what the old wife said; it sounds ratherstrange to us, but if there is anything irreverent in it, it is theword and not the meaning; 'I go, ' she said, 'to the priest, and geta little round Godamighty, and put it in the hive, and then all goeswell; the bees thrive, and there is plenty of honey; they alwayscome, and stay, and work, when _that_ is there. "

"A little round--something awful! what _did_ she mean?" asked Mrs. Scherman. 

"She meant a consecrated wafer, --the Sacrament. We don't need to putthe wafer in; but if we let _Him_ in, you see, --just say to Him itis his house, to do with as He likes, --He takes the responsibility, and brings in all the rest. "

Nobody saw, under the knitting of Desire Ledwith's brows, and theclose setting of her eyes, the tenderness with which they suddenlymoistened, and the earnestness with which they gleamed. Nobody knewhow she thought to herself inwardly, in the same spasmodic fashionthat she used for speech, --

"They Mig up their parlors with upholstery, and put rose-coloredpaper on their walls, and call them _their_ houses; and shut thelittle round awfulness and goodness out! We've all been doing it!And there's no place left for what might come in. "

Mrs. Scherman broke the hush that followed what Miss Hapsie said. Not hastily, or impertinently; but when it seemed as if it might bea little hard to come down into the picture-books and the pleasanteasiness again. 

"Let's make a Noah's Ark picture-book, --you and I, " she said toDesire. "Give us all your animals, --there's a whole Natural Historyfull over there, all painted with splendid daubs of colors; thechildren did that, I know, when they _were_ children. Come; we'llhave everything in, from an elephant to a bumble-bee!"

"We did not mean to use those, Mrs. Scherman, " said Desire. "We didnot think they were good enough. They are _so_ daubed up. "

"They're perfectly beautiful. Exactly what the young ones will like. Just divide round, and help. We'll wind up with the most wonderfulbook of all; the book they'll all cry for, and that will have to begiven always, directly after the Castor Oil. "

It took them more than an hour to do that, all working hard; and awonderful thing it was truly, when it was done. Mrs. Scherman andDesire Ledwith directed all the putting together, and the groupingwas something astonishing. 

There were men and women, --the Knowers, Sin called them; she saidthat was what she always thought the old gentleman's name was, inthe days when she first heard of him, because he knew so much; andin the backgrounds of the same sheets were their country cousins, the orangs, and the little apes. Then came the elephants, and thecamels, and the whales; "for why shouldn't the fishes be put in, since they must all have been swimming round sociably, if theyweren't inside; and why shouldn't the big people be all kepttogether properly?"

There were happy families of dogs and cats and lions and snakes andlittle humming-birds; and in the last part were all manner of bugs, down to the little lady-bugs in blazes of red and gold, and the grayfleas and mosquitoes which Sin improvised with pen and ink, in aswarm at the end. 

"And after that, I don't believe they wanted any more, " she said;and handed over the parts to Miss Craydocke to be tied together. For this volume had had to be made in many folds, and Mrs. Ripwinkley's blue ribbon would by no means stretch over the back. 

And by that time it was eleven o'clock, and they had worked fourhours. They all jumped up in a great hurry then, and began to saygood-by. 

"This must not be the last we are to have of you, Miss Holabird, "said Mrs. Ripwinkley, laying Rosamond's shawl across her shoulders. 

"Of course not, " said Mrs Scherman, "when you are all coming to ourhouse to tea to-morrow night. "

Rosamond bade the Ripwinkleys good-night with a most sweetcordiality, and thanks for the pleasure she had had, and she toldHazel and her mother that it was "neither beginning nor end, shebelieved; for it seemed to her that she had only found a little newpiece of her world, and that Aspen Street led right out of Westoverin the invisible geography, she was sure. "

"Come!" said Miss Craydocke, standing on the doorsteps. "It is allinvisible geography out here, pretty nearly; and we've all ourdifferent ways to go, and only these two unhappy gentlemen to insiston seeing everybody home. "

So first the whole party went round with Miss Hapsie, and thenKenneth and Dorris, who always went home with Desire, walked upHanley Street with the Schermans and Rosamond, and so across throughDane Street to Shubarton Place. 

But while they were on their way, Hazel Ripwinkley was saying to hermother, up in her room, where they made sometimes such longgood-nights, --

"Mother! there were some little children taken away from you beforewe came, you know? And now we've got this great big house, andplenty of things, more than it takes for us. "

"Well?"

"Don't you think it's expected that we should do something with thecorners? There's room for some real good little times for somebody. I think we ought to begin a beehive. "

Mrs. Ripwinkley kissed Hazel very tenderly, and said, only, --

"We can wait, and see. "

Those are just the words that mothers so often put children offwith! But Mrs. Ripwinkley, being one of the real folks, meant it;the very heart of it. 

In that little talk, they took the consecration in; they would waitand see; when people do that, with an expectation, the beehivebegins. 

 * * * * *

Up Hanley Street, the six fell into pairs. 

Mrs. Scherman and Desire, Dorris and Mr. Scherman, Rosamond andKenneth Kincaid. 

It only took from Bridgeley Street up to Dane, to tell KennethKincaid so much about Westover, in answer to his questions, that hetoo thought he had found a new little piece of his world. WhatRosamond thought, I do not know; but a girl never gives a young manso much as she gave Kenneth in that little walk without having someof the blessed consciousness that comes with giving. The sun knowsit shines, I dare say; or else there is a great waste of hydrogenand other things. 

There was not much left for poor little Desire after they partedfrom the Schermans and turned the corner of Dane Street. Only alittle bit of a way, in which new talk could hardly begin, and justtime for a pause that showed how the talk that had come to an endwas missed or how, perhaps, it stayed in the mind, repeating itself, and keeping it full. 

Nobody said anything till they had crossed B---- Street; and thenDorris said, "How beautiful, --_real_ beautiful, Rosamond Holabirdis!" And Kenneth answered, "Did you hear what she said to Mrs. Ripwinkley?"

They were full of Rosamond! Desire did not speak a word. 

Dorris had heard and said it over. It seemed to please Kenneth tohear it again. "A piece of her world!"

"How quickly a true person springs to what belongs to--their life!"said Kenneth, using that wrong little pronoun that we shall never beable to do without. 

"People don't always get what belongs, though, " blurted Desire atlast, just as they came to the long doorsteps. "Some people's livesare like complementary colors, I think; they see blue, and livered!"

"But the colors are only accidentally--I mean temporarily--divided;they are together in the sun; and they join somewhere--beyond. "

"I hate beyond!" said Desire, recklessly. "Good-night. Thank you. "And she ran up the steps. 

Nobody knew what she meant. Perhaps she hardly knew herself. 

They only thought that her home life was not suited to her, and thatshe took it hard. 

XIV. 

"SESAME; AND LILIES. "

"I've got a discouragement at my stomach, " said Luclarion Grapp. 

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Ripwinkley, naturally. 

"Mrs. Scarup. I've been there. There ain't any bottom to it. "

"Well?"

Mrs. Ripwinkley knew that Luclarion had more to say, and that shewaited for this monosyllable. 

"She's sick again. And Scarup, he's gone out West, spending ahundred dollars to see whether or no there's a chance anywhere for a_smart_ man, --and that ain't he, so it's a double waste, --to makefifty. No girl; and the children all under foot, and Pinkie lookingmiserable over the dishes. "

"Pinkie isn't strong. "

"No. She's powerful weak. I just wish you'd seen that dirtysettin'-room fire-place; looks as if it hadn't been touched sinceScarup smoked his pipe there, the night before he went off awild-gandering. And clo'es to be ironed, and the girl cleared out, because 'she'd always been used to fust-class families. ' Therewasn't anything to your hand, and you couldn't tell where to begin, unless you began with a cataplasm!"

Luclarion had heard, by chance, of a cataclysm, and that was whatshe meant. 

"It wants--creation, over again! Mrs. Scarup hadn't any fitbreakfast; there was burnt toast, made out of tough bread, thatshe'd been trying to eat; and a cup of tea, half drunk; somethingthe matter with that, I presume. I'd have made her some gruel, ifthere'd been a fire; and if there'd been any kindlings, I'd havemade her a fire; but there 'twas; there wasn't any bottom to it!"

"You had better make the gruel here, Luclarion. "

"That's what I come back for. But--Mrs. Ripwinkley!"

"Well?"

"Don't it appear to you it's a kind of a stump? I don't want to doit just for the satisfaction; though it _would_ be a satisfaction toplough everything up thorough, and then rake it over smooth; what doyou think?"

"What have you thought, Luclarion? Something, of course. "

"She wants a real smart girl--for two dollars a week. She can't gether, because she ain't. And I kind of felt as though I should liketo put in. Seemed to me it was a--but there! I haven't any right tostump _you_. "

"Wouldn't it be rather an aggravation? I don't suppose you wouldmean to stay altogether?"

"Not unless--but don't go putting it into my head, Mrs. Ripwinkley. I shall feel as if I _was_. And I don't think it goes quite so faras that, yet. We ain't never stumped to more than one thing at atime. What she wants is to be straightened out. And when things oncelooked _my_ way, she might get a girl, you see. Anyhow, 'twouldencourage Pinkie, and kind of set her going. Pinkie likes thingsnice; but it's such a Hoosac tunnel to undertake, that she just letsit all go, and gets off up-stairs, and sticks a ribbon in her hair. That's all she _can_ do. I s'pose 'twould take a fortnight, maybe?"

"Take it, Luclarion, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, smiling. Luclarionunderstood the smile. 

"I s'pose you think it's as good as took. Well, perhaps it is--spokefor. But it wasn't me, you know. Now what'll you do?"

"Go into the kitchen and make the pudding. "

"But then?"

"We are not stumped for then, you know. "

"There was a colored girl here yesterday, from up in Garden Street, asking if there was any help wanted. I think she came in partially, to look at the flowers; the 'sturtiums _are_ splendid, and I gaveher some. She was awfully dressed up, --for colors, I mean; but shelooked clean and pleasant, and spoke bright. Maybe she'd come, temporary. She seemed taken with things. I know where to find her, and I could go there when I got through with the gruel. Mrs. Scarupmust have that right off. "

And Luclarion hurried away. 

It was not the first time Mrs. Ripwinkley had lent Luclarion; butMiss Grapp had not found a kitchen mission in Boston heretofore. Itwas something new to bring the fashion of simple, prompt, neighborlyhelp down intact from the hills, and apply it here to the tangle ofcity living, that is made up of so many separate and unrecognizedstruggles. 

When Hazel came home from school, she went all the way up the gardenwalk, and in at the kitchen door. "That was the way she took itall, " she said; "first the flowers, and then Luclarion and what theyhad for dinner, and a drink of water; and then up-stairs, tomother. "

To-day she encountered in the kitchen a curious and startlingapparition of change. 

A very dusky brown maiden, with a petticoat of flashing purple, anda jacket of crimson, and extremely puzzling hair tied up with knotsof corn color, stood in possession over the stove, tending africassee, of which Hazel recognized at once the preparation andsavor as her mother's; while beside her on a cricket, munching coldbiscuit and butter with round, large bites of very white littleteeth, sat a small girl of five of the same color, gleaming andtwinkling as nothing human ever does gleam and twinkle but a littledarkie child. 

"Where is Luclarion?" asked Hazel, standing still in the middle ofthe floor, in her astonishment. 

"I don't know. I'm Damaris, and this one's little Vash. Don't go forcallin' me Dam, now; the boys did that in my last place, an' I left, don' yer see? I ain't goin' to be swore to, anyhow!"

And Damaris glittered at Hazel, with her shining teeth and her quickeyes, full of fun and good humor, and enjoyed her end of the jokeextremely. 

"Have you come to _stay_?" asked Hazel. 

"'Course. I don' mostly come for to go. "

"What does it mean, mother?" Hazel asked, hurrying up into hermother's room. 

And then Mrs. Ripwinkley explained. 

"But what _is_ she? Black or white? She's got straight braids andcurls at the back of her head, like everybody's"--

"'Course, " said a voice in the doorway. "An' wool on top, --placewhere wool ought to grow, --same's everybody, too. "

Damaris had come up, according to orders, to report a certain pointin the progress of the fricassee. 

"They all pulls the wool over they eyes, now-days, an sticks thestraight on behind. Where's the difference?"

Mrs. Ripwinkley made some haste to rise and move toward thedoorway, to go down stairs, turning Damaris from her position, andchecking further remark. Diana and Hazel stayed behind, and laughed. "What fun!" they said. 

It was the beginning of a funny fortnight; but it is not the fun Ihave paused to tell you of; something more came of it in thehome-life of the Ripwinkleys; that which they were "waiting to see. "

Damaris wanted a place where she could take her little sister; shewas tired of leaving her "shyin' round, " she said. And Vash, withher round, fuzzy head, her bright eyes, her little flashing teeth, and her polished mahogany skin, --darting up and down the house "onAarons, " or for mere play, --dressed in her gay little scarletflannel shirt-waist, and black and orange striped petticoat, --waslike some "splendid, queer little fire-bug, " Hazel said, and made asurprise and a picture wherever she came. She was "cute, " too, asDamaris had declared beforehand; she was a little wonder at noticingand remembering, and for all sorts of handiness that a child of fivecould possibly be put to. 

Hazel dressed rag babies for her, and made her a soap-box baby-housein the corner of the kitchen, and taught her her letters; and beganto think that she should hate to have her go when Luclarion cameback. 

Damaris proved clever and teachable in the kitchen; and had, aboveall, the rare and admirable disposition to keep things scrupulouslyas she had found them; so that Luclarion, in her afternoon tripshome, was comforted greatly to find that while she was "clearing andploughing" at Mrs. Scarup's, her own garden of neatness was notbeing turned into a howling wilderness; and she observed, as isoften done so astutely, that "when you _do_ find a neat, capable, colored help, it's as good help as you can have. " Which you maynotice is just as true without the third adjective as with. 

Luclarion herself was having a splendid time. 

The first thing she did was to announce to Mrs. Scarup that she wasout of her place for two weeks, and would like to come to her at herwages; which Mrs. Scarup received with some such awed andunbelieving astonishment as she might have done the coming of alegion of angels with Gabriel at their head. And when one strong, generous human will, with powers of brain and body under itsufficient to some good work, comes down upon it as Luclarion didupon hers, there _is_ what Gabriel and his angels stand for, and noless sent of God. 

The second thing Luclarion did was to clean that "settin'-roomfire-place, " to restore the pleasant brown color of its freestonehearth and jambs, to polish its rusty brasses till they shone likegolden images of gods, and to lay an ornamental fire of chips andclean little sticks across the irons. Then she took a wet broom andswept the carpet three times, and dusted everything with a dampduster; and then she advised Mrs. Scarup, whom the gruel had alreadycheered and strengthened, to be "helped down, and sit there in theeasy-chair, for a change, and let her take her room in hand. " And nodoctor ever prescribed any change with better effect. There are agood many changes that might be made for people, without sendingthem beyond their own doors. But it isn't the doctors who alwaysknow _what_ change, or would dare to prescribe it if they did. 

Mrs. Scarup was "helped down, " it seemed, --really up, rather, --intoa new world. Things had begun all over again. It was worth while toget well, and take courage. Those brasses shone in her face likemorning suns. 

"Well, I do declare to Man, Miss Grapp!" she exclaimed; and breathand expression failed together, and that was all she could say. 

Up-stairs, Luclarion swept and rummaged. She found the sheet andtowel drawers, and made everything white and clean. She laid freshnapkins over the table and bureau tops, and set the littlethings--boxes, books, what not, --daintily about on them. She put aclean spread on the bed, and gathered up things for the wash shemeant to have, with a recklessness that Mrs. Scarup herself wouldnever have dared to use, in view of any "help" she ever expected todo it. 

And then, with Pinkie to lend feeble assistance, Luclarion turned toin the kitchen. 

It was a "clear treat, " she told Mrs. Ripwinkley afterward. "Thingshad got to that state of mussiness, that you just began at one endand worked through to the other, and every inch looked new made overafter you as you went along. "

She put the children out into the yard on the planks, and gave themtin pans and clothes-pins to keep house with, and gingerbread fortheir dinner. She and Pinkie had cups of tea, and Mrs. Scarup hadher gruel, and went up to bed again; and that was another newexperience, and a third stage in her treatment and recovery. 

When it came to the cellar, Luclarion got the chore-man in; and whenall was done, she looked round on the renovated home, and saidwithin herself, "If Scarup, now, will only break his neck, or getsomething to do, and stay away with his pipes and his boots and hiscontraptions!"

And Scarup did. He found a chance in some freight-house, and wrotethat he had made up his mind to stay out there all winter; and Mrs. Scarup made little excursions about the house with her returningstrength, and every journey was a pleasure-trip, and the only miserywas that at the end of the fortnight Miss Grapp was going away, andthen she should be "all back in the swamp again. "

"No, you won't, " said Luclarion; "Pinkie's waked up, and she's goingto take pride, and pick up after the children. She can do that, now;but she couldn't shoulder everything. And you'll have somebody inthe kitchen. See if you don't. I've 'most a mind to say I'll staytill you do. "

Luclarion's faith was strong; she knew, she said, that "if she wasdoing at her end, Providence wasn't leaving off at his. Things wouldcome round. "

This was how they did come round. 

It only wanted a little sorting about. The pieces of the puzzle wereall there. Hazel Ripwinkley settled the first little bit in theright place. She asked her mother one night, if she didn't thinkthey might begin their beehive with a fire-fly? Why couldn't theykeep little Vash?

"And then, " said Diana, in her quiet way, slipping one of the bigthree-cornered pieces of the puzzle in, "Damaris might go to Mrs. Scarup for her two dollars a week. She is willing to work for that, if she can get Vash taken. And this would be all the same, andbetter. "

Desire was with them when Luclarion came in, and heard it settled. 

"How is it that things always fall right together for you, so? How_came_ Damaris to come along?"

"You just take hold of something and try, " said Luclarion. "You'llfind there's always a working alongside. Put up your sails, and thewind will fill 'em. "

Uncle Titus wanted to know "what sort of use a thing like thatcould be in a house?"

He asked it in his very surliest fashion. If they had had anymotives of fear or favor, they would have been disconcerted, andbegun to think they had made a mistake. 

But Hazel spoke up cheerily, --

"Why, to wait on people, uncle. She's the nicest littlefetch-and-carrier you ever saw!"

"Humph! who wants to be waited on, here? You girls, with feet andhands of your own? Your mother doesn't, I know. "

"Well, to wait _on_, then, " says Hazel, boldly. "I'm making her ababy-house, and teaching her to read; and Diana is knitting scarletstockings for her, to wear this winter. We like it. "

"O, if you like it! That's always a reason. I only want to havepeople give the real one. "

And Uncle Titus walked off, so that nobody could tell whether _he_liked it or not. 

Nobody told him anything about the Scarups. But do you suppose hedidn't know? Uncle Titus Oldways was as sharp as he was blunt. 

"I guess I know, mother, " said Hazel, a little while after this, oneday, "how people write stories. "

"Well?" asked her mother, looking up, ready to be amused withHazel's deep discovery. 

"If they can just begin with one thing, you see, that makes the nextone. It can't help it, hardly. Just as it does with us. What made methink of it was, that it seemed to me there was another little pieceof our beehive story all ready to put on; and if we went and didit, --I wonder if you wouldn't, mother? It fits exactly. "

"Let me see. "

"That little lame Sulie at Miss Craydocke's Home, that we like somuch. Nobody adopts her away, because she is lame; her legs are nouse at all, you know, and she just sits all curled up in that greatround chair that Mrs. Geoffrey gave her, and sews patchwork, andmakes paper dolls. And when she drops her scissors, or her thread, somebody has to come and pick it up. She wants waiting on; she justwants a little lightning-bug, like Vash, to run round for her allthe time. And we don't, you see; and we've got Vash! And Vash--likespaper dolls. "

Hazel completed the circle of her argument with great triumph. 

"An extra piece of bread to finish your too much butter, " saidDiana. 

"Yes. Doesn't it just make out?" said Hazel, abating not a jot ofher triumph, and taking things literally, as nobody could do betterthan she, upon occasion, for all her fancy and intuition. 

"I wonder what Uncle Oldways would say to that, " said Diana. 

"He'd say 'Faugh, faugh!' But he doesn't mean faugh, faugh, half thetime. If he does, he doesn't stick to it. Mother, " she asked rathersuddenly, "do you think Uncle Oldways feels as if we oughtn't todo--other things--with his money?"

"What other things?"

"Why, _these_ others. Vash, and Sulie, perhaps. Wouldn't he like itif we turned his house into a Beehive?"

"It isn't his house, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, "He has given it to me. "

"Well, --do you feel 'obligated, ' as Luclarion says?'

"In a certain degree, --yes. I feel bound to consider his comfortand wishes, as far as regards his enjoyment with us, and fulfillingwhat he reasonably looked for when he brought us here. "

"Would that interfere?"

"Suppose you ask him, Hazel?"

"Well, I could do that. "

"Hazel wouldn't mind doing anything!" said Diana, who, to tell thetruth was a little afraid of Uncle Titus, and who dreaded of allthings, being snubbed. 

"Only, " said Hazel, to whom something else had just occurred, "wouldn't he think--wouldn't it be--_your_ business?"

"It is all your plan, Hazel. I think he would see that. "

"And you are willing, if he doesn't care?"

"I did not quite say that. It would be a good deal to think of. "

"Then I'll wait till you've thought, " said clear-headed littleHazel. 

"But it fits right on. I can see that. And Miss Craydocke saidthings would, after we had begun. "

Mrs. Ripwinkley took it into her thoughts, and carried it about withher for days, and considered it; asking herself questions. 

Was it going aside in search of an undertaking that did not belongto her?

Was it bringing home a care, a responsibility, for which they werenot fitted, --which might interfere with the things they were meant, and would be called, to do?

There was room and opportunity, doubtless, for them to do something;Mrs. Ripwinkley had felt this; she had not waited for her child tothink of it for her; she had only waited, in her new, strangesphere, for circumstances to guide the way, and for the Giver ofall circumstance to guide her thought. She chose, also, in thethings that would affect her children's life and settle duties forthem, to let them grow also to those duties, and the perception ofthem, with her. To this she led them, by all her training andinfluence; and now that in Hazel, her child of quick insight andtrue instincts, this influence was bearing fruit and quickening toaction, she respected her first impulses; she believed in them; theyhad weight with her, as argument in themselves. These impulses, inyoung, true souls, freshly responding, are, she knew, as theproof-impressions of God's Spirit. 

Yet she would think; that was her duty; she would not do a thinghastily, or unwisely. 

Sulie Praile had been a good while, now, at the Home. 

A terrible fall, years ago, had caused a long and painful illness, and resulted in her present helplessness. But above those littleidle, powerless limbs, that lay curled under the long, soft skirtshe wore, like a baby's robe, were a beauty and a brightness, aquickness of all possible motion, a dexterous use of hands, and aface of gentle peace and sometimes glory, that were like abenediction on the place that she was in; like the very Holy Ghostin tender form like a dove, resting upon it, and abiding among themwho were there. 

In one way, it would hardly be so much a giving as a taking, toreceive her in. Yet there was care to assume, the continuance ofcare to promise or imply; the possibility of conflicting plans inmuch that might be right and desirable that Mrs. Ripwinkley shoulddo for her own. Exactly what, if anything, it would be right toundertake in this, was matter for careful and anxious reflection. 

The resources of the Home were not very large; there were painfulcases pressing their claims continually, as fast as a little placewas vacated it could be filled; was wanted, ten times over; andSulie Praile had been there a good while. If somebody would onlytake her, as people were very ready to take--away to happy, simple, comfortable country homes, for mere childhood's sake--the round, rosy, strong, and physically perfect ones! But Sulie must be liftedand tended; she must keep somebody at home to look after her; no onecould be expected to adopt a child like that. 

Yet Hazel Ripwinkley thought they could be; thought, in herstraightforward, uncounting simplicity, that it was just thenatural, obvious, beautiful thing to do, to take her home--into areal home--into pleasant family life; where things would not crowd;where she could be mothered and sistered, as girls ought to be, whenthere are so many nice places in the world, and not so many peoplein them as there might be. When there could be so much visiting, andspare rooms kept always in everybody's house, why should notsomebody who needed to, just come in and stay? What were the spareplaces made for?

"We might have Sulie for this winter, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, atlast. "They would let her come to us for that time; and it would bea change for her, and leave a place for others. Then if anythingmade it impossible for us to do more, we should not have raised anexpectation to be disappointed. And if we can and ought to do more, it will be shown us by that time more certainly. "

She asked Miss Craydocke about it, when she came home from Z----that fall. She had been away a good deal lately; she had been up toZ---- to two weddings, --Leslie Goldthwaite's and Barbara Holabird's. Now she was back again, and settled down. 

Miss Craydocke thought it a good thing wisely limited. 

"Sulie needs to be with older girls; there is no one in the Home tobe companion to her; the children are almost all little. A winterhere would be a blessing to her!"

"But the change again, if she should have to make it?" suggestedMrs. Ripwinkley. 

"Good things don't turn to bad ones because you can't have them anymore. A thing you're not fit for, and never ought to have had, may;but a real good stays by; it overflows all the rest. Sulie Praile'slife could never be so poor again, after a winter here with you, asit might be if she had never had it. If you'd like her, let hercome, and don't be a bit afraid. We're only working by inches, anyof us; like the camel's-hair embroiderers in China. But it gets puttogether; and it is beautiful, and large, and whole, somewhere. "

"Miss Craydocke always knows, " said Hazel. 

Nobody said anything again, about Uncle Titus. A winter's plan neednot be referred to him. But Hazel, in her own mind, had resolved tofind out what was Uncle Titus's, generally and theoretically; howfree they were to be, beyond winter plans and visits of weeks; howmuch scope they might have with this money and this house, thatseemed so ample to their simple wants, and what they might do withit and turn it into, if it came into their heads or hearts orconsciences. 

So one day she went in and sat down by him in the study, after shehad accomplished some household errand with Rachel Froke. 

Other people approached him with more or less of strategy, afraid ofthe tiger in him; Desire Ledwith faced him courageously; only Hazelcame and nestled up beside him, in his very cage, as if he were nowild beast, after all. 

Yet he pretended to growl, even at her, sometimes; it was so funnyto see her look up and chirp on after it, like some little bird towhom the language of beasts was no language at all, and passed by onthe air as a very big sound, but one that in no wise concerned it. 

"We've got Sulie Praile to spend the winter, Uncle Titus, " she said. 

"Who's Sulie Praile?"

"The lame girl, from the Home. We wanted somebody for Vash to waiton, you know. She sits in a round chair, that twists, like yours;and she's--just like a lily in a vase!" Hazel finished her sentencewith a simile quite unexpected to herself. 

There was something in Sulie's fair, pale, delicate face, and herupper figure, rising with its own peculiar lithe, easily swayedgrace from among the gathered folds of the dress of her favoritedark green color, that reminded--if one thought of it, and Hazelturned the feeling of it into a thought at just this moment--of abeautiful white flower, tenderly and commodiously planted. 

"Well, I suppose it's worth while to have a lame girl to sit up in around chair, and look like a lily in a vase, is it?"

"Uncle Titus, I want to know what you think about some things. "

"That is just what I want to know myself, sometimes. To find outwhat one thinks about things, is pretty much the whole finding, isn't it?"

"Don't be very metaphysical, please, Uncle Titus. Don't turn youreyes round into the back of your head. That isn't what I mean. "

"What do you mean?"

"Just plain looking. "

"O!"

"Don't you think, when there are places, all nice and ready, --andpeople that would like the places and haven't got 'em, --that thepeople ought to be put into the places?"

"'The shirtless backs put into the shirts?'"

"Why, yes, of course. What are shirts made for?"

"For some people to have thirty-six, and some not to have any, " saidMr. Oldways. 

"No, " said Hazel. "Nobody wants thirty-six, all at once. But what Imean is, rooms, and corners, and pleasant windows, and seats at thetable; places where people come in visiting, and that are kept savedup. I can't bear an empty box; that is, only for just one pleasantminute, while I'm thinking what I can put into it. "

"Where's your empty box, now?"

"Our house _was_ rather empty-boxy. Uncle Titus, do you mind how wefill it up, --because you gave it to us, you know?"

"No. So long as you don't crowd yourselves out. "

"Or you, Uncle Titus. We don't want to crowd you out. Does it crowdyou any to have Sulie and Vash there, and to have us 'took up' withthem, as Luclarion says?"

How straight Witch Hazel went to her point!

"Your catechism crowds me just a little, child, " said Uncle Titus. "I want to see you go your own way. That is what I gave you thehouse for. Your mother knows that. Did she send you here to ask me?"

"No. I wanted to know. It was I that wanted to begin a kind of aBeehive--like Miss Craydocke's. Would you care if it was turnedquite into a Beehive, finally?"

Hazel evidently meant to settle the furthest peradventure, now shehad begun. 

"Ask your mother to show you the deed. 'To Frances Ripwinkley, herheirs and assigns, '--that's you and Diana, --'for their use andbehoof, forever. ' I've no more to do with it. "

"'Use, and behoof, '" said Hazel, slowly. And then she turned theleaves of the great Worcester that lay upon the study table, andfound "Behoof. "

"'Profit, --gain, --benefit;' then that's what you meant; that weshould make as much more of it as we could. That's what I think, Uncle Titus. I'm glad you put 'behoof in. "

"They always put it in, child!"

"Do they? Well, then, they don't always work it out!" and Hazellaughed. 

At that, Mr. Oldways pulled off his spectacles, looked sharp atHazel with two sharp, brown eyes, --set near together, Hazel noticedfor the first time, like Desire's, --let the keenness turn graduallyinto a twinkle, suffered the muscles that had held his lips so grimto relax, and laughed too; his peculiar, up-and-down shake of alaugh, in which head and shoulders made the motions, as if he were abottle, and there were a joke inside of him which was to be wellmixed up to be thoroughly enjoyed. 

"Go home to your mother, jade-hopper!" he said, when he had done;"and tell her I'm coming round to-night, to tea, amongst yourbumble-bees and your lilies!"

XV. 

WITH ALL ONE'S MIGHT. 

Let the grapes be ever so sweet, and hang in plenty ever so low, there is always a fair bunch out of reach. 

Mrs. Ledwith longed, now, to go to Europe. 

At any rate, she was eager to have her daughters go. But, after justone year, to take what her Uncle Oldways had given her, in returnfor her settling herself near him, and _un_settle herself, and gooff to the other side of the world! Besides, what he had given herwould not do it. That was the rub, after all. What was two thousanda year, now-a-days? Nothing is anything, now-a-days. And it takeseverything to do almost nothing. 

The Ledwiths were just as much pinched now as they were before theyever heard from Uncle Oldways. People with unlimited powers ofexpansion always are pinched; it is good for them; one of the savinglaws of nature that keeps things decently together. 

Yet, in the pink room of a morning, and in the mellow-tinteddrawing-room of an evening, it was getting to be the subjectoftenest discussed. It was that to which they directed the combinedmagnetism of the family will; everything was brought to bear upon it;Bridget's going away on Monday morning, leaving the clothes in thetubs, the strike-price of coal, and the overcharge of the grocer;Florence's music, Helena's hopeless distress over French and German;even Desire's listlessness and fidgets; most of all Mrs. Megilp'splans, which were ripening towards this long coveted end. She andGlossy really thought they should go this winter. 

"It is a matter of economy now; everybody's going. The Fargo's andthe Fayerwerses, and the Hitherinyons have broken all up, and aregoing out to stay indefinitely. The Fayerwerses have been saving upthese four years to get away, there are so many of them, you know;the passage money counts, and the first travelling; but after you_are_ over, and have found a place to settle down in, "--thenfollowed all the usual assertions as to cheap delights andinestimable advantages, and emancipation from all American householdills and miseries. 

Uncle Oldways came up once in a while to the house in ShubartonPlace, and made an evening call. He seemed to take apricot-color forgranted, when he got there, as much as he did the plain, old, unrelieved brown at Mrs. Ripwinkley's; he sat quite unconcernedly inthe grand easy chair that Laura wheeled out for him; indeed, itseemed as if he really, after a manner, indorsed everything by hisacceptance without demur of what he found. But then one must sitdown on something; and if one is offered a cup of coffee, oranything on a plate, one cannot easily protest against sea-greenchina. We do, and we have, and we wear, and we say, a greatmany things, and feel ourselves countenanced and confirmed, somehow, --perhaps excused, --because nobody appears surprised or saysanything. But what should they say; and would it be at all properthat they should be surprised? If we only thought of it, and oncetried it, we might perhaps find it quite as easy and encouraging, onthe same principle, _not_ to have apricot rep and sea-green china. 

One night Mr. Oldways was with them when the talk turned eastwardlyover the water. There were new names in the paper, of people whohad gone out in the _Aleppo_, and a list of Americans registered atBowles Brothers, ' among whom were old acquaintance. 

"I declare, how they all keep turning up there" said Mrs. Ledwith. 

"The war doesn't seem to make much difference, " said her husband. 

"To think how lucky the Vonderbargens were, to be in Paris just atthe edge of the siege!" said Glossy Megilp. "They came back fromComo just in time; and poor Mr. Washburne had to fairly hustle themoff at last. They were buying silks, and ribbons, and gloves, up tothe last minute, for absolutely nothing. Mrs. Vonderbargen said itseemed a sin to come away and leave anything. I'm sure I don't knowhow they got them all home; but they did. "

Glossy had been staying lately with the Vonderbargens in New York. She stayed everywhere, and picked up everything. 

"You have been abroad, Mrs. Scherman?" said Mrs. Ledwith, inquiringly, to Asenath, who happened to be calling, also, with herhusband, and was looking at some photographs with Desire. 

"No, ma'am, " answered Mrs. Scherman, very promptly, not havingspoken at all before in the discussion. "I do not think I wish togo. The syphon has been working too long. "

"The Syphon?"

Mrs. Ledwith spoke with a capital S in her mind; but was not quitesure whether what Mrs. Scherman meant might be a line of Atlanticsteamers or the sea-serpent. 

"Yes, ma'am. The emptying back and forth. There isn't much that isforeign over there, now, nor very much that is native here. Thehemispheres have got miserably mixed up. I think when I go 'strangecountries for to see, ' it will have to be Patagonia or IndependentTartary. "

Uncle Oldways turned round with his great chair, so as to faceAsenath, and laughed one of his thorough fun digesting laughs, hiskeen eyes half shut with the enjoyment, and sparkling out throughtheir cracks at her. 

But Asenath had resumed her photographs with the sweetest andquietest unconsciousness. 

Mrs. Ledwith let her alone after that; and the talk rambled on tothe schools in Munich, and the Miracle Plays at Oberammergau. 

"To think of _that_ invasion!" said Asenath, in a low tone toDesire, "and corrupting _that_ into a show, with a run of regularperformances! I do believe they have pulled down the last unprofanedthing now, and trampled over it. "

"If we go, " said Mrs. Megilp, "we shall join the Fayerwerses, andsettle down with them quietly in some nice place; and then makeexcursions. We shall not try to do all Europe in three months; weshall choose, and take time. It is the only way really to enjoy oracquire; and the quiet times are so invaluable for the lessons andlanguages. "

Mrs. Megilp made up her little varnishes with the genuine gums oftruth and wisdom; she put a beautiful shine even on to her limitedopportunities and her enforced frugalities. 

"Mrs. Ledwith, you _ought_ to let Agatha and Florence go too. Iwould take every care of them; and the expense would be sodivided--carriages, and couriers, and everything--that it would behardly anything. "

"It is a great opportunity, " Mrs. Ledwith said, and sighed. "But itis different with us from what it is with you. We must still be afamily here, with nearly the same expenses. To be sure Desire hasdone with school, and she doesn't care for gay society, and Helenais a mere child yet; if it ever could"--

And so it went on between the ladies, while Mr. Oldways and Mr. Ledwith and Frank Scherman got into war talk, and Bismarck policy, and French poss--no, _im_-possibilities. 

"I don't think Uncle Oldways minded much, " said Mrs. Ledwith toAgatha, and Mrs. Megilp, up-stairs, after everybody had gone who wasto go. 

"He never minds anything, " said Agatha. 

"I don't know, " said Mrs. Megilp, slowly. "He seemed mightilypleased with what Asenath Scherman said. "

"O, she's pretty, and funny; it makes no difference what she says;people are always pleased. "

"We might dismiss one girl this winter, " said Mrs. Ledwith, "andboard in some cheap country place next summer. I dare say we couldsave it in the year's round; the difference, I mean. When youweren't actually travelling, it wouldn't cost more than to have youhere, --dress and all. 

"They wouldn't need to have a new thing, " said Glossy. 

"Those people out at Z---- want to buy the house. I've a great mindto coax Grant to sell, and take a slice right out, and send them, "said Mrs. Ledwith, eagerly. She was always eager to accomplish thenext new thing for her children; and, to say the truth, did not muchconsider herself. And so far as they had ever been able, theLedwiths had always been rather easily given to "taking the sliceright out. "

The Megilps had had a little legacy of two or three thousanddollars, and were quite in earnest in their plans, this time, whichhad been talk with them for many years. 

"Those poor Fayerwerses!" said Asenath to her husband, walking home. "Going out now, after the cheap European living of a dozen yearsago! The ghost always goes over on the last load. I wonder at Mrs. Megilp. She generally knows better. "

"She'll do, " said Frank Scherman. "If the Fayerwerses stickanywhere, as they probably will, she'll hitch on to the Fargo's, andturn up at Jerusalem. And then there are to be the Ledwiths, andtheir 'little slice. '"

"O, dear! what a mess people do make of living!" said Asenath. 

Uncle Titus trudged along down Dorset Street with his stick underhis arm. 

"Try 'em! Find 'em out!" he repeated to himself. "That's whatMarmaduke said. Try 'em with this, --try 'em with that; a good deal, or a little; having and losing, and wanting. That's what the Lorddoes with us all; and I begin to see He has a job of it!"

The house was sold, and Agatha and Florence went. 

It made home dull for poor Desire, little as she found of realcompanionship with her elder sisters. But then she was alwayslooking for it, and that was something. Husbands and wives, parentsand children, live on upon that, through years of repeateddisappointments, and never give up the expectation of that which issomewhere, and which these relations represent to them, through alltheir frustrated lives. 

That is just why. It _is_ somewhere. 

It turned out a hard winter, in many ways, for Desire Ledwith. Shehated gay company, and the quiet little circle that she had becomefond of at her Aunt Ripwinkley's was broken somewhat to them all, and more to Desire than, among what had grown to be her chronicdiscontents, she realized or understood, by the going away for atime of Kenneth Kincaid. 

What was curious in the happening, too, he had gone up to "And" tobuild a church. That had come about through the Marchbankses'knowledge of him, and this, you remember, through their being withthe Geoffreys when the Kincaids were first introduced in SummitStreet. 

The Marchbankses and the Geoffreys were cousins. A good many Bostonfamilies are. 

Mr. Roger Marchbanks owned a good deal of property in And. Theneighborhood wanted a church; and he interested himself actively andliberally in behalf of it, and gave the land, --three lots right outof the middle of Marchbanks Street, that ran down to the river. 

Dorris kept her little room, and was neighborly as heretofore; butshe was busy with her music, and had little time but her evenings;and now there was nobody to walk home with Desire to ShubartonPlace, if she stayed in Aspen Street to tea. She came sometimes, andstayed all night; but that was dreary for Helena, who neverremembered to shut the piano or cover up the canary, or give theplants in the bay window their evening sprinkle, after the furnaceheat had been drying them all day. 

Kenneth Kincaid came down for his Sundays with Dorris, and his workat the Mission; a few times he called in at Uncle Oldways' aftertea, when the family was all together; but they saw him very seldom;he gave those Sunday evenings mostly to needed rest, and to quiettalk with Dorris. 

Desire might have gone to the Mission this winter, easily enough, after all. Agatha and Florence and Glossy Megilp were not by to makewondering eyes, or smile significant smiles; but there was somethingin herself that prevented; she knew that it would be more than halfto _get_, and she still thought she had so little to give! Besides, Kenneth Kincaid had never asked her again, and she could not go tohim and say she would come. 

Desire Ledwith began to have serious question of what life was evergoing to be for her. She imagined, as in our early years and ourfirst gray days we are all apt to imagine, that she had found out agood deal that it was _not_ going to be. 

She was not going to be beautiful, or accomplished, or even, she wasafraid, agreeable; she found that such hard work with most people. She was not ever--and that conclusion rested closely upon theseforegoing--to be married, and have a nice husband and a prettyhouse, and go down stairs and make snow-puddings and ginger-snaps ofa morning, and have girls staying with her, and pleasant people into tea; like Asenath Scherman. She couldn't write a book, --that, perhaps, was one of her premature decisions, since nobody knows tillthey try, and the books are lying all round, in leaves, waiting onlyto be picked up and put together, --or paint a picture; she couldn'tbear parties, and clothes were a fuss, and she didn't care to go toEurope. 

She thought she should rather like to be an old maid, if she couldbegin right off, and have a little cottage out of town somewhere, orsome cosy rooms in the city. At least, she supposed that was whatshe had got to be, and if that were settled, she did not see why itmight not be begun young, as well as married life. She could notendure waiting, when a thing was to be done. 

"Aunt Frances, " she said one day, "I wish I had a place of my own. What is the reason I can't? A girl can go in for Art, and set up astudio; or she can go to Rome, and sculp, and study; she can learnelocution, and read, whether people want to be read to or not; andall that is Progress and Woman's Rights; why can't she set up a_home_?"

"Because, I suppose, a house is not a home; and the beginning of ahome is just what she waits for. Meanwhile, if she has a father anda mother, she would not put a slight on _their_ home, or fail of hershare of the duty in it. "

"But nobody would think I failed in my duty if I were going to bemarried. I'm sure mamma would think I was doing it beautifully. AndI never shall be married. Why can't I live something out for myself, and have a place of my own? I have got money enough to pay my rent, and I could do sewing in a genteel way, or keep a school for littlechildren. I'd rather--take in back stairs to wash, " she exclaimedvehemently, "than wait round for things, and be nothing! And Ishould like to begin young, while there might be some sort of fun init. You'd like to come and take tea with me, wouldn't you, AuntFrank?"

"If it were all right that you should have separate teas of yourown. "

"And if I had waffles. Well, I should. I think, just now, there'snothing I should like so much as a little kitchen of my own, and apie-board, and a biscuit-cutter, and a beautiful baking oven, and aJapan tea-pot. "

"The pretty part. But brooms, and pails, and wash-tubs, and the backstairs?"

"I specified back stairs in the first place, of my own accord. Iwouldn't shirk. Sometimes I think that real good old-fashioned hardwork is what I do want. I should like to find the right, honestthing, and do it, Aunt Frank. "

She said it earnestly, and there were tears in her eyes. 

"I believe you would, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "But perhaps the right, honest thing, just now, is to wait patiently, with all your might. "

"Now, that's good, " said Desire, "and cute of you, too, that lastpiece of a sentence. If you had stopped at '_patiently_, ' as peoplegenerally do! That's what exasperates; when you want to do somethingwith all your might. It almost seems as if I could, when you put itso. "

"It is a 'stump, ' Luclarion would say. "

"Luclarion is a saint and a philosopher. I feel better, " saidDesire. 

She stayed feeling better all that afternoon; she helped SuliePraile cut out little panels from her thick sheet of graypainting-board, and contrived her a small easel with her roundlightstand and a book-rest; for Sulie was advancing in the finearts, from painting dollies' paper faces in cheap water colors, tocopying bits of flowers and fern and moss, with oils, on gray board;and she was doing it very well, and with exquisite delight. 

To wait, meant something to wait for; something coming by and by;that was what comforted Desire to-day, as she walked home alone inthe sharp, short, winter twilight; that, and the being patient withall one's might. To be patient, is to be also strong; this she saw, newly; and Desire coveted, most of all, to be strong. 

Something to wait for. "He does not cheat, " said Desire, low down inher heart, to herself. For the child had faith, though she could nottalk about it. 

Something; but very likely not the thing you have seen, or dreamedof; something quite different, it may be, when it comes; and it maycome by the way of losing, first, all that you have been able yet, with a vague, whispering hope, to imagine. 

The things we do not know! The things that are happening, --thethings that are coming; rising up in the eastward of our lives belowthe horizon that we can yet see; it may be a star, it may be acloud!

Desire Ledwith could not see that out at Westover, this cheerywinter night, it was one of dear Miss Pennington's "Next Thursdays;"she could not see that the young architect, living away over therein the hundred-year-old house on the side of East Hill, a boarderwith old Miss Arabel Waite, had been found, and appreciated, anddrawn into their circle by the Haddens and the Penningtons and theHolabirds and the Inglesides; and that Rosamond was showing him thepleasant things in their Westover life, --her "swan's nest among thereeds, " that she had told him of, --that early autumn evening, whenthey had walked up Hanley Street together. 

XVI. 

SWARMING. 

Spring came on early, with heavy rains and freshets in many parts ofthe country. 

It was a busy time at Z----. 

Two things had happened there that were to give Kenneth Kincaid morework, and would keep him where he was all summer. 

Just before he went to Z----, there had been a great fire at WestHill. All Mr. Roger Marchbanks's beautiful place was desolate. House, conservatories, stables, lovely little vine-covered rusticbuildings, exquisitely tended shrubbery, --all swept over in onenight by the red flames, and left lying in blackness and ashes. 

For the winter, Mr. Marchbanks had taken his family to Boston; nowhe was planning eagerly to rebuild. Kenneth had made sketches; Mr. Marchbanks liked his ideas; they had talked together from time totime. Now, the work was actually in hand, and Kenneth was busy withdrawings and specifications. 

Down at the river, during the spring floods, a piece of the bridgehad been carried away, and the dam was broken through. There werenew mill buildings, too, going up, and a block of factory houses. All this business, through Mr. Marchbanks directly or indirectly, fell also into Kenneth's hands. 

He wrote blithe letters to Dorris; and Dorris, running in and outfrom her little spring cleanings that Hazel was helping her with, told all the letters over to the Ripwinkleys. 

"He says I must come up there in my summer vacation and board withhis dear old Miss Waite. Think of Kentie's being able to give mesuch a treat as that! A lane, with ferns and birches, and thewoods, --_pine_ woods!--and a hill where raspberries grow, and theriver!"

Mrs. Ledwith was thinking of her summer plans at this time, also. She remembered the large four-windowed room looking out over themeadow, that Mrs. Megilp and Glossy had at Mrs. Prendible's, fortwelve dollars a week, in And. She could do no better than that, atcountry boarding, anywhere; and Mr. Ledwith could sleep at the housein Shubarton Place, getting his meals down town during the week, andcome up and spend his Sundays with them. A bedroom, in addition, forsix dollars more, would be all they would want. 

The Ripwinkleys were going up to Homesworth by and by for a littlewhile, and would take Sulie Praile with them. Sulie was ecstaticallyhappy. She had never been out of the city in all her life. She felt, she said, "as if she was going to heaven without dying. " Vash was tobe left at Mrs. Scarup's with her sister. 

Miss Craydocke would be away at the mountains; all the little lifethat had gathered together in the Aspen Street neighborhood, seemedabout to be broken up. 

Uncle Titus Oldways never went out of town, unless on business. Rachel Froke stayed, and kept his house; she sat in the gray room, and thought over the summers she had had. 

"Thee never loses anything out of thy life that has been in, " shesaid. "Summer times are like grains of musk; they keep their smellalways, and flavor the shut-up places they are put away in. "

For you and me, reader, we are to go to Z---- again. I hope you likeit. 

But before that, I must tell you what Luclarion Grapp has done. 

Partly from the principle of her life, and partly from the spirit ofthings which she would have caught at any rate, from the Ripwinkleyhome and the Craydocke "Beehive, "--for there is nothing truer thanthat the kingdom of heaven is like leaven, --I suppose she had beensecretly thinking for a good while, that she was having too easy atime here, in her first floor kitchen and her garden bedroom; thatthis was not the life meant for her to live right on, withoutscruple or question; and so began in her own mind to expect somesort of "stump;" and even to look about for it. 

"It isn't as it was when Mrs. Ripwinkley was a widow, andpoor, --that is, comparative; and it took all her and my contrivanceto look after the place and keep things going, and paying, up inHomesworth; there was something to buckle to, then; but now, everything is eased and flatted out, as it were; it makes meres'less, like a child put to bed in the daytime. "

Luclarion went down to the North End with Miss Craydocke, on errandsof mercy; she went in to the new Mission, and saw the heavenlybeauty of its intent, and kindled up in her soul at it; and she camehome, time after time, and had thoughts of her own about thesethings, and the work in the world there was to do. 

She had cleaned up and set things going at Mrs. Scarup's; shelearned something in doing that, beyond what she knew when she setabout it; her thoughts began to shape themselves to a theory; andthe theory took to itself a text and a confirmation and a command. 

"Go down and be a neighbor to them that have fallen among thieves. "

Luclarion came to a resolution in this time of May, when everybodywas making plans and the spring-cleaning was all done. 

She came to Mrs. Ripwinkley one morning, when she was folding awaywinter clothes, and pinning them up in newspapers, with camphor-gum;and she said to her, without a bit of preface, --Luclarion hatedprefaces, --

"Mrs. Ripwinkley, I'm going to swarm!"

Mrs. Ripwinkley looked up in utter surprise; what else could she do?

"Of course 'm, when you set up a Beehive, you must have expected it;it's the natural way of things; they ain't good for much unless theydo. I've thought it all over; I'll stay and see you all off, first, if you want me to, and then--I'll swarm. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, assenting in full faith, beforehand;for Mrs. Ripwinkley, if I need now to tell you of it, was not anordinary woman, and did not take things in an ordinary selfish way, but grasped right hold of the inward right and truth of them, andbelieved in it; sometimes before she could quite see it; and shenever had any doubt of Luclarion Grapp. "Well! And now tell me allabout it. "

"You see, " said Luclarion, sitting down in a chair by the window, asMrs. Ripwinkley suspended her occupation and took one by thebedside, "there's places in this town that folks leave and give up. As the Lord might have left and give up the world, because there wasdirt and wickedness in it; only He didn't. There's places where itain't genteel, nor yet respectable, to live; and so those placesgrow more disrespectable and miserable every day. They're left tothemselves. What I think is, they hadn't ought to be. There's oneclean spot down there now, in the very middle of the worst dirt. And it ain't bad to live in. _That's_ started. Now, what I think is, that somebody ought to start another, even if its only a little one. Somebody ought to just go there and _live_, and show 'em how, justas I took and showed Mrs. Scarup, and she's been living ever since, instead of scratching along. If some of them folks had a clean, decent neighbor to go to see, --to drink tea with, say, --and was tocatch an idea of her fixings and doings, why, I believe there'd bemore of 'em, --cleaned up, you know. They'd get some kind of anambition and a hope. Tain't enough for ladies--though I bless 'em inmy soul for what I've seen 'em do--to come down there of a Fridays, and teach and talk awhile, and then go home to Summit Street andRepublic Avenue, and take up _their_ life again where they left itoff, that is just as different as heaven is from 'tother place;somebody's got to come right down _out_ of heaven, and bring thelife in, and live it amongst them miserable folks, as the Lord JesusChrist came and did! And it's borne in upon me, strong and clear, that that's what's got to be before all's righted. And so--for alittle piece of it, and a little individual stump--I'm going toswarm, and settle, and see what'll come. "

Mrs. Ripwinkley was looking very intently at Luclarion. Her breathwent and came hurriedly, and her face turned pale with the grandsurprise of such a thought, such a plan and purpose, so simply andsuddenly declared. Her eyes were large and moist with feeling. 

"Do you _know_, Luclarion, " she exclaimed at last, "do you realizewhat this is that you are thinking of; what a step it would be totake, --what a work it would be to even hope to begin to do? Do youknow how strange it is, --how almost impracticable, --that it is noteven safe?"

"'Twasn't _safe_ for Him--when He came into the world, " Luclarionanswered. 

"Not to say I think there's any comparison, " she began again, presently, "or that I believe there's anything to be really scaredof, --except dirt; and you _can_ clean a place round you, as themMission people have done. Why, there ain't a house in Boston nicer, or sweeter, or airier even, than that one down in Arctic Street, with beautiful parlors and bedrooms, and great clean galleriesleading round, and skylighted, --_sky_ lighted! for you see the blueheaven is above all, and you _can_ let the skylight in, without anycorruption coming in with it; and if twenty people can do that much, or a hundred, --one can do something. 'Taint much, either, toundertake; only to be willing to go there, and make a clean placefor yourself, and a home; and live there, instead of somewheres elsethat's ready made; and let it spread. And you know I've alwayslooked forrud to some kind of a house-keep of my own, finally. "

"But, Luclarion, I don't understand! All alone? And you couldn't usea whole house, you know. Your neighbors would be _inmates_. Why, itseems to me perfectly crazy!"

"Now, ma'am, did you ever know me to go off on a tangent, withoutsome sort of a string to hold on to? I ain't goin' to swarm allalone! I never heard of such a thing. Though if I couldn't _swarm_, and the thing was to be done, I say I'd try it. But Savira Goldingis going to be married to Sam Gallilee, next month; and he's astevedore, and his work is down round the wharves; he's class-leaderin our church, and a first-rate, right-minded man, or else Savirawouldn't have him; for if Savira ain't a clear Christian, and adoing woman, there ain't one this side of Paradise. Now, you see, Sam Gallilee makes money; he runs a gang of three hundred men. Hecan afford a good house, and a whole one, if he wants; but he'sgoing in for a big one, and neighbors. They mean to live nice, --heand Savira; and she has pretty, tasty ways; there'll be whitecurtains, and plants blooming in her windows, you may make sure;she's always had 'em in that little up-stairs dress-making room ofhers; and boxes of mignonette and petunias on the ledges; and birdssinging in a great summer cage swung out against the wall. She's oneof the kind that reaches out, and can't be kept in; and she knowsher gifts, and is willing to go and let her light shine where itwill help others, and so glorify; and Sam, he's willing too, andsees the beauty of it. And so, --well, that's the swarm. "

"And the 'little round Godamighty in the middle of it, '" said Mrs. Ripwinkley, her face all bright and her eyes full of tears. 

"_Ma'am_!"

Then Mrs. Ripwinkley told her Miss Craydocke's story. 

"Well, " said Luclarion, "there's something dear andright-to-the-spot about it; but it does sound singular; and itcertainly ain't a thing to say careless. "

 * * * * *

Desire Ledwith grew bright and excited as the summer came on, andthe time drew near for going to Z----. She could not help beingglad; she did not stop to ask why; summer-time was reason enough, and after the weariness of the winter, the thought of Z---- and thewoods and the river, and sweet evenings and mornings, and gardensand orchards, and road-side grass, was lovely to her. 

"It is so pleasant up there!" she would keep saying to Dorris; andsomehow she said it to Dorris oftener than to anybody else. 

There was something fitful and impetuous in her little outbursts ofsatisfaction; they noticed it in her; the elder ones among themnoticed it with a touch of anxiety for her. 

Miss Craydocke, especially, read the signs, matching them withsomething that she remembered far back in the life that had closedso peacefully, with white hairs and years of a serene content andpatience, over all unrest and disappointment, for herself. She wassorry for this young girl, for whom she thought she saw anunfulfilled dream of living that should go by her like some brightcloud, just near enough to turn into a baptism of tears. 

She asked Desire, one day, if she would not like to go with her, this summer, to the mountains. 

Desire put by the suggestion hastily. 

"O, no, thank you, Miss Craydocke, I must stay with mamma andHelena. And besides, " she added, with the strict, full truth shealways demanded of herself, "I _want_ to go to Z----. "

"Yes, " said Miss Craydocke. 

There was something tender, like a shade of pity, in her tone. 

"But you would enjoy the mountains. They are full of strength andrest. One hardly understands the good the hills do one. David did, looking out into them from Jerusalem. 'I will look to the hills, from whence cometh my strength. '"

"Some time, " said Desire. "Some time I shall need the hills, and--beready for them. But this summer--I want a good, gay, young time. Idon't know why, except that I shall be just eighteen this year, andit seems as if, after that, I was going to be old. And I want to bewith people I know. I _can_ be gay in the country; there issomething to be gay about. But I can't dress and dance in the city. That is all gas-light and get-up. "

"I suppose, " said Miss Craydocke, slowly, "that our faces are allset in the way we are to go. Even if it is--" She stopped. She wasthinking of one whose face had been set to go to Jerusalem. Her ownwords had led her to something she had not foreseen when she began. 

Nothing of such suggestion came to Desire. She was in one of herrare moods of good cheer. 

"I suppose so, " she said, heedlessly. And then, taking up a thoughtof her own suddenly, --"Miss Craydocke! Don't you think people almostalways live out their names? There's Sin Scherman; there'll alwaysbe a little bit of mischief and original naughtiness in her, --withthe harm taken out of it; and there's Rosamond Holabird, --theycouldn't have called her anything better, if they'd waited for herto grow up; and Barb _was_ sharp; and our little Hazel is witchy andsweet and wild-woodsy; and Luclarion, --isn't that shiny andtrumpety, and doesn't she do it? And then--there's me. I shallalways be stiff and hard and unsatisfied, except in little bits ofsummer times that won't come often. They might as well havechristened me Anxiety. I wonder why they didn't. "

"That would have been very different. There is a nobleness inDesire. You will overlive the restless part, " said Miss Craydocke. 

"Was there ever anything restless in your life, Miss Craydocke? Andhow long did it take to overlive it? It doesn't seem as if you hadever stubbed your foot against anything; and I'm _always_ stubbing. "

"My dear, I have stubbed along through fifty-six years; and theyears had all three hundred and sixty-five days in them. There werechances, --don't you think so?"

"It looks easy to be old after it is done, " said Desire. "Easy andcomfortable. But to be eighteen, and to think of having to go on tobe fifty-six; I beg your pardon, --but I wish it was over!"

And she drew a deep breath, heavy with the days that were to be. 

"You are not to take it all at once, you know, " said Miss Craydocke. 

"But I do, every now and then. I can't help it. I am sure it is thename. If they had called me 'Hapsie, ' like you, I should have gonealong jolly, as you do, and not minded. You see you have to _hear_it all the time; and it tunes you up to its own key. You can't feellike a Dolly, or a Daisy, when everybody says--De-sire!"

"I don't know how I came to be called 'Hapsie, '" said MissCraydocke. "Somebody who liked me took it up, and it seemed to getfitted on. But that wasn't when I was young. "

"What was it, then?" asked Desire, with a movement of interest. 

"Keren-happuch, " said Miss Craydocke, meekly. "My father named me, and he always called me so, --the whole of it. He was a severe, Old-Testament man, and _his_ name was Job. "

Desire was more than half right, after all. There was a good deal ofMiss Craydocke's story hinted in those few words and those twoancient names. 

"But I turned into 'Miss Craydocke' pretty soon, and settled down. Isuppose it was very natural that I should, " said the sweet old maid, serenely. 

XVII. 

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

The evening train came in through the little bend in the edge of thewoods, and across the bridge over the pretty rapids, and slid to itsstopping-place under the high arches of the other bridge thatconnected the main street of Z---- with its continuation through"And. "

There were lights twinkling in the shops, where they were makingchange, and weighing out tea and sugar, and measuring calico, although outside it was not yet quite dark. 

The train was half an hour late; there had been a stoppage at somedraw or crossing near the city. 

Mr. Prendible was there, to see if his lodgers were come, and to gethis evening paper; the platform was full of people. Old Z----acquaintances, many of them, whom Desire and her mother werepleased, and Helena excited to see. 

"There's Kenneth Kincaid!" she exclaimed, quite loudly, pullingDesire's sleeve. 

"Hush!" said Desire, twitching away. "How can you, Helena?"

"He's coming, --he heard me!" cried Helena, utterly impenitent. 

"I should think he might!" And Desire walked off a little, to lookamong the trunks that were being tumbled from the baggage car. 

She had seen him all the time; he had been speaking to RuthHolabird, and helping her up the steps with her parcels. Mr. Holabird was there with the little Westover carryall that they keptnow; and Kenneth put her in, and then turned round in time to hearHelena's exclamation and to come down again. 

"Can I help you? I'm very glad you are come, " he said, cordially. 

Well; he might have said it to anybody. Again, well; it was enoughto say to anybody. Why should Desire feel cross?

He took Helena's bag; she had a budget beside; Mr. Prendiblerelieved Mrs. Ledwith; Desire held on valiantly to her own things. Kenneth walked over the bridge with them, and down the street to Mr. Prendible's door; there he bade them good-by and left them. 

It was nice to be in Z----; it was very sweet here under theblossoming elms and locusts; it was nice to see Kenneth Kincaidagain, and to think that Dorris was coming by and by, and that thelanes were green and full of ferns and vines, and that there was tobe a whole long summer; but there were so many people down there onthe platform, --there was such a muss always; Ruth Holabird was adear little thing, but there were always so many Ruths about! andthere was only one cross, stiff, odd, uncomfortable Desire!

But the very next night Kenneth came down and stayed an hour; therewas a new moon glistening through the delicate elm-tips, and theysat out on the piazza and breathed in such an air as they had nothad in their nostrils for months and months. 

The faint, tender light from the golden west in which the new moonlay, showed the roof and tower of the little church, Kenneth's firstbeautiful work; and Kenneth told them how pleasant it was up at MissArabel's, and of the tame squirrels that he fed at his window, andof the shady pasture-path that led away over the brook from thevery door, and up among pines and into little still nooks where drymossy turf and warm gray rocks were sheltered in by scraggy cedarsand lisping birches, so that they were like field-parlors opening inand out from each other with all sorts of little winding andclimbing passages, between clumps of bayberry bushes and tall ferns;and that the girls from Z---- and Westover made morning picnicsthere, since Lucilla Waters had grown intimate with Delia Waite andfound it out; and that Delia Waite and even Miss Arabel carriedtheir dressmaking down there sometimes in a big white basket, andstayed all day under the trees. They had never used to do this; theyhad stayed in the old back sitting room with all the litter round, and never thought of it till those girls had come and showed themhow. 

"I think there is the best and sweetest neighborliness and mostbeautiful living here in Z----, that I ever knew in any place, " saidKenneth Kincaid; "except that little piece of the same thing inAspen Street. "

Kenneth had found out how Rosamond Holabird recognized Aspen Streetas a piece of her world. 

Desire hated, as he spoke, her spitefulness last night; what she hadsaid to herself of "so many Ruths;" why could not she not be pleasedto come into this beautiful living and make a little part of it?

She was pleased; she would be; she found it very easy when Kennethsaid to her in that frank intimate way, --"I wish you and your motherwould come over and see what Dorris will want, and help me a littleabout that room of hers. I told Miss Waite not to bother; just tolet the old things stand, --I knew Dorris would like them, --andanything else I would get for her myself. I mean Dolly shall take along vacation this year; from June right through to September; andits 'no end of jolly, ' as those English fellows say, that you havecome too!"

Kenneth Kincaid was fresher and pleasanter and younger himself, thanDesire had ever seen him before; he seemed to have forgotten thathard way of looking at the world; he had found something soundeniably good in it. I am afraid Desire had rather liked him forhis carping, which was what he least of all deserved to be likedfor. It showed how high and pure his demands were; but his praiseand admissions were better; it is always better to discern good thanto fret at the evil. 

"I shall see you every day, " he said, when he shook hands atparting; "and Helena, if you want a squirrel to keep in your pocketnext winter, I'll begin training one for you at once. "

He had taken them right to himself, as if they belonged to him; hespoke as if he were very glad that he should see them every day. 

Desire whistled over her unpacking; she could not sing, but shecould whistle like a blackbird. When her father came up on Saturdaynight, he said that her eyes were brighter and her cheeks wererounder, for the country air; she would take to growing prettyinstead of strong-minded, if she didn't look out. 

Kenneth came round on Monday, after tea, to ask them to go over toMiss Waite's and make acquaintance. 

"For you see, " he said, "you will have to be very intimate there, and it is time to begin. It will take one call to be introduced, andanother, at least, to get up-stairs and see that beautiful breezyold room that can't be lived in in winter, but is to be a delicioussort of camping-out for Dolly, all summer. It is all windows andsquirrel-holes and doors that won't shut. Everything comes in butthe rain; but the roof is tight on that corner. Even the woodbinehas got tossed in through a broken upper pane, and I wouldn't haveit mended on any account. There are swallows' nests in the chimneys, and wrens under the gable, and humming-birds in the honeysuckle. When Dolly gets there, it will be perfect. It just wants her to takeit all right into her heart and make one piece of it. _They_ don'tknow, --the birds and the squirrels, --it takes the human. There hasto be an Adam in every garden of Eden. "

Kenneth really chattered, from pure content and delight. 

It did not take two visits to get up-stairs. Miss Arabel met themheartily. She had been a shy, timid old lady, from long neglect andhumble living; but lately she had "come out in society, " Delia said. Society had come after her, and convinced her that she could makegood times for it. 

She brought out currant wine and gave them, the first thing; andwhen Kenneth told her that they were his and Dorris's friends, andwere coming next week to see about getting ready for her, she tookthem right round through all four of the ground rooms, to the queercorner staircase, and up into the "long west chamber, " to show themwhat a rackety old place it was, and to see whether they supposed itcould be made fit. 

"Why it's like the Romance of the Forest!" said Helena, delighted. "I wish _we_ had come here. Don't you have ghosts, or robbers, orsomething, up and down those stairs, Miss Waite?" For she had spieda door that led directly out of the room, from beside the chimney, up into the rambling old garret, smelling of pine boards andpenny-royal. 

"No; nothing but squirrels and bees, and sometimes a bat, " answeredMiss Arabel. 

"Well, it doesn't want fixing. If you fix it, you will spoil it. Ishall come here and sleep with Dorris, --see if I don't. "

The floor was bare, painted a dark, marbled gray. In the middle wasa great braided rug, of blue and scarlet and black. The walls werepale gray, with a queer, stencilled scroll-and-dash border ofvermilion and black paint. 

There was an old, high bedstead, with carved frame and posts, bareof drapery; an antiquated chest of drawers; and a half-circulartable with tall, plain, narrow legs, between two of the windows. There was a corner cupboard, and a cupboard over the chimney. Thedoors of these, and the high wainscot around the room, were stainedin old-fashioned "imitation mahogany, " very streaky and red. Thewainscot was so heavily finished that the edge running around theroom might answer for a shelf. 

"Just curtains, and toilet covers, and a little low rocking chair, "said Mrs. Ledwith. "That is all you want. "

"But the windows are so high, " suggested Desire. "A low chair wouldbury her up, away from all the pleasantness. I'll tell you what Iwould have, Mr. Kincaid. A kind of dais, right across that corner, to take in two windows; with a carpet on it, and a chair, and alittle table. "

"Just the thing!" said Kenneth. "That is what I wanted you for, MissDesire, " he said in a pleased, gentle way, lowering his tone to herespecial hearing, as he stood beside her in the window. 

And Desire was very happy to have thought of it. 

Helena was spurred by emulation to suggest something. 

"I'd have a--hammock--somewhere, " she said. 

"Good, " said Kenneth. "That shall be out under the great butternut. "

The great butternut walled in one of the windows with a wildernessof green, and the squirrels ran chattering up and down the brownbranches, and peeping in all day. In the autumn, when the nuts wereripe, they would be scrambling over the roof, and in under theeaves, to hide their stores in the garret, Miss Arabel told them. 

"Why doesn't everbody have an old house, and let the squirrels in?"cried Helena, in a rapture. 

In ten days more, --the first week of June, --Dorris came. 

Well, --"That let in all the rest, " Helena said, and Desire, may be, thought. "We shan't have it to ourselves any more. "

The girls could all come down and call on Dorris Kincaid, and theydid. 

But Desire and Helena had the first of it; nobody else went right upinto her room; nobody else helped her unpack and settle. And she wasso delighted with all that they had done for her. 

The dais was large enough for two or three to sit upon at once, andit was covered with green carpet of a small, mossy pattern, and thewindow was open into the butternut on one side, and into thehoneysuckle on the other, and it was really a bower. 

"I shall live ten hours in one, " said Dorris. 

"And you'll let me come and sleep with you some night, and hear thebats, " said Helena. 

The Ledwiths made a good link; they had known the Kincaids so well;if it had been only Dorris, alone, with her brother there, theWestover girls might have been shy of coming often. Since Kennethhad been at Miss Waite's, they had already grown a little less freeof the beautiful woods that they had just found out and begun fairlyto enjoy last autumn. 

But the Ledwiths made a strong party; and they lived close by;there were plans continually. 

Since Leslie Goldthwaite and Barbara Holabird were married and gone, and the Roger Marchbankses were burned out, and had been living inthe city and travelling, the Hobarts and the Haddens and Ruth andRosamond and Pen Pennington had kept less to their immediateWestover neighborhood than ever; and had come down to Lucilla's, andto Maddy Freeman's, and the Inglesides, as often as they had inducedthem to go up to the Hill. 

Maud Marchbanks and the Hendees were civil and neighborly enough athome, but they did not care to "ramify. " So it came to pass thatthey were left a good deal to themselves. Olivia and Adelaide, whenthey came up to Westover, to their uncle's, wondered "that papacared to build again; there really wasn't anything to come for; WestHill was entirely changed. "

So it was; and a very good thing. 

I came across the other day, reading over Mr. Kingsley's "Two YearsAgo, " a true word as to social needs in England, that reminded me ofthis that the Holabirds and the Penningtons and the Inglesides havebeen doing, half unconsciously, led on from "next" to next, inZ----. 

Mr. Kingsley, after describing a Miss Heale, and others of herclass, --the middle class, with no high social opportunities, andwith time upon their hands, wasted often in false dreams of life andunsatisfied expectations, "bewildering heart and brain with novels, "for want of a nobler companionship, says this: "Till in countryvillages, the ladies who interest themselves about the poor willrecollect that the farmers' and tradesmens' daughters are just asmuch in want of their influence as the charity children and willyield a far richer return for their labor, so long will England befull of Miss Heales. "

If a kindly influence and fellowship are the duty of thearistocratic girls of England toward their "next, " below, how farmore false are American girls to the spirit of their country, andthe blessed opportunities of republican sympathies and equalities, when they try to draw invisible lines between themselves and thosewhose outer station differs by but so little, and whose hearts andminds, under the like culture with their own, crave, just as theydo, the best that human intercourse can give. Social science hassomething to do, before--or at least simultaneously with--reachingdown to the depths where all the wrongs and blunders andmismanagements of life have precipitated their foul residuum. Amaster of one of our public schools, speaking of the undue cultureof the brain and imagination, in proportion to the opportunitiesoffered socially for living out ideas thus crudely gathered, saidthat his brightest girls were the ones who in after years, impatientof the little life gave them to satisfy the capacities and demandsaroused and developed during the brief period of school life, andfed afterwards by their own ill-judged and ill-regulated reading, were found fallen into lives of vice. Have our women, old or young, who make and circumscribe the opportunities of social intercourseand enjoyment, nothing to search out here, and help, as well, or assoon as, to get their names put on committee lists, and manage thesepublic schools themselves, which educate and stimulate up to thepoint of possible fierce temptation, and then have nothing more thatthey can do?

It was a good thing for Desire Ledwith to grow intimate, as she did, with Rosamond Holabird. There were identical points of characterbetween the two. They were both so real. 

"You don't want to _play_ anything, " Barbara Holabird had said toRosamond once, in some little discussion of social appearances andpretensions. "And that's the beauty of you!"

It was the beauty of Desire Ledwith also; only, with Rosamond, herambitions had clothed themselves with a grace and delicateness thatwould have their own perfect and thorough as far as it went; andwith Desire, the same demands of true living had chafed into animpatience with shams and a blunt disregard of and resistance to allconventionalisms. 

"You are a good deal alike, you two, " Kenneth Kincaid said to themone day, in a talk they all three happened to have together. 

And he had told Rosamond afterward that there was "something grandin Desire Ledwith; only grand things almost always have to grow withstruggles. "

Rosamond had told this again to Desire. 

It was not much wonder that she began to be happier; to have ahidden comfort of feeling that perhaps the "waiting with all hermight" was nearly over, and the "by and by" was blossoming for her, though the green leaves of her own shy sternness with herself foldedclose down about the sweetening place, and she never parted themaside to see where the fragrance came from. 

 * * * * *

They were going to have a grand, large, beautiful supper party inthe woods. 

Mrs. Holabird and Mrs. Hobart were the matrons, and gave out theinvitations. 

"I don't think I could possibly spend a Tuesday afternoon with alittle 't, '" said Mrs. Lewis Marchbanks laughing, and tossing downpoor, dear, good Mrs. Hobart's note upon her table. "It is _rather_more than is to be expected!"

"Doctor and Mrs. Hautayne are here, and Dakie Thayne is home fromWest Point. It will be rather a nice party. "

"The Holabirds seem to have got everything into their own hands, "said Mrs. Marchbanks, haughtily. "It is always a pity when peopletake the lead who are not exactly qualified. Mrs. Holabird _will_not discriminate!'

"I think the Holabirds are splendid, " spoke up Lily, "and I don'tthink there's any fun in sticking up by ourselves! I can't bear tobe judicious!"

Poor little Lily Marchbanks had been told a tiresome many times thatshe must be "judicious" in her intimacies. 

"You can be _pleasant_ to everybody, " said mother and elder sister, with a salvo of Christian benignity. 

But it is so hard for little children to be pleasant with fence andlimitation. 

"Where must I stop?" Lily had asked in her simplicity. "When theygive me a piece of their luncheon, or when they walk home fromschool, or when they say they will come in a little while?"

But there came a message back from Boston by the eleven o'clocktrain on the morning of the Tuesday with a little "t, " from Mr. Marchbanks himself, to say that his brother and Mr. Geoffrey wouldcome up with him to dinner, and to desire that carriages might beready afterward for the drive over to Waite's grove. 

Mrs. Marchbanks marveled, but gave her orders. Arthur came outearly, and brought with him his friend Archie Mucklegrand, and thesetwo were bound also for the merry-making. 

Now Archie Mucklegrand was the identical youth of the lavenderpantaloons and the waxed moustache, whom Desire, as "Miss Ledwith, "had received in state a year and a half ago. 

So it was an imposing cavalcade, after all, from West Hill, thathonored the very indiscriminate pleasure party, and came riding anddriving in at about six o'clock. There were the barouche and thecoupé; for the ladies and elder gentlemen, and the two young menaccompanied them on horseback. 

Archie Mucklegrand had been at West Hill often before. He andArthur had just graduated at Harvard, and the Holabirds had hadcards to their grand spread on Class Day. Archie Mucklegrand hadfound out what a pretty girl--and a good deal more than merelypretty--Rosamond Holabird was; and although he might any day goover to his big, wild Highland estate, and take upon himself theglory of "Sir Archibald" there among the hills and moors, --andthough any one of a good many pretty girls in Spreadsplendid Parkand Republic Avenue might be induced, perhaps, if he tried, to gowith him, --all this did not hinder him from perceiving that uphere in Z---- was just the most bewitching companionship he hadever fallen in with, or might ever be able to choose for himselffor any going or abiding; that Rosamond Holabird was just thebrightest, and sweetest, and most to his mind of any girl that hehad ever seen, and most like "the woman" that a man might dreamof. I do not know that he quite said it all to himself inprecisely that way; I am pretty sure that he did not, as yet; butwhatever is off-hand and young-mannish and modern enough toexpress to one's self without "sposhiness" an admiration and apreference like that, he undoubtedly did say. At any rate afterhis Christmas at Z---- with Arthur, and some charade parties theyhad then at Westover, and after Class Day, when everybody had beenfurious to get an introduction, and all the Spreadsplendid girlsand their mothers had been wondering who that Miss Holabird wasand where she came from, and Madam Mucklegrand herself--not havingthe slightest recollection of her as the Miss Holabird of thatearly-morning business call, whose name she had just glanced atand dropped into an Indian china scrap-jar before she wentdown-stairs--had asked him the same questions, and pronounced thatshe was "an exceedingly graceful little person, certainly, "--afterall this, Archie had made up his--mind, shall I say? at least hisinclination, and his moustache--to pursue the acquaintance, and beas irresistible as he could. 

But Rosamond had learned--things do so play into our lives in abenign order--just before that Christmas time and those charades, inone of which Archie Mucklegrand had sung to her, so expressively, the "Birks of Aberfeldy, "--that Spreadsplendid Park was not, atleast his corner of it, --a "piece of her world;" and she did notbelieve that Aberfeldy would be, either, though Archie's voice wasbeautiful, and--

 "Bonnie lassie, will ye go?"

sounded very enticing--in a charade. 

So she was quite calm when the Marchbanks party came upon theground, and Archie Mucklegrand, with white trousers and a lavendertie, and the trim, waxed moustache, looking very handsome in spiteof his dapperness, found her out in the first two minutes, andattached himself to her forthwith in a most undetachable anddetermined manner, which was his way of being irresistible. 

They were in the midst of their tea and coffee when the West Hillparty came. Miss Arabel was busy at the coffee-table between the twooaks, pouring out with all her might, and creaming the fragrant cupswith a rich lavishness that seemed to speak of milky mothers withoutnumber or limit of supply; and Rosamond, as the most natural andhospitable thing to do, conducted the young gentleman as soon as shecould to that lady, and commended him to her good offices. 

These were not to be resisted; and as soon as he was occupied, Rosamond turned to attend to others coming up; and the groupsshifting, she found herself presently a little way off, andmeanwhile Mrs. Marchbanks and her son had reached the table andjoined Archie. 

"I say, Arthur! O, Mrs. Marchbanks! You never got such coffee asthis, I do believe! The open air has done something to it, or elsethe cream comes from some supernal cows! Miss Holabird!"

Rosamond turned round. 

"I don't see, --Mrs. Marchbanks ought to have some of this coffee, but where is your good woman gone?" For Miss Arabel had steppedround behind the oak-tree for a moment, to see about somereplenishing. 

In her prim, plain dress, utterly innocent of style or _bias_, andher zealous ministry, good Miss Arabel might easily be taken forsome comfortable, superior old servant; but partly from a suddensense of fun, --Mrs. Marchbanks standing there in all her elegantdignity, --and partly from a jealous chivalry of friendship, Rosamondwould not let it pass so. 

"Good woman? Hush! she is one of our hostesses, the owner of theground, and a dear friend of mine. Here she is. Miss Waite, let meintroduce Mr. Archibald Mucklegrand. Mrs. Marchbanks will like somecoffee, please. "

Which Mrs. Marchbanks took with a certain look of amazement, thatshowed itself subtilely in a slight straightening of the lips and anexpansion of the nostrils. She did not _sniff_; she was a great dealtoo much a lady; she was Mrs. Marchbanks, but if she had been Mrs. Higgin, and had felt just so, she would have sniffed. 

Somebody came up close to Rosamond on the other side. 

"That was good, " said Kenneth Kincaid. "Thank you for that, MissRosamond. "

"Will you have some more?" asked Rosamond, cunningly, pretending tomisunderstand, and reaching her hand to take his empty cup. 

"One mustn't ask for all one would like, " said Kenneth, relinquishing the cup, and looking straight in her eyes. 

Rosamond's eyes fell; she had no rejoinder ready; it was very wellthat she had the cup to take care of, and could turn away, for shefelt a very foolish color coming up in her face. 

She made herself very busy among the guests. Archie Mucklegrandstayed by, and spoke to her every time he found a chance. At last, when people had nearly done eating and drinking, he asked her if shewould not show him the path down to the river. 

"It must be beautiful down there under the slope, " he said. 

She called Dorris and Desire, then, and Oswald Megilp, who was withthem. He was spending a little time here at the Prendibles, with hisboat on the river, as he had used to do. When he could take anabsolute vacation, he was going away with a pedestrian party, amongthe mountains. There was not much in poor Oswald Megilp, but Desireand Rosamond were kind to him now that his mother was away. 

As they all walked down the bank among the close evergreens, theymet Mr. Geoffrey and Mr. Marchbanks, with Kenneth Kincaid, comingup. Kenneth came last, and the two parties passed each other singlefile, in the narrow pathway. 

Kenneth paused as he came close to Rosamond, holding back a boughfor her. 

"I have something very nice to tell you, " he whispered, "by and by. But it is a secret, as yet. Please don't stay down there very long. "

Nobody heard the whisper but Rosamond; if they could have done so, he would not have whispered. Archie Mucklegrand was walking rathersulkily along before; he had not cared for a party to be made upwhen he asked Rosamond to go down to the river with him. Desire andDorris had found some strange blossom among the underbrush, and werestopping for it; and Oswald Megilp was behind them. For a fewseconds, Kenneth had Rosamond quite to himself. 

The slight delay had increased the separation between her and ArchieMucklegrand, for he had kept steadily on in his little huff. 

"I do not think we shall be long, " said Rosamond, glancing afterhim, and looking up, with her eyes bright. She was half merry withmischief, and half glad with a quieter, deeper pleasure, atKenneth's words. 

He would tell her something in confidence; something that he wasglad of; he wanted her to know it while it was yet a secret; she hadnot the least guess what it could be; but it was very "nice"already. Rosamond always did rather like to be told things first; tohave her friends confide in and consult with her, and rely upon hersympathy; she did not stop to separate the old feeling which she wasquite aware of in herself, from something new that made itespecially beautiful that Kenneth Kincaid should so confide andrely. 

Rosamond was likely to have more told her to-night than she quitedreamed of. 

"Desire!"

They heard Mrs. Ledwith's voice far back among the trees. 

Desire answered. 

"I want you, dear!"

"Something about shawls and baskets, I suppose, " said Desire, turning round, perhaps a little the more readily that Kenneth wasbeside her now, going back also. 

Dorris and Oswald Megilp, finding there was a move to return, andbeing behind Desire in the pathway, turned also, as people will whohave no especial motive for going one way rather than another; andso it happened that after all Rosamond and Archie Mucklegrand walkedon down the bank to the river together, by themselves. 

Archie's good humor returned quickly. 

"I am glad they are gone; it was such a fuss having so many, " hesaid. 

"We shall have to go back directly; they are beginning to break up, "said Rosamond. 

And then, coming out to the opening by the water, she began to talkrather fast about the prettiness of the view, and to point out thebridge, and the mills, and the shadow of East Hill upon the water, and the curve of the opposite shore, and the dip of the shrubs andtheir arched reflections. She seemed quite determined to have allthe talk to herself. 

Archie Mucklegrand played with his stick, and twisted the end ofhis moustache. Men never ought to allow themselves to learn thattrick. It always comes back upon them when it makes them look mostfoolish. 

Archie said nothing, because there was so much he wanted to say, andhe did not know how to begin. 

He knew his mother and sister would not like it, --as long as theycould help it, certainly, --therefore he had suddenly made up hismind that there should be no such interval. He could do as hepleased; was he not Sir Archibald? And there was his Bostongrandfather's property, too, of which a large share had been leftoutright to him; and he had been twenty-one these six months. Therewas nothing to hinder; and he meant to tell Rosamond Holabird thathe liked her better than any other girl in the world. Somebody elsewould be telling her so, if he didn't; he could see how they allcame round her; perhaps it might be that tall, quiet, cheeky lookingfellow, --that Kincaid. He would be before him, at any rate. 

So he stood and twisted his moustache, and said nothing, --nothing, Imean, except mere little words of assent and echo to Rosamond'schatter about the pretty view. 

At last, --"You are fond of scenery, Miss Holabird?"

Rosamond laughed. 

"O yes, I suppose I am; but we don't call this scenery. It is justpleasantness, --beauty. I don't think I quite like the word'scenery. ' It seems artificial, --got up for outside effect. And themost beautiful things do not speak from the outside, do they? Inever travelled, Mr. Mucklegrand. I have just lived here, until Ihave lived _into_ things, or they into me. I rather think it istravelling, skimming about the world in a hurry, that makes peopletalk about 'scenery. ' Isn't it?"

"I dare say. I don't care for skimming, myself. But I like to go tonice places, and stay long enough to get into them, as you say. Imean to go to Scotland next year. I've a place there among the hillsand lochs, Miss Rosamond. "

"Yes. I have heard so. I should think you would wish to go and seeit. "

"I'll tell you what I wish, Miss Holabird!" he said suddenly, letting go his moustache, and turning round with sufficientmanfulness, and facing her. "I suppose there is a more gradual andelegant way of saying it; but I believe straightforward is as goodas any. I wish you cared for me as I care for you, and then youwould go with me. "

Rosamond was utterly confounded. She had not imagined that it couldbe hurled at her, this fashion; she thought she could parry and putaside, if she saw anything coming. She was bewildered and breathlesswith the shock of it; she could only blindly, and in very foolishwords, hurl it back. 

"O, dear, no!" she exclaimed, her face crimson. "I mean--I don't--Icouldn't! I beg your pardon, Mr. Mucklegrand; you are very good; Iam very sorry; but I wish you hadn't said so. We had better goback. "

"No, " said Archie Mucklegrand, "not yet. I've said it now. I said itlike a moon calf, but I mean it like a man. Won't you--can't you--bemy wife, Rosamond? I must know that. "

"No, Mr. Mucklegrand, " answered Rosamond, quite steadily now andgently. "I could not be. We were never meant for each other. Youwill think so yourself next year, --by the time you go to Scotland. "

"I shall never think so. "

Of course he said that; young men always do; they mean it at themoment, and nothing can persuade them otherwise. 

"I told you I had lived right here, and grown into these things, andthey into me, " said Rosamond, with a sweet slow earnestness, as ifshe thought out while she explained it; and so she did; for thethought and meaning of her life dawned upon her with a newperception, as she stood at this point and crisis of it in theresponsibility of her young womanhood. "And these, and all thethings that have influenced me, have given my life its direction;and I can see clearly that it was never meant to be your way. I donot know what it will be; but I know yours is different. It would bewrenching mine to turn it so. "

"But I would turn mine for you, " said Archie. 

"You couldn't. Lives _grow_ together. They join beforehand, if theyjoin at all. You like me, perhaps, --just what you see of me; but youdo not know me, nor I you. If it--this--were meant, we should. "

"Should what?"

"Know. Be sure. "

"I am sure of what I told you. "

"And I thank you very much; but I do not--I never could--belong toyou. "

What made Rosamond so wise about knowing and belonging?

She could not tell, herself; she had never thought it out before;but she seemed to see it very clearly now. She did not belong toArchie Mucklegrand, nor he to her; he was mistaken; their lives hadno join; to make them join would be a force, a wrenching. 

Archie Mucklegrand did not care to have it put on such deep ground. He liked Rosamond; he wanted her to like him; then they should bemarried, of coarse, and go to Scotland, and have a good time; butthis quiet philosophy cooled him somewhat. As they walked up thebank together, he wondered at himself a little that he did not feelworse about it. If she had been coquettish, or perverse, she mighthave been all the more bewitching to him. If he had thought sheliked somebody else better, he might have been furiously jealous;but "her way of liking a fellow would be a slow kind of a way, afterall. " That was the gist of his thought about it; and I believe thatto many very young men, at the age of waxed moustaches and Germandancing, that "slow kind of a way" in a girl is the best possibleinsurance against any lasting damage that their own enthusiasm mightsuffer. 

He had not been contemptible in the offering of his love; his besthad come out at that moment; if it does not come out then, somehow, --through face and tone, in some plain earnestness or simplenobleness, if not in fashion of the spoken word as very well it maynot, --it must be small best that the man has in him. 

Rosamond's simple saying of the truth, as it looked to her in thatmoment of sure insight, was the best help she could have given him. Truth is always the best help. He did not exactly understand thewherefore, as she understood it; but the truth touched himnevertheless, in the way that he could perceive. They did not"belong" to each other. 

And riding down in the late train that evening, Archie Mucklegrandsaid to himself, drawing a long breath, --"It would have been anawful tough little joke, after all, telling it to the old lady!"

"Are you too tired to walk home?" Kenneth Kincaid asked of Rosamond, helping her put the baskets in the carriage. 

Dakie Thayne had asked Ruth the same question five minutes before, and they two had gone on already. Are girls ever too tired to walkhome after a picnic, when the best of the picnic is going to walkhome with them? Of course Rosamond was not too tired; and Mrs. Holabird had the carryall quite to herself and her baskets. 

They took the River Road, that was shady all the way, and sweet nowwith the dropping scents of evening; it was a little longer, too, Ithink, though that is one of the local questions that have never yetbeen fully decided. 

"How far does Miss Waite's ground run along the river?" askedKenneth, taking Rosamond's shawl over his arm. 

"Not far; it only just touches; it runs back and broadens toward theOld Turnpike. The best of it is in those woods and pastures. "

"So I thought. And the pastures are pretty much run out. "

"I suppose so. They are full of that lovely gray crackling moss. "

"Lovely for picnics. Don't you think Miss Waite would like to sell?"

"Yes, indeed, if she could. That is her dream; what she has beenlaying up for her old age: to turn the acres into dollars, and buildor buy a little cottage, and settle down safe. It is all she has inthe world, except her dressmaking. "

"Mr. Geoffrey and Mr. Marchbanks want to buy. They will offer hersixteen thousand dollars. That is the secret, --part of it. "

"O, Mr. Kincaid! How glad, --how _sorry_, I can't help being, too!Miss Waite to be so comfortable! And never to have her dear oldwoods to picnic in any more! I suppose they want to make streetsand build it all up. "

"Not all. I'll tell you. It is a beautiful plan. Mr. Geoffrey wantsto build a street of twenty houses, --ten on a side, --with just alittle garden plot for each, and leave the woods behind for a pieceof nature for the general good, --a real Union Park; a place forchildren to play in, and grown folks to rest and walk and take teain, if they choose; but for nobody to change or meddle with anyfurther. And these twenty houses to be let to respectable persons ofsmall means, at rents that will give him seven per cent, for hiswhole outlay. Don't you see? Young people, and people like MissWaite herself, who don't want _much_ house-room, but who want itnice and comfortable, and will keep it so, and who _do_ want alittle of God's world-room to grow in, that they can't get in thecrowded town streets, where the land is selling by the foot to beall built over with human packing-cases, and where they have to payas much for being shut up and smothered, as they will out here tolive and breathe. That Mr. Geoffrey is a glorious man, Rosamond! Heis doing just this same thing in the edges of three or four othertowns, buying up the land just before it gets too dear, to save forpeople who could not save it for themselves. He is providing for aclass that nobody seems to have thought of, --the nice, narrow-pursedpeople, and the young beginners, who get married and take the worldin the old-fashioned way. "

He had no idea he had called her "Rosamond, " till he saw the colorshining up so in her face verifying the name. Then it flashed outupon him as he sent his thought back through the last few sentencesthat he had spoken. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, suddenly. "But I was so full of thisbeautiful doing, --and I always think of you so! Is there a sin inthat?"

Rosamond colored deeper yet, and Kenneth grew more bold. He hadspoken it without plan; it had come of itself. 

"I can't help it now. I shall say it again, unless you tell me not!Rosamond! I shall have these houses to build. I am getting ever somuch to do. Could you begin the world with me, Rosamond?"

Rosamond did not say a word for a full minute. She only walkedslowly by his side, her beautiful head inclined gently, shyly; hersweet face all one bloom, as faces never bloom but once. 

Then she turned toward him and put out her hand. 

"I will begin the world with you, " she said. 

And their world--that was begun for them before they wereborn--lifted up its veil and showed itself to them, bright in theeternal morning. 

 * * * * *

Desire Ledwith walked home all alone. She left Dorris at MissWaite's, and Helena had teased to stay with her. Mrs. Ledwith hadgone home among the first, taking a seat offered her in Mrs. TomFriske's carriage to East Square; she had a headache, and was tired. 

Desire felt the old, miserable questions coming up, tempting her. 

Why?

Why was she left out, --forgotten? Why was there nothing, very much, in any of this, for her?

Yet underneath the doubting and accusing, something lived--stayedby--to rebuke it; rose up above it finally, and put it down, thoughwith a thrust that hurt the heart in which the doubt was trampled. 

Wait. Wait--with all your might!

Desire could do nothing very meekly; but she could even _wait_ withall her might. She put her foot down with a will, at every step. 

"I was put here to be Desire Ledwith, " she said, relentlessly, toherself; "not Rosamond Holabird, nor even Dolly. Well, I suppose Ican stay put, and _be_! If things would only _let_ me be!"

But they will not. Things never do, Desire. 

They are coming, now, upon you. Hard things, --and all at once. 

XVIII. 

ALL AT ONCE. 

There was a Monday morning train going down from Z----. 

Mr. Ledwith and Kenneth Kincaid were in it, reading the morningpapers, seated side by side. 

It was nearly a week since the picnic, but the engagement ofRosamond and Kenneth had not transpired. Mr. Holabird had been awayin New York. Of course nothing was said beyond Mrs. Holabird andRuth and Dolly Kincaid, until his return. But Kenneth carried ahappy face about with him, in the streets and in the cars and abouthis work; and his speech was quick and bright with the men he metand had need to speak to. It almost told itself; people might haveguessed it, if they had happened, at least to see the _two_ faces inthe same day, and if they were alive to sympathetic impressions ofother people's pain or joy. There are not many who stop to pieceexpressions, from pure sympathy, however; they are, for the mostpart, too busy putting this and that together for themselves. 

Desire would have guessed it in a minute; but she saw little ofeither in this week. Mrs. Ledwith was not well, and there was adress to be made for Helena. 

Kenneth Kincaid's elder men friends said of him, when they saw himin these days, "That's a fine fellow; he is doing very well. " Theycould read that; he carried it in his eye and in his tone and in hisstep, and it was true. 

It was a hot morning; it would be a stifling day in the city. Theysat quiet while they could, in the cars, taking the fresh air of thefields and the sea reaches, reading the French news, and sayinglittle. 

They came almost in to the city terminus, when the train stopped. Not at a station. There were people to alight at the last but one;these grew impatient after a few minutes, and got out and walked. 

The train still waited. 

Mr. Ledwith finished a column he was reading, and then looked up, asthe conductor came along the passage. 

"What is the delay?" he asked of him. 

"Freight. Got such a lot of it. Takes a good while to handle. "

Freight outward bound. A train making up. 

Mr. Ledwith turned to his newspaper again. 

Ten minutes went by. Kenneth Kincaid got up and went out, like manyothers. They might be kept there half an hour. 

Mr. Ledwith had read all his paper, and began to grow impatient. Heput his head out at the window, and looked and listened. Half thepassengers were outside. Brake-men were walking up and down. 

"Has he got a flag out there?" says the conductor to one of these. 

"Don't know. Can't see. Yes, he has; I heard him whistle brakes. "

Just then, their own bell sounded, and men jumped on board. KennethKincaid came back to his seat. 

Behind, there was a long New York train coming in. 

Mr. Ledwith put his head out again, and looked back. All right;there had been a flag; the train had slackened just beyond a curve. 

But why will people do such things? What is the use of asking? Mr. Ledwith still looked out; he could not have told you why. 

A quicker motion; a darkening of the window; a freight car standingupon a siding, close to the switch, as they passed by; a sudden, dull blow, half unheard in the rumble of the train. Women, sittingbehind, sprang up, --screamed; one dropped, fainting: they had seen aghastly sight; warm drops of blood flew in upon them; the car was incommotion. 

Kenneth Kincaid, with an exclamation of horror, clutched hold of alifeless body that fell--was thrust--backward beside him; the poorhead fractured, shattered, against the fatal window frame. 

 * * * * *

The eleven o'clock train came out. 

People came up the street, --a group of gentlemen, three orfour, --toward Mr. Prendible's house. 

Desire sat in a back window behind the blinds, busy. Mrs. Ledwithwas lying on the bed. 

Steps came in at the house door. 

There was an exclamation; a hush. Mr. Prendible's voice, KennethKincaid's, Mr. Dimsey's, the minister's. 

"O! How? "--Mrs. Prendible's voice, now. 

"Take care!"

"Where are they?"

Mrs. Ledwith heard. 

"What is the matter?"--springing up, with a sudden instinct ofprecognition. 

Desire had not seen or heard till now. She dropped her work. 

"What is it, mother?"

Mrs. Ledwith was up, upon the floor; in the doorway out in thepassage; trembling; seized all over with a horrible dread and vagueknowledge. 

"_Tell_ me what it is!" she cried, to those down below. 

They were all there upon the staircase; Mrs. Prendible furthest up. 

"O, Mrs. Ledwith!" she cried. "_Don't_ be frightened! _Don't_ takeon! Take it easy, --do!"

Desire rushed down among them; past Mrs. Prendible, past theminister, straight to Kenneth Kincaid. 

Kenneth took her right in his arms, and carried her into a littleroom below. 

"There could have been no pain, " he said, tenderly. "It was theaccident of a moment. Be strong, --be patient, dear!"

There had been tender words natural to his lips lately. It was notstrange that in his great pity he used them now. 

"My father!" gasped Desire. 

"Yes; your father. It was our Father's will. "

"Help me to go to my mother!"

She took his hand, half blind, almost reeling. 

And then they all, somehow, found themselves up-stairs. 

There were moans of pain; there were words of prayer. We have noright there. It is all told. 

 * * * * *

"Be strong, --be patient, dear!"

It came back, in the midst of the darkness, the misery; it helpedher through those days; it made her strong for her mother. Itcomforted her, she hardly knew how much; but O, how cruel it seemedafterward!

They went directly down to Boston. Mr. Ledwith was buried from theirown house. It was all over; and now, what should they do? UncleTitus came to see them. Mrs. Ripwinkley came right back fromHomesworth. Dorris Kincaid left her summer-time all behind, andcame to stay with them a week in Shubarton Place. Mrs. Ledwithcraved companionship; her elder daughters were away; there werethese five weeks to go by until she could hear from them. She wouldnot read their letters that came now, full of chat and travel. 

Poor Laura! her family scattered; her dependence gone; her life allbroken down in a moment!

Dorris Kincaid did not speak of Kenneth and Rosamond. How could shebring news of others' gladness into that dim and sorrowful house?

Luclarion Grapp shut up her rooms, left her plants and her birdswith Mrs. Gallilee, and came up to Shubarton Place in the beginning. There were no servants there; everything was adrift; the terribleblows of life take people between the harness, most unprovided, unawares. 

It was only for a little while, until they could hear from thegirls, and make plans. Grant Ledwith's income died with him; therewas ten thousand dollars, life insurance; that would give them alittle more than a sixth part of what his salary had been; and therewere the two thousand a year of Uncle Titus; and the house, on whichthere was a twelve thousand dollar mortgage. 

Mrs. Ledwith had spent her life in cutting and turning and planning;after the first shock was over, even her grief was counterpoised andabated, by the absorption of her thoughts into the old channels. What they should do, how they should live, what they could have; howit should be contrived and arranged. Her mind busied itself with allthis, and her trouble was veiled, --softened. She had a dozendifferent visions and schemes, projected into their details ofresidence, establishment, dress, ordering, --before the letterscame, bringing back the first terribleness in the first reception ofand response to it, of her elder children. 

It was so awful to have them away, --on the other side of the world!If they were only once all together again! Families ought not toseparate. But then, it had been for their good; how could she haveimagined? She supposed she should have done the same again, underthe same circumstances. 

And then came Mrs. Megilp's letter, delayed a mail, as she wouldhave delayed entering the room, if they had been rejoined in theirgrief, until the family had first been gathered together with theirtears and their embraces. 

Then she wrote, --as she would have come in; and her letter, asher visit would have been, was after a few words of tendercondolence, --and they were very sweet and tender, for Mrs. Megilpknew how to lay phrases like illuminating gold-leaf upon hermeaning, --eminently practical and friendly, full of judicious, notto say mitigating, suggestions. 

It was well, she thought, that Agatha and Florence were with her. They had been spared so much; and perhaps if all this had happenedfirst, they might never have come. As to their return, she thoughtit would be a pity; "it could not make it really any better foryou, " she said; "and while your plans are unsettled, the fewer youare, the more easily you will manage. It seems hard to shadow theiryoung lives more than is inevitable; and new scenes and interestsare the very best things for them; their year of mourning would befairly blotted out at home, you know. For yourself, poor friend, ofcourse you cannot care; and Desire and Helena are not much comeforward, but it would be a dead blank and stop to them, so muchlost, right out; and I feel as if it were a kind Providence for thedear girls that they should be just where they are. We are livingquietly, inexpensively; it will cost no more to come home at onetime than at another;" etc. 

There are persons to whom the pastime of life is the whole businessof it; sickness and death and misfortune, --to say nothing of caresand duties--are the interruptions, to be got rid of as they may. 

The next week came more letters; they had got a new idea out there. Why should not Mrs. Ledwith and the others come and join them? Theywere in Munich, now; the schools were splendid; would be just thething for Helena; and "it was time for mamma to have a rest. "

This thought, among the dozen others, had had its turn in Mrs. Ledwith's head. To break away, and leave everything, that is theimpulse of natures like hers when things go hard and they cannotshape them. Only to get off; if she could do that!

Meanwhile, it was far different with Desire. 

She was suffering with a deeper pain; not with a sharper loss, forshe had seen so little of her father; but she looked in and back, and thought of what she _ought_ to miss, and what had never been. 

She ought to have known her father better; his life ought to havebeen more to her; was it her fault, or, harder yet, had it been his?This is the sorest thrust of grief; when it is only shock, and pity, and horror, and after these go by, not grief enough!

The child wrestled with herself, as she always did, questioning, arraigning. If she could make it all right, in the past, and now; ifshe could feel that all she had to do was to be tenderly sorry, andto love on through the darkness, she would not mind the dark; itwould be only a phase of the life, --the love. But to have lived herlife so far, to have had the relations of it, and yet _not_ to havelived it, not to have been real child, real sister, not to be realstricken daughter now, tasting the suffering just as God made it tobe tasted, --was she going through all things, even this, in a vainshadow? _Would_ not life touch her?

She went away back, strangely, and asked whether she had had anybusiness to be born? Whether it were a piece of God's truth at all, that she and all of them should be, and call themselves ahousehold, --a home? The depth, the beauty of it were so unfulfilled!What was wrong, and how far back? Living in the midst ofsuperficialities; in the noontide of a day of shams; putting herhands forth and grasping, almost everywhere, nothing but thin, hardsurface, --she wondered how much of the world was real; how many cameinto the world where, and as, God meant them to come. What it was to"climb up some other way into the sheepfold, " and to be a thief anda robber, even of life!

These were strange thoughts. Desire Ledwith was a strange girl. 

But into the midst there crept one comfort; there was one glimpseout of the darkness into the daylight. 

Kenneth Kincaid came in often to see them, --to inquire; just now hehad frequent business in the city; he brought ferns and flowers, that Dorris gathered and filled into baskets, fresh and damp withmoss. 

Dorris was a dear friend; she dwelt in the life and the brightness;she reached forth and gathered, and turned and ministered again. Theferns and flowers were messages; leaves out of God's living Word, that she read, found precious, and sent on; apparitions, theyseemed standing forth to sense, and making sweet, true signs fromthe inner realm of everlasting love and glory. 

And Kenneth, --Desire had never lost out of her heart thosewords, --"Be strong, --be patient, dear!"

He did not speak to her of himself; he could not demandcongratulation from her grief; he let it be until she should somehowlearn, and of her own accord, speak to him. 

So everybody let her alone, poor child, to her hurt. 

The news of the engagement was no Boston news; it was something thathad occurred, quietly enough, among a few people away up in Z----. Of the persons who came in, --the few remaining in town, --nobodyhappened to know or care. The Ripwinkleys did, of course; but Mrs. Ripwinkley remembered last winter, and things she had read inDesire's unconscious, undisguising face, and aware of nothing thatcould be deepening the mischief now, thinking only of the sufficientburden the poor child had to bear, thought kindly, "better not. "

Meanwhile Mrs. Ledwith was dwelling more and more upon the Europeanplan. She made up her mind, at last, to ask Uncle Titus. When allwas well, she would not seem to break a compact by going awayaltogether, so soon, to leave him; but now, --he would see thedifference; perhaps advise it. She would like to know what he wouldadvise. After all that had happened, --everything so changed, --halfher family abroad, --what could she do? Would it not be more prudentto join them, than to set up a home again without them, and keepthem out there? And all Helena's education to provide for, andeverything so cheap and easy there, and so dear and difficult here?

"Now, tell me, truly, uncle, should you object? Should you take itat all hard? I never meant to have left you, after all you havedone; but you see I have to break up, now poor Grant is gone; wecannot live as we did before, even with what you do; and--for alittle while--it is cheaper there; and by and by we can come backand make some other plan. Besides, I feel sometimes as if I _must_go off; as if there weren't anything left here for me. "

Poor woman! poor _girl_, still, --whose life had never truly takenroot!

"I suppose, " said Uncle Titus, soberly, "that God shines all round. He's on this side as much as He is on that. "

Mrs. Ledwith looked up out of her handkerchief, with which at thatmoment she had covered her eyes. 

"I never knew Uncle Titus was pious!" she said to herself. And herastonishment dried her tears. 

He said nothing more that was pious, however; he simply assured her, then and in conversations afterward, that he should take nothing"hard;" he never expected to bind her, or put her on parole; hechose to come to know his relatives, and he had done so; he had alsodone what seemed to him right, in return for their meeting him halfway; they were welcome to it all, to take it and use it as they bestcould, and as circumstances and their own judgment dictated. If theywent abroad, he should advise them to do it before the winter. 

These words implied consent, approval. Mrs. Ledwith went up-stairsafter them with a heart so much lightened that she was very nearlycheerful. There would be a good deal to do now, and something tolook forward to; the old pulses of activity were quickened. Shecould live with those faculties that had been always vital in her, as people breathe with one live lung; but trouble and change hadwrought in her no deeper or further capacity; had wakened nothingthat had never been awake before. 

The house and furniture were to be sold; they would sail inSeptember. 

When Desire perceived that it was settled, she gave way; she hadsaid little before; her mother had had many plans, and they amusedher; she would not worry her with opposition; and besides, she washerself in a secret dream of a hope half understood. 

It happened that she told it to Kenneth Kincaid herself; she sawalmost every one who came, instead of her mother; Mrs. Ledwith livedin her own room chiefly. This was the way in which it had comeabout, that nobody noticed or guessed how it was with Desire, andwhat aspect Kenneth's friendship and kindness, in the simple historyof those few weeks, might dangerously grow to bear with her. 

Except one person. Luclarion Grapp, at last, made up her mind. 

Kenneth heard what Desire told him, as he heard all she ever had totell, with a gentle interest; comforted her when she said she couldnot bear to go, with the suggestion that it might not be for verylong; and when she looked up in his face with a kind of strange, pained wonder, and repeated, --

"But I cannot _bear_, --I tell you, I cannot _bear_ to go!" heanswered, --

"One can bear all that is right; and out of it the good will comethat we do not know. All times go by. I am sorry--very sorry--thatyou must go; but there will be the coming back. We must all wait forthat. "

She did not know what she looked for; she did not know what sheexpected him to mean; she expected nothing; the thought of hispreventing it in any way never entered into her head; she knew, ifshe _had_ thought, how he himself was waiting, working. She onlywanted him to _care_. Was this caring? Much? She could not tell. 

"We never can come _back_, " she said, impetuously. "There will beall the time--everything--between. "

He almost spoke to her of it, then; he almost told her that theeverything might be more, not less; that friendships gathered, multiplied; that there would be one home, he hoped, in which, by andby, she would often be; in which she would always be a dear andwelcome comer. 

But she was so sad, so tried; his lips were held; in his pure, honest kindness, he never dreamt of any harm that his silence mightdo; it only seemed so selfish to tell her how bright it was withhim. 

So he said, smiling, --

"And who knows what the 'everything' may be?" And he took both herhands in his as he said good-by, --for his little stops were ofminutes on his way, always, --and held them fast, and looked warmly, hopefully into her face. 

It was all for her, --to give her hope and courage; but the light ofit was partly kindled by his own hope and gladness that lay behind;and how could she know that, or read it right? It was at once toomuch, and not enough, for her. 

Five minutes after, Luclarion Grapp went by the parlor door with apile of freshly ironed linen in her arms, on her way up-stairs. 

Desire lay upon the sofa, her face down upon the pillow; her armswere thrown up, and her hands clasped upon the sofa-arm; her frameshook with sobs. 

Luclarion paused for the time of half a step; then she went on. Shesaid to herself in a whisper, as she went, --

"It is a stump; a proper hard one! But there's nobody else; and Ihave got to tell her!"

 * * * * *

That evening, under some pretense of clean towels, Luclarion came upinto Desire's room. 

She was sitting alone, by the window, in the dark. 

Luclarion fussed round a little; wiped the marble slab and thebasin; set things straight; came over and asked Desire if she shouldnot put up the window-bars, and light the gas. 

"No, " said Desire. "I like this best. "

So did Luclarion. She had only said it to make time. 

"Desire, " she said, --she never put the "Miss" on, she had been toofamiliar all her life with those she was familiar with at all, --"thefact is I've got something to say, and I came up to say it. "

She drew near--came close, --and laid her great, honest, faithfulhand on the back of Desire Ledwith's chair, put the other behind herown waist, and leaned over her. 

"You see, I'm a woman, Desire, and I know. You needn't mind me, I'man old maid; that's the way I do know. Married folks, even mothers, half the time forget. But old maids never forget. I've had mystumps, and I can see that you've got yourn. But you'd ought tounderstand; and there's nobody, from one mistake and another, that'sgoing to tell you. It's awful hard; it will be a trouble to you atfirst, "--and Luclarion's strong voice trembled tenderly with thesympathy that her old maid heart had in it, after, and because of, all those years, --"but Kenneth Kincaid"--

"_What_!" cried Desire, starting to her feet, with a suddenindignation. 

"Is going to be married to Rosamond Holabird, " said Luclarion, verygently. "There! you ought to know, and I have told you. "

"What makes you suppose that that would be a trouble to me?" blazedDesire. "How do you dare"--

"I didn't dare; but I had to!" sobbed Luclarion, putting her armsright round her. 

And then Desire--as she would have done at any rate, for that blazewas the mere flash of her own shame and pain--broke down with amoan. 

"All at once! All at once!" she said piteously, and hid her face inLuclarion's bosom. 

And Luclarion folded her close; hugged her, the good woman, in herlove that was sisterly and motherly and all, because it was the loveof an old maid, who had endured, for a young maid upon whom theendurance was just laid, --and said, with the pity of heaven in thewords, --

"Yes. All at once. But the dear Lord stands by. Take hold of Hishand, --and bear with all your might!"

XIX. 

INSIDE. 

"Do you think, Luclarion, " said Desire, feebly, as Luclarion came totake away her bowl of chicken broth, --"that it is my _duty_ to gowith mamma?"

"I don't know, " said Luclarion, standing with the little waiter inher right hand, her elbow poised upon her hip, --"I've thought ofthat, and I _don't_ know. There's most generally a stump, you see, one way or another, and that settles it, but here there's one bothways. I've kinder lost my road: come to two blazes, and can't tellwhich. Only, it ain't my road, after all. It lays between the Lordand you, and I suppose He means it shall. Don't you worry; there'llbe some sort of a sign, inside or out. That's His business, you'vejust got to keep still, and get well. "

Desire had asked her mother, before this, if she would care verymuch, --no, she did not mean that, --if she would be disappointed, ordisapprove, that she should stay behind. 

"Stay behind? Not go to Europe? Why, where _could_ you stay? Whatwould you do?"

"There would be things to do, and places to stay, " Desire hadanswered, constrainedly. "I could do like Dorris. "

"Teach music!"

"No. I don't know music. But I might teach something I do know. Or Icould--rip, " she said, with an odd smile, remembering something shehad said one day so long ago; the day the news came up to Z----from Uncle Oldways. "And I might make out to put together for otherpeople, and for a real business. I never cared to do it just formyself. "

"It is perfectly absurd, " said Mrs Ledwith. "You couldn't be left totake care of yourself. And if you could, how it would look! No; ofcourse you must go with us. "

"But do you _care_?"

"Why, if there were any proper way, and if you really hate so togo, --but there isn't, " said Mrs. Ledwith, not very grammatically orconnectedly. 

"She _doesn't_ care, " said Desire to herself, after her mother hadleft her, turning her face to the pillow, upon which two tears ranslowly down. "And that is my fault, too, I suppose. I have neverbeen _anything_!"

Lying there, she made up her mind to one thing. She would get UncleTitus to come, and she would talk to him. 

"He won't encourage me in any notions, " she said to herself. "And Imean now, if I can find it out, to do the thing God means; and thenI suppose, --I _believe_, --the snarl will begin to unwind. "

Meanwhile, Luclarion, when she had set a nice little bowl oftea-muffins to rise, and had brought up a fresh pitcher of ice-waterinto Desire's room, put on her bonnet and went over to Aspen Streetfor an hour. 

Down in the kitchen, at Mrs. Ripwinkley's, they were having a nicetime. 

Their girl had gone. Since Luclarion left, they had fallen into thatGulf-stream which nowadays runs through everybody's kitchen. Girlscame, and saw, and conquered in their fashion; they muddled up, andwent away. 

The nice times were in the intervals when they _had_ gone away. 

Mrs. Ripwinkley did not complain; it was only her end of the"stump;" why should she expect to have a Luclarion Grapp to serveher all her life?

This last girl had gone as soon as she found out that Sulie Prailewas "no relation, and didn't anyways belong there, but had been tookin. " She "didn't go for to come to work in an _Insecution_. She hadalways been used to first-class private families. "

Girls will not stand any added numbers, voluntarily assumed, or eveninvoluntarily befalling; they will assist in taking up no newresponsibilities; to allow things to remain as they are, and cannothelp being, is the depth of their condescension, --the extent of whatthey will put up with. There must be a family of some sort, ofcourse, or there would not be a "place;" that is what the family ismade for; but it must be established, no more to fluctuate; that is, you may go away, some of you, if you like, or you may die; butnobody must come home that has been away, and nobody must be born. As to anybody being "took in!" Why, the girl defined it; it was notbeing a family, but an _Insecution_. 

So the three--Diana, and Hazel, and Sulie--were down in the kitchen;Mrs. Ripwinkley was busy in the dining-room close by; there was aberry-cake to be mixed up for an early tea. Diana was picking overthe berries, Hazel was chopping the butter into the flour, and Sulieon a low cushioned seat in a corner--there was one kept ready forher in every room in the house, and Hazel and Diana carried herabout in an "arm-chair, " made of their own clasped hands and wrists, wherever they all wanted to go, --Sulie was beating eggs. 

Sulie did that so patiently; you see she had no temptation to jumpup and run off to anything else. The eggs turned, under herfingers, into thick, creamy, golden froth, fine to the last possibledivisibility of the little air-bubbles. 

They could not do without Sulie now. They had had her for "allwinter;" but in that winter she had grown into their home. 

"Why, " said Hazel to her mother, when they had the few words aboutit that ended in there being no more words at all, --"that's the waychildren are _born_ into houses, isn't it? They just come; andthey're new and strange at first, and seem so queer. And then aftera while you can't think how the places were, and they not in them. Sulie belongs, mother!"

So Sulie beat eggs, and darned stockings, and painted her lovelylittle flower-panels and racks and easels, and did everything thatcould be done, sitting still in her round chair, or in the cushionedcorners made for her; and was always in the kitchen, above all, whenany pretty little cookery was going forward. 

Vash ran in and out from the garden, and brought balsamine blossoms, from which she pulled the little fairy slippers, and tried to matchthem in pairs; and she picked off the "used-up and puckered-up"morning glories, which she blew into at the tube-end, and "snapped"on the back of her little brown hand. 

Wasn't that being good for anything, while berry-cake was making?The girls thought it was; as much as the balsamine blossoms weregood for anything, or the brown butterflies with golden spots ontheir wings, that came and lived among them. The brown butterflieswere a "piece of the garden;" little brown Vash was a piece of thehouse. Besides, she would eat some of the berry-cake when it wasmade; wasn't that worth while? She would have a "little teenty one"baked all for herself in a tin pepper-pot cover. Isn't that thespecial pleasantness of making cakes where little children are?

Vash was always ready for an "Aaron, " too; they could not do withouther, any more than without Sulie. Pretty soon, when Diana shouldhave left school, and Vash should be a little bigger, they meant to"coöperate, " as the Holabirds had done at Westover. 

Of course, they knew a great deal about the Holabirds by this time. Hazel had stayed a week with Dorris at Miss Waite's; and one ofWitch Hazel's weeks among "real folks" was like the days or hours infairy land, that were years on the other side. She found out so muchand grew so close to people. 

Hazel and Ruth Holabird were warm friends. And Hazel was to beRuth's bridesmaid, by and by!

For Ruth Holabird was going to be married to Dakie Thayne. 

"That seemed so funny, " Hazel said. "Ruth didn't _look_ any olderthan she did; and Mr. Dakie Thayne was such a nice boy!"

He was no less a man, either; he had graduated among the first threeat West Point; he was looking earnestly for the next thing that heshould do in life with his powers and responsibilities; he did notcount his marrying a _separate_ thing; that had grown up alongsideand with the rest; of course he could do nothing without Ruth; thatwas just what he had told her; and she, --well Ruth was always asensible little thing, and it was just as plain to her as it was tohim. Of course she must help him think and plan; and when the planswere made, it would take two to carry them out; why, yes, they mustbe married. What other way would there be?

That wasn't what she _said_, but that was the quietly natural andhappy way in which it grew to be a recognized thing in her mind, that pleasant summer after he came straight home to them with hishonors and his lieutenant's commission in the Engineers; and hishearty, affectionate taking-for-granted; and it was no surprise orquestion with her, only a sure and very beautiful "rightness, " whenit came openly about. 

Dakie Thayne was a man; the beginning of a very noble one; but it isthe noblest men that always keep a something of the boy. If you hadnot seen anything more of Dakie Thayne until he should be fortyyears old, you would then see something in him which would beprecisely the same that it was at Outledge, seven years ago, withLeslie Goldthwaite, and among the Holabirds at Westover, in hisfirst furlough from West Point. 

Luclarion came into the Ripwinkley kitchen just as the cakes--thelittle pepper-pot one and all--were going triumphantly into theoven, and Hazel was baring her little round arms to wash the dishes, while Diana tended the pans. 

Mrs. Ripwinkley heard her old friend's voice, and came out. 

"That girl ought to be here with you; or somewheres else than whereshe is, or is likely to be took, " said Luclarion, as she lookedround and sat down, and untied her bonnet-strings. 

Miss Grapp hated bonnet-strings; she never endured them a minutelonger than she could help. 

"Desire?" asked Mrs. Ripwinkley, easily comprehending. 

"Yes; Desire. I tell you she has a hard row to hoe, and she wantscomforting. She wants to know if it is her duty to go to Yourup withher mother. Now it may be her duty to be _willing_ to go; but itain't anybody's else duty to let her. That's what came to me as Iwas coming along. I couldn't tell _her_ so, you see, because itwould interfere with her part; and that's all in the tune as much asany; only we've got to chime in with our parts at the right stroke, the Lord being Leader. Ain't that about it, Mrs. Ripwinkley?"

"If we are sure of the score, and can catch the sign, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley, thoughtfully. 

"Well, I've sung mine; it's only one note; I may have to keephammering on it; that's according to how many repeats there are tobe. Mr. Oldways, he ought to know, for one. Amongst us, we have gotto lay our heads together, and work it out. She's a kind of an oddchicken in that brood; and my belief is she's like the ugly duckHazel used to read about. But she ought to have a chance; if she's aswan, she oughtn't to be trapesed off among the weeds and on the dryground. 'Tisn't even ducks she's hatched with; they don't take tothe same element. "

"I'll speak to Uncle Titus, and I will think, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. 

But before she did that, that same afternoon by the six o'clockpenny post, a little note went to Mr. Oldways:--

 "DEAR UNCLE TITUS, --

 "I want to talk with you a little. If I were well, I should come to see you in your study. Will you come up here, and see me in my room?

 "Yours sincerely, DESIRE LEDWITH. "

Uncle Titus liked that. It counted upon something in him which fewhad the faith to count upon; which, truly he gave few people reasonto expect to find. 

He put his hat directly on, took up his thick brown stick, andtrudged off, up Borden Street to Shubarton Place. 

When Luclarion let him in, he told her with some careful emphasis, that he had come to see Desire. 

"Ask her if I shall come up, " he said. "I'll wait down here. "

Helena was practicing in the drawing-room. Mrs. Ledwith lay, halfasleep, upon a sofa. The doors into the hall were shut, --Luclarionhad looked to that, lest the playing should disturb Desire. 

Luclarion was only gone three minutes. Then she came back, and ledMr. Oldways up three flights of stairs. 

"It's a long climb, clear from the door, " she said. 

"I can climb, " said Mr. Oldways, curtly. 

"I didn't expect it was going to stump _you_, " said Luclarion, justas short in her turn. "But I thought I'd be polite enough to mentionit. "

There came a queer little chuckling wheeze from somewhere, like awhispered imitation of the first few short pants of a steam-engine:that was Uncle Titus, laughing to himself. 

Luclarion looked down behind her, out of the corner of her eyes, asshe turned the landing. Uncle Titus's head was dropped between hisshoulders, and his shoulders were shaking up and down. But he kepthis big stick clutched by the middle, in one hand, and the otherjust touched the rail as he went up. Uncle Titus was not out ofbreath. Not he. He could laugh and climb. 

Desire was sitting up for a little while, before going to bed againfor the night. There was a low gas-light burning by thedressing-table, ready to turn up when the twilight should be gone;and a street lamp, just lighted, shone across into the room. Luclarion had been sitting with her, and her gray knitting-work layupon the chair that she offered when she had picked it up, to Mr. Oldways. Then she went away and left them to their talk. 

"Mrs. Ripwinkley has been spry about it, " she said to herself, goingsoftly down the stairs. "But she always was spry. "

"You're getting well, I hope, " said Uncle Titus, seating himself, after he had given Desire his hand. 

"I suppose so, " said Desire, quietly. "That was why I wanted to seeyou. I want to know what I ought to do when I am well. "

"How can I tell?" asked Uncle Titus, bluntly. 

"Better than anybody I can ask. The rest are all too sympathizing. Iam afraid they would tell me as I wish they should. "

"And I don't sympathize? Well, I don't think I do much. I haven'tbeen used to it. "

"You have been used to think what was right; and I believe you wouldtell me truly. I want to know whether I ought to go to Europe withmy mother. "

"Why not? Doesn't she want you to go?"--and Uncle Titus was sharpthis time. 

"I suppose so; that is, I suppose she expects I will. But I don'tknow that I should be much except a hindrance to her. And I think Icould stay and do something here, in some way. Uncle Titus, I hatethe thought of going to Europe! Now, don't you suppose I ought togo?"

"_Why_ do you hate the thought of going to Europe?" asked UncleTitus, regarding her with keenness. 

"Because I have never done anything real in all my life!" brokeforth Desire. "And this seems only plastering and patching whatcan't be patched. I want to take hold of something. I don't want tofloat round any more. What is there left of all we have ever triedto do, all these years? Of all my poor father's work, what is thereto show for it now? It has all melted away as fast as it came, likesnow on pavements; and now his life has melted away; and I feel asif we had never been anything real to each other! Uncle Titus, Ican't tell you _how_ I feel!"

Uncle Titus sat very still. His hat was in one hand, and bothtogether held his cane, planted on the floor between his feet. Overhat and cane leaned his gray head, thoughtfully. If Desire couldhave seen his eyes, she would have found in them an expression thatshe had never supposed could be there at all. 

She had not so much spoken _to_ Uncle Titus, in these last words ofhers, as she had irresistibly spoken _out_ that which was in her. She wanted Uncle Titus's good common sense and sense of right tohelp her decide; but the inward ache and doubt and want, out ofwhich grew her indecisions, --these showed themselves forth at thatmoment simply because they must, with no expectation of a responsefrom him. It might have been a stone wall that she cried against;she would have cried all the same. 

Then it was over, and she was half ashamed, thinking it was of nouse, and he would not understand; perhaps that he would only set thewhole down to nerves and fidgets and contrariness, and give her nocommon sense that she wanted, after all. 

But Uncle Titus spoke, slowly; much as if he, too, were speaking outinvoluntarily, without thought of his auditor. People do so speak, when the deep things are stirred; they speak into the deep thatanswereth unto itself, --the deep that reacheth through all souls, and all living, whether souls feel into it and know of it or not. 

"The real things are inside, " he said. "The real world is the insideworld. _God_ is not up, nor down, but in the _midst_. "

Then he looked up at Desire. 

"What is real of your life is living inside you now. That issomething. Look at it and see what it is. "

"Discontent. Misery. Failure. "

"_Sense_ of failure. Well. Those are good things. The beginning ofbetter. Those are _live_ things, at any rate. "

Desire had never thought of that. 

Now _she_ sat still awhile. 

Then she said, --"But we can't _be_ much, without doing it. I supposewe are put into a world of outsides for something. "

"Yes. To find out what it means. That's the inside of it. And tohelp make the outside agree with the in, so that it will be easierfor other people to find out. That is the 'kingdom come and will bedone, on earth as it is in heaven. ' Heaven is the inside, --the truthof things. "

"Why, I never knew"--began Desire, astonished. She had almostfinished aloud, as her mother had done in her own mind. She neverknew that Uncle Oldways was "pious. "

"Never knew that was what it meant? What else can it mean? What doyou suppose the resurrection was, or is?"

Desire answered with a yet larger look of wonder, only in the dimlight it could not be wholly seen. 

"The raising up of the dead; Christ coming up out of the tomb. "

"The coming out of the tomb was a small part of it; just what couldnot help being, if the rest was. Jesus Christ rose out of dead_things_, I take it, into these very real ones that we are talkingof, and so lived in them. The resurrection is a man's soul comingalive to the soul of creation--God's soul. _That_ is eternal life, and what Jesus of Nazareth was born to show. Our coming to that isour being 'raised with Him;' and it begins, or ought to, a long waythis side the tomb. If people would only read the New Testament, expecting to get as much common sense and earnest there as they doamong the new lights and little 'progressive-thinkers' that aretrying to find it all out over again, they might spare thesegentlemen and themselves a great deal of their trouble. "

The exclamation rose half-way to her lips again, --"I never knew youthought like this. I never heard you talk of these things before!"

But she held it back, because she would not stop him by remindinghim that he _was_ talking. It was just the truth that was sayingitself. She must let it say on, while it would. 

"Un--"

She stopped there, at the first syllable. She would not even callhim "Uncle Titus" again, for fear of recalling him to himself, andhushing him up. 

"There is something--isn't there--about those who _attain_ to thatresurrection; those who are _worthy_? I suppose there must be somewho are just born to this world, then, and never--'born again?'"

"It looks like it, sometimes; who can tell?"

"Uncle Oldways, "--it came out this time in her earnestness, and herstrong personal appeal, --"do you think there are some people--wholefamilies of people--who have no business in the reality of thingsto be at all? Who are all a mistake in the world, and have nothingto do with its meaning? I have got to feeling sometimes lately, asif--_I_--had never had any business to be. "

She spoke slowly--awe-fully. It was a strange speech for a girl inher nineteenth year. But she was a girl in this nineteenth century, also; and she had caught some of the thoughts and questions of it, and mixed them up with her own doubts and unsatisfactions which theycould not answer. 

"The world is full of mistakes; mistakes centuries long; but it isfull of salvation and setting to rights, also. 'The kingdom ofheaven is like leaven, which a woman hid in three measures of mealtill the whole was leavened. ' You have been _allowed_ to be, DesireLedwith. And so was the man that was born blind. And I think thereis a colon put into the sentence about him, where a comma was meantto be. "

Desire did not ask him, then, what he meant; but she turned to thestory after he had gone, and found this:--

"Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents, but that the worksof God should be manifest in him. "

You can see, if you look also, where she took the colon out, and putthe comma in. 

Were all the mistakes--the sins, even--for the very sake of the pureblessedness and the more perfect knowledge of the setting right?

Desire began to think that Uncle Oldways' theology might help her. 

What she said to him now was, --

"I want to do something. I should like to go and live withLuclarion, I think, down there in Neighbor Street. I should like totake hold of some other lives, --little children's, perhaps, "--andhere Desire's voice softened, --"that don't seem to have any businessto be, either, and see if I could help or straighten anything. ThenI feel is if I should know. "

"Then--according to the Scripture--you _would_ know. But--that'sundertaking a good deal. Luclarion Grapp has got there; but she hasbeen fifty-odd years upon the road. And she has been doing realthings all the time. That's what has brought her there. You can'tboss the world's hard jobs till you've been a journeyman at the easyones. "

"And I've missed my apprenticeship!" said Desire, with changed voiceand face, falling back into her disheartenment again. 

"No!" Uncle Oldways almost shouted. "Not if you come to the Masterwho takes in the eleventh hour workers. And it isn't the eleventhhour with you, --_child_!"

He dwelt on that word "child, " reminding her of her short mistakingand of the long retrieval. Her nineteen years and the forever andever contrasted themselves before her suddenly, in the light ofhope. 

She turned sharply, though, to look at her duty. Her journeyman'sduty of easy things. 

"Must I go to Europe with my mother?" she asked again, theconversation coming round to just that with which it had begun. 

"I'll talk with your mother, " said Uncle Oldways, getting up andlooking into his hat, as a man always does when he thinks of puttingit on presently. "Good-night. I suppose you are tired enough now. I'll come again and see you. "

Desire stood up and gave him her hand. 

"I thank you, Uncle Titus, with all my heart. "

He did not answer her a word; but he knew she meant it. 

He did not stop that night to see his niece. He went home, to thinkit over. But as he walked down Borden Street, swinging his bigstick, he said to himself, --

"Next of kin! Old Marmaduke Wharne was right. But it takes more thanthe Family Bible to tell you which it is!"

Two days after, he had a talk with Mrs. Ledwith which relieved boththeir minds. 

From the brown-and-apricot drawing-room, --from among the thingsthat stood for nothing now, and had never stood for home, --he wentstraight up, without asking, and knocked at Desire's third-storydoor. 

"Come in!" she said, without a note of expectation in her voice. 

She had had a dull morning. Helena had brought her a novel fromLoring's that she could not read. Novels, any more than life, cannotbe read with very much patience, unless they touch something besidessurface. Why do critics--some of them--make such short, smartwork, --such cheerful, confident despatch, nowadays, of a story withreligion in it, as if it were an abnormity, --a thing with sentenceof death in itself, like a calf born with two heads, --that needs nottheir trouble, save to name it as it is? Why, that is, if religionstand for the relation of things to spirit, which I suppose itshould? Somebody said that somebody had written a book made up of"spiritual struggles and strawberry short-cake. " That was bright andfunny; and it seemed to settle the matter; but, taking strawberryshort-cake representatively, what else is human experience on earthmade up of? And are novels to be pictures of human experience, ornot?

This has nothing to do with present matters, however, except thatDesire found nothing real in her novel, and so had flung it aside, and was sitting rather listlessly with her crochet which she nevercared much for, when Uncle Oldways entered. 

Her face brightened instantly as he came in. He sat down just wherehe had sat the other night. Mr. Oldways had a fashion of finding thesame seat a second time when he had come in once; he was a man whotook up most things where he left them off, and this was anunconscious sign of it. 

"Your mother has decided to sell the house on the 23d, it seems, " hesaid. 

"Yes; I have been out twice. I shall be able to go away by then; Isuppose that is all she has waited for. "

"Do you think you could be contented to come and live with me?"

"Come and _live_?"

"Yes. And let your mother and Helena go to Europe. "

"O, Uncle Oldways! I think I could _rest_ there! But I don't wantonly to rest, you know. I must do something. For myself, to beginwith. I have made up my mind not to depend upon my mother. Whyshould I, any more than a boy? And I am sure I cannot depend onanybody else. "

These were Desire Ledwith's thanks; and Mr. Oldways liked them. Shedid not say it to please him; she thought it seemed almostungrateful and unwilling; but she was so intent on taking up lifefor herself. 

"You must have a place to do in, --or from, " said Mr. Oldways. "Andit is better you should be under some protection. You must consentto that for your mother's sake. How much money have you got?"

"Two hundred and fifty dollars a year. Of my own. "

This was coming to business and calculation and common sense. Desirewas encouraged. Uncle Oldways did not think her quite absurd. 

"That will clothe you, --without much fuss and feathers?"

"I have done with fuss and feathers, "--Desire said with a gravesmile, glancing at her plain white wrapper and the black shawl thatwas folded around her. 

"Then come where is room for you and a welcome, and do as much moreas you please, and can, for yourself, or for anybody else. I won'tgive you a cent; you shall have something to do for me, if youchoose. I am an old man now, and want help. Perhaps what I want asmuch as anything is what I've been all my life till lately, prettyobstinate in doing without. "

Uncle Oldways spoke short, and drew his breath in and puffed it outbetween his sentences, in his bluff way; but his eyes were kind, ashe sat looking at the young girl over his hat and cane. 

She thought of the still, gray parlor; of Rachel Froke and her faceof peace; and the Quaker meeting and the crumbs last year; of UncleOldways' study, and his shelves rich with books; of the newunderstanding that had begun between herself and him, and the faithshe had found out, down beneath his hard reserves; of the beautifulneighborhood, Miss Craydocke's Beehive, Aunt Franks' cheery home andthe ways of it, and Hazel's runnings in and out. It seemed as if thereal things had opened for her, and a place been made among them inwhich she should have "business to be, " and from which her lifemight make a new setting forth. 

"And mamma knows?" she said, inquiringly, after that long pause. 

"Yes. I told you I would talk with her. That is what we came to. Itis only for you to say, now. "

"I will come. I shall be glad to come!" And her face was full oflight as she looked up and said it. 

 * * * * *

Desire never thought for a moment of what her mother could not helpthinking of; of what Mrs. Megilp thought and said, instantly, whenshe learned it three weeks later. 

It is wonderful how abiding influence is, --even influence to whichwe are secretly superior, --if ever we have been subjected to, orallowed ourselves to be swayed by it. The veriest tyranny ofdiscipline grows into one's conscience, until years after, when lifehas got beyond the tyranny, conscience, --or something superinducedupon it, --keeps up the echo of the old mandates, and one can take nocomfort in doing what one knows all the time one has a perfectright, besides sound reason, to do. It was a great while before ourgrandmothers' daughters could peaceably stitch and overcast a seam, instead of over-sewing and felling it. I know women who feel to thismoment as if to sit down and read a book of a week-day, in thedaytime, were playing truant to the needle, though all thesewing-machines on the one hand, and all the demand and supply ofmental culture on the other, of this present changed and betteredtime, protest together against the absurdity. 

Mrs. Ledwith had heard the Megilp precepts and the Megilpforth-putting of things, until involuntarily everything showeditself to her in a Megilp light. The Megilp "sense of duty, "therefore, came up as she unhesitatingly assented to Uncle Oldways'proposal and request. He wanted Desire; of course she could not saya word; she owed him something, which she was glad she could so makeup; and secretly there whispered in her mind the suggestion whichMrs. Megilp, on the other side of the water, spoke right out. 

"If he wants her, he must mean something by her. He is an old man;he might not live to give her back into her mother's keeping; whatwould she do there, in that old house of his, if he should die, unless--he _does_ mean something? He has taken a fancy to her; sheis odd, as he is; and he isn't so queer after all, but that hiscrotchets have a good, straightforward sense of justice in them. Uncle Titus knows what he is about; and what's more, just what heought to be about. It is a good thing to have Desire provided for;she is uncomfortable and full of notions, and she isn't likely everto be married. "

So Desire was given up, easily, she could not help feeling; but sheknew she had been a puzzle and a vexation to her mother, and thatMrs. Ledwith had never had the least idea what to do with her; leastof all had she now, what she should do with her abroad. 

"It was so much better for her that Uncle Titus had taken her home. "With these last words Mrs. Ledwith reassured herself and cheered herchild. 

Perhaps it would have been the same--it came into Desire's head, that would conceive strange things--if the angels had taken her. 

Mrs. Ledwith went to New York; she stayed a few days with Mrs. Macmichael, who wanted her to buy lace for her in Brussels andBohemian glass in Prague; then a few days more with her cousin, Geraldine Raxley; and then the _City of Antwerp_ sailed. 

XX. 

NEIGHBORS AND NEXT OF KIN. 

"I'll tell you what to do with them, Luclarion, " said Hazel briskly. "Teach them to play. "

"Music! Pianners!" exclaimed Luclarion, dismayed. 

"No. Games. Teach them to have good times. That was the first thingever we learnt, wasn't it, Dine? And we never could have got alongwithout it. "

"It takes _you_!" said Luclarion, looking at Hazel with delightedadmiration. 

"Does it? Well I don't know but it does. May I go, mother?Luclarion, haven't you got a great big empty room up at the top ofthe house?"

Luclarion had. 

"That's just what it's for, then. Couldn't Mr. Gallilee put up aswing? And a 'flying circle' in the middle? You see they can't goout on the roofs; so they must have something else that will seemkind of flighty. And _I'll_ tell you how they'll learn theirletters. Sulie and I will paint 'em; great big ones, all colors; andhang 'em up with ribbons, and every child that learns one, so as toknow it everywhere, shall take it down and carry it home. Then wewill have marbles for numbers; and they shall play addition games, and multiplication games, and get the sums for prizes; the ones thatget to the head, you know. Why, you don't understand _objects_, Luclarion!"

Luclarion had been telling them of the wild little folk of NeighborStreet, and worse, of Arctic Street. She wanted to do something withthem. She had tried to get them in with gingerbread and popcorn;they came in fast enough for those; but they would not stay. Theywere digging in the gutters and calling names; learning the foullanguage of the places into which they were born; chasing and hidingin alley-ways; filching, if they could, from shops; going offbegging with lies on their lips. It was terrible to see the springsfrom which the life of the city depths was fed. 

"If you could stop it _there_!" Luclarion said, and said withreason. 

"Will you let me go?" asked Hazel of her mother, in good earnest. 

"'Twon't hurt her, " put in Luclarion. "Nothing's catching that youhaven't got the seeds of in your own constitution. And so thecatching will be the other way. "

The seeds of good, --to catch good; that was what Luclarion Grappbelieved in, in those dirty little souls, --no, those clean little_souls_, overlaid with all outward mire and filth of body, clothing, speech, and atmosphere, for a mile about; through which they couldno more grope and penetrate, to reach their own that was hidden fromthem in the clearer life beyond, than we can grope and reach toother stars. 

"I will get Desire, " quoth Hazel, inspired as she always was, bothways. 

Running in at the house in Greenley Street the next Thursday, sheran against Uncle Titus coming out. 

"What now?" he demanded. 

"Desire, " said Hazel. "I've come for her. We're wanted atLuclarion's. We've got work to do. "

"Humph! Work? What kind?"

"Play, " said Hazel, laughing. She delighted to bother and mystifyUncle Titus, and imagined that she did. 

"I thought so. Tea parties?"

"Something like, " said Hazel. "There are children down there thatdon't know how to grow up. They haven't any comfortable sort offashion of growing up. Somebody has got to teach them. They don'tknow how to play 'Grand Mufti, ' and they never heard of 'King Georgeand his troops. ' Luclarion tried to make them sit still and learnletters; but of course they wouldn't a minute longer than thegingerbread lasted, and they are eating her out of house and home. It will take young folks, and week-days, you see; so Desire and Iare going. " And Hazel ran up the great, flat-stepped staircase. 

"Lives that have no business to be, " said Uncle Titus to himself, going down the brick walk. "The Lord has His own ways of bringinglives together. And His own business gets worked out among them, beyond their guessing. When a man grows old, he can stand still nowand then, and see a little. "

It was a short cross street that Luclarion lived in, between twogreat thoroughfares crowded with life and business, bustle, drudgery, idleness, and vice. You will not find the name I giveit, --although you may find one that will remind you of it, --in anydirectory or on any city map. But you can find the places withoutthe names; and if you go down there with the like errands in yourheart, you will find the work, as she found it, to do. 

She heard the noise of street brawls at night, voices of men andwomen quarreling in alley-ways, and up in wretched garrets; flingingup at each other, in horrible words, all the evil they knew of ineach other's lives, --"away back, " Luclarion said, "to when they werelittle children. "

"And what is it, " she would say to Mrs. Ripwinkley telling herabout it, "that _flings_ it up, and can call it a shame, after allthe shames of years and years? Except just _that_ that the littlechildren _were_, underneath, when the Lord let them--He knowswhy--be born so? I tell you, ma'am, it's a mystery; and the nigheryou come to it, the more it is; it's a piece of hell and a piece ofheaven; it's the wrastle of the angel and the dragon; and it's goingon at one end, while they're building up their palaces and livingsoft and sweet and clean at the other, with everything hushed upthat can't at least _seem_ right and nice and proper. I know there'sgood folks there, in the palaces; _beautiful_ folks; there, and allthe way down between; with God's love in them, and His hate, that isholy, against sin; and His pity, that is _prayers_ in them, for allpeople and places that are dark; but if they would _come down_there, and take hold! I think it's them that would, that might havepart in the first resurrection, and live and reign the thousandyears. "

Luclarion never counted herself among them, --those who were to havethrones and judgments; she forgot, even, that she had gone down andtaken hold; her words came burning-true, out of her soul; and in theheat of truth they were eloquent. 

But I meant to tell you of her living. 

In the daytime it was quiet; the gross evils crept away and hid fromthe sunshine; there was labor to take up the hours, for those whodid labor; and you might not know or guess, to go down thoseavenues, that anything worse gathered there than the dust of theworld's traffic that the lumbering drays ground up continually withtheir wheels, and the wind, --that came into the city from far awaycountry places of green sweetness, and over hills and ponds andstreams and woods, --flung into the little children's faces. 

Luclarion had taken a house, --one of two, that fronted upon alittle planked court; aside, somewhat, from Neighbor Street, as thatwas a slight remove from the absolute terrible contact of ArcticStreet. But it was in the heart of that miserable quarter; she couldreach out her hands and touch and gather in, if it would let her, the wretchedness. She had chosen a place where it was possible forher to make a nook of refuge, not for herself only, or so much, asfor those to whom she would fain be neighbor, and help to a betterliving. 

It had been once a dwelling of some well-to-do family of the daysgone by; of some merchant, whose ventures went out and came in atthose wharves below, whence the air swept up pure, then, with itssalt smell, into the streets. The rooms were fairly large; Luclarionspent money out of her own little property, that had been growing bycare and saving till she could spare from it, in doing her sharetoward having it all made as sweet and clean as mortar and whitewashand new pine-boards and paint and paper could make it. All that wasleft of the old, they scoured with carbolic soap; and she had thewindows opened, and in the chimneys that had been swept of theirsoot she had clear fires made and kept burning for days. 

Then she put her new, plain furnishings into her own two down-stairsrooms; and the Gallilees brought in theirs above; and beside them, she found two decent families, --a German paper-hanger's, and that ofa carpenter at one of the theatres, whose wife worked atdressmaking, --to take the rest. Away up, at the very top, she hadthe wide, large room that Hazel spoke of, and a smaller one to whichshe climbed to sleep, for the sake of air as near heaven as it couldbe got. 

One of her lower-rooms was her living and housekeeping room; theother she turned into a little shop, in which she sold tapes andneedles and cheap calicoes and a few ribbons; and kept a counter onthe opposite side for bread and yeast, gingerbread, candy, and thelike. She did this partly because she must do something to help outthe money for her living and her plans, and partly to draw the womenand children in. How else could she establish any relations betweenherself and them, or get any permanent hold or access? She had"turned it all over in her mind, " she said; "and a tidy little shopwith fair, easy prices, was the very thing, and a part of just whatshe came down there to do. "

She made real, honest, hop-raised bread, of sweet flour that shegave ten dollars a barrel for; it took a little more than a pint, perhaps, to make a tea loaf; that cost her three cents; she sold herloaf for four, and it was better than they could get anywhere elsefor five. Then, three evenings in a week, she had hot muffins, orcrumpets, home-made; (it was the subtle home touch and flavor thatshe counted on, to carry more than a good taste into their mouths, even a dim notion of home sweetness and comfort into their hearts;)these first, --a quart of flour at five cents, two eggs at a centapiece, and a bit of butter, say three cents more, with three centsworth of milk, made an outlay of fifteen cents for a dozen and ahalf; so she sold them for ten cents a dozen, and the like had neverbeen tasted or dreamed of in all that region round about; no, nor Idare almost to say, in half the region round about Republic Avenueeither, where they cannot get Luclarion Grapps to cook. 

The crumpets were cheaper; they were only bread-sponge, baked on agriddle; they were large, and light and tender; a quart of flourwould make ten; she gave the ten for seven cents. 

And do you see, putting two cents on every quart of her flour, forher labor, she _earned_, not _made_, --that word is for speculatorsand brokers, --with a barrel of one hundred and ninety six pounds orquarts, three dollars and ninety-two cents? The beauty of it was, you perceive, that she did a small business; there was an eagermarket for all she could produce, and there was no waste to allow amargin for. 

I am not a bit of a political economist myself; but I have a shrewdsuspicion that Luclarion Grapp was, besides having hit upon theinitial, individual idea of a capital social and philanthropicenterprise. 

This was all she tried to do at first; she began with bread; theLord from heaven began with that; she fed as much of the multitudeas she could reach; they gathered about her for the loaves; and theygot, consciously or unconsciously, more than they came or asked for. 

They saw her clean-swept floor; her netted windows that kept theflies out, the clean, coarse white cotton shades, --tacked up, androlled and tied with cord, country-fashion, for Luclarion would notset any fashions that her poor neighbors might not follow if theywould;--and her shelves kept always dusted down; they could see herway of doing that, as they happened in at different times, when shewhisked about, lightly and nicely, behind and between her jars andboxes and parcels with the little feather duster that she kepthanging over her table where she made her change and sat at hersewing. 

They grew ashamed by degrees, --those coarse women, --to come in intheir frowsy rags, to buy her delicate muffins or her white loaves;they would fling on the cleanest shawl they had or could borrow, to"cut round to Old Maid Grapp's, " after a cent's worth of yeast, --forher yeast, also, was like none other that could be got, and would_almost_ make her own beautiful bread of itself. 

Back of the shop was her house-room; the cheapest and cleanest ofcarpet, --a square, bound round with bright-striped carpet-binding, --laidin the middle of a clean dark yellow floor; a plain pine table, scouredwhite, standing in the middle of that; on it, at tea-time, common blueand white crockery cups and plates, and a little black teapot; a napkin, coarse, but fresh from the fold, laid down to save, and at the sametime to set off, with a touch of delicate neatness, the white table;a wooden settee, with a home-made calico-covered cushion and pillows, set at right angles with the large, black, speckless stove; a woodenrocking-chair, made comfortable in like manner, on the other side; thesink in the corner, clean, freshly rinsed, with the bright tin basinhung above it on a nail. 

There was nothing in the whole place that must not be, in someshape, in almost the poorest; but all so beautifully ordered, sostainlessly kept. Through that open door, those women read a dailysermon. 

And Luclarion herself, --in a dark cotton print gown, a plain stripof white about the throat, --even that was cotton, not linen, and twoof them could be run together in ten minutes for a cent, --and ablack alpacca apron, never soiled or crumpled, but washed and ironedwhen it needed, like anything else, --her hair smoothly gathered backunder a small white half-handkerchief cap, plain-hemmed, --was thesermon alive; with the soul of it, the inner sweetness and purity, looking out at them from clear pleasant eyes, and lips cheery with asmile that lay behind them. 

She had come down there just to do as God told her to be a neighbor, and to let her light shine. He would see about the glorifying. 

She did not try to make money out of her candy, or her ginger-nuts;she kept those to entice the little children in; to tempt them tocome again when they had once done an errand, shyly, or saucily, orhang-doggedly, --it made little difference which to her, --in hershop. 

"I'll tell you what it's like, " Hazel said, when she came in andup-stairs the first Saturday afternoon with Desire, and showed andexplained to her proudly all Luclarion's ways and blessedinventions. "It's like your mother and mine throwing crumbs to makethe pigeons come, when they were little girls, and lived inBoston, --I mean _here_!"

Hazel waked up at the end of her sentence, suddenly, as we all dosometimes, out of talking or thinking, to the consciousness that itwas _here_ that she had mentally got round to. 

Desire had never heard of the crumbs or the pigeons. Mrs. Ledwithhad always been in such a hurry, living on, that she never stoppedto tell her children the sweet old tales of how she _had_ lived. Herchild-life had not ripened in her as it had done in Frank. 

Desire and Hazel went up-stairs and looked at the empty room. It waslight and pleasant; dormer windows opened out on a great area ofroofs, above which was blue sky; upon which, poor clothes flutteredin the wind, or cats walked and stretched themselves safely andlazily in the sun. 

"I always _do_ like roofs!" said Hazel. "The nicest thing in 'MutualFriend' is Jenny Wren up on the Jew's roof, being dead. It seemslike getting up over the world, and leaving it all covered up andput away. "

"Except the old clothes, " said Desire. 

"They're _washed_" answered Hazel, promptly; and never stopped tothink of the meaning. 

Then she jumped down from the window, along under which a greatbeam made a bench to stand on, and looked about the chamber. 

"A swing to begin with, " she said. "Why what is that? Luclarion'sgot one!"

Knotted up under two great staples that held it, was the long loopof clean new rope; the notched board rested against the chimneybelow. 

"It's all ready! Let's go down and catch one! Luclarion, we've cometo tea, " she announced, as they reached the sitting-room. "There'sthe shop bell!"

In the shop was a woman with touzled hair and a gown with placketsplit from gathers to hem, showing the ribs of a dirty skeletonskirt. A child with one garment on, --some sort of woolen thing thathad never been a clean color, and was all gutter-color now, --thewoman holding the child by the hand here, in a safe place, in a waythese mothers have who turn their children out in the street dirtand scramble without any hand to hold. No wonder, though, perhaps;in the strangeness and unfitness of the safe, pure place, doubtlessthey feel an uneasy instinct that the poor little vagabonds have gotastray, and need some holding. 

"Give us a four-cent loaf!" said the woman, roughly, her eyeslowering under crossly furrowed brows, as she flung two coins uponthe little counter. 

Luclarion took down one, looked at it, saw that it had a pale side, and exchanged it for another. 

"Here is a nice crusty one, " she said pleasantly, turning to wrap itin a sheet of paper. 

"None o' yer gammon! Give it here; there's your money; come along, Crazybug!" And she grabbed the loaf without a wrapper, and twitchedthe child. 

Hazel sat still. She knew there was no use. But Desire with herpoint-black determination, went right at the boy, took hold of hishand, dirt and all; it was disagreeable, therefore she thought shemust do it. 

"Don't you want to come and swing?" she said. 

"---- yer swing! and yer imperdence! Clear out! He's got swingsenough to home! Go to ----, and be ----, you ---- ---- ----!"

Out of the mother's mouth poured a volley of horrible words, like ahailstorm of hell. 

Desire fell back, as from a blinding shock of she knew not what. 

Luclarion came round the counter, quite calmly. 

"Ma'am, " she said, "those words won't hurt _her_. She don't know thelanguage. But you've got God's daily bread in your hand; how can youtalk devil's Dutch over it?"

The woman glared at her. But she saw nothing but strong, calm, earnest asking in the face; the asking of God's own pity. 

She rebelled against that, sullenly; but she spoke no more foulwords. I think she could as soon have spoken them in the face ofChrist; for it was the Christ in Luclarion Grapp that looked out ather. 

"You needn't preach. You can order me out of your shop, if you like. I don't care. "

"I don't order you out. I'd rather you would come again. I don'tthink you will bring that street-muck with you, though. "

There was both confidence and command in the word like the "Neitherdo I condemn thee: go, and sin no more. " It detached the street-muckfrom the woman. It was not _she_; it was defilement she had pickedup, when perhaps she could not help it. She could scrape her shoesat the door, and come in clean. 

"You know a darned lot about it, I suppose!" were the last words ofdefiance; softened down, however, you perceive, to that which can beprinted. 

Desire was pale, with a dry sob in her throat, when the woman hadgone and Luclarion turned round. 

"The angels in heaven know; why shouldn't you?" said Luclarion. "That's what we've got to help. "

A child came in afterwards, alone; with an actual clean spot in themiddle of her face, where a ginger-nut or an acid drop might go in. This was a regular customer of a week past. The week had made thatclean spot; with a few pleasant and encouraging hints fromLuclarion, administered along with the gingerbread. 

Now it was Hazel's turn. 

The round mouth and eyes, with expectation in them, were like a spotof green to Hazel, feeling with her witch-wand for a human spring. But she spoke to Desire, looking cunningly at the child. 

"Let us go back and swing, " she said. 

The girl's head pricked itself up quickly. 

"We've got a swing up-stairs, " said Hazel, passing close by, andjust pausing. "A new one. I guess it goes pretty high; and it looksout of top windows. Wouldn't you like to come and see?"

The child lived down in a cellar. 

"Take up some ginger-nuts, and eat them there, " said Luclarion toHazel. 

If it had not been for that, the girl would have hung back, afraidof losing her shop treat. 

Hazel knew better than to hold out her hand, at this first essay;she would do that fast enough when the time came. She only walkedon, through the sitting-room, to the stairs. 

The girl peeped, and followed. 

Clean stairs. She had never trodden such before. Everything wasstrange and clean here, as she had never seen anything before in allher life, except the sky and the white clouds overhead. Heaven bethanked that they are held over us, spotless, always!

Hazel heard the little feet, shuffling, in horrible, distortedshoes, after her, over the steps; pausing, coming slowly but stillstarting again, and coming on. 

Up on the high landing, under the skylight, she opened the door wideinto the dormer-windowed room, and went in; she and Desire, neitherof them looking round. 

Hazel got into the swing. Desire pushed; after three vibrations theysaw the ragged figure standing in the doorway, watching, turning itshead from side to side as the swing passed. 

"Almost!" cried Hazel, with her feet up at the window. "There!" Shethrust them out at that next swing; they looked as if they touchedthe blue. 

"I can see over all the chimneys, and away off, down the water! Nowlet the old cat die. "

Out again, with a spring, as the swinging slackened, she still tookno notice of the child, who would have run, like a wild kitten, ifshe had gone after her. She called Desire, and plunged into a closetunder the eaves. 

"I wonder what's here!" she exclaimed. 

"Rats!"

The girl in the doorway saw the dark, into which the low dooropened; she was used to rats in the dark. 

"I don't believe it, " says Hazel; "Luclarion has a cut, a great bigbuff one with green eyes. She came in over the roofs, and she runsup here nights. I shouldn't wonder if there might be kittens, though, --one of these days, at any rate. Why! what a place to play'Dare' in! It goes way round, I don't know where! Look here, Desire!"

She sat on the threshold, that went up a step, over the beam, and soleaned in. She had one eye toward the girl all the time, out of theshadow. She beckoned and nodded, and Desire came. 

At the same moment, the coast being clear, the girl gave a suddenscud across, and into the swing. She began to scuff with herslipshod, twisted shoes, pushing herself. 

Hazel gave another nod behind her to Desire. Desire stood up, and asthe swing came back, pushed gently, touching the board only. 

The girl laughed out with the sudden thrill of the motion. Desirepushed again. 

Higher and higher, till the feet reached up to the window. 

"There!" she cried; and kicked an old shoe off, out over the roof. "I've lost my shoe!"

"Never mind; it'll be down in the yard, " said Hazel. 

Thereupon the child, at the height of her sweep again, kicked outthe other one. 

Desire and Hazel, together, pushed her for a quarter of an hour. 

"Now let's have ginger-cakes, " said Hazel, taking them out of herpocket, and leaving the "cat" to die. 

Little Barefoot came down at that, with a run; hanging to the ropeat one side, and dragging, till she tumbled in a sprawl upon thefloor. 

"You ought to have waited, " said Desire. 

"Poh! I don't never wait!" cried the ragamuffin rubbing her elbows. "I don't care. "

"But it isn't nice to tumble round, " suggested Hazel. 

"I _ain't_ nice, " answered the child, and settled the subject. 

"Well, these ginger-nuts are, " said Hazel. "Here!"

"Have you had a good time?" she asked when the last one was eaten, and she led the way to go down-stairs. 

"Good time! That ain't nothin'! I've had a reg'lar bust! I'm comin'agin'; it's bully. Now I must get my loaf and my shoes, and go alongback and take a lickin'. "

That was the way Hazel caught her first child. 

She made her tell her name, --Ann Fazackerley, --and promise to comeon Saturday afternoon, and bring two more girls with her. 

"We'll have a party, " said Hazel, "and play Puss in the Corner. Butyou must get leave, " she added. "Ask your mother. I don't want youto be punished when you go home. "

"Lor! you're green! I ain't got no mother. An' I always hooks jack. I'm licked reg'lar when I gets back, anyway. There's half a dozen of'em. When 'tain't one, it's another. That's Jane Goffey's bread;she's been a swearin' after it this hour, you bet. But I'llcome, --see if I don't!"

Hazel drew a hard breath as she let the girl go. Back to her crowdedcellar, her Jane Goffeys, the swearings, and the lickings. What wasone hour at a time, once or twice a week, to do against all this?

But she remembered the clean little round in her face, out of whicheyes and mouth looked merrily, while she talked rough slang; thesame fun and daring, --nothing worse, --were in this child's face, that might be in another's saying prettier words. How could she helpher words, hearing nothing but devil's Dutch around her all thetime? Children do not make the language they are born into. And theface that could be simply merry, telling such a tale as that, --whatsort of bright little immortality must it be the outlook of?

Hazel meant to try her hour. 

 * * * * *

This is one of my last chapters. I can only tell you now theybegan, --these real folks, --the work their real living led them upto. Perhaps some other time we may follow it on. If I were to tellyou now a finished story of it, I should tell a story ahead of theworld. 

I can show you what six weeks brought it to. I can show you themfairly launched in what may grow to a beautiful private charity, --an"Insecution, "--a broad social scheme, --a millennium; at any rate, alife work, change and branch as it may, for these girls who havefound out, in their girlhood, that there is genuine living, not mere"playing pretend, " to be done in the world. But you cannot, inlittle books of three hundred pages, see things through. I neverexpected or promised to do that. The threescore years and tenthemselves, do not do it. 

It turned into regular Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. Threegirls at first, then six, then less again, --sometimes only one ortwo; until they gradually came up to and settled at, an average ofnine or ten. 

The first Saturday they took them as they were. The next time theygave them a stick of candy each, the first thing, then Hazel'sfingers were sticky, and she proposed the wash-basin all round, before they went up-stairs. The bright tin bowl was ready in thesink, and a clean round towel hung beside; and with some red andwhite soap-balls, they managed to fascinate their dirty littlevisitors into three clean pairs of hands, and three clean faces aswell. 

The candy and the washing grew to be a custom; and in three weeks'time, watching for a hot day and having it luckily on a Saturday, they ventured upon instituting a whole bath, in big round tubs, inthe back shed-room, where a faucet came in over a wash bench, and agreat boiler was set close by. 

They began with a foot-paddle, playing pond, and sailing chips atthe same time; then Luclarion told them they might have tubs full, and get in all over and duck, if they liked; and children who mayhate to be washed, nevertheless are always ready for a duck and apaddle. So Luclarion superintended the bath-room; Diana helped her;and Desire and Hazel tended the shop. Luclarion invented ashower-bath with a dipper and a colander; then the wet, tangled hairhad to be combed, --a climax which she had secretly aimed at with agreat longing, from the beginning; and doing this, she contrivedwith carbolic soap and a separate suds, and a bit of sponge, to givethe neglected little heads a most salutary dressing. 

Saturday grew into bath-day; soap-suds suggested bubbles; and theducking and the bubbling were a frolic altogether. 

Then Hazel wished they could be put into clean clothes each time;wouldn't it do, somehow?

But that would cost. Luclarion had come to the limit of her purse;Hazel had no purse, and Desire's was small. 

"But you see they've _got_ to have it, " said Hazel; and so she wentto her mother, and from her straight to Uncle Oldways. 

They counted up, --she and Desire, and Diana; two little commonsuits, of stockings, underclothes, and calico gowns, apiece;somebody to do a washing once a week, ready for the change; andthen--"those horrid shoes!"

"I don't see how you can do it, " said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "The thingswill be taken away from them, and sold. You would have to keepdoing, over and over, to no purpose, I am afraid. "

"I'll see to that, " said Luclarion, facing her "stump. " "We'll dofor them we can do for; if it ain't ones, it will be tothers. Thosethat don't keep their things, can't have 'em; and if they're takenaway, I won't sell bread to the women they belong to, till they'rebrought back. Besides, the _washing_ kind of sorts 'em out, beforehand. 'Taint the worst ones that are willing to come, or tosend, for that. You always have to work in at an edge, in anything, and make your way as you go along. It'll regulate. I'm _living_there right amongst 'em; I've got a clew, and a hold; I can followthings up; I shall have a 'circle;' there's circles everywhere. Andin all the wheels there's a moving _spirit_; you ain't got to dependjust on yourself. Things work; the Lord sees to it; it's _His_business as much as yours. "

Hazel told Uncle Titus that there were shoes and stockings and gownswanted down in Neighbor Street; things for ten children; they musthave subscriptions. And so she had come to him. 

The Ripwinkleys had never given Uncle Titus a Christmas or abirthday present, for fear they should seem to establish a mutualprecedent. They had never talked of their plans which involvedcalculation, before him; they were terribly afraid of just one thingwith him, and only that one, --of anything most distantly like whatDesire Ledwith called "a Megilp bespeak. " But now Hazel went up tohim as bold as a lion. She took it for granted he was like otherpeople, --"real folks;" that he would do--what must be done. 

"How much will it cost?"

"For clothes and shoes for each child, about eight dollars for threemonths, we guess, " said Hazel. "Mother's going to pay for thewashing!"

"_Guess_? Haven't you calculated?"

"Yes, sir. 'Guess' and 'calculate' mean the same thing in Yankee, "said Hazel, laughing. 

Uncle Titus laughed in and out, in his queer way, with his shouldersgoing up and down. 

Then he turned round, on his swivel chair, to his desk, and wrote acheck for one hundred dollars. 

"There. See how far you can make that go. "

"That's good, " said Hazel, heartily, looking at it; "that'ssplendid!" and never gave him a word of personal thanks. It was athing for mutual congratulations, rather, it would seem; the "good"was just what they all wanted, and there it was. Why should anybodyin particular be thanked, as if anybody in particular had asked foranything? She did not say this, or think it; she simply did notthink about it at all. 

And Uncle Oldways--again--liked it. 

There! I shall not try, now, to tell you any more; theirexperiences, their difficulties, their encouragements, would makelarge material for a much larger book. I want you to know of theidea, and the attempt. If they fail, partly, --if drunken fatherssteal the shoes, and the innocent have to forfeit for theguilty, --if the bad words still come to the lips often, though Hazeltells them they are not "nice, "--and beginning at the outside, theyare in a fair way of learning the niceness of being nice, --if somechildren come once or twice, and get dressed up, and then go offand live in the gutters again until the clothes are gone, --are thesereal failures? There is a bright, pure place down there in NeighborStreet, and twice a week some little children have there a bright, pure time. Will this be lost in the world? In the great Ledger ofGod will it always stand unbalanced on the debit side?

If you are afraid it will fail, --will be swallowed up in the greatsink of vice and misery, like a single sweet, fresh drop, sweet onlywhile it is falling, --go and do likewise; rain down more; make thework larger, stronger; pour the sweetness in faster, till the wide, grand time of full refreshing shall have come from the presence ofthe Lord!

Ada Geoffrey went down and helped. Miss Craydocke is going to knitscarlet stockings all winter for them; Mr. Geoffrey has put aregular bath-room in for Luclarion, with half partitions, and threeseparate tubs; Mrs. Geoffrey has furnished a dormitory, where littlehomeless ones can be kept to sleep. Luclarion has her hands full, and has taken in a girl to help her, whose board and wages RachelFroke and Asenath Scherman pay. A thing like that spreads every way;you have only to be among, and one of--Real Folks. 

 * * * * *

Desire, besides her work in Neighbor Street, has gone into theNormal School. She wants to make herself fit for any teaching; shewants also to know and to become a companion of earnest, workinggirls. 

She told Uncle Titus this, after she had been with him a month, andhad thought it over; and Uncle Titus agreed, quite as if it were noreal concern of his, but a very proper and unobjectionable plan forher, if she liked it. 

One day, though, when Marmaduke Wharne--who had come this fall againto stay his three days, and talk over their business, --sat with himin his study, just where they had sat two years and a little moreago, and Hazel and Desire ran up and down stairs together, in andout upon their busy Wednesday errands, --Marmaduke said to Titus, --

"Afterwards is a long time, friend; but I mistrust you have foundthe comfort, as well as the providence, of 'next of kin?'"

"Afterwards _is_ a long time, " said Titus Oldways, gravely; "but theLord's line of succession stretches all the way through. "

And that same night he had his other old friend, Miss Craydocke, in;and he brought two papers that he had ready, quietly out to besigned, each with four names: "Titus Oldways, " by itself, on the oneside; on the other, --

 "RACHEL FROKE, MARMADUKE WHARNE, KEREN-HAPPUCH CRAYDOCKE. "

And one of those two papers--which are no further part of thepresent story, seeing that good old Uncle Titus is at this momentalive and well, as he has a perfect right, and is heartily welcometo be, whether the story ever comes to a regular winding up ornot--was laid safely away in a japanned box in a deep drawer of hisstudy table; and Marmaduke Wharne put the other in his pocket. 

He and Titus knew. I myself guess, and perhaps you do; but neitheryou nor I, nor Rachel, nor Keren-happuch, know for certain; and itis no sort of matter whether we do or not. 

The "next of kin" is a better and a deeper thing than any claim oflaw or register of bequest can show. Titus Oldways had found thatout; and he had settled in his mind, to his restful and satisfiedbelief, that God, to the last moment of His time, and the lastparticle of His created substance, can surely care for and order anddirect His own. 

Is that end and moral enough for a two years' watchful trial and atwo years' simple tale?

XXI. 

THE HORSESHOE. 

They laid out the Waite Place in this manner:--

Right into the pretty wooded pasture, starting from a point a littleway down the road from the old house, they projected a roadway whichswept round, horseshoe fashion, till it met itself again within aspace of some twenty yards or so; and this sweep made afrontage--upon its inclosed bit of natural, moss-turfed green, sprinkled with birch and pine and oak trees, and with grayout-croppings of rock here and there--for the twenty houses, behindwhich opened the rest of the unspoiled, irregular, open slope andswell and dingle of the hill-foot tract that dipped down at onereach, we know, to the river. 

The trees, and shrubs, and vines, and ferns, and stones, were leftin their wild prettiness; only some roughness of nature's wear andtear of dead branches and broken brushwood, and the like, were takenaway, and the little footpaths cleared for pleasant walking. 

There were all the little shady, sweet-smelling nooks, just as theyhad been; all the little field-parlors, opening with their windingturns between bush and rock, one into another. The twenty householdsmight find twenty separate places, if they all wanted to take aprivate out-door tea at once. 

The cellars were dug; the frames were up; workmen were busy withbrick and mortar, hammer and plane; two or three buildings werenearly finished, and two--the two standing at the head of theHorseshoe, looking out at the back into the deepest and pleasantestwood-aisle, where the leaves were reddening and mellowing in theearly October frost, and the ferns were turning into tendertransparent shades of palest straw-color--were completed, and haddwellers in them; the cheeriest, and happiest, and coziest ofneighbors; and who do you think these were?

Miss Waite and Delia, of course, in one house; and with them, dividing the easy rent and the space that was ample for four women, were Lucilla Waters and her mother. In the other, were Kenneth andRosamond Kincaid and Dorris. 

Kenneth and Rosamond had been married just three weeks. Rosamond hadtold him she would begin the world with him, and they had begun. Begun in the simple, true old-fashioned way, in which, if peopleonly would believe it, it is even yet not impossible for young menand women to inaugurate their homes. 

They could not have had a place at Westover, and a horse and buggyfor Kenneth to go back and forth with; nor even a house in one ofthe best streets of Z----; and down at East Square everything wasvery modern and pretentious, based upon the calculation of risingvalues and a rush of population. 

But here was this new neighborhood of--well, yes, --"model houses;" ablessed Christian speculation for a class not easily or oftenreached by any speculations save those that grind and consume theirlittle regular means, by forcing upon them the lawless and arbitraryprices of the day, touching them at every point in their _living_, but not governing correspondingly their income, as even thehod-carrier's and railroad navvy's daily pay is reached and ruled tomeet the proportion of the time. 

They would be plain, simple, little-cultured people that would livethere: the very "betwixt and betweens" that Rosamond had used tothink so hardly fated. Would she go and live among them, in one ofthese little new, primitive homes, planted down in the pasture-land, on the outskirts? Would she--the pretty, graceful, elegantRosamond--live semi-detached with old Miss Arabel Waite?

That was just exactly the very thing she would do; the thing she didnot even let Kenneth think of first, and ask her, but that, whenthey had fully agreed that they would begin life somehow, in someright way together, according to their means, she herself hadquestioned him if they might not do. 

And so the houses were hurried in the building; for old Miss Arabelmust have hers before the winter; (it seems strange how often thechange comes when one could not have waited any longer for it;) andKenneth had mill building, and surveying, and planning, in EastSquare, and Mr. Roger Marchbanks' great gray-stone mansion going upon West Hill, to keep him busy; work enough for any talented youngfellow, fresh from the School of Technology, who had got fair holdof a beginning, to settle down among and grasp the "next things"that were pretty sure to follow along after the first. 

Dorris has all Ruth's music scholars, and more; for there has neverbeen anybody to replace Miss Robbyns, and there are many young girlsin Z----, and down here in East Square, who want good teaching andcannot go away to get it. She has also the organ-playing in the newchurch. 

She keeps her morning hours and her Saturdays to help Rosamond; forthey are "coöperating" here, in the new home; what was the use, else, of having coöperated in the old? Rosamond cannot bear to haveany coarse, profane fingers laid upon her little householdgods, --her wedding-tins and her feather dusters, --while the firstgloss and freshness are on, at any rate; and with her dainty handling, the gloss is likely to last a long while. 

Such neighbors, too, as the Waites and Waterses are! How they helpedin the fitting up, running in in odd half hours from their ownnailing and placing, which they said could wait awhile, since theyweren't brides; and such real old times visiting as they havealready between the houses; coming and taking right hold, withwiping up dinner plates as likely as not, if that is the thing inhand; picking up what is there, as easily as "the girls" used tohelp work out some last new pattern of crochet, or try over music, or sort worsteds for gorgeous affghans for the next great fair!

Miss Arabel is apt to come in after dinner, and have a dab at theplates; she knows she interrupts nothing then; and she "has neverbeen used to sitting talking, with gloves on and a parasol in herlap. " And now she has given up trying to make impossible biases, shehas such a quantity of time!

It was the matter of receiving visits from her friends who _did_ sitwith their parasols in their laps, or who only expected to see thehouse, or look over wedding presents, that would be the greatesthindrance, Rosamond realized at once; that is, if she would let it;so she did just the funniest thing, perhaps, that ever a bride diddo: she set her door wide open from her pretty parlor, with itsbooks and flowers and pictures and window-draperies of hangingvines, into the plain, cozy little kitchen, with its tin pans andbright new buckets and its Shaker chairs; and when she was busythere, asked her girl-friends right in, as she had used to take themup into her bedroom, if she were doing anything pretty or hadsomething to show. 

And they liked it, for the moment, at any rate; they could not helpit; they thought it was lovely; a kind of bewitching little play atkeeping house; though some of them went away and wondered, and saidthat Rosamond Holabird had quite changed all her way of living andher position; it was very splendid and strong-minded, they supposed;but they never should have thought it of her, and of course shecould not keep it up. 

"And the neighborhood!" was the cry. "The rabble she has got, and isgoing to have, round her! All planks and sand, and tubs of mortar, now; you have to half break your neck in getting up there; and whenit is settled it will be--such a frowze of common people! Why theforeman of our factory has engaged a house, and Mrs. Haslam, whoactually used to do up laces for mamma, has got another!"

That is what is said--in some instances--over on West Hill, when theelegant visitors came home from calling at the Horseshoe. Meanwhile, what Rosamond does is something like this, which she happened to doone bright afternoon a very little while ago. 

She and Dorris had just made and baked a charming little tea-cake, which was set on a fringed napkin in a round white china dish, andput away in the fresh, oak-grained kitchen pantry, where not a crumbor a slop had ever yet been allowed to rest long enough to defile orgive a flavor of staleness; out of which everything is tidily usedup while it is nice, and into which little delicate new-made bitslike this, for next meals, are always going. 

The tea-table itself, --with its three plates, and its new silver, and the pretty, thin, shallow cups and saucers, that an Irish girlwould break a half-dozen of every week, --was laid with exquisitepreciseness; the square white napkins at top and bottom over thecrimson cloth, spread to the exactness of a line, and every knifeand fork at fair right angles; the loaf was upon the white carvedtrencher, and nothing to be done when Kenneth should come in, but todraw the tea, and bring the brown cake forth. 

Rosamond will not leave all these little doings to break up thepleasant time of his return; she will have her leisure then, let herbe as busy as she may while he is away. 

There was an hour or more after all was done; even after thePanjandrums had made their state call, leaving their barouche at theheel of the Horseshoe, and filling up all Rosamond's littlevestibule with their flounces, as they came in and went out. 

The Panjandrums were new people at West Hill; very new and verygrand, as only new things and new people can be, turned out in thelatest style pushed to the last agony. Mrs. Panjandrum's dress wasall in two shades of brown, to the tips of her feathers, and thetoes of her boots, and the frill of her parasol; and her carriagewas all in two shades of brown, likewise; cushions, and tassels, and panels; the horses themselves were cream-color, with darkmanes and tails. Next year, perhaps, everything will be inpansy-colors, --black and violet and gold; and then she will probablyhave black horses with gilded harness and royal purple tails. 

It was very good of the Panjandrums, doubtless, to come down to theHorseshoe at all; I am willing to give them all the credit of reallyadmiring Rosamond, and caring to see her in her little new home; butthere are two other things to be considered also: the novel kind ofhome Rosamond had chosen to set up, and the human weakness ofcuriosity concerning all experiments, and friends in all new lights;also the fact of that other establishment shortly to branch out ofthe Holabird connection. The family could not quite go under water, even with people of the Panjandrum persuasion, while there was sucha pair of prospective corks to float them as Mr. And Mrs. DakieThayne. 

The Panjandrum carriage had scarcely bowled away, when a littlebuggy and a sorrel pony came up the road, and somebody alighted witha brisk spring, slipped the rein with a loose knot through thefence-rail at the corner, and came up one side of the two-plankfoot-walk that ran around the Horseshoe; somebody who had come homeunexpectedly, to take his little wife to ride. Kenneth Kincaid hadbusiness over at the new district of "Clarendon Park. "

Drives, and livery-stable bills, were no part of the items allowedfor, in the programme of these young people's living; thereforeRosamond put on her gray hat, with its soft little dove's breast, and took her bright-striped shawl upon her arm, and let Kenneth lifther into the buggy--for which there was no manner of need exceptthat they both liked it, --with very much the feeling as if she weregoing off on a lovely bridal trip. They had had no bridal trip, yousee; they did not really want one; and this little impromptu drivewas such a treat!

Now the wonders of nature and the human mind show--if I must go sofar to find an argument for the statement I am making--that into asingle point of time or particle of matter may be gathered therelations of a solar system or the experiences of a life; that auniverse may be compressed into an atom, or a molecule expanded intoa macrocosm; therefore I expect nobody to sneer at my Rosamond aschildishly nappy in her simple honeymoon, or at me for makingextravagant and unsupported assertions, when I say that this hourand a half, and these four miles out to Clarendon Park andback, --the lifting and the tucking in, and the setting off, thesitting side by side in the ripe October air and the goldentwilight, the noting together every pretty turn, every flash ofautumn color in the woods, every change in the cloud-groupingsoverhead, every glimpse of busy, bright-eyed squirrels up and downthe walls, every cozy, homely group of barnyard creatures at thefarmsteads, the change, the pleasure, the thought of home andalways-togetherness, --all this made the little treat of a countryride as much to them, holding all that any wandering up and down thewhole world in their new companionship could hold, --as a going toEurope, or a journey to mountains and falls and sea-sides andcities, in a skimming of the States. You cannot have more than thereis; and you do not care, for more than just what stands for andemphasizes the essential beauty, the living gladness, that no_place_ gives, but that hearts carry about into places and baptizethem with, so that ever afterward a tender charm hangs round them, because "we saw it _then_. "

And Kenneth and Rosamond Kincaid had all these bright associations, these beautiful glamours, these glad reminders, laid up for years tocome, in a four miles space that they might ride or walk over, re-living it all, in the returning Octobers of many other years. Isay they had a bridal tour that day, and that the four miles were asgood as four thousand. Such little bits of signs may stand for suchhigh, great, blessed things!

"How lovely stillness and separateness are!" said Rosamond as theysat in the buggy, stopping to enjoy a glimpse of the river on oneside, and a flame of burning bushes on the other, against the darkface of a piece of woods that held the curve of road in which theystood, in sheltered quiet. "How pretty a house would be, up on thatknoll. Do you know things puzzle me a little, Kenneth? I have almostcome to a certain conclusion lately, that people are not meant tolive apart, but that it is really everybody's duty to live in atown, or a village, or in some gathering of human beings together. Life tends to that, and all the needs and uses of it; and yet, --itis so sweet in a place like this, --and however kind and social youmay be, it seems once in a while such an escape! Do you believe inbeautiful country places, and in having a little piece of creationall to yourself, if you can get it, or if not what do you supposeall creation is made for?"

"Perhaps just that which you have said, Rose. " Rosamond has now, what her mother hinted once, somebody to call her "Rose, " with ahappy and beautiful privilege. "Perhaps to escape into. Not for one, here and there, selfishly, all the time; but for the whole, withfair share and opportunity. Creation is made very big, you see, andmen and women are made without wings, and with very limited handsand feet. Also with limited lives; that makes the time-question, andthe hurry. There is a suggestion, --at any rate, a necessity, --inthat. It brings them within certain spaces, always. In spite of allthe artificial lengthening of railroads and telegraphs, there muststill be centres for daily living, intercourse, and need. Peopletend to towns; they cannot establish themselves in isolatedindependence. Yet packing and stifling are a cruelty and a sin. I donot believe there ought to be any human being so poor as to beforced to such crowding. The very way we are going to live at theHorseshoe, seems to me an individual solution of the problem. Itought to come to pass that our towns should be built--and if builtalready, wrongly, _thinned out_, --on this principle. People arecoming to learn a little of this, and are opening parks and squaresin the great cities, finding that there must be room for bodies andsouls to reach out and breathe. If they could only take hold of someof their swarming-places, where disease and vice are festering, andpull down every second house and turn it into a garden space, Ibelieve they would do more for reform and salvation than all theirseparate institutions for dealing with misery after it is let grow, can ever effect. "

"O, why _can't_ they?" cried Rose. "There is money enough, somewhere. Why can't they do it, instead of letting the cities growhorrid, and then running away from it themselves, and buying acresand acres around their country places, for fear somebody should cometoo near, and the country should begin to grow horrid too?"

"Because the growing and the crowding and the striving of the city_make_ so much of the money, little wife! Because to keep everybodyfairly comfortable as the world goes along, there could not be somany separate piles laid up; it would have to be used more as itcomes, and it could not come so fast. If nobody cared to be veryrich, and all were willing to live simply and help one another, inlittle 'horseshoe neighborhoods, ' there wouldn't be so much thatlooks like grand achievement in the world perhaps; but I think maybethe very angels might show themselves out of the unseen, and bringthe glory of heaven into it!"

Kenneth's color came, and his eyes glowed, as he spoke these wordsthat burst into eloquence with the intensity of his meaning; andRosamond's face was holy-pale, and her look large, as she listened;and they were silent for a minute or so, as the pony, of his ownaccord, trotted deliberately on. 

"But then, the beauty, and the leisure, and all that grows out ofthem to separate minds, and what the world gets through therefinement of it! You see the puzzle comes back. Must we never, inthis life, gather round us the utmost that the world is capable offurnishing? Must we never, out of this big creation, have the pieceto ourselves, each one as he would choose?"

"I think the Lord would show us a way out of that, " said Kenneth. "Ithink He would make His world turn out right, and all come to goodand sufficient use, if we did not put it in a snarl. Perhaps we canhardly guess what we might grow to all together, --'the whole body, fitly joined by that which every joint supplieth, increasing andbuilding itself up in love. ' And about the quietness, and theseparateness, --we don't want to _live_ in that, Rose; we only wantit sometimes, to make us fitter to live. When the disciples began totalk about building tabernacles on the mountain of the vision, Christ led them straight down among the multitude, where there was adevil to be cast out. It is the same thing in the old story of thecreation. God worked six days, and rested one. "

"Well, " said Rose, drawing a deep breath, "I am glad we have begunat the Horseshoe! It was a great escape for me, Kenneth. I am such aworldly girl in my heart. I should have liked so much to haveeverything elegant and artistic about me. "

"I think you do. I think you always will. Not because of theworldliness in you, though; but the _other_-worldliness, the senseof real beauty and truth. And I am glad that we have begun at all!It was a greater escape for me. I was in danger of all sorts ofhardness and unbelief. I had begun to despise and hate things, because they did not work rightly just around me. And then I fellin, just in time, with some real, true people; and then you came, with the 'little piece of your world, ' and then I came here, and sawwhat your world was, and how you were making it, Rose! How a littlecommunity of sweet and generous fellowship was crystallizing hereamong all sorts--outward sorts--of people; a little community of thekingdom; and how you and yours had done it. "

"O, Kenneth! I was the worst little atom in the whole crystal! Ionly got into my place because everybody else did, and there wasnothing else left for me to do. "

"You see I shall never believe that, " said Kenneth, quietly. "Thereis no flaw in the crystal. You were all polarized alike. Andbesides, can't I see daily just how your nature draws and points?"

"Well, never mind, " said Rose. "Only some particles are naturalmagnets, I believe, and some get magnetized by contact. Now that wehave hit upon this metaphor, isn't it funny that our little socialexperiment should have taken the shape of a horseshoe?"

"The most sociable, because the most magnetic, shape it could take. You will see the power it will develop. There's a great deal inmerely taking form according to fundamental principles. Witness thegetting round a fireside. Isn't that a horseshoe? And could half asmuch sympathy be evolved from a straight line?"

"I believe in firesides, " said Rose. 

"And in women who can organize and inform them, " said Kenneth. "First, firesides; then neighborhoods; that is the way the world'slife works out; and women have their hands at the heart of it. Theycan do so much more there than by making the laws! When the life isright, the laws will make themselves, or be no longer needed. Theyare such mere outside patchwork, --makeshifts till a better time!"

"Wrong living must make wrong laws, whoever does the voting, " saidRosamond, sagely. 

"False social standards make false commercial ones; inflatedpretensions demand inflated currency; selfish, untrue domesticliving eventuates in greedy speculations and business shams; and allin the intriguing for corrupt legislation, to help out partialinterests. It isn't by multiplying the voting power, but bypurifying it, that the end is to be reached. "

"That is so sententious, Kenneth, that I shall have to take it homeand ravel it out gradually in my mind in little shreds. In the meanwhile, dear, suppose we stop in the village, and get some littlebrown-ware cups for top-overs. You never ate any of my top-overs?Well, when you do, you'll say that all the world ought to be broughtup on top-overs. "

Rosamond was very particular about her little brown-ware cups. Theyhad to be real stone, --brown outside, and gray-blue in; and theymust be of a special size and depth. When they were found, and doneup in a long parcel, one within another, in stout paper, she carriedit herself to the chaise, and would scarcely let Kenneth hold itwhile she got in; after which, she laid it carefully across her lap, instead of putting it behind upon the cushion. 

'You see they were rather dear; but they are the only kind worthwhile. Those little yellow things would soak and crack, and neverlook comfortable in the kitchen-closet. I give you very fairwarning, I shall always want the best of things but then I shalltake very fierce and jealous care of them, --like this. '

And she laid her little nicely-gloved hand across her homelyparcel, guardingly. 

How nice it was to go buying little homely things together! Again, it was as good and pleasant, --and meant ever so much more, --than ifit had been ordering china with a monogram in Dresden, or glass inPrague, with a coat-of-arms engraved. 

When they drove up to the Horseshoe, Dakie Thayne and Ruth met them. They had been getting "spiritual ferns" and sumach leaves withDorris; "the dearest little tips, " Ruth said, "of scarlet andcarbuncle, just like jets of fire. "

And now they would go back to tea, and eat up the brown cake?

"Real Westover summum-bonum cake?" Dakie wanted to know. "Well, hecouldn't stand against that. Come, Ruthie!" And Ruthie came. 

"What do you think Rosamond says?" said Kenneth, at the tea-table, over the cake. "That everybody ought to live in a city or a village, or, at least, a Horseshoe. She thinks nobody has a right to stickhis elbows out, in this world. She's in a great hurry to be packedas closely as possible here. "

"I wish the houses were all finished, and our neighbors in; that iswhat I said, " said Rosamond. "I should like to begin to know aboutthem, and feel settled; and to see flowers in their windows, andlights at night. "

"And you always hated so a 'little crowd!'" said Ruth. 

"It isn't a crowd when they _don't_ crowd, " said Rosamond. "I can'tbear little miserable jostles. "

"How good it will be to see Rosamond here, at the head of her court;at the top of the Horseshoe, " said Dakie Thayne. "She will be quitethe 'Queen of the County. '"

"Don't!" said Rosamond. "I've a very weak spot in my head. You can'ttell the mischief you might do. No, I won't be queen!"

"Any more than you can help, " said Dakie. 

"She'll be Rosa Mundi, wherever she is, " said Ruth affectionately. 

"I think that is just grand of Kenneth and Rosamond, " said DakieThayne, as he and Ruth were walking home up West Hill in themoonlight, afterward. "What do you think you and I ought to do, oneof these days, Ruthie? It sets me to considering. There are moreHorseshoes to make, I suppose, if the world is to jog on. "

"_You_ have a great deal to consider about, " said Ruth, thoughtfully. "It was quite easy for Kenneth and Rosamond tosee what they ought to do. But you might make a great manyHorseshoes, --or something!"

"What do you mean by that second person plural, eh? Are you shirkingyour responsibilities, or are you addressing your imaginaryBoffinses? Come, Ruthie, I can't have that! Say 'we, ' and I'll facethe responsibilities and talk it all out; but I won't have anythingto do with 'you!'"

"Won't you?" said Ruth, with piteous demureness. "How can I say'we, ' then?"

"You little cat! How you can scratch!"

"There are such great things to be done in the world Dakie, " Ruthsaid seriously, when they had got over that with a laugh that liftedher nicely by the "we" question. "I can't help thinking of it. "

"O, " said Dakie, with significant satisfaction. "We're getting onbetter. Well?"

"Do you know what Hazel Ripwinkley is doing? And what LuclarionGrapp has done? Do you know how they are going among poor people, indreadful places, --really living among them, Luclarion is, --andfinding out, and helping, and showing how? I thought of thatto-night, when they talked about living in cities and villages. Luclarion has gone away down to the very bottom of it. And somehow, one can't feel satisfied with only reaching half-way, when oneknows--and might!"

"Do you mean, Ruthie, that you and I might go and _live_ in suchplaces? Do you think I could take you there?"

"I don't know, Dakie, " Ruth answered, forgetting in her earnestness, to blush or hesitate for what he said;--"but I feel as if we oughtto reach down, somehow, --_away_ down! Because that, you see, is the_most_. And to do only a little, in an easy way, when we are made sostrong to do; wouldn't it be a waste of power, and a missing of themeaning? Isn't it the 'much' that is required of us, Dakie?"

They were under the tall hedge of the Holabird "parcel of ground, "on the Westover slope, and close to the home gates. Dakie Thayne puthis arm round Ruth as she said that, and drew her to him. 

"We will go and be neighbors somewhere, Ruthie. And we will make asbig a Horseshoe as we can. "

XXII. 

MORNING GLORIES. 

And Desire?

Do you think I have passed her over lightly in her troubles? Or doyou think I am making her out to have herself passed over themlightly?

Do you think it is hardly to be believed that she should have turnedround from these shocks and pains that bore down so heavily and allat once upon her, and taken kindly to the living with old UncleTitus and Rachel Froke in the Greenley Street house, and going downto Luclarion Grapp's to help wash little children's faces, and teachthem how to have innocent good times? Do you think there is littlemaking up in all that for her, while Rosamond Kincaid is happy inher new home, and Ruth and Dakie Thayne are looking out togetherover the world, --which can be nowhere wholly sad to them, since theyare to go down into it together, --and planning how to make long armswith their wealth, to reach the largest neighborhood they can? Inthe first place, do you know how full the world is, all around you, of things that are missed by those who say nothing, but go on livingsomehow without them? Do you know how large a part of life, evenyoung life, is made of the days that have never been lived? Do youguess how many girls, like Desire, come near something that theythink they might have had, and then see it drift by just beyondtheir reach, to fall easily into some other hand that seems hardlyput out to grasp it?

And do you see, or feel, or guess how life goes on, incompletenessand all, and things settle themselves one way, if not another, simply because the world does not stop, but keeps turning, andtossing off days and nights like time-bubbles just the same?

Do you ever imagine how different this winter's parties are fromlast, or this summer's visit or journey from those of the summergone, --to many a maiden who has her wardrobe made up all the same, and takes her German or her music lessons, and goes in and out, andhas her ticket to the Symphony Concerts, and is no different to lookat, unless perhaps with a little of the first color-freshness goneout of her face, --while secretly it seems to her as if the sweetearly symphony of her life were all played out, and had ended in adiscord?

We begin, most of us, much as we are to go on. Real or mistaken, theexperiences of eighteen initiate the lesson that those of two andthree score after years are needed to unfold and complete. What isleft of us is continually turning round, perforce, to take up withwhat is left of the world, and make the best of it. 

Thus much for what does happen, for what we have to put up with, forthe mere philosophy of endurance, and the possibility of thingsbeing endured. We do live out our years, and get and bear it all. And the scars do not show much outside; nay, even we ourselves canlay a finger on the place, after a little time, without a cringe. 

Desire Ledwith did what she had to do; there was a way made for her, and there was still life left. 

But there is a better reading of the riddle. There is never a"Might-have-been" that touches with a sting, but reveals also to usan inner glimpse of the wide and beautiful "May Be. " It is allthere; somebody else has it now while we wait; but the years of Godare full of satisfying, each soul shall have its turn; it is Hisgood _pleasure_ to give us the kingdom. There is so much room, thereare such thronging possibilities, there is such endless hope!

To feel this, one must feel, however dimly, the inner realm, out ofwhich the shadows of this life come and pass, to interpret to us thelaid up reality. 

"The real world is the inside world. "

Desire Ledwith blessed Uncle Oldways in her heart for giving herthat word. 

It comforted her for her father. If his life here had been hard, toilsome, mistaken even; if it had never come to that it might havecome to; if she, his own child, had somehow missed the reality ofhim here, and he of her, --was he not passed now into the within?Might she not find him there; might they not silently andspiritually, without sign, but needing no sign, begin to understandeach other now? Was not the real family just beginning to be borninto the real home?

Ah, that word _real_! How deep we have to go to find the root of it!It is fast by the throne of God; in the midst. 

Hazel Ripwinkley talked about "real folks. " She sifted, and shefound out instinctively the true livers, the genuine _neahburs_, nigh-dwellers; they who abide alongside in spirit, who shall findeach other in the everlasting neighborhood, when the veil falls. 

But there, behind, --how little, in our petty outside vexations orgladnesses, we stop to think of or perceive it!--is the actual, eventhe present, inhabiting; there is the kingdom, the continuing city, the real heaven and earth in which we already live and labor, andbuild up our homes and lay up our treasure and the loving Christ, and the living Father, and the innumerable company of angels, andthe unseen compassing about of friends gone in there, and they onthis earth who truly belong to us inwardly, however we and they maybe bodily separated, --are the Real Folks!

What matters a little pain, outside? Go _in_, and rest from it!

There is where the joy is, that we read outwardly, spelling byparts imperfectly, in our own and others' mortal experience; thereis the content of homes, the beauty of love, the delight offriendship, --not shut in to any one or two, but making the commonair that all souls breathe. No one heart can be happy, that allhearts may not have a share of it. Rosamond and Kenneth, Dakie andRuth, cannot live out obviously any sweetness of living, cannotsing any notes of the endless, beautiful score, that DesireLedwith, and Luclarion Grapp, and Rachel Froke, and HapsieCraydocke, and old Miss Arabel Waite, do not just as truly get theblessed grace and understanding of; do not catch and feel theperfect and abounding harmony of. Since why? No lip can sound morethan its own few syllables of music; no life show more than itsown few accidents and incidents and groupings; the vast melody, the rich, eternal satisfying, are behind; and the signs are for usall!

You may not think this, or see it so, in your first tussle andset-to with the disappointing and eluding things that seem the realand only, --missing which you miss all. This chapter may be less toyou--less _for_ you, perhaps--than for your elders; the story mayhave ended, as to that you care for, some pages back; but for allthat, this is certain; and Desire Ledwith has begun to find it, forshe is one of those true, grand spirits to whom personal loss orfrustration are most painful as they seem to betoken somethingwrong or failed in the general scheme and justice. This terrible"why should it be?" once answered, --once able to say to themselvesquietly, "It is all right; the beauty and the joy are there; thesong is sung, though we are of the listeners; the miracle-play isplayed, though but a few take literal part, and many of us look on, with the play, like the song, moving through our souls only, or oursouls moving in the vital sphere of it, where the stage is wideenough for all;"--once come to this, they have entered already intothat which is behind, and nothing of all that goes forth thence intothe earth to make its sunshine can be shut off from them forever. 

Desire is learning to be glad, thinking of Kenneth and Rosamond, that this fair marriage should have been. It is so just and exactlybest; Rosamond's sweet graciousness is so precisely what Kenneth'ssterner way needed to have shine upon it; her finding and making ofall manner of pleasantness will be so good against his sharpdiscernment of the wrong; they will so beautifully temper andsustain each other!

Desire is so generous, so glad of the truth, that she can standaside, and let this better thing be, and say to herself that it _is_better. 

Is not this that she is growing to inwardly, more blessed than anymarriage or giving in marriage? Is it not a partaking of theheavenly Marriage Supper?

"We two might have grumbled at the world until we grumbled at eachother. "

She even said that, calmly and plainly, to herself. 

And then that manna was fed to her afresh of which she had beengiven first to eat so long a while ago; that thought of "the Lamb inthe midst of the Throne" came back to her. Of the Tenderness deepwithin the Almightiness that holds all earth and heaven and time andcircumstance in its grasp. Her little, young, ignorant human heartbegins to rest in that great warmth and gentleness; begins to beglad to wait there for what shall arise out of it, moving theAlmightiness for her, --even on purpose for her, --in the by-and-by;she begins to be sure; of what, she knows not, --but of a great, blessed, beautiful something, that just because she is at all, shallbe for her; that she shall have a part, somehow, even in the_showing_ of His good; that into the beautiful miracle-play sheshall be called, and a new song be given her, also, to sing in thegrand, long, perfect oratorio; she begins to pray quietly, that, "loving the Lord, always above all things, she may obtain Hispromises, which exceed all that she can desire. "

And waiting, resting, believing, she begins also to work. Thisbeginning is even as an ending and forehaving, to any human soul. 

I will tell you how she woke one morning; of a little poem thatwrote itself along her chamber wall. 

It was a square, pleasant old room, with a window in an angle towardthe east. A great, old-fashioned mirror hung opposite, between thewindows that looked out north-westwardly; the morning and theevening light came in upon her. Beside the solid, quaint oldfurnishings of a long past time, there were also around her thethings she had been used to at home; her own little oldrocking-chair, her desk and table, and her toilet and mantelornaments and things of use. A pair of candle-branches with droppinglustres, --that she had marveled at and delighted in as a child, andhad begged for herself when they fell into disuse in thedrawing-room, --stood upon the chimney along which the firstsun-rays glanced. Just in those days of the year, they struck in soas to shine level through the clear prisms, and break into a hundredlittle rainbows. 

She opened her eyes, this fair October morning, and lay and lookedat the little scattered glories. 

All around the room, on walls, curtains, ceiling, --falling likebright soft jewels upon table and floor, touching everything with amagic splendor, --were globes and shafts of colored light. Softlyblended from glowing red to tenderly fervid blue, they lay invarious forms and fragments, as the beam refracted or the objectscaught them. 

Just on the edge of the deep, opposite window-frame, clung onevivid, separate flash of perfect azure, all alone, and farthest offof all. 

Desire wondered, at first glance, how it should happen till she saw, against a closet-door ajar, a gibbous sphere of red and goldenflame. Yards apart the points were, and a shadow lay between; butthe one sure sunbeam knew no distance, and there was no radiant lineof the spectrum lost. 

Desire remembered her old comparison of complementary colors: "tosee blue, and to live red, " she had said, complaining. 

But now she thought, --"Foreshortening! In so many things, that isall, --if we could only see as the Sun sees!"

One bit of our living, by itself, all one deep, burning, bleedingcolor, maybe; but the globe is white, --the blue is somewhere. And, lo! a soft, still motion; a little of the flame-tint has droppedoff; it has leaped to join itself to the blue; it gives itself over;and they are beautiful together, --they fulfill each other; yet, inthe changing never a thread falls quite away into the dark. Why, itis like love joining itself to love again!

As God's sun climbs the horizon, His steadfast, gracious purpose, striking into earthly conditions, seems to break, and scatter, anddivide. Half our heart is here, half there; our need and ache aresevered from their help and answer; the tender blue waits far offfor the eager, asking red; yet just as surely as His light shineson, and our life moves under it, so surely, across whatever gulf, the beauty shall all be one again; so surely does it even now moveall together, perfect and close always under His eye, who neversends a _half_ ray anywhere. 

 * * * * *

She read her little poem, --sent to her; she read it through. Sherose up glad and strong; her room was full of glorious sunshine now;the broken bits of color were all taken up in one full pouring ofthe day. 

She went down with the light of it in her heart, and all about her. 

Uncle Oldways met her at the foot of the wide staircase. "Good-day, child!" he said to her in his quaint fashion. "Why it _is_ good day!Your face shines. "

"You have given me a beautiful east window, uncle, " said Desire, "and the morning has come in!"

And from the second step, where she still stood, she bent forward alittle, put her hands softly upon his shoulders, and for the firsttime, kissed his cheek.