THE TANGLED THREADS

by

ELEANOR H. PORTER

New YorkThe Christian HeraldBible House

Copyright, 1919, by Eleanor H. PorterAll Rights Reserved

Contents

 A DELAYED HERITAGE THE FOLLY OF WISDOM CRUMBS A FOUR-FOOTED FAITH AND A TWO A MATTER OF SYSTEM ANGELUS THE APPLE OF HER EYE A MUSHROOM OF COLLINGSVILLE THAT ANGEL BOY THE LADY IN BLACK THE SAVING OF DAD MILLIONAIRE MIKE'S THANKSGIVING WHEN MOTHER FELL ILL THE GLORY AND THE SACRIFICE THE DALTONS AND THE LEGACY THE LETTER THE INDIVISIBLE FIVE THE ELEPHANT'S BOARD AND KEEP A PATRON OF ART WHEN POLLY ANN PLAYED SANTA CLAUS

The stories in this volume are here reprinted by the courteouspermission of the publishers of the periodicals in which they firstappeared, --Lippincott's Magazine, The Metropolitan Magazine, McCall'sMagazine, Harper's Magazine, The American Magazine, Progress Magazine, The Arena, The Christian Endeavor World, The Congregationalist andChristian World, The Housewife, Harper's Bazar [Transcriber's note:Bazaar?], Judge's Library Magazine, The New England Magazine, People'sShort Story Magazine, The Christian Herald, The Ladies' World. 

The Tangled Threads

A Delayed Heritage

When Hester was two years old a wheezy hand-organ would set her eyes tosparkling and her cheeks to dimpling, and when she was twenty the"Maiden's Prayer, " played by a school-girl, would fill her soul withecstasy. 

To Hester, all the world seemed full of melody. Even the clouds in thesky sailed slowly along in time to a stately march in her brain, ordanced to the tune of a merry schottische that sounded for her earsalone. And when she saw the sunset from the hill behind her home, therewas always music then--low and tender if the colors were soft andpale-tinted, grand and awful if the wind blew shreds and tatters ofstorm-clouds across a purpling sky. All this was within Hester; butwithout--

There had been but little room in Hester's life for music. Her days werean endless round of dish-washing and baby-tending--first for her mother, later for herself. There had been no money for music lessons, no timefor piano practice. Hester's childish heart had swelled with bitter envywhenever she saw the coveted music roll swinging from some playmate'shand. At that time her favorite "make-believe" had been to play at goingfor a music lesson, with a carefully modeled roll of brown papersuspended by a string from her fingers. 

Hester was forty now. Two sturdy boys and a girl of nine gave her threehungry mouths to feed and six active feet to keep in holeless stockings. Her husband had been dead two years, and life was a struggle and aproblem. The boys she trained rigorously, giving just measure of loveand care; but the girl--ah, Penelope should have that for which sheherself had so longed. Penelope should take music lessons!

During all those nine years since Penelope had come to her, frequentdimes and quarters, with an occasional half-dollar, had found their wayinto an old stone jar on the top shelf in the pantry. It had been adreary and pinching economy that had made possible this horde of silver, and its effects had been only too visible in Hester's turned and mendedgarments, to say nothing of her wasted figure and colorless cheeks. Penelope was nine now, and Hester deemed it a fitting time to begin thespending of her treasured wealth. 

First, the instrument: it must be a rented one, of course. Hester wentabout the labor of procuring it in a state of exalted bliss that was in ameasure compensation for her long years of sacrifice. 

Her task did not prove to be a hard one. The widow Butler, about to goSouth for the winter, was more than glad to leave her piano in Hester'stender care, and the dollar a month rent which Hester at first insistedupon paying was finally cut in half, much to the widow Butler'ssatisfaction and Hester's grateful delight. This much accomplished, Hester turned her steps toward the white cottage wherein lived MargaretGale, the music teacher. 

Miss Gale, careful, conscientious, but of limited experience, placed herservices at the disposal of all who could pay the price--thirty-fivecents an hour; and she graciously accepted the name of her new pupil, entering "Penelope Martin" on her books for Saturday mornings at teno'clock. Then Hester went home to tell her young daughter of the blissin store for her. 

Strange to say, she had cherished the secret of the old stone jar allthese years, and had never told Penelope of her high destiny. Shepictured now the child's joy, unconsciously putting her own nine-year-oldmusic-hungry self in Penelope's place. 

"Penelope, " she called gently. 

There was a scurrying of light feet down the uncarpeted back stairs, andPenelope, breathless, rosy, and smiling, appeared in the doorway. 

"Yes, mother. "

"Come with me, child, " said Hester, her voice sternly solemn in hereffort to keep from shouting her glad tidings before the time. 

The woman led the way through the kitchen and dining-room and threw openthe parlor door, motioning her daughter into the somber room. Therose-color faded from Penelope's cheeks. 

"Why, mother! what--what is it? Have I been--naughty?" she faltered. 

Mrs. Martin's tense muscles relaxed and she laughed hysterically. 

"No, dearie, no! I--I have something to tell you, " she answered, drawingthe child to her and smoothing back the disordered hair. "What would yourather have--more than anything else in the world?" she asked; then, unable to keep her secret longer, she burst out, "I've got it, Penelope!--oh, I've got it!"

The little girl broke from the restraining arms and danced wildly aroundthe room. 

"Mother! Really? As big as me? And will it talk--say 'papa' and'mamma, ' you know?"

"What!"

Something in Hester's dismayed face brought the prancing feet to a suddenstop. 

"It--it's a doll, is n't it?" the child stammered. 

Hester's hands grew cold. 

"A--a doll!" she gasped. 

Penelope nodded--the light gone from her eyes. 

For a moment the woman was silent; then she threw back her head with alittle shake and laughed forcedly. 

"A doll!--why, child, it's as much nicer than a doll as--as you canimagine. It's a piano, dear--a pi-a-no!" she repeated impressively, allthe old enthusiasm coming back at the mere mention of the magic word. 

"Oh!" murmured Penelope, with some show of interest. 

"And you're to learn to play on it!"

"Oh-h!" said Penelope again, but with less interest. 

"To play on it! Just think, dear, how fine that will be!" The woman'svoice was growing wistful. 

"Take lessons? Like Mamie, you mean?"

"Yes, dear. "

"But--she has to practice and--"

"Of course, " interrupted Hester eagerly. "That's the best part ofit--the practice. "

"Mamie don't think so, " observed Penelope dubiously. 

"Then Mamie can't know, " rejoined Hester with decision, bravely combatingthe chill that was creeping over her. "Come, dear, help mother to cleara space, so we may be ready when the piano comes, " she finished, crossingthe room and moving a chair to one side. 

But when the piano finally arrived, Penelope was as enthusiastic as evenher mother could wish her to be, and danced about it with proud joy. Itwas after the child had left the house, however, that Hester came withreverent step into the darkened room and feasted her eyes to her heart'scontent on the reality of her dreams. 

Half fearfully she extended her hand and softly pressed the tip of herfourth finger to one of the ivory keys; then with her thumb she touchedanother a little below. The resulting dissonance gave her a vagueunrest, and she gently slipped her thumb along until the harmony of amajor sixth filled her eyes with quick tears. 

"Oh, if I only could!" she whispered, and pressed the chord again, rapturously listening to the vibrations as they died away in the quietroom. Then she tiptoed out and closed the door behind her. 

During the entire hour of that first Saturday morning lesson Mrs. Martinhovered near the parlor door, her hands and feet refusing to performtheir accustomed duties. The low murmur of the teacher's voice and anoccasional series of notes were to Hester the mysterious rites before asacred shrine, and she listened in reverent awe. When Miss Gale had leftthe house, Mrs. Martin hurried to Penelope's side. 

"How did it go? What did she say? Play me what she taught you, " sheurged excitedly. 

Penelope tossed a consequential head and gave her mother a scornfulglance. 

"Pooh! mother, the first lesson ain't much. I've got to practice. "

"Of course, " acknowledged Hester in conciliation; "but how?--what?"

"That--and that--and from there to there, " said Penelope, indicating witha pink forefinger certain portions of the page before her. 

"Oh!" breathed Hester, regarding the notes with eager eyes. Thentimidly, "Play--that one. "

With all the importance of absolute certainty Penelope struck _C_. 

"And that one. "

Penelope's second finger hit _F_. 

"And that--and that--and that, " swiftly demanded Hester. 

Penelope's cheeks grew pink, but her fingers did not falter. Hester drewa long breath. 

"Oh, how quick you've learned 'em!" she exclaimed. 

Her daughter hesitated a tempted moment. 

"Well--I--I learned the notes in school, " she finally acknowledged, looking sidewise at her mother. 

But even this admission did not lessen for Hester the halo of glory aboutPenelope's head. She drew another long breath. 

"But what else did Miss Gale say? Tell me everything--every singlething, " she reiterated hungrily. 

That was not only Penelope's first lesson, but Hester's. The child, flushed and important with her sudden promotion from pupil to teacher, scrupulously repeated each point in the lesson, and the woman, humble andearnestly attentive, listened with bated breath. Then, Penelope, stillairily consequential, practiced for almost an hour. 

Monday, when the children were at school, Hester stole into the parlorand timidly seated herself at the piano. 

"I think--I am almost sure I could do it, " she whispered, studying witheager eyes the open book on the music rack. "I--I'm going to try, anyhow!" she finished resolutely. 

And Hester did try, not only then, but on Tuesday, Wednesday, and thusuntil Saturday--that Saturday which brought with it a second lesson. 

The weeks passed swiftly after that. Hester's tasks seemed lighter andher burdens less grievous since there was now that ever-presentrefuge--the piano. It was marvelous what a multitude of headaches andheartaches five minutes of scales, even, could banish; and when actualpresence at the piano was impossible, there were yet memory andanticipation left her. 

For two of these weeks Penelope practiced her allotted hour with apatience born of the novelty of the experience. The third week the"hour" dwindled perceptibly, and the fourth week it was scarcely thirtyminutes long. 

"Come, dearie, don't forget your practice, " Hester sometimes cautionedanxiously. 

"Oh, dear me suz!" Penelope would sigh, and Hester would watch her withpuzzled eyes as she disconsolately pulled out the piano stool. 

"Penelope, " she threatened one day, "I shall certainly stop yourlessons--you don't half appreciate them. " But she was shocked andfrightened at the relief that so quickly showed in her young daughter'seyes. Hester never made that threat again, for if Penelope's lessonsstopped--

As the weeks lengthened into months, bits of harmony and snatches ofmelody became more and more frequent in Penelope's lessons, and the"exercises" were supplemented by occasional "pieces"--simple, yetboasting a name. But when Penelope played "Down by the Mill, " one heardonly the notes--accurate, rhythmic, an excellent imitation; when Hesterplayed it, one might catch the whir of the wheel, the swish of thefoaming brook, and almost the spicy smell of the sawdust, so vividly wasthe scene brought to mind. 

Many a time, now, the old childhood dreams came back to Hester, and herfingers would drift into tender melodies and minor chords not on theprinted page, until all the stifled love and longing of those dreary, colorless years of the past found voice at her finger-tips. 

The stately marches and the rollicking dances of the cloud music cameeasily at her beck and call--now grave, now gay; now slow and measured, now tripping in weird harmonies and gay melodies. 

Hester's blood quickened and her cheeks grew pink. Her eyes lost theiryearning look and her lips their wistful curves. 

Every week she faithfully took her lesson of Penelope, and she practicedonly that when the children were about. It was when they were at schooland she was alone that the great joy of this new-found treasure ofimprovising came to her, and she could set free her heart and soul on theivory keys. 

She was playing thus one night--forgetting time, self, and that Penelopewould soon be home from school--when the child entered the house andstopped, amazed, in the parlor doorway. As the last mellow note diedinto silence, Penelope dropped her books and burst into tears. 

"Why, darling, what is it?" cried Hester. "What can be the matter?"

"I--I don't know, " faltered Penelope, looking at her mother with startledeyes. "Why--why did n't you tell me?"

"Tell you?"

"That--that you could--p-play that way! I--I did n't know, " she wailedwith another storm of sobs, rushing into her mother's arms. 

Hester's clasp tightened about the quivering little form and her eyesgrew luminous. 

"Dearie, " she began very softly, "there was once a little girl--a littlegirl like you. She was very, very poor, and all her days were full ofwork. She had no piano, no music lessons--but, oh, how she longed forthem! The trees and the grass and the winds and the flowers sang all dayin her ears, but she could n't tell what they said. By and by, aftermany, many years, this little girl grew up and a dear little babydaughter came to her. She was still very, very poor, but she saved andscrimped, and scrimped and saved, for she meant that this baby girlshould not long and long for the music that never came. _She_ shouldhave music lessons. "

"Was it--me?" whispered Penelope, with tremulous lips. 

Hester drew a long breath. 

"Yes, dear. I was the little girl long ago, and you are the little girlof to-day. And when the piano came, Penelope, I found in it all thosesongs that the winds and the trees used to sing to me. Now the sunshines brighter and the birds sing sweeter--and all this beautiful worldis yours--all yours. Oh, Penelope, are n't you glad?"

Penelope raised a tear-wet face and looked into her mother's shining eyes. 

"Glad?--oh, mother!" she cried fervently. Then very softly, "Mother--doyou think--could you teach _me_?-- Oh, I want to play just likethat--just like that!"

The Folly of Wisdom

Until his fiftieth year Jason Hartsorn knew nothing whatever about theposition of his liver, kidneys, lungs, heart, spleen, and stomach exceptthat they must be somewhere inside of him; then he attended the auctionof old Doctor Hemenway's household effects and bid off for twenty-fivecents a dilapidated clothes basket, filled with books and pamphlets. Jason's education as to his anatomy began almost at once then, for on theway home he fished out a coverless volume from the basket and became lostin awed wonder over a pictured human form covered from scalp to the toeswith scarlet, vine-like tracings. 

"For the land's sake, Jason!" ejaculated Mrs. Hartsorn, as her husbandcame puffing into the kitchen with his burden an hour later. "Now, whattrash have you been buyin'?"

"'Trash'!" panted Jason, carefully setting the basket down. "I guess youwon't call it no 'trash' when you see what 't is! It's books--learnin', Hitty. I been readin' one of 'em, too. Look a-here, " and he pulled uphis shirt sleeve and bared a brawny arm; "that's all full of teeny littlepipes an' cords. Why, if I could only skin it--"

"Jason!" screamed his wife, backing away. 

"Pooh! 'T ain't nothin' to fret over, " retorted Jason airily. "Besides, you've got 'em too--ev'ry one has; see!" He finished by snatching up thebook and spreading before her horrified eyes the pictured figure with itsscarlet, vine-like tracings. 

"Oh-h!" shivered the woman, and fled from the room. 

Shivers and shudders became almost second nature to Mehitable Hartsornduring the days that followed. The highly colored, carefully explainedillustrations of the kidneys, liver, heart, and lungs which the booksdisplayed were to her only a little less terrifying than the thought thather own body contained the fearsome things in reality; while to herhusband these same illustrations were but the delightful means to a stillmore delightful end--finding in his own sturdy frame the position ofevery organ shown. 

For a month Jason was happy. Then it was suddenly borne in upon him thatnot always were these fascinating new acquaintances of his in a healthycondition. At once he began to pinch and pummel himself, and to watchfor pains, being careful, meanwhile, to study the books unceasingly, sothat he might know just where to look for the pains when they shouldcome. He counted his pulse daily--hourly, if he apprehended trouble; andhis tongue he examined critically every morning, being particular tonotice whether or not it were pale, moist, coated, red, raw, cracked, ortremulous. 

Jason was not at all well that spring. He was threatened successivelywith typhoid fever, appendicitis, consumption, and cholera, and onlyescaped a serious illness in each case by the prompt application ofremedies prescribed in his books. His wife ran the whole gamut ofemotions from terror, worry, and sympathy down to indifference andgood-natured tolerance, reaching the last only after the repeated failureof Jason's diseases to materialize. 

It was about a week after Jason had mercifully escaped an attack of thecholera that he came into the kitchen one morning and dropped heavilyinto the nearest chair. 

"I tell ye, my heart ain't right, " he announced to his wife. "It's goin'jest like Jehu--'palpitation, ' they call it; an' I've got 'shortness ofbreath, ' too, " he finished triumphantly. 

"Hm-m; did ye catch her at last?" asked Mehitable with mild interest. 

Jason looked up sharply. 

"'Catch her'! Catch who?" he demanded. 

"Why, the colt, of course! How long did ye have ter chase her?" Mrs. Hartsorn's carefully modulated voice expressed curiosity, and that wasall. 

Jason flushed angrily. 

"Oh, I know what ye mean, " he snapped. "Ye think thar don't nothin' ailme, an' that jest fetchin' Dolly from the pasture did it all. But I knowwhat them symptoms means; they mean heart disease, woman, --'cardiacfailure, '--that's what 't is. " Jason leaned back in his chair and drew along breath. When he could remember his "book-learnin'" and give ahigh-sounding name to his complaint, his gratification was enhanced. 

"Hm-m; mebbe 't is, Jason, " retorted his wife; "but I'm a-thinkin' thatwhen a man of your heft and years goes kitin' 'round a ten-acre lot atthe tail of a fly-away colt, he'll have all that kind of heart disease hewants, an' still live ter die of somethin' else!" And Mehitablecheerfully banged the oven door after making sure that her biscuits werenot getting too brown. 

As it happened, however, there was really no chance for Jason's heartdisease to develop, for that night he scratched his finger, which broughtabout the much more imminent danger of blood-poisoning--"toxemia, " Jasonsaid it was. For a time the whole household was upset, and Mehitable waskept trotting from morning till night with sponges, cloths, cotton, andbowls of curious-smelling liquids, while Jason discoursed on antiseptics, germs, bacteria, microbes, and bacilli. 

The finger was nearly well when he suddenly discovered that, after all, the trouble might have been lock-jaw instead of blood-poisoning. He atonce began studying the subject so that he might be prepared should thething occur again. He was glad, later, that he had done so, for theFourth of July and a toy pistol brought all his recently acquiredknowledge into instant requisition. 

"If it does come, it's 'most likely ter be fatal, " he said excitedly tohis wife, who was calmly bathing a slight graze on his hand. "An' yewant ter watch me, " he added, catching up a book with his uninjured handand turning to a much-thumbed page for reference. "Now, listen. Thar'sdiff'rent kinds of it. They're all 'te-ta-nus, ' but ye got to watch outter find out which kind 't is. If I shut my jaws up tight, it's'lock-jaw. ' If I bend backwards, it's 'o-pis-tho-to-nos. ' If I bendforwards, it's 'em-pros-tho-to-nos'; an' if I bend ter one side, it's'pleu-ro-tho-to-nos, '" he explained, pronouncing the long words after afashion of his own. "Now, remember, " he finished. "Like enough I shan'tknow enough ter tell which kind 't is myself, nor which way I ama-leanin'. "

"No, of course not, dear, " agreed Mehitable cheerfully; "an' I'llremember, " she promised, as she trotted away with her salves and bowlsand bandages. 

For some days Jason "tried" his jaw at regular intervals, coming to theconclusion at last that fate once more was kind, and that "te-ta-nus" wasto pass him by. 

The summer ended and autumn came. Jason was glad that the cold weatherwas approaching. The heat had been trying. He had almost suffered asunstroke, and twice a mosquito bite had given him much trouble--he hadfeared that he would die of malignant pustule. His relief at the comingof cool weather was short-lived, however, for one of the neighboringtowns developed a smallpox scare, and as he discovered a slight rash soonafter passing through the place, he thought best to submit tovaccination. He caught a bad cold, too, and was sure pneumonia wassetting in--that is, he would have been sure, only his throat was so sorethat he could not help thinking it might be diphtheria. 

Realizing the seriousness of the situation, and determining to settleonce for all the vexed question, he pored over his books in an exhaustivesearch for symptoms. It was then that he rushed into the presence of hiswife one morning, his face drawn, his eyes wildly staring, and an openbook in his shaking hand. 

"Hitty, Hitty, " he cried; "jest listen ter this! How 'm I goin' ter tellwhat ails me, I should like ter know, if I don't ache where I'm sick?Why, Hitty, I can't never tell! Jest listen:

 The location of pain is not always at the seat of disease. In hip disease the pain is not first felt in the hip, but in the knee-joint. In chronic inflammation of the liver the pain is generally most severe in the right shoulder and arm. 

"Only think, Hitty, 'In the right shoulder and arm'! Why, I had a painright in that spot only yesterday. So that's what I'vegot--'hip-disease'! an'--oh, no, " he broke off suddenly, consulting hisbook, "'t ain't hip-disease when the shoulder aches--it's the liver, then. "

"Well, well, Jason, I don't think I should fret, " soothed Mehitable. "Ifye don't know, where's the diff'rence? Now I've got a pain right now inmy little toe. Like enough that means I 'm comin' down with the mumps;eh?"

"Hitty!" Jason's voice was agonized. He had been paying no attention tohis wife's words, but had been reading on down the page. "Hitty, listen!It says--'Absence of pain in any disease where ordinarily it should bepresent is an unfavorable sign. ' An', Hitty, I hain't got an ache--not asingle ache, this minute!"

There was no possibility of quieting Jason after that, and the days thatfollowed were hard for all concerned. If he had an ache he wasterrified; if he did not have one, he was more so. He began, also, todistrust his own powers of diagnosis, and to study all the patentmedicine advertisements he could lay his hands on. He was halfcomforted, half appalled, to read them. Far from being able to pick outhis own particular malady from among the lot, he was forced to admit thatas near as he could make out he had one or more symptoms of each andevery disease that was mentioned. 

"Now, Hitty, I'll leave it to you, " he submitted plaintively. "Here's'Dread of impending evil. ' Now I've got that, sure; ye know I'm alwaysthinkin' somethin' dreadful's goin' ter happen. 'Sparks before theeyes. ' There! I had them only jest ter-day. I was sweepin' out thebarn, an' I see 'em hoppin' up an' down in a streak of sunshine that comethrough a crack. 'Variable appetite. ' Now, Hitty, don't ye remember?Yesterday I wanted pie awful, an' I ate a whole one; well, this mornin'seems as if I never wanted ter see an apple pie again. Now, if thatain't 'variable, ' I don't know what is. 'Inquietude. '"

"Humph! You've got that all right, " cut in Mehitable. 

"'Weakness. ' I hain't got a mite o' strength, Hitty, " he complained. "An' thar 's dizziness, too, --I can't chase the calf three times roundthe barnyard but what my head is jest swimmin'! An' Hitty, "--his voicegrew impressive, --"Hitty, I've got ev'ry one of them six symptoms, ev'ryblamed one of 'em, an' I picked 'em out of six diff'rentadvertisements--six! Now, Hitty, which disease is it I've got? That'swhat I want ter know--which?"

His wife could not tell him; in fact, no one could tell him, and in sheerdesperation Jason answered all six of the advertisements, determined tofind out for a certainty what ailed him. 

In due course the answers came. Jason read one, then another, thenanother, until the contents of the entire six had been mastered. Then heraised his head and gazed straight into his wife's eyes. 

"Hitty, " he gasped. "I've got 'em all! An' I've got ter take the wholesix medicines ter cure me!"

Even Mehitable was stirred then. For one long minute she was silent, then she squared her shoulders, and placed her hands on her hips. 

"Jason Hartsorn, " she began determinedly, "this thing has gone jest asfur as I'm goin' to stand it. Do you bundle yourself off ter Boston an'hunt up the biggest doctor you can find. If he says somethin' ails ye, I'll believe him, an' nuss ye ter the best of my ability; but as furnussin' ye through six things--an' them all ter once--I won't! So there. "

Twenty-four hours later Jason faced a square-jawed, smooth-shaven man wholooked sharply into his eyes with a curt, "Well, sir?"

Jason cleared his throat. 

"Well, ye see, doctor, " he began, "somethin' ails me, an' I ain't quitesure what 't is. I 've been poorly since last spring, but it's been kindof puzzlin'. Now, fur instance: I had a pain in my knee, so I felt sure'twas hip-disease, but it jumped ter my shoulder, so 'course then I knew't was my liver. "

The doctor made a sudden movement. He swung squarely around in hisoffice chair and faced Jason. 

Jason was pleased--his learning had already made an impression! Heraised his chin and went on with renewed confidence. 

"Ye see I was afraid my liver, or mebbe one o' my kidneys, was hardenin'or floatin' round loose, or doin' somethin' else they had n't orter. Lately, thar's been days, lots of 'em, when I hain't had no pain--not amite, an' 'course that's the worst symptom of all. Then sometimes thar'sbeen such shootin' pains that I kind o' worried fur fear 'twas locomotiveataxia; but mebbe the very next day it would change so's I did n't knowbut 'twas appendicitis, an' that my vermi-er-vermicelli appendix was thetrouble. "

The doctor coughed--he not only coughed, but he choked, so that Jason hadto pause for a moment; but it was only for a moment. 

"I 'most had diphtheria, an' pneumonia, an' smallpox this fall, " heresumed complacently; "an' thar's six other diseases that I got symptomsof--that is, partly, you know:--'Variable appetite, ' an' 'Inquietude, 'an' all that. "

"Hm-m, " said the doctor, slowly, his eyes averted. "Well, we'll--make anexamination. Come in here, please, " he added, leading the way to aninner room. 

"Gorry!" ejaculated Jason some minutes later, when he was once more backin his chair, "I should think you might know what ails me now--after allthat thumpin' an' poundin' an' listenin'!"

"I do, " said the doctor. 

"Well, 't ain't six of 'em; is it?" There was mingled hope and fear inJason's voice. If it were six--he could see Hitty's face!

"Any physicians in your family?" asked the doctor, ignoring Jason'squestion. 

Jason shook his head. 

"Hm-m, " commented the doctor. "Ever been any?"

"Why, not as I know of, sir, " murmured Jason wonderingly. 

"No? Where did you get them, then, --those medical books?"

Jason stared. 

"Why, how in thunder did you know--" he began. 

But the doctor interrupted him. 

"Never mind that. You have them, have n't you?"

"Why, yes; I bought 'em at an auction. I bought 'em last--"

"Spring--eh?" supplied the doctor. 

Jason's mouth fell open. 

"Never mind, " laughed the doctor again, his hand upraised. "Now tobusiness!" And his face grew suddenly grave. "You're in a bad way, myfriend. "

"B-bad way?" stammered Jason. "It--it is n't six that ails me?"

It was all fear this time in Jason's voice; some way the doctor's facehad carried conviction. 

"No; you are threatened with more than six. "

"Wha-at?" Jason almost sprang from his seat. "But, doctor, theyain't--dangerous!"

"But they are, very!"

"All of them? Why, doctor, how--how many are thar?"

The doctor shook his head. 

"I could not count them, " he replied, not meeting Jason's eyes. 

"Oh-h!" gasped Jason, and shook in his shoes. There was a long silence. "An' will I--die?" he almost whispered. 

"We all must--sometime, " returned the doctor, slowly, as if weighing hiswords; "but you will die long before your time--unless you do one thing. "

"I'll do it, doctor, I'll do it--if I have ter mortgage the farm, "chattered Jason frenziedly. "I'll do anythin'--anythin'; only tell mewhat it is. "

"I will tell you, " declared the doctor briskly, with a sudden change ofmanner, whisking about in his chair. "Go home and burn those medicalbooks--every single one of them. "

"Burn them! Why, doctor, them's the very things that made me know I wassick. I should n't 'a' come ter you at all if it had n't been fur them. "

"Exactly!" agreed the doctor, rubbing his hands together. "That's justwhat I thought. You were well before, were n't you?"

"Why, yes, --that is, I did n't know I was sick, " corrected Jason. 

"Hm-m; well, you won't know it now if you'll go home and burn thosebooks. If you don't burn them you'll have every disease there is inthem, and some one of them will be the death of you. As it is now, you're a well man, but I would n't trust one organ of your anatomy withina rod of those books an hour longer!"

He said more--much more; and that his words were not without effect wasshown no later than that same evening when Jason burst into the kitchenat home. 

"Hitty, Hitty, thar ain't six, thar ain't one, thar ain't nothin' thatails me, " he cried jubilantly, still under the sway of the joy that hadbeen his when the great doctor had told him there was yet one chance forhis life. "Thar ain't a single thing!"

"Well, now, ain't that nice?" murmured Hitty, as she drew up the chairs. "Come, Jason, supper's ready. "

"An' Hitty, I'm goin' ter burn 'em up--them books of Hemenway's, "continued Jason confidentially. "They ain't very good readin', afterall, an' like enough they're kind of out of date, bein' so old. I guessI'll go fetch 'em now, " he added as he left the room. "Why, Hitty, they're--gone!" he cried a minute later from the doorway. 

"Gone? Books?" repeated Mehitable innocently. "Oh, yes, I remember now. I must 'a' burned 'em this mornin'. Ye see, they cluttered up so. Come, Jason, set down. "

And Jason sat down. But all the evening he wondered. "Was it possible, after all, that Hitty--knew?"

Crumbs

The Story of a Discontented Woman

The floor was untidy, the sink full of dirty dishes, and the stove avariegated thing of gray and dull red. At the table, head bowed onoutstretched arms, was Kate Merton, twenty-one, discouraged, and solemistress of the kitchen in which she sat. The pleasant-faced, slenderlittle woman in the doorway paused irresolutely on the threshold, thenwalked with a brisk step into the room. "Is the water hot?" she askedcheerily. The girl at the table came instantly to her feet. 

"Aunt Ellen!" she cried, aghast. 

"Oh, yes, it's lovely, " murmured the lady, peering into the copperboiler on the stove. 

"But, auntie, you--I"--the girl paused helplessly. 

"Let's see, are these the wipers?" pursued Mrs. Howland, her hand onone of the towels hanging behind the stove. 

Kate's face hardened. 

"Thank you, Aunt Ellen. You are very kind, but I can do quite well bymyself. You will please go into the living-room. I don't allowcompany to do kitchen work. "

"Of course not!" acquiesced Mrs. Howland imperturbably. "But yourfather's sister is n't company, you know. Let's see, you put yourclean dishes here?"

"But, Aunt Ellen, you must n't, " protested Kate. "At home you donothing--nothing all day. " A curious expression came into Mrs. Howland's face, but Kate Merton did not seem to notice. "You haveservants to do everything, even to dressing you. No, you can't wipe mydishes. "

For a long minute there was silence in the kitchen. Mrs. Howland, wiper in hand, stood looking out the window. Her lips parted, thenclosed again. When she finally turned and spoke, the old smile hadcome back to her face. 

"Then if that is the case, it will be all the more change for me to dosomething, " she said pleasantly. "I want to do them, Kate. It will bea pleasure to me. "

"Pleasure!"

Mrs. Rowland's clear laugh rang through the kitchen at the scornexpressed in the one word. 

"And is it so bad as that?" she demanded merrily. 

"Worse!" snapped Kate. "I simply loathe dishes!" But a shamed smilecame to her lips, and she got the pans and water, making no furtherobjection. 

"I like pretty dishes, " observed Mrs. Howland, after a time, breaking along silence. "There's a certain satisfaction in restoring them totheir shelves in all their dainty, polished beauty. "

"I should like them just as well if they always stayed there, and didn't come down to get all crumbs and grease in the sink, " returned theother tartly. 

"Oh, of course, " agreed Mrs. Howland, with a smile; "but, as long asthey don't, why, we might as well take what satisfaction there is inputting them in shape again. "

"Don't see it--the satisfaction, " retorted Kate, and her aunt droppedthe subject where it was. 

The dishes finished and the kitchen put to rights, the two womenstarted for the chambers and the bed-making. Kate's protests wereairily waved aside by the energetic little woman who promptly went topillow-beating and mattress-turning. 

"How fresh and sweet the air smells!" cried Mrs. Howland, sniffing atthe open window. 

"Lilacs, " explained Kate concisely. 

"Hm-m--lovely!"

"Think so? I don't care for the odor myself, " rejoined Kate. 

The other shot a quick look from under lowered lids. Kate's faceexpressed mere indifference. The girl evidently had not meant to berude. 

"You don't like them?" cried Mrs. Howland. "Oh, I do! My dear, youdon't half appreciate what it is to have such air to breathe. Onlythink, if you were shut up in a brick house on a narrow street as I am!"

"Think!" retorted Kate, with sudden heat. "I 'd like to do somethingbesides 'think'! I 'd like to try it!"

"You mean you'd like to leave here?--to go to the city?"

"I do, certainly. Aunt Ellen, I'm simply sick of chicken-feeding andmeal-getting. Why, if it was n't for keeping house for father I 'dhave been off to New York or Boston years ago!"

"But your home--your friends!"

"Commonplace--uninteresting!" declared Kate, disposing of both with awave of her two hands. "The one means endless sweeping and baking; theother means sewing societies, and silly gossip over clothes, beaux, andcrops. "

Mrs. Howland laughed, though she sobered instantly. 

"But there must be something, some one that you enjoy, " she suggested. 

Kate shook her head wearily. 

"Not a thing, not a person, " she replied; adding with a whimsicaltwinkle, "they're all like the dishes, Aunt Ellen, --bound to accumulatecrumbs and scraps, and do nothing but clutter up. "

"Oh, Kate, Kate, " remonstrated Mrs. Howland, "what an incorrigible girlyou are!" As she spoke her lips smiled, but her eyes did not--therewas a wistful light in their blue depths that persistently stayed thereall through the day as she watched her niece. 

At ten, and again at half-past, some neighbors dropped in. After theyhad gone Kate complained because the forenoon was so broken up. Thenext few hours were free from callers, and at the supper table Kategrumbled because the afternoon was so stupid and lonesome. When Mr. Merton came in bringing no mail, Kate exclaimed that nobody everanswered her letters, and that she might just as well not write; yetwhen the next day brought three, she sighed over the time "wasted inreading such long letters. "

The week sped swiftly and Sunday night came. Mrs. Howland's visit wasall but finished. She was going early the next morning. 

Sunday had not been an unalloyed joy. Mrs. Howland and her niece hadattended church, but to Kate the sermon was too long, and the singingtoo loud. The girl mentioned both in a listless way, at the same timesaying that it was always like that except when the sermon wasinteresting, then it was too short and the choir took up all the timethere was with their tiresome singing. 

Dinner had been long in preparation, and, in spite of Mrs. Rowland'sgladly given assistance, the dish-washing and the kitchen-tidying hadbeen longer still. All day Kate's step had been more than lagging, andher face more than discontented. In the twilight, as the two women sattogether, Mrs. Rowland laid hold of her courage with both hands andspoke. 

"Kate, dear, is n't there something, anything, worth while to you?"

"Nothing, auntie. I feel simply buried alive. "

"But can't you think of anything--"

"Think of anything!" interrupted the girl swiftly. "Of course I can!If I had money--or lived somewhere else--or could go somewhere, or seesomething once in a while, it would be different; but here--!"

Mrs. Howland shook her head. 

"But it would n't be different, my dear, " she demurred. 

"Why, of course it would!" laughed Kate bitterly. "It could n't helpit. "

Again Mrs. Howland shook her head. Then a whimsical smile crossed herface. 

"Kate, " she said, "there are crumbs on the plates out in the world justthe same as there are here; and if here you teach yourself to seenothing but crumbs, you will see nothing but crumbs out there. Inshort, dissatisfaction with everyday living is the same joy-killerwhether in town or city, farmhouse or palace. Oh, I 'm preaching, Iknow, dear, " went on Mrs. Howland hurriedly, as she saw the angry lightin the other's eyes, "but--I had to speak--you don't know how it'sgrowing on you. Come, let's kiss and make up; then think it over. "

Kate frowned, then laughed constrainedly. 

"Don't worry, aunt, " she replied, rising, and just touching her aunt'slips with her own. "I still think it would be different out there;but--I suppose you 'll always remain unconvinced, for I shall neverhave the chance to prove it. My plates won't belong anywhere but inHopkinsville cupboards! Come, will you play to me?"

When Mrs. Rowland returned from England, one of the first letters shereceived after reaching home was a cordial invitation from her deadbrother's daughter, Kate, to visit her. 

In the last five years Mrs. Howland had seen her niece but once. Thatwas during the sad, hurried days just following Mr. Merton's suddendeath four years before. Since then Mrs. Howland had been abroad andthere had been many changes at the little farmhouse in Hopkinsville. The farm had been sold, and Kate had married and had gone to Boston tolive. Beyond the facts that Kate's husband was older than she, and wasa man of considerable means, Mrs. Howland knew little of her niece'spresent circumstances. It was with curiosity, as well as pleasure, that she accepted Kate's invitation, and took the train specified. 

At the South Station Mrs. Howland found a stylishly gowned, smilingyoung woman with a cordial welcome. An imposing carriage with aliveried coachman waited to take her to Kate's home. 

"Oh, what handsome horses!" cried Mrs. Howland appreciatively, as shestepped into the carriage. 

"Yes, are n't they, " agreed Kate. "If only they matched better, they'dbe perfect. I wish both had stars on their foreheads!"

"Let me see, you are on Beacon Street, I believe, " remarked Mrs. Howland, as the carriage left the more congested quarter of the city. 

Kate frowned. "Yes, " she answered. "I wanted Commonwealth Avenue, butMr. Blake preferred Beacon. All his people live on Beacon, and havefor years. "

"Oh, but Beacon is lovely, I think. "

"Do you? Well, perhaps; but Commonwealth is so much wider and moreroomy. I could breathe on Commonwealth Avenue, I think!"

"And don't you, where you are?" laughed Mrs. Howland. 

Her niece made a playfully wry face. 

"Just pant--upon my word I do! Not one full breath do I draw, " sheasserted. 

"Hm-m; I've always understood that deep breathing was necessary forhealth, " commented Mrs. Howland, with a critical, comprehensive glance;"but--you seem to thrive all right! You are looking well, Kate. "

"I don't feel so. I have the most shocking headaches, " the otherretorted. "Ah, here we are!"

Mrs. Howland followed her hostess up a short flight of stone steps intoa handsome hall. A well-trained maid was at once in attendance, andanother, a little later, helped her unpack. 

"My dear, " Mrs. Howland said to her niece when she came downstairs, "what a lucky woman you are to have two such maids! They aretreasures!"

Kate's hands flew to her head with a gesture of despair. 

"Maids!--Aunt Ellen, don't ever say the word to me, I beg! I neverkeep one more than a month, and I'm shaking in my shoes this veryminute. There's a new cook in the kitchen, and I have n't the leastidea what your dinner will be. "

"I 'm not a bit worried, " rejoined Mrs. Howland. "What a pretty homeyou have, Kate, " she added, tactfully changing the subject. 

"Think so? I'm glad you like it. I sometimes wish I could get hold ofthe man who built this house, though, and give him a piece of my mind. The rooms on this floor are so high studded they give me the shivers, while all the chambers are so low they are absurd. Did n't you noticeit in your room?"

"Why--no; I don't think I did. "

"Well, you will now. "

"Perhaps so, since you have told me to, " returned Mrs. Howland, acurious smile on her lips. 

The dinner was well planned, well cooked, and well served, in Mrs. Howland's opinion, though to her niece it was none of the three. Kate's husband, the Honorable Eben Blake, proved to be a genial, distinguished-looking man who welcomed Mrs. Howland with the cordialitythat he displayed toward anybody or anything connected in the mostremote degree with his wife. It was evidently with sincere regretsthat he made his apologies after dinner, and left the house with a pleaof business. 

"It's always that way when I want him!" exclaimed Kate petulantly. "Then night after night when I don't want him he'll stay at home andread and smoke. "

"But you have friends--you go out, " hazarded Mrs. Howland. 

Mrs. Blake raised her eyebrows. 

"Oh, of course! But, after all, what do calls and receptions amountto? You always meet the same people who say the same things, whetheryou go to see them or they come to see you. "

Mrs. Howland laughed; then she said, softly, "The old, old story, Kate, --the crumbs on the plates. "

"What?" demanded the younger woman in frank amazement. There was amoment's pause during which she gazed blankly into her aunt's eyes. "Oh!--that?" she added, coloring painfully; then she uptilted her chin. "You are very much mistaken, auntie, " she resumed with some dignity. "It is nothing of the sort. I am very happy--very happy, indeed!"--positively. "I have a good husband, a pretty home, moremoney than is good for me, and--well, everything, " she finished alittle breathlessly. 

Again Mrs. Howland laughed, but her face grew almost instantly grave. 

"And yet, my dear, " she said gently, "scarcely one thing has beenmentioned since I came that was quite right. "

"Oh, Aunt Ellen, how can you say such a dreadful thing!"

"Listen, " replied Mrs. Howland; "it's little bits of things that youdon't think of. It has grown on you without your realizing it: thehorses did n't both have stars; the house was n't on CommonwealthAvenue; the rooms are too high or too low studded; the roast wasover-done; your husband could n't"--

"Oh, auntie, auntie, I beg of you!"--interrupted Kate hysterically. 

"Are you convinced, then?"

Kate shook her head. "I can't, auntie--I can't believe it!" she cried. "It--it can't be like that always. There must have been special thingsto-day that plagued me. Auntie, I'm not such a--monster!"

"Hm-m; well--will you consent to an experiment to--er--find out?"

"Indeed I will!" returned Kate promptly. 

"Very good! Every time I hear those little dissatisfiedfault-findings, I am going to mention crumbs or plates or china. Ithink you'll understand. Is it a bargain?"

"It's a bargain, " agreed Kate, and she smiled confidently. 

The rest of the evening Mrs. Blake kept close guard over her tongue. Twice a "but" and once an "only" slipped out; but she bit her lips andcompleted her sentence in another way in each case, and if Mrs. Howlandnoticed, she made no sign. 

It rained the next morning. Kate came into the dining-room with afrown. 

"I'm so sorry, auntie, " she sighed. "I'd planned a drive this morning. It always rains when I want to do something, but when I don't, it justshines and shines, week in and week out. "

"Won't the rain wash the--plates?" asked Mrs. Howland in a low voice, as she passed her niece's chair. 

"Wha-at?" demanded Mrs. Blake; then she flushed scarlet. "Weatherdoesn't count, " she finished flippantly. 

"No? Oh!" smiled Mrs. Howland. 

"Fine muffins, these!" spoke up Mr. Blake, a little later. "Newcook--eh?"

"Yes, " replied his wife. "But they're graham. I 'd much rather havehad corn-cake. "

"There are not so many--crumbs to graham, " observed Mrs. Howlandmusingly. 

There was no reply. The man of the house looked slightly dazed. Hiswife bit her lip, and choked a little over her coffee. Through therest of the meal Mrs. Blake confined herself almost exclusively tomonosyllables, leaving the conversation to her husband and guest. 

At ten the sky cleared, and Mrs. Blake ordered the horses. 

"We can't drive far, " she began discontentedly, "for I ordered an earlyluncheon as we have tickets for a concert this afternoon. I wanted togo away out beyond the Newtons, but now we'll have to take a littlesnippy one. "

"Oh, I don't mind, " rejoined her guest pleasantly. "Where one can'thave the whole cake one must be satisfied with--crumbs. "

"Why, I don't see"--began Kate aggressively; then she stopped, andnervously tapped her foot. 

"Oh, how pretty that vine is!" cried Mrs. Howland suddenly. Thesilence was growing oppressive. 

"It looks very well now, but you should see it in winter, " retortedKate. "Great, bare, snake-like things all over the--now, don't cudgelyour brains to bring 'plates' or 'crumbs' into that!" she broke offwith sudden sharpness. 

"No, ma'am, " answered Mrs. Howland demurely. 

By night the guest, if not the hostess, was in a state of nervoustension that boded ill for sleep. The day had been one long successionof "crumbs" and "china plates"--conversationally. According to Kate, the roads had been muddy; the sun had been too bright; there had beenchops when there should have been croquettes for luncheon; the concertseats were too far forward; the soprano had a thin voice, and the bassa faulty enunciation; at dinner the soup was insipid, and the dessert adisappointment; afterwards, in the evening, callers had stayed too long. 

Mrs. Howland was in her own room, on the point of preparing for bed, when there came a knock at her chamber door, "Please, Aunt Ellen, may I come in?"

"Certainly, my dear, " called Mrs. Howland, hastening across the room. 

Kate stepped inside, closed the door, and placed her back against it. 

"I'll give it up, " she began, half laughing, half crying. "I never, never would have believed it! Don't ever say 'crumbs' or 'plates' tome again as long as you live--_please_! I believe I never can even_see_ the things again with any peace or comfort. I am going totry--try--Oh, how I'm going to try!--but, auntie, I think it's ahopeless case!" The next instant she had whisked the door open and hadvanished out of sight. 

"'Hopeless'?" Mrs. Howland was whispering to herself the next day, asshe passed through the hall. "'Hopeless'? Oh, no, I think not. " Andshe smiled as she heard her niece's voice in the drawing-room saying:

"High studded, Eben?--these rooms? Yes, perhaps; but, after all, itdoesn't matter so much, being a drawing-room--and one does get betterair, you know!"

A Four-Footed Faith and a Two

On Monday Rathburn took the dog far up the trail. Stub was noblue-ribbon, petted dog of records and pedigree; he was avicious-looking little yellow cur of mixed ancestry and badhabits--that is, he had been all this when Rathburn found him sixmonths before and championed his cause in a quarrel with a crowd ofroughs in Mike Swaney's saloon. Since then he had developed into awell-behaved little beast with a pair of wistful eyes that lookedunutterable love, and a tail that beat the ground, the floor, or theair in joyous welcome whenever Rathburn came in sight. He was partcollie, sharp-nosed and prick-eared, and his undersized little bodystill bore the marks of the precarious existence that had been hisbefore Rathburn had befriended him. 

Rathburn had rescued the dog that day in the saloon more to thwart thedesigns of Pete Mulligan, the head of the gang and an old enemy, thanfor any compassion for the dog itself; but after he had taken thelittle animal home he rather enjoyed the slavish devotion which--in thedog's mind--seemed evidently to be the only fit return for so great aservice as had been done him. For some months, therefore, Rathburnpetted the dog, fed him, taught him to "speak" and to "beg, " and madeof him an almost constant companion. At the end of that time, thenovelty having worn thin, he was ready--as he expressed it tohimself--to "call the whole thing off, " and great was his disgust thatthe dog failed to see the affair in the same light. 

For some time, Rathburn endured the plaintive whines, the questioningeyes, the frequent thrusts of a cold little nose against his hand; thenhe determined to end it all. 

"Stub, come here!" he called sharply, his right hand seeking his pocket. 

With a yelp of joy the dog leaped forward--not for days had his mastervoluntarily noticed him. 

Rathburn raised his pistol and took careful aim. His eye was steadyand his hand did not shake. Two feet away the dog had come to a suddenhalt. Something in the eye or in the leveled weapon had stayed hisfeet. He whined, then barked, his eyes all the while wistfullydemanding an explanation. Suddenly, his gaze still fixed on hismaster's face, he rose upright on his haunches and held before him twolittle dangling paws. 

There was a silence, followed by a muttered oath, as the pistol droppedto the ground. 

"Confound my babyishness!" snarled Rathburn, stooping and pocketing hisweapon. "One would think I'd never seen a gun before!"

This was on Sunday. On Monday Rathburn took the dog far up the trail. 

"Want a dog?" he said to the low-browed, unkempt man sitting at thedoor of a squat cabin. 

"Well, I don't. I ain't buyin' dogs these days. "

"Yer don't have ter buy this one, " observed Rathburn meaningly. 

The other glanced up with sharp eyes. 

"Humph! Bite?" he snapped. 

Rathburn shook his head. 

"Sick of him, " he returned laconically. "Like his room better'n hiscompany. "

"Humph!" grunted the other. Then to the dog: "Come here, sir, an'let's have a look at ye!"

Five minutes later Rathburn strode down the trail alone, while behindhim, on the other side of the fast-shut cabin door, barked andscratched a frantic little yellow dog. 

Tuesday night, when Rathburn came home, the first sound that greetedhim was a joyous bark, as a quivering, eager little creature leapedupon him from out of the dark. 

On Wednesday Stub trotted into town at Rathburn's heels, and all theway down the straggling street he looked neither to the right nor tothe left, so fearful did he seem that the two great boots he wasfollowing should in some way slip from his sight. And yet, vigilant ashe was, the door of Swaney's saloon got somehow between and left him onone side barking and whining and running like mad about the room, whileon the other his master stood jingling the two pieces of silver in hispocket--the price Mike Swaney had paid for his new dog. 

Halfway up the mountain-side Rathburn was still chuckling, stilljingling his coins. 

"When a man pays money, " he was saying aloud, as he squared hisshoulders and looked across the valley at the setting sun, "when a manpays money he watches out. I reckon Stub has gone fer good, surething, this time!" And yet--long before dawn there came a whine and agentle scratch at his cabin door; and although four times the dog wasreturned to his new owner, four times he escaped and nosed the longtrail that led to the cabin on the mountain-side. 

After Stub's fourth desertion the saloon-keeper refused to take himagain, and for a week the dog lay unmolested in his old place in thesun outside the cabin door, or dozed before the fireplace at night. Then Rathburn bestirred himself and made one last effort, taking thedog quite over the mountain and leaving him tied to a tree. 

At the end of thirty-six hours, Rathburn was congratulating himself; atthe end of thirty-seven he was crying, "Down, sir--down!" to ajoy-crazed little dog which had come leaping down the mountain-sidewith eighteen inches of rope dangling at his heels--a rope whose frayedand tattered end showed the marks of sharp little teeth. 

Rathburn gave it up after that, and Stub stayed on. There was nopetting, no trick-teaching; there were only sharp words and sometimes akick or a cuff. Gradually the whines and barks gave way to the moresilent appeal of wistful eyes, and Stub learned that life now was athing of little food and less joy, and that existence was a thing oflong motionless watchings of a master who would not understand. 

Weeks passed and a cold wind swept down from the mountains. The lineof snow crept nearer and nearer the clearing about the cabin, and thesun grew less warm. Rathburn came home each night with a deeper frownon his face, and a fiercer oath as he caught sight of the dog. Down atSwaney's the men knew that Bill Rathburn was having a "streak o' poorluck"; the golden treasure he sought was proving elusive. Stub knewonly that he must hide each night now when his master appeared. 

As the days passed food became scarce in the cabin. It had been sometime since Rathburn had gone to town for supplies. Then came the daywhen a great joy came into Stub's life--his master spoke to him. Itwas not the old fond greeting, to be sure. It was a command, and asharp one; but in Stub's opinion it was a vast improvement on thesnarling oaths or wordless glowerings which had been his portion forthe past weeks, and he responded to it with every sense and musclequiveringly alert. 

And so it came about that Stub, in obedience to that sharp command, frequently scampered off with his master to spend long days in thefoothills, or following the mountain streams. Sometimes it was apartridge, sometimes it was a squirrel, or a rabbit--whatever it wasthat fell a victim to Rathburn's gun, Stub learned very soon that itmust be brought at once to the master and laid at his feet; and soproud was he to be thus of use and consequence that he was well contentif at the end of the day his master tossed him a discarded bone afterthe spoils had been cooked and the man's own appetite satisfied. 

It was on one of the days when work, not hunting, filled the time, thatRathburn came home after a long day's labor to find Stub waiting forhim with a dead rabbit. After that it came to be a common thing forthe dog to trot off by himself in the morning; and the man fell moreand more in the way of letting him go alone, as it left his own timethe more free for the pursuit of that golden sprite who was everpromising success just ahead. 

As for Stub--Stub was happy. He spent the long days in the foothillsor on the mountain-side, and soon became expert in his hunting. Hewould trail for hours without giving tongue, and would patiently lieand wait for a glimpse of a venturesome woodchuck or squirrel. Sodevoted was he, so well trained, and so keenly alive was he to hisresponsibilities that, whether the day had been one of great or smallsuccess, he was always to be found at night crouching before the cabindoor on guard of something limp and motionless--something that a dozenhours before had been a throbbing, scurrying bit of life in the forest. To be sure, that "something" did not always have a food valuecommensurate with the labor and time Stub had spent to procure it; butto Stub evidently the unforgivable sin was to return with nothing, which fact may explain why Rathburn came home one night to find Stub onguard beside a small dead snake. Both man and dog went supperless thatnight--the man inside the cabin before a roaring fire; the dog outsidein the cheerless dark before a fast-closed door whither his master hadpromptly consigned him. 

Gradually as the days passed there came still another change in thelife at the cabin. Rathburn's step became slow, and his cheeks sunken. Sometimes he did not leave home all day, but lay tossing from side toside on his bunk in the corner. At such times, if the result of Stub'shunt were eatable, the man would rouse himself enough to stir the fireand get supper; and always, after such a day at home, Rathburn wasastir the next morning at dawn and off in feverish haste for a longday's work to make up for the long day of idleness. 

But there came a time when he could not do this--when each day foundhim stretched prone on his bunk or moving feebly about the room. Thencame a night when Stub's bark at the door was unanswered. Again andagain Stub demanded admittance only to be met with silence. The door, though unlatched, was swollen from recent rains, and it took five goodminutes and all the strength of one small dog to push it open a narrowfoot, and then there were only silence and a dying fire by way ofgreeting. 

Stub dropped his burden on the floor and whined. He was particularlyproud to-night; he had brought home a partridge--the first he had evercaught without the aid of his master's gun. 

The figure on the bed did not move. 

The dog picked up the bird he had dropped and walked toward his master. This time he laid his offering close to the bunk and barked. 

The man stirred and groaned. For long minutes the dog stoodmotionless, watching; then he crept to the fire and almost into the hotashes in his efforts to warm the blood in his shivering little legs. 

In the morning the fire was quite out. Stub stretched his stiffenedbody and gazed about the room. Over on the bed the man did not stirnor speak. The dead bird lay untouched at his side. There was awhine, a bark, and a long minute of apparent indecision; then the dogpattered across the floor, wormed himself through the partly open door, and took the trail that led to the foothills. 

Three times Stub brought to the fireless, silent cabin the result ofhis day's hunt and laid it at his master's side, and always there wasonly silence or a low groan to greet him. 

On the third night it snowed--the first storm of the season. A keenwind swept down the mountain and played hide-and-seek with the cabindoor, so that in the morning a long bar of high-piled snow lay acrossthe cabin floor. 

When the men from the village had ploughed their way through the snowand pushed open the door, they stopped amazed upon the threshold, looking at one another with mingled alarm and pity; then one of them, conquering his reluctance, strode forward. He stooped for a momentover the prostrate form of the man before he turned and faced hiscompanions. 

"Boys, he's--gone, " he said huskily; and in the silence that followed, four men bared their heads. 

It was a dog's low whine that first stirred into action the man by thebunk. He looked down and his eyes grew luminous. He saw the firelesshearth, the drifted snow, and the half-dead dog keeping watchful guardover a pile of inert fur and feathers on the floor--a pile frozen stiffand mutely witnessing to a daily duty well performed. 

"I reckon I'm needin' a dog, " he said, as he stooped and patted Stub'shead. 

A Matter of System

At the office of Hawkins & Hawkins, system was everything. Even thetrotter-boy was reduced to an orbit that ignored craps and marbles, andthe stenographer went about her work like a well-oiled bit ofmachinery. It is not strange, then, that Jasper Hawkins, senior memberof the firm, was particularly incensed at the confusion that Christmasalways brought to his home. 

For years he bore--with such patience as he could muster--the attack ofnervous prostration that regularly, on the 26th day of December, laidhis wife upon a bed of invalidism; then, in the face of theunmistakable evidence that the malady would this year precede the holyday of peace and good-will, he burst his bonds of self-control andspoke his mind. 

It was upon the morning of the 21st. 

"Edith, " he began, in what his young daughter called his "now mind"voice, "this thing has got to stop. "

"What thing?"

"Christmas. "

"_Jas_-per!"--it was as if she thought he had the power to sweepgood-will itself from the earth. "Christmas--_stop_!"

"Yes. My dear, how did you spend yesterday?"

"I was--shopping. "

"Exactly. And the day before?--and the day before that?--and beforethat? You need n't answer, for I know. And you were shopping for--"he paused expectantly. 

"Presents. " Something quite outside of herself had forced the answer. 

"Exactly. Now, Edith, surely it need not take all your time for amonth before Christmas to buy a few paltry presents, and all of it fortwo months afterward to get over buying them!"

"But, Jasper, they are n't few, and they're anything but paltry. Imagine giving Uncle Harold a _paltry_ present!" retorted Edith, withsome spirit. 

The man waved an impatient hand. 

"Very well, we will call them magnificent, then, " he conceded. "Buteven in that case, surely the countless stores full of beautiful anduseful articles, and with a list properly tabulated, and a sufficiencyof money--" An expressive gesture finished his sentence. 

The woman shook her head. 

"I know; it sounds easy, " she sighed, "but it is n't. It's so hard tothink up what to give, and after I 've thought it up and bought it, I'm just sure I ought to have got the other thing. "

"But you should have some system about it. "

"Oh, I had--a list, " she replied dispiritedly. "But I'm so--tired. "

Jasper Hawkins suddenly squared his shoulders. 

"How many names have you left now to buy presents for?" he demandedbriskly. 

"Three--Aunt Harriet, and Jimmy, and Uncle Harold. They always getleft till the last. They're so--impossible. "

"Impossible? Nonsense!--and I'll prove it to you, too. Give yourselfno further concern, Edith, about Christmas, if _that_ is all there isleft to do--just consider it done. "

"Do you mean--you'll get the presents for them?"

"Most certainly. "

"But, Jasper, you know--"

An imperative gesture silenced her. 

"My dear, I'm doing this to relieve you, and that means that you arenot even to think of it again. "

"Very well; er--thank you, " sighed the woman; but her eyes weretroubled. 

Not so Jasper's; his eyes quite sparkled with anticipation as he leftthe house some minutes later. 

On the way downtown he made his plans and arranged his list. He wishedit were longer--that list. Three names were hardly sufficient todemonstrate his theories and display his ability. As for Aunt Harriet, Jimmy, and Uncle Harold being "impossible"--that was all nonsense, ashe had said; and before his eyes rose a vision of the three: AuntHarriet, a middle-aged spinster, poor, half-sick, and chronicallydiscontented with the world; Jimmy, a white-faced lad who was alwaysreading a book; and Uncle Harold, red-faced, red-headed, and--red-tempered. (Jasper smiled all to himself at this lastthought. ) "Red-tempered"--that was good. He would tell Edith--but hewould not tell others. Witticisms at the expense of a rich oldbachelor uncle whose heir was a matter of his own choosing were bestkept pretty much to one's self. Edith was right, however, in onething, Jasper decided: Uncle Harold surely could not be given a"paltry" present. He must be given something fine, expensive, anddesirable--something that one would like one's self. And immediatelythere popped into Jasper's mind the thought of a certain exquisitelycarved meerschaum which he had seen in a window and which he hadgreatly coveted. As for Aunt Harriet and Jimmy--their case was toosimple for even a second thought: to one he would give a pair ofbed-slippers; to the other, a book. 

Some minutes later Jasper Hawkins tucked into his pocketbook an oblongbit of paper on which had been neatly written:--

Presents to be bought for Christmas, 1908:

Aunt Harriet, spinster, 58(?) years old--Bed-slippers. 

Uncle Harold, bachelor, 65 years old--Pipe. 

Jimmy, boy, 12 years old--Book. 

In the office of Hawkins & Hawkins that morning, the senior member ofthe firm found a man waiting for him. This man was the emissary of hismighty chief, and upon this chief rested the whole structure of a"deal" which was just then looming large on the horizon of Hawkins &Hawkins--and in which the oblong bit of paper in Jasper's pocketbookhad no part. 

Mrs. Jasper Hawkins greeted her husband with palpitating interest thatevening. 

"Well--what did you get?" she asked. 

The man of business lifted his chin triumphantly. 

"Not everything we asked for, to be sure, " he began, "but we got morethan we expected to, and--" He stopped abruptly. The expression onhis wife's face had suddenly reminded him that by no possible chancecould she know what he was talking about. "Er--what do you mean?" hedemanded. 

"Why, Jasper, there's only one thing I could mean--the presents, youknow!"

A curious something clutched at Jasper's breath and held it for amoment suspended. Then Jasper throttled the something, and raised hischin even higher. 

"Time enough for that to-morrow, " he retorted lightly. "I did n'tpromise to get them to-day, you know. "

"But, Jasper, to-morrow 's the 22d!"

"And three whole days before Christmas. "

"Yes, but they must be sent the 24th. "

"And they'll _be_ sent, my dear, " declared Jasper, in a tone of voicethat was a cold dismissal of the subject. 

On the morning of the 22d, Jasper Hawkins told himself that he wouldnot forget the presents this time. He decided, however, that there wasno need for him to take the whole day to select a pipe, a book, and apair of slippers. There would be quite time enough after luncheon. And he smiled to himself in a superior way as he thought of thedizzying rush and the early start that always marked his wife'sshopping excursions. He was still smiling happily when he salliedforth at two o'clock that afternoon, leaving word at the office that hewould return in an hour. 

He decided to buy the meerschaum first, and with unhesitating steps hesought the tobacco-store in whose window he had seen it. The pipe wasgone, however, and there really was no other in the place that justsuited him, though he spent fully half an hour trying to find one. Hedecided then to look elsewhere. He would try the department store inwhich he intended to buy the book and the slippers. It was better, anyway, that he should do all his shopping under one roof--it was moresystematic. 

The great clock in the department-store tower had just struck threewhen Jasper stalked through the swinging doors on the street floor. Hehad been detained. Window displays had allured him, and dawdlingthrongs of Christmas shoppers had forced his feet into a snail's pace. He drew now a sigh of relief. He had reached his destination; he wouldmake short work of his purchases. And with a dignified stride heturned toward the nearest counter. 

At once, however, he found himself caught in a swirl of humanity thatswept him along like a useless chip and flung him against a countermuch farther down the aisle. With what dignity he could summon to hisaid he righted himself and addressed the smiling girl behind it. 

"I'm looking for pipes, " he announced, severely. "Perhaps you can tellme where they are. "

She shook her head. 

"Ask him, " she suggested, with a nod and a jerk of her thumb. 

And Jasper, looking in the direction indicated, saw a frock-coated manstanding like a rock where the streams of humanity broke and surged tothe right and to the left. By some maneuvering, Jasper managed in timeto confront this man. 

"Pipes, " he panted anxiously--he was reduced now to the single word. 

"Annex; second floor. Elevator to your right. "

"Thanks!" fervently breathed the senior member of the firm of Hawkins &Hawkins, muttering as he turned away, "Then they have got some systemin this infernal bedlam!"

The crisp directions had sounded simple, but they proved to be anythingbut simple to follow. Like a shuttlecock, Jasper was tossed from clerkto clerk, until by the time he reached his destination he was confused, breathless, and cross. 

The pipes, however, were numerous and beautiful, and the girl behindthe counter was both pretty and attentive; moreover, pipes did nothappen to be popular that day, and the corner was a little paradise ofquietness and rest. The man drew a long breath of relief and bent tohis task. 

In his mind was the one thought uppermost--he must select just such apipe as he himself would like; and for long minutes he pondered whetherthis, that, or another would best please him. So absorbed was he, indeed, in this phase of the question, that he had made his selectionand taken out his money, when the sickening truth came to him--UncleHarold did not smoke. 

To Jasper it seemed incredible that he had not thought of this before. But not until he pictured his purchase in his uncle's hand had herealized that the thing was not for himself, after all, but for a manwho not only did not smoke, but who abhorred the habit in others. 

With a muttered something that the righteously indignant pretty girlcould not hear, Jasper Hawkins thrust his money into his pocket andrushed blindly away from the pipe counter. Long minutes later in thestreet, he adjusted his tie, jerked his coat into place, straightenedhis hat, and looked at his watch. 

It was four o'clock, and he must go back to the office before startingfor home. There was still another whole day before him, he remembered, and, after all, it was a very simple matter to buy the book and theslippers, and then look around a little for something for Uncle Harold. In the morning he would doubtless light upon the very thing. And withthis comforting thought he dismissed the subject and went back to theoffice. 

Mrs. Hawkins did not question her husband that night about what he hadbought. Something in his face stayed the words on her lips. 

Jasper Hawkins went early to the office the next morning, but it wasfully eleven o'clock before he could begin his shopping. He toldhimself, however, that there was quite time enough for the little hehad to do, and he stepped off very briskly in the direction of thedepartment store he had left the night before. He had decided that hepreferred this one to the intricacies of a new one; besides, he wasvery sure that there would not now be so many people in it. 

Just here, however, Jasper met with a disappointment. Not only wasevery one there who had been there the day before, but most of them hadbrought friends, and in dismay Jasper clung to the post near the doorwhile he tried to rally his courage for the plunge. In the distancethe frock-coated man was still the rock where the stream foamed andbroke; and after a long wait and a longer struggle Jasper stood oncemore before him. 

"I want slippers--bed-slippers for women, " he muttered. 

"Fourth floor, front. Elevator to your left, " declaimed the man. AndJasper quite glowed with awe at the thought of a brain so stupendousthat it could ticket and tell each shelf and counter in that vastdomain of confusion. 

Jasper himself had been swept to the right on the crest of aparticularly aggressive wave formed by the determined shoulders of ahuge fat woman who wished to go in that direction; so it was some timebefore he could stem the current and make an effort to reach theelevator on the other side of the store. It was then that he suddenlydecided to grasp this opportunity for "looking about a little to findsomething for Uncle Harold"--and it was then that he was lost, for nolonger had he compass, captain, or a port in view; but oarless andrudderless he drifted. 

Then, indeed, did the department store, in all its allurements ofglitter and show and competing attractions, burst on Jasper's eyes, benumbing his senses and overthrowing his judgment. For long minuteshe hung entranced above a tray of jeweled side combs, and for otherlong minutes he critically weighed the charms of a spangled fan againstthose of one that was merely painted--before he suddenly awoke to therealization that he was looking for something for Uncle Harold, andthat Uncle Harold did not wear side combs, nor disport himself withgauze fans. 

"Where do you keep things for men?" he demanded then, aggrievedly, ofthe demure-faced girl behind the counter; and it was while he was onthe ensuing frantic search for "things for men" that he stumbled uponthe book department. 

"To be sure--a book for Jimmy, " he muttered, and confidently approacheda girl who already was trying to wait on three customers at once. 

"I want a book for a boy, " he observed; and was surprised that no oneanswered. 

"I want a book for a boy, " he urged, in a louder tone. 

Still no one answered. 

"I want a book--for--a--boy, " he reiterated distinctly; and this timethe girl flicked her ear as at the singing of an annoying insect. 

"Juveniles three aisles over to your left, " she snapped glibly; andafter a puzzled pondering on her words, Jasper concluded that they weremeant for him. 

In the juvenile department, Jasper wondered why every one in the storehad chosen that particular minute to come there and buy a book for achild. Everywhere were haste and confusion. Nowhere was there any onewho paid the least attention to himself. At his right a pretty girlchatted fluently of this, that, and another "series"; and at his left asevere-faced woman with glasses discoursed on the great responsibilityof selecting reading for the young, and uttered fearsome prophecies ofthe dire evil that was sure to result from indiscriminate buying. 

Her words were not meant for Jasper's ears, but they reached them, nevertheless. The man shuddered and grew pale. With soft steps heslunk out of the book department. . . . To think that he--_he_, whoknew nothing whatever about books for boys--had nearly bought one ofthe risky things for Jimmy! And to Jasper's perverted imagination italmost seemed that Jimmy, white-faced and sad-eyed, had already gonewrong--and through him. 

Jasper looked at his watch then, and decided it was time for luncheon. After that he could look around for something else for Jimmy. 

It was six o'clock when Jasper, flushed, tired, and anxious, looked athis watch again, and took account of stock. 

He had a string of beads and a pair of skates. 

The skates, of course, were for Jimmy. He was pleased with those. Itwas a girl who had helped him in that decision--a very obliging girlwho had found him in the toy department confusedly eyeing an array offlaxen-haired dolls, and who had gently asked him the age of the boyfor whom he desired a present. He thought of that girl now withgratitude. 

The string of beads did not so well please him. He was a littledoubtful, anyway, how he happened to buy them. He had a dimrecollection that they looked wonderfully pretty with the lightbringing out sparkles of green and gold, and that the girl who tendedthem did not happen to have anything to do but to wait on him. So hehad bought them. They were handsome beads, and not at all cheap. Theywould do for some one, he assured himself. And not until he haddropped them in his pocket did it occur to him that he was buyingpresents for only a boy, a bachelor, and a middle-aged spinster. Manifestly a string of beads would not do for Jimmy or Uncle Harold, sothey must do for Aunt Harriet. He had meant to buy bed-slippers forher, but, perhaps, after all, she would prefer beads. At all events, he had bought them, and they would have to go. And with that hedismissed the beads. 

As yet he had nothing for Uncle Harold. There seemed to be nothing, really, that he could make up his mind to give. The more he searched, the more undecided he grew. The affair of the pipe had frightened him, and had sown distrust in his heart. He would have to buy somethingthis evening, of course, for it must be sent to-morrow. He wouldtelephone Edith that he could not be home for dinner--that businessdetained him; then he would eat a hasty luncheon and buy Uncle Harold'spresent. And with this decision Jasper wearily turned his steps towarda telephone booth. 

Jasper Hawkins went home at ten o'clock. He still had nothing forUncle Harold. The stores had closed before he could find anything. But there was yet until noon the next day. 

Mrs. Hawkins did not question her husband. In the morning she onlyreminded him timidly. 

"You know those things must get off by twelve o'clock, Jasper. "

"Oh, yes, they'll go all right, " her husband had replied, in aparticularly cheery voice. Jasper was not cheery, however, within. Hewas nervous and anxious. A terrible fear had clutched his heart: whatif he could not--but then, he must find something, he enjoined himself. And with that he started downtown at once. 

He did not go to the office this time, but sought the storesimmediately. He found conditions now even worse than before. Everyone seemed to have an Uncle Harold for whom was frenziedly being soughtthe unattainable. If at nine o'clock Jasper had been nervous, at tenhe was terrified, and at eleven he was nearly frantic. All power ofdecision seemed to have left him, and he stumbled vaguely on and on, scarcely knowing what he was doing. It was then that his eye fell on ahuge sign:

"Just the thing for Christmas! When in doubt, buy me!"

There was a crowd before the sign, but Jasper knew now how to use hiselbows. Once at his goal he stared in amazement. Then the tensionsnapped, and he laughed outright--before him were half a dozen cages ofwaltzing mice. 

For a long time the curious whirls and antics of the odd littlecreatures in their black-and-white coats held Jasper's gaze in afascinated stare. Then the man, obeying an impulse that he scarcelyunderstood himself, made his purchase, gave explicit directions whereand when it was to be sent, and left the store. Then, and not untilthen, did Jasper Hawkins fully realize that to his Uncle Harold--therich old man who must be petted and pampered, and never by any chanceoffended--he had sent as a Christmas present a cage of dancing mice!

That night Mrs. Hawkins fearlessly asked her questions, and asfearlessly her husband answered them. He had determined to assume abold front. However grave might be his own doubts and fears, he hadresolved that she should not know of them. 

"Presents? Of course! They went to-day with our love, " he answeredgayly. 

"And what--did you send?"

"The simplest things in the world; a string of handsome beads to AuntHarriet, a pair of skates to Jimmy, and a cage of the funniest littlewaltzing mice you ever saw, to Uncle Harold. You see it all resolvesitself down to a mere matter of system, " he went on; but at the realagony in his wife's face he stopped in dismay. "Why, Edith!"

"Jasper, you didn't--you _did n't_ send _skates_ to Jimmy!"

"But I did. Why not?"

"But, Jasper, he's--lame!"

Jasper fell back limply. All the bravado fled from his face. 

"Edith, how could I--how could I--_forget_--a thing like that!" hegroaned. 

"And beads for Aunt Harriet! Why, Jasper, I never saw a bead on herneck! You know how poor she is, and how plain she dresses. I alwaysgive her useful, practical things!"

Jasper said nothing. He was still with Jimmy and the skates. Hewished he had bought a book--a wicked book, if need be; anything wouldbe better than those skates. 

"And mice--_mice_ for Uncle Harold!" wept Edith. "Why, Jasper, howcould you?--dirty little beasts that Uncle Harold can only feed to hiscat! And I had hoped so much from Uncle Harold. Oh, Jasper, Jasper, how could you!"

"I don't know, " said Jasper dully, as he got up to leave the room. 

To Jasper it was not a happy Christmas. There were those three lettersof thanks to come; and he did not want to read them. 

As it chanced they all came the same day, the 28th. They wereaddressed to Mrs. Hawkins, and naturally she read them first. WhenJasper came home that night they lay waiting for him on his desk. Hesaw them, but he decided not to read them until after dinner. He feltthat he needed all the fortification he could obtain. He hoped thathis wife would not mention them, and yet he was conscious of a vaguedisappointment when, as time passed, she did not mention them. 

Dinner over, further delay was impossible; and very slowly he picked upthe letters. He singled out Aunt Harriet's first. Dimly he felt thatthis might be a sort of preparation for the wrath to follow. 

_Dear Niece and Nephew_ [he read--and he sat suddenly erect]. How everin the world did you guess that it was beads that I wanted more thananything else in the world? And these are such handsome ones! Eversince beads and chains have been worn so much I have longed for one allmy own; but I have tried to crush the feeling and hide it, for I fearedit might be silly--and me so old and faded, and out-of-date! But Iknow now that it is n't, and that I need n't be ashamed of it any more, for, of course, you and Jasper would never give me anything silly! Andthank you ever and ever so much!

With a slightly dazed expression Jasper Hawkins laid down AuntHarriet's letter when he had finished it, and picked up the one fromUncle Harold. As he did so he glanced at his wife; but she was sewingand did not appear to be noticing him. 

Well, well, children, you have done it this time! [read Jasper, withfearful eyes]. The little beasts came on Christmas morning, and neverhave I [Jasper turned the page and relaxed suddenly] stopped laughingsince, I believe! How in the world did you happen to think of apresent so original, so cute, and so everlastingly entertaining? Thewhole house, and I might say the whole town, is in a fever over them, and there is already a constant stream of children past my window--yousee, I 've got the little devils where they can best be seen andappreciated!

There was more, much more, and all in the same strain; and again, asJasper laid the letter down he glanced at his wife, only to find ademure, downcast gaze. 

But one letter now remained, and in spite of what had gone before, Jasper picked up this with dread. Surely, nothing--nothing couldreconcile Jimmy and those awful skates! He winced as he opened theletter and saw that Jimmy's mother had written--poor Jimmy's mother!how her heart must have ached!--and then he stared in unbelievingwonder at the words, and read them over and over, lest he had in someway misconstrued their meaning. 

My dear sister and brother [Jimmy's mother had written], I wish youcould have seen Jimmy when your beautiful skates arrived. He willwrite you himself and thank you, but I know he can't half make youunderstand just what that present means to him, so I am going to writeyou myself and tell you what he said; then maybe you can realize alittle what a great joy you have brought into his life. 

And let me say right here that I myself have been blind all theseyears. I have n't understood. And what I want to know is, how did youfind it out--what Jimmy wanted? How did you know? When I, his ownmother, never guessed! Why, even when the skates came on ChristmasDay, I was frightened and angry, because you had been so "thoughtless"as to send my poor lame boy _skates_! And then--I could hardly believemy own eyes and ears, for Jimmy, his face one flame of joy, was wavinga skate in each hand. "Mother, mother!" he was shouting. "See, I'vegot a _boy_ present, a real boy present--just as if I was--like otherboys. I've always had books and puzzles and girl presents!Everybody's thought of _them_ when they thought of _me_!" he cried, thumping the crutches at his side. "But this is a _real_ present--Now I've got something to show, and to lend--something that _is_something!" And on and on he chattered, with me staring at him as if Ithought he was out of his head. 

But he was n't out of his head. He was happy--happier than I've everseen him since he was hurt. And it still lasts. He shows those skatesto every one, and talks and talks about them, and has already madeplans to let his dearest friends try them. Best of all, they havegiven him a new interest in life, and he is actually better. Thedoctor says at this rate he'll be using the skates himself some day!

And now, how can I thank you--_you_ who have done this thing, who havebeen so wise beyond his mother? I can only thank and thank you, andsend you my dearest love. 

Your affectionate sister, BERTHA

The senior member of the firm of Hawkins & Hawkins folded the lettervery hurriedly and tucked it into its envelope. There was a mist inhis eyes, and a lump in his throat--two most uncalled-for, unwelcomephenomena. With a determined effort he cleared his throat and began tospeak. 

"You see, Edith, " he observed pompously, "your fears were quitegroundless, after all. This Christmas shopping, if reduced to asystem--" He paused suddenly. His wife had stopped her sewing and waslooking straight into his eyes. 

Angelus

To Hephzibah the world was a place of weary days and unrestful nights, and life was a thing of dishes that were never quite washed and ofbread that was never quite baked--leaving something always to be done. 

The sun rose and the sun set, and Hephzibah came to envy the sun. Toher mind, his work extended from the first level ray shot into her roomin the morning to the last rose-flush at night; while as for herself, there were the supper dishes and the mending-basket yet waiting. To besure, she knew, if she stopped to think, that her sunset must be asunrise somewhere else; but Hephzibah never stopped to think; she wouldhave said, had you asked her, that she had no time. 

First there was the breakfast for Theron and the hired man in the chillgray dawn of each day;--if one were to wrest a living from the stonesand sand of the hillside farm, one must be up and at work betimes. Then Harry, Tom, and Nellie must be roused, dressed, fed, and madeready for the half-mile walk to the red schoolhouse at the cross-roads. After that the day was one blur of steam, dust, heat, and stiflingfumes from the oven and the fat-kettle, broken always at regularintervals by meal-getting and chicken-feeding. 

What mattered the blue of the heavens or the green of the earthoutside? To Hephzibah the one was "sky" and the other "grass. " Whatmattered the sheen of silver on the emerald velvet of the valley farbelow? Hephzibah would have told you that it was only the sun on OtterCreek down in Johnson's meadows. 

As for the nights, even sleep brought little relief to Hephzibah; forher dreams were of hungry mouths that could not be filled, and ofdirt-streaked floors that would not come clean. 

Last summer a visitor had spent a week at the farm--Helen Raymond, Hephzibah's niece from New York; and now a letter had come from thissame Helen Raymond, telling Hephzibah to look out for a package byexpress. 

A package by express!

Hephzibah laid the letter down, left the dishes cooling in the pan, andwent out into the open yard where she could look far down the roadtoward the village. 

When had she received a package before? Even Christmas brought nofascinating boxes or mysterious bundles to her! It would beinteresting to open it; and yet--it probably held a book which shewould have no time to read, or a pretty waist which she would have nochance to wear. 

Hephzibah turned and walked listlessly back to her kitchen and herdish-washing. Twelve hours later her unaccustomed lips were spellingout the words on a small white card which had come with a handsomelyframed photograph:

The Angelus. Jean Fran�ois Millet. 1859. 

Hephzibah looked from the card to the picture, and from the pictureback again to the card. Gradually an angry light took the place of thedazed wonder in her eyes. She turned fiercely to her husband. 

"Theron, _why_ did Helen send me that picture?" she demanded. 

"Why, Hetty, I--I dunno, " faltered the man, "'nless she--she--wantedter please ye. "

"Please me!--_please me_!" scoffed Hephzibah. "Did she expect toplease me with a thing like that? Look here, Theron, look!" she cried, snatching up the photograph and bringing it close to her husband'sface. "Look at that woman and that man--they're us, Theron, --us, Itell you!"

"Oh, come, Hetty, " remonstrated Theron; "they ain't jest the same, yerknow. She did n't mean nothin'--Helen did n't. "

"Didn't mean nothing!" repeated Hephzibah scornfully; "then why did n'tshe send something pretty?--something that showed up pretty things--notjust fields and farm-folks! Why did n't she, Theron, --why did n't she?"

"Why, Hetty, don't! She--why, she--"

"I know, " cut in the woman, a bright red flaming into her cheeks. "'Twas 'cause she thought that was all we could understand--dirt, and oldclothes, and folks that look like us! Don't we dig and dig like them?Ain't our hands twisted and old and--"

"Hetty--yer ain't yerself! Yer--"

"Yes, I am--I am! I'm always myself--there's never anything else I canbe, Theron, --never!" And Hephzibah threw her apron over her head andran from the room, crying bitterly. 

"Well, by gum!" muttered the man, as he dropped heavily into thenearest chair. 

For some days the picture stayed on the shelf over the kitchen sink, where it had been placed by Theron as the quickest means of itsdisposal. Hephzibah did not seem to notice it after that first day, and Theron was most willing to let the matter drop. 

It must have been a week after the picture's arrival that the ministermade his semi-yearly call. 

"Oh, you have an Angelus! That's fine, " he cried, appreciatively;--theminister always begged to stay in Hephzibah's kitchen, that room beingmuch more to his mind than was the parlor, carefully guarded from sunand air. 

"'Fine'!--that thing!" laughed Hephzibah. 

"Aye, that thing, " returned the man, quick to detect the scorn in hervoice; then, with an appeal to the only side of her nature he thoughtcould be reached, he added:

"Why, my dear woman, 'that thing, ' as you call it, is a copy of apicture which in the original was sold only a few years ago for morethan a hundred thousand dollars--a hundred and fifty, I think. "

"Humph! _Who_ could have bought it! That thing!" laughed Hephzibahagain, and changed the subject. But she remembered, --she must haveremembered; for, after the minister had gone, she took the picture fromthe shelf and carried it to the light of the window. 

"A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, " she murmured; "and to thinkwhat I'd do with that money!" For some minutes she studied the picturein silence, then she sighed: "Well, they do look natural like; but onlythink what a fool to pay a hundred and fifty thousand for a couple offarm-folks out in a field!"

And yet--it was not to the kitchen shelf Hephzibah carried the picturethat night, but to the parlor--the somber, sacred parlor. There shepropped it up on the center-table among plush photograph-albums andcrocheted mats--the dearest of Hephzibah's treasures. 

Hephzibah could scarcely have explained it herself, but after theminister's call that day she fell into the way of going often into theparlor to look at her picture. At first its famous price graced itwith a halo of gold; but in time this was forgotten, and the pictureitself, with its silent, bowed figures, appealed to her with a powershe could not understand. 

"There's a story to it--I know there's a story to it!" she cried atlast one day; and forthwith she hunted up an old lead-pencil stub and abit of yellowed note-paper. 

It was a long hour Hephzibah spent then, an hour of labored thinkingand of careful guiding of cramped fingers along an unfamiliar way; yetthe completed note, when it reached Helen Raymond's hands, waswonderfully short. 

The return letter was long, and, though Hephzibah did not know it, represented hours of research in bookstores and in libraries. Itanswered not only Hephzibah's questions, but attempted to respond tothe longing and heart-hunger Miss Raymond was sure she detected betweenthe lines of Hephzibah's note. Twelve hours after it was written, Hephzibah was on her knees before the picture. 

"I know you now--I know you!" she whispered exultingly. "I know whyyou're real and true. Your master who painted you was like usonce--like us, and like you! He knew what it was to dig and dig; heknew what it was to work and work until his back and his head and hisfeet and his hands ached and ached--he knew! And so he painted you!

"_She_ says you're praying; that you've stopped your work and 'turnedto higher things. ' She says we all should have an Angelus in our liveseach day. Good God!--as if she knew!"--Hephzibah was on her feet now, her hands to her head. 

"An Angelus?--me?" continued the woman scornfully. "And where? Thedish-pan?--the wash-tub?--the chicken-yard? A fine Angelus, that! Andyet"--Hephzibah dropped to her knees again--"you look so quiet, sopeaceful, and, oh, so--rested!"

"For the land's sake, Hetty, what be you doin'? Have you gone cleancrazy?"--It was Theron in the parlor doorway. 

Hephzibah rose wearily to her feet. "Sometimes I think I have, Theron, " she said. 

"Well, "--he hesitated, --"ain't it 'most--supper-time?"

"I s'pose 'tis, " she assented, listlessly, and dragged herself from theroom. 

It was not long after this that the picture disappeared from theparlor. Hephzibah had borne it very carefully to her room and hung iton the wall at the foot of her bed, where her eyes would open upon itthe first thing every morning. Each day she talked to it, and each dayit grew to be more and more a part of her very self. Not until thepicture had been there a week, however, did she suddenly realize thatit represented the twilight hour; then, like a flash of light, came herinspiration. 

"It's at sunset--I'll go out at sunset! Now my Angelus will come tome, " she cried softly. "I know it will!"

Then did the little hillside farmhouse see strange sights indeed. Eachnight, as the sun dropped behind the far-away hills, Hephzibah left herwork and passed through the kitchen door, her face uplifted, and hereyes on the distant sky-line. 

Sometimes she would turn to the left to the open field and stand theremotionless, unconsciously falling into the reverent attitude now sofamiliar to her; sometimes she would turn to the right and pause at thebrow of the hill, where the valley in all its panorama of lovelinesslay before her; and sometimes she would walk straight ahead to the oldtumble-down gate where she might face the west and watch the rosechange to palest amber in the sky. 

At first her eyes saw but grass, sky, and dull-brown earth, and herthoughts turned in bitterness to her unfinished tasks; but graduallythe witchery of the summer night entered her soul and left room forlittle else. Strange faces, peeping in and out of the clouds, lookedat her from the sky; and fantastic figures, clothed in the eveningmist, swept up the valley to her feet. The grass assumed a deepergreen, and the trees stood out like sentinels along the hilltop behindthe house. Even when she turned and went back to the kitchen, and tookupon herself once more the accustomed tasks, her eyes still faintlyglowed with the memory of what they had seen. 

"It do beat all, " said Theron a month later to Helen Raymond, who wasagain a visitor at the farm, --"it do beat all, Helen, what's come overyer aunt. She used ter be nervous-like, and fretted, an' things neverwent ter suit. Now she's calm, an' her eyes kind o' shine--'speciallywhen she comes in from one of them tramps of hers outdoors. She saysit's her Angelus--if ye know what that is; but it strikes me as mightyqueer--it do, Helen, it do!"

And Helen smiled, content. 

The Apple of Her Eye

It rained. It had rained all day. To Helen Raymond, spatting along thewet slipperiness of the drenched pavements, it seemed as if it had alwaysrained, and always would rain. 

Helen was tired, blue, and ashamed--ashamed because she was blue; bluebecause she was tired; and tired because--wearily her mind reviewed herday. 

She had dragged herself out of bed at half-past five, but even then hersimple toilet had been hastened to an untidy half completion by thequerulous insistence of her mother's frequent "You know, Helen, --you_must_ know how utterly impossible it is for me to lift my head untilI've had my coffee! _Are n't_ you nearly ready?" Mrs. Raymond hadwakened earlier than usual that morning, and she could never endure tolie in bed when not asleep. 

With one shoe unbuttoned and no collar on, Helen had prepared the coffee;then had come the delicate task of getting the semi-invalid up anddressed, with hair smoothed to the desired satiny texture. The hair hadrefused to smooth, however, this morning; buttons had come off, too, andstrings had perversely knotted until Helen's patience had almostsnapped--almost, but not quite. In the end her own breakfast, and thetidying of herself and the little four-room flat, had degenerated into abreathless scramble broken by remorseful apologies to her mother, inresponse to which Mrs. Raymond only sighed:

"Oh, of course, it does n't matter; but you _know_ how haste andconfusion annoy me, and how bad it is for me!"

It had all resulted as Helen had feared that it would result--she waslate; and tardiness at Henderson & Henderson's meant a sharp reprimand, and in time, a fine. Helen's place in the huge department store wasbehind a counter where spangled nets and embroidered chiffons were sold. It had seemed to Helen today that half the world must be giving a ball towhich the other half was invited, so constant--in spite of the rain--werethe calls for her wares. The girl told herself bitterly that it wouldnot be so unendurable were she handling anything but those filmy, glittering stuffs that spoke so loudly of youth and love and laughter. If it were only gray socks and kitchen kettles that she tended! At leastshe would be spared the sight of those merry, girlish faces, and thesound of those care-free, laughing voices. At least she would not haveall day before her eyes the slender, gloved fingers which she knew wereas fair and delicate as the fabrics they so ruthlessly tossed from sideto side. 

Annoyances at the counter had been more frequent to-day than usual, Helenthought. Perhaps the rain had made people cross. Whatever it was, thehurried woman had been more hurried, and the insolent woman moreunbearable. There had been, too, an irritating repetition of the womanwho was "just looking, " and of her sister who "did n't know"; "was n'tquite sure"; but "guessed that would n't do. " Consequently Helen's listof sales had been short in spite of her incessant labor--and the list ofsales was what Henderson & Henderson looked at when a promotion was beingconsidered. 

And through it all, hour after hour, there had been the shimmer of thespangles, the light chatter of coming balls and weddings, the merryvoices of care-free girls--the youth, and love, and laughter. 

"Youth, and love, and laughter. " Unconsciously Helen repeated the wordsaloud; then she smiled bitterly as she applied them to herself. Youth?--she was twenty-five. Love?--the grocer? the milkman? thefloorwalker? oh, yes, and there was the postman. Laughter?--she couldnot remember when she had seen anything funny--really funny enough tolaugh at. 

Of all this Helen thought as she plodded wearily homeward; of this, andmore. At home there would be supper to prepare, her mother to get tobed, and the noon dishes to clear away. Helen drew in her breath sharplyas she thought of the dinner. She hoped that it had not beencodfish-and-cream to-day. If it had, she must speak to Mrs. Mason. Codfish twice a week might do, but five times! (Mrs. Mason was theneighbor who, for a small sum each day, brought Mrs. Raymond her dinnerfully cooked. ) There was a waist to iron and some mending to do. Helenremembered that. There would be time, however, for it all, she thought;that is, if it should not unfortunately be one of her mother's wakefulevenings when talking--and on one subject--was the only thing that wouldsoothe her. 

Helen sighed now. She was almost home, but involuntarily her speedslackened. She became suddenly more acutely aware of the dreary flappingof her wet skirts against her ankles, and of the swish of the water as itsucked itself into the hole at the heel of her left overshoe. The windwhistled through an alleyway in a startling swoop and nearly wrenched herumbrella from her half-numbed fingers, but still her step lagged. Therain slapped her face smartly as the umbrella careened, but even that didnot spur her to haste. Unmistakably she dreaded to go home--and it wasat this realization that Helen's shame deepened into a dull red on hercheeks; as if any girl, any right-hearted girl, should mind a mother'stalk of her only son!

At the shabby door of the apartment house Helen half closed her umbrellaand shook it fiercely. Then, as if freeing herself from something asobnoxious as was the rain, she threw back her head and shook that, too. A moment later, carefully carrying the dripping umbrella, she hurried upthree flights of stairs and unlocked the door of the rear suite. 

"My, but it sprinkles! Did you know it?" she cried cheerily to thelittle woman sitting by the west window. 

"'Sprinkles'! Helen, how can you speak like that when you _know_ what adreadful day it is!" fretted the woman. "But then, you don't know. Younever do know. If _you_ had to just sit here and stare and stare andstare at that rain all day, as I do, perhaps you would know. "

"Perhaps, " smiled Helen oddly--she was staring just then at the havocthat that same rain had wrought in what had been a fairly good hat. 

Her mother's glance followed hers. 

"Helen, that can't be--your hat!" cried the woman, aghast. 

Helen smiled quizzically. "Do you know that's exactly what I wasthinking myself, mother! It can't be--but it is. "

"But it's ruined, utterly ruined!"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"And you have n't any other that's really decent!"

"No, ma'am. "

The woman sighed impatiently. "Helen, how can you answer like that whenyou _know_ what it means to spoil that hat? Can't _anything_ dampen yourabsurd high spirits?"

"'High spirits'!" breathed the girl. A quick flash leaped to her eyes. Her lips parted angrily; then, as suddenly, they snapped close shut. Inanother minute she had turned and left the room quietly. 

Clothed in dry garments a little later, Helen set about the evening'stasks. At the first turn in the little room that served for both kitchenand dining-room she found the dinner dishes waiting to be cleared fromthe table--and there were unmistakable evidences of codfish-and-cream. As she expected, she had not long to wait. 

"Helen, " called a doleful voice from the sitting-room. 

"Yes, mother. "

"She brought codfish again to-day--five times this week; and you _know_how I dislike codfish!"

"Yes, I know, dear. I'm so sorry!"

"'Sorry'! But that does n't feed me. You _must_ speak to her, Helen. I_can't_ eat codfish like that. You must speak to-night when you take thedishes back. "

"Very well, mother; but--well, you know we don't pay very much. "

"Then pay more. I'm sure I shouldn't think you'd grudge me enough toeat, Helen. "

"Mother! How can you say a thing like that!" Helen's voice shook. Shepaused a moment, a dish half-dried in her hands; but from the other roomcame only silence. 

Supper that night was prepared with unusual care. There was hotcorncake, too, --Mrs. Raymond liked hot corncake. It was a little late, it is true; Helen had not planned for the corncake at first--but therewas the codfish. If the poor dear had had nothing but codfish! . . . Helen opened a jar of the treasured peach preserves, too; indeed, theentire supper table from the courageous little fern in the middle to the"company china" cup at Mrs. Raymond's plate was a remorseful apology forthat midday codfish. If Mrs. Raymond noticed this, she gave no sign. Without comment, she ate the corncake and the peach preserves, and drankher tea from the china cup; with Mrs. Raymond only the codfish of one'sdaily life merited comment. 

It was at the supper table that Helen's mother brought out the letter. 

"You don't ask, nor seem to care, " she began with a curious air ofinjured triumph, "but I've got a letter from Herbert. "

The younger woman flushed. 

"Why, of course, I care, " she retorted cheerily. "What does he say?"

"He wrote it several days ago. It got missent. But it's such a niceletter!"

"They always are. "

"It asks particularly how I am, and says he's sorry I have to suffer so. _He_ cares. "

Only the swift red in Helen's cheeks showed that the daughter understoodthe emphasis. 

"Of course he cares, " she answered smoothly. 

"And he sent me a present, too--money!" Mrs. Raymond's usually fretfulwhine carried a ring of exultation. 

Helen lifted her head eagerly. 

"Money?"

"Yes. A new crisp dollar bill. He told me to get something pretty--somelittle trinket that I'd like. "

"But, a dollar--only a dollar, " murmured Helen. "Now you're needing awrapper, but that--"

"A wrapper, indeed!" interrupted Mrs. Raymond in fine scorn. "A wrapperis n't a 'trinket' for me! I'd have wrappers anyway, of course. He saidto buy something pretty; something I'd like. But then, I might haveknown. _You_ never think I need anything but wrappers and--and codfish!I--I'm glad I've got one child that--that appreciates!" And Mrs. Raymondlifted her handkerchief to her eyes. 

Across the table Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. For amoment she did not speak; then very gently she said:--

"Mother, you did n't quite mean that, I'm sure. You know very well thatI--I'd dress you in silks and velvets, and feed you on strawberries andcream, if I could. It's only that--that-- But never mind. Use thedollar as you please, dear. Is n't there something--some little thingyou would like?"

Mrs. Raymond lowered her handkerchief. Her grieved eyes lookedreproachfully across at her daughter. 

"I'd thought of--a tie; a lace tie with pretty ends; a _nice_ tie. You_know_ how I like nice things!"

"Of course, you do; and you shall have it, too, " cried Helen. "I'llbring some home tomorrow night for you to select from. Now that will befine, won't it?"

The other drew a resigned sigh. 

"'Fine'! That's just like you, Helen. You never appreciate--neverrealize. Perhaps you do think it's 'fine' to stay mewed up at home hereand have ties _brought_ to you instead of going out yourself to the storeand buying them, like other women!"

"Oh, but just don't look at it that way, " retorted Helen in a cheerfulvoice. "Just imagine you're a queen, or a president's wife, or amulti-millionairess who is sitting at home in state to do her shoppingjust because she wishes to avoid the vulgar crowds in the stores; eh, mother dear?"

"Mother dear" sniffed disdainfully. 

"Really, Helen, " she complained, "you are impossible. One would thinkyou might have _some_ sympathy, _some_ consideration for my feelings!There's your brother, now. He's all sympathy. Look at his letter. Think of that dollar he sent me--just a little thing to give mehappiness. And he's always doing such things. Did n't he remember how Iloved peppermints, and give me a whole box at Christmas?"

Helen did not answer. As well she knew, she did not need to. Hermother, once started on this subject, asked only for a listener. Wearilythe girl rose to her feet and began to clear the table. 

"And it is n't as if he did n't have his hands full, just running overfull with his business and all, " continued Mrs. Raymond. "You _know_ howsuccessful he is, Helen. Now there's that club--what was it, presidentor treasurer that they made him? Anyhow, it was _something_; and that_shows_ how popular he is. And you know every letter tells us ofsomething new. I 'm sure it is n't any wonder I 'm proud of him; andrelieved, too--I did hope some one of my children would amount tosomething; and I 'm sure Herbert has. "

There was a pause. Herbert's sister was washing the dishes now, hurriedly, nervously. Herbert's mother watched her with dissatisfiedeyes. 

"Now there's you, Helen, and your music, " she began again, after a longsigh. "You _know_ how disappointed I was about that. "

"Oh, but piano practice does n't help to sell goods across the counter, "observed Helen dully. "At least, I never heard that it did. "

"'Sell goods, '" moaned the other. "Always something about selling goods!Helen, _can't_ you get your mind for one moment off that dreadful store, and think of something higher?"

"But it's the store that brings us in our bread and butter--and codfish, "added Helen, half under her breath. 

It was a foolish allusion, born of a much-tried spirit; and Helenregretted the words the moment they had left her lips. 

"Yes, that's exactly what it brings--codfish, " gloomed Mrs. Raymond. "I'm glad you at least realize that. "

There was no reply. Helen was working faster now. Her cheeks were pink, and her hands trembled. As soon as possible she piled Mrs. Mason'sdinner dishes neatly on the tray and hurried with them to the outer doorof the suite. 

"Now, Helen, don't stay, " called her mother. "You know how much I'malone, and I just simply can't go to bed yet. I'm not one bit sleepy. "

"No, mother. " The voice was calm, and the door shut quietly; but in thehall Helen paused at the head of the stairs, flushed and palpitating. 

"I wonder--if it would do any good--if I should--throw them!" she chokedhysterically, the tray raised high in her hands. Then with a littleshamed sob she lowered the tray and hurried downstairs to the apartmentbelow. 

"It's only me, Mrs. Mason, with the dishes, " she said a moment later, asher neighbor peered out into the hall in answer to the knock at the door. "I'm a little late to-night. "

"Oh, to be sure, Miss Raymond; come in--come in. Why, child, what ailsyou?" cried the woman, as Helen stepped into the light. 

"Ails me? Why, nothing, " laughed the girl evasively. "Shall I put thethings here?"

As she set the tray down and turned to go, the elder woman, by a suddenmovement, confronted her. 

"See here, Miss Helen, it ain't none o' my business, I know, but I'vejust got to speak. Your eyes are all teary, and your cheeks have got twored spots in 'em. You've been cryin'. I know you have. You're so thinI could just blow you over with a good big breath. And I know what's thematter. You're all wore out. You 're doin' too much. No mortal womancan work both day and night!"

"But I don't--quite, " stammered the girl "Besides, there is so much to bedone. You know, mother--though she isn't very sick--can do but littlefor herself. "

"Yes, I know she don't--seem to. But is n't there some one else thatcould help?"

The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes sought for a means of escape. 

"Why, no, of course not. There is n't any one, " she murmured. "You arevery kind, really, Mrs. Mason, but I must go--now. "

The other did not move. She was standing directly before the hall door. 

"There 's--your brother. "

The girl lifted her head quickly. A look that was almost fear came intoher eyes. 

"Why, how did you know that I had--a brother?"

"Know it!" scoffed Mrs. Mason. "I have known your mother for ayear--ever since she moved here; and as if a body could know _her_ andnot hear of _him_! He's the very apple of her eye. Why can't he--help?Would n't he, if he knew?"

"Why, Mrs. Mason, of course! He has--he does, " declared the girlquickly, the red deepening in her cheeks. "He--he sent her money onlyto-day. "

"Yes, I know; she told me--of that. " Mrs. Mason's voice was significantin its smoothness. "Your mother said she was going to get her--a tie. "

"Yes, a tie, " repeated Helen, with feverish lightness; "lace, you know. Mother does so love pretty things! Oh, and by the way, " hurried on thegirl breathlessly, "if you don't mind--about the dinners, you know. Mother does n't care for codfish-and-cream, and if you could justsubstitute something else, I'll pay more, of course! I'd expect to dothat. I've been thinking for some time that you ought to have at leastten cents a day more--if you could manage--on that. And--thank you; ifyou _would_ remember about--the codfish, and now I really must--go!" shefinished. And before Mrs. Mason knew quite what had happened a flyingfigure had darted by her through the half-open doorway. 

"Well, of all things! _Now_ what have I said?" muttered the puzzledwoman, staring after her visitor. "Ten cents a day more, indeed! Andwhere, for the land's sake, is the poor lamb going to find that?"

Long hours later in the Raymond flat, after the mending was done, thewaist ironed, and the mother's querulous tongue had been silenced bysleep, the "poor lamb" sat down with her little account book and tried todiscover just that--where she was going to find the extra ten cents a dayto buy off Mrs. Mason's codfish. 

It did not rain the next morning. The sun shone, indeed, as if it neverhad rained, and never would rain. In Helen Raymond's soul a deeper shamethan ever sent the blue devils skulking into the farthermost corners--asif it were anything but a matter for the heartiest congratulations thatone's mother had at least one child who had proved not to be adisappointment to her! And very blithely, to cheat the last one of thelittle indigo spirits, the girl resolutely uptilted her chin, and beganher day. 

It was not unlike the days that had gone before. There was the sameapologetic rush in the morning, the same monotonous succession of buyersand near-buyers at the counter, the same glitter and sparkle andchatter--the youth, and love, and laughter. Then at night came thesurprise. 

Helen Raymond went home to find the little flat dominated by a newpresence, a presence so big and breezy that unconsciously she sniffed theair as if she were entering a pine grove instead of a stuffy, four-roomcity flat. 

"Helen, he knows Herbert, my Herbert, " announced Mrs. Raymondrapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction wasnecessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:--

"My name is Carroll--Jack Carroll; Miss Raymond, I suppose. Yourbrother--er--suggested that I call, as I was in the city. "

"Of course you'd call, " chirruped Mrs. Raymond. "As if we were n'talways glad to see any friend of my boy's. Helen, why don't you saysomething? Why don't you welcome Mr. Carroll?"

"I have n't had much chance yet, mother, " smiled the girl, in someembarrassment. "Perhaps I--I have n't caught my breath. "

"Not that Mr. Carroll ought to mind, of course, " resumed Mrs. Raymondplaintively. "And he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate youare. You know Herbert is so quick, " she added, turning to Herbert'sfriend. 

"Is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice Helenlooked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "You see, I'm not sure, after all, that I do know Herbert, " he continued lightly, still with that odd something in his voice. "Herbert's mother has beentelling me lots of things--about Herbert. "

"Yes; we've been having such a nice visit together, " sighed Mrs. Raymond. "You see, _he_ understands, Helen, --Mr. Carroll does. "

Again Helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. She caught herbreath sharply and looked away. 

"Of course he understands, " she cried, in a voice that was not quitesteady. "If he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that therecould n't be any nicer subject than Herbert to talk about--Herbert andthe fine things he has done!" There was no bitterness, no sarcasm, intone or manner. There was only a frightened little pleading, awarding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "Of course, Mr. Carroll understands, " she finished; and this time she turned and lookedstraight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly. 

"I understand, " he nodded gravely. 

And yet--it was not of Herbert that he talked during the next tenminutes. It was of Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, of their life at homeand at the store. It was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at thewhimsical playfulness with which Miss Raymond set off the pitiful littletale of the daily struggle for existence. If he detected the nervousnessin the telling, he did not show it. He did frown once; but that was whenHerbert's mother sighed apologetically:--

"You must n't mind all she says, Mr. Carroll. Helen never did seem torealize the serious side of life, nor what I suffer; but that is Helen'sway. "

"After all, it must be a way that helps smooth things over some, " he hadretorted warmly. 

And there the matter had ended--except in Helen's memory: there it badefair to remain long, indeed. 

At the end of the ten minutes, Herbert's friend rose to his feet and saidthat he must go. He added that he would come again, if he might; and toMiss Raymond he said very low--but very impressively--that she would seehim soon, very soon. It was no surprise, therefore, to Helen, toencounter the big, tall fellow not twenty feet from her doorway when shestarted for the store the next morning. 

His clean-cut face flushed painfully as he advanced; but the girl did notchange color. 

"Good-morning. I thought you'd do this, " she began hurriedly. "We cantalk as we walk. Now, tell me, please, quick. What is itabout--Herbert?"

"Then you--know?"

"Not much; only suspect. I know everything is n't quite--right. "

"But your mother doesn't know--even that much?"

"No, no! You saw that, didn't you? I was so glad you did, and did n'tspeak! He is her pet, and she's so proud of him!"

"Yes, I know, " nodded the man grimly. "I saw--that. "

The girl lifted her chin. 

"And mother has a right to be proud of him. Herbert is fine. It is onlythat--that--" She weakened perceptibly. "Was it--money?" she faltered. 

"Y-yes. " Carroll spoke with evident reluctance. His eyes looked downalmost tenderly at the girl with the still bravely uptilted chin. "It--it is rather serious this time. He asked me to call and--and makeit plain to you. I had told him I was coming up to town on business, andI promised. But--good Heavens, Miss Raymond, I--I can't tell you!"

"But you must. I'll have to know, " cried the girl sharply. All thepride had fled now. "And you need n't fear. I know what it is. Hewants money to settle debts. I've sent it before--once. That isit--that _is_ it?"

"Yes, only it's--it's a particularly bad job this time, " stammered theother. "You see, it--it's club money--a little club among the boys, ofwhich he is treasurer--and he sto--used part of the--funds. "

The man choked over the wretched tale, and instinctively laid his hand onthe girl's arm. She would faint or cry, of course, and he wondered whathe could do. But there was no fainting, no crying. There was only thepitiful whitening of a set little face, and the tense question:

"How much--was it?"

Carroll sighed in relief. 

"Miss Raymond, you're a--a brick--to take it like that, " he criedbrokenly. "I don't know another girl who-- It was--well, a hundreddollars will cover it; but he's got to have it--to-morrow. "

"I'll send it. "

"But how--forgive me, Miss Raymond, but last night you were telling methat--that--" He flushed, and came to a helpless pause. 

"How can I get it?" she supplied wearily. "We've a little in the bank--avery little laid by for a rainy day; but it will cover that. We neverthink of touching it, of course, for--for ordinary things. But--_this_. "She shuddered, and Carroll saw her shabbily gloved hand clinchspasmodically. "Mr. Carroll, how did he come to--do it?"

It was a short story, soon told--the usual story of a pleasure-loving, thoughtless youth, tempted beyond his strength. Carroll softened itwhere he could, and ended with:--

"I asked Bert to let me make it good, somehow, but he would n't, MissRaymond. He--he just would n't!"

"Of course he would n't, " exclaimed the girl sharply. Then, in a softervoice: "Thank you, just the same. But, don't you see? 'T would havedone no good. I'd have had to pay you. . . . No, no, don't say anymore, please, " she begged, in answer to the quick words that leaped tohis lips. "You have been kind--very kind. Now, just one kindness more, if you will, " she hurried on. "Come tonight. I must leave you now--it'sthe store, just around the corner. But to-night I 'll have the money. It's in my name, and I can get it without mother's--knowing. Youunderstand? Without--mother's--_knowing_. "

"I understand, " he nodded gravely, as he wrung her hand and turnedchokingly away. 

When Helen reached home that night she found the little flat dominatedonce again by the big, breezy presence of Herbert's friend. 

"I've been telling him more about Herbert, " Mrs. Raymond began joyously, as soon as Helen entered the room. "I've been telling him about hisletters to me, and the peppermints and the lace tie, you know, and how_good_ Herbert is to me. We've had such a nice visit!"

"Have you? I'm so glad!" returned Helen, a little unsteadily; and onlythe man knew the meaning of the quick look of relieved gratitude thatcame to her face. 

At the door some minutes later, Carroll found a small packet thrust intohis fingers. He caught both the hand and the packet in a firm clasp. 

"You're true blue, little girl, " he breathed tremulously, "and I'm goingto keep tabs on Bert after this. I 'll _make_ him keep straight forher--and for _you_. He's only a bit weak, after all. And you'll see meagain soon--very soon, " he finished, as he crushed her hand in a gripthat hurt. Then he turned and stumbled away, as if his eyes did not seequite clearly. 

"Now, wasn't he nice?" murmured Mrs. Raymond, as the girl closed the halldoor. "And--didn't he say that he'd call again sometime?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Well, I'm sure, I hope he will. He isn't Herbert, of course, but he_knows_ Herbert. "

"He--does, mother. " There was a little break in Helen's voice, but Mrs. Raymond did not notice it. 

"Dearie me! Well, he's gone now, and I _am_ hungry. My dinner didn'tseem to please, somehow. "

"Why, mother, it was n't--codfish; was it?"

"N-no. It was chicken. But then, like enough it _will_ be codfishto-morrow. "

Helen Raymond dreamed that night, and she dreamed of love, and youth, andlaughter. But it was not the shimmer of spangled tulle nor the chatterof merry girls that called it forth. It was the look in a pair ofsteadfast blue eyes, and the grip of a strong man's hand. 

A Mushroom of Collingsville

There were three men in the hotel office that Monday evening: JaredParker, the proprietor; Seth Wilber, town authority on all things pastand present; and John Fletcher, known in Collingsville as "TheSquire"--possibly because of his smattering of Blackstone; probablybecause of his silk hat and five-thousand-dollar bank account. Each ofthe three men eyed with unabashed curiosity the stranger in the doorway. 

"Good-evening, gentlemen, " began a deprecatory voice. "I--er--this isthe hotel?"

In a trice Jared Parker was behind the short counter. 

"Certainly, sir. Room, sir?" he said suavely, pushing an open book anda pen halfway across the counter. 

"H'm, yes, I--I suppose so, " murmured the stranger, as he hesitatinglycrossed the floor. "H'm; one must sleep, you know, " he added, as heexamined the point of the pen. 

"Certainly, sir, certainly, " agreed Jared, whose face was somewhattwisted in his endeavors to smile on the prospective guest and frown atthe two men winking and gesticulating over by the stove. 

"H'm, " murmured the stranger a third time, as he signed his name withpainstaking care. "There, that's settled! Now where shall I findProfessor Marvin, please?"

"Professor Marvin!" repeated Jared stupidly. 

"Yes; Professor George Marvin, " bowed the stranger. 

"Why, there ain't no Professor Marvin, that I know of. "

"Mebbe he means old Marvin's son, " interposed Seth Wilber with achuckle. 

The stranger turned inquiringly. 

"His name's 'George, ' all right, " continued Seth, with another chuckle, "but I never heard of his professin' anythin'--'nless 't was laziness. "

The stranger's face showed a puzzled frown. 

"Oh--but--I mean the man who discovered that ants and--"

"Good gorry!" interrupted Seth, with a groan. "If it's anythin' aboutbugs an' snakes, he's yer man! Ain't he?" he added, turning to hisfriends for confirmation. 

Jared nodded, and Squire Fletcher cleared his throat. 

"He's done nothing but play with bugs ever since he came into theworld, " said the Squire ponderously. "A most unfortunate case of anutterly worthless son born to honest, hard-working parents. He'llbring up in the poor-house yet--or in a worse place. Only think ofit--a grown man spending his time flat on his stomach in the woodscounting ants' legs and bugs' eyes!"

"Oh, but--" The stranger stopped. The hotel-keeper had the floor. 

"It began when he wa'n't more'n a baby. He pestered the life out ofhis mother bringing snakes into the sittin'-room, and carrying worms inhis pockets. The poor woman was most mortified to death about it. Why, once when the parson was there, George used his hat to catchbutterflies with--smashed it, too. "

"Humph!" snapped the Squire. "The little beast filled one of myovershoes once, to make a swimming-tank for his dirty little fish. "

"They could n't do nothin' with him, " chimed in Seth Wilber. "An' whenhe was older, 'twas worse. If his father set him ter hoein' pertaters, the little scamp would be found h'istin' up old rocks an' boards tersee the critters under 'em crawl. "

"Yes, but--" Again the stranger was silenced. 

"And in school he did n't care nothing about 'rithmetic nor jography, "interrupted Jared. "He was forever scarin' the teacher into fitsbringin' in spiders an' caterpillars, an' asking questions about 'em. "

"Gorry! I guess ye can't tell me no news about George Marvin'sschoolin', " snarled Seth Wilber--"me, that's got a son Tim what was inthe same class with him. Why, once the teacher set 'em in the sameseat; but Tim could n't stand that--what with the worms an'spiders--an' he kicked so hard the teacher swapped 'round. "

"Yes; well--er--extraordinary, extraordinary--very!--so it is, "murmured the stranger, backing toward the door. The next moment he wasout on the street asking the first person he met for the way to GeorgeMarvin's. 

On Tuesday night a second stranger stopped at the hotel and asked wherehe could find Professor Marvin. Jared, Seth, and Squire Fletcher werethere as before; but this time their derisive stories--such as theymanaged to tell--fell on deaf ears. The stranger signed his name witha flourish, engaged his room, laughed good-naturedly at the threemen--and left them still talking. 

On Wednesday two more strangers arrived, and on Thursday, another one. All, with varying manner but unvarying promptitude, called forProfessor George Marvin. 

Jared, Seth, and the Squire were dumfounded. Their mystificationculminated in one grand chorus of amazement when, on Friday, the Squirecame to the hotel hugging under his arm a daily newspaper. 

"Just listen to this!" he blurted out, banging his paper down on thedesk and spreading it open with shaking hands. As he read, he ran hisfinger down the column, singling out a phrase here and there, andstumbling a little over unfamiliar words. 

The recent ento-mo-logical discoveries of Professor George Marvin haveset the scientific world in a flurry. . . . Professor Marvin is nowunanimously conceded to be the greatest entomologist living. He knowshis Hex-a-poda and Myri-a-poda as the most of us know ouralphabet. . . . The humble home of the learned man has become a Mecca, toward which both great and small of the scientific world are bendingeager steps. . . . The career of Marvin reads like a romance, and hehas fought his way to his present enviable position by sheer grit, andability, having had to combat with all the narrow criticism andmisconceptions usual in the case of a progressive thinker in a smalltown. Indeed, it is said that even now his native village fails torecognize the honor that is hers. 

"Jehoshaphat!" exclaimed Seth Wilber faintly. 

Fletcher folded the paper and brought his fist down hard upon it. 

"There's more--a heap more, " he cried excitedly. 

"But how--what--" stammered Jared, whose wits were slow on untroddenpaths. 

"It's old Marvin's son--don't you see?" interrupted Squire Fletcherimpatiently. "He 's big!--famous!"

"'Famous'! What for?"

"Zounds, man!--did n't you hear?" snarled the Squire. "He's a famousentomologist. It's his bugs and spiders. "

"Gosh!" ejaculated Jared, his hand seeking the bald spot on the back ofhis head. "Who'd ever have thought it? Gorry! Let's have a look atit. " And he opened the paper and peered at the print with near-sightedeyes. 

It was on Monday, three days later, that Jared, Seth, and the Squirewere once more accosted in the hotel office by a man they did not know. 

"Good-evening, gentlemen, I--"

"You don't even have to say it, " cut in Jared, with a nourish of bothhands. "We know why you're here without your telling. "

"An' you've come ter the right place, sir--the right place, " declaredSeth Wilber, pompously. "What Professor Marvin don't know about bugsan' spiders ain't wuth knowin'. I tell ye, sir, he's the biggestentymollygist that there is ter be found. "

"That he is, " affirmed the Squire, with an indulgently superior smiletoward Wilber--"the very greatest _entomologist_ living, " he correctedcarefully. "And no wonder, sir; he's studied bugs from babyhood. _I've known him all his life--all his life, sir_, and I always saidhe'd make his mark in the world. "

"Oh, but--" began the stranger. 

"'Member when he took the parson's hat to catch butterflies in?"chuckled Jared, speaking to the Squire, but throwing furtive glancestoward the stranger to make sure of his attention. "Gorry--but he wasa cute one! Wish 't had been my hat. I 'd 'a' had it framed an'labeled, an' hung up on the wall there. "

"Yes, I remember, " nodded the Squire; then he added with a complacentsmile: "The mischievous little lad used my overshoe for a fish-pondonce--I have that overshoe yet. "

"Have ye now?" asked Seth Wilber enviously. "I want ter know! Well, anyhow, my Tim, he went ter school with him, an' set in the same seat, "continued Seth, turning toward the stranger. "Tim's got an oldwritin'-book with one leaf all sp'iled 'cause one of young Marvin'sspiders got into the inkwell an' then did a cake-walk across the page. Tim, he got a lickin' fur it then, but he says he would n't give upthat page now fur forty lickin's. "

The stranger shifted from one foot to the other. 

"Yes, yes, " he began, "but--"

"You'd oughter seen him when old Marvin used ter send him put to hoepertaters, " cut in Jared gleefully. "Gorry!--young as he was, he wasall bugs then. He was smart enough to know that there was lots ofcurious critters under sticks an' stones that had laid still for a longtime. I tell yer, there wa'n't much that got away from his brighteyes--except the pertaters!--he did n't bother them none. "

A prolonged chuckle and a loud laugh greeted this sally. In the pausethat followed the stranger cleared his throat determinedly. 

"See here, gentlemen, " he began pompously, with more than a shade ofirritation in his voice. "_Will_ you allow me to speak? And _will_you inform me what all this is about?"

"About? Why, it's about Professor George Marvin, to be sure, " rejoinedSquire Fletcher. "Pray, what else should it be about?"

"I guess you know what it's about all right, stranger, " chuckled SethWilber, with a shrewd wink. "You can't fool us. Mebbe you're one o'them fellers what thinks we don't know enough ter 'preciate a big manwhen we've got him. No, sir-ree! We ain't that kind. Come, ye needn't play off no longer. We know why you're here, an' we're glad tersee ye, an' we're proud ter show ye the way ter our Professor's. Comeon--'t ain't fur. "

The stranger drew back. His face grew red, then purple. 

"I should like to know, " he sputtered thickly, "I should like to knowif you really think that I--I have come 'way up here to see this oldbug man. Why, man alive, I never even heard of him!"

"What!" ejaculated three disbelieving voices, their owners toodumfounded to take exceptions to the sneer in tone and words. "Zounds, man!--what did you come for, then?" demanded the Squire. 

The stranger raised his chin. 

"See here, who do you think I am?" he demanded pompously, as he squaredhimself before them in all his glory of checkered trousers, tall hat, and flaunting watch-chain. "Who do you think I am? I am TheophilusAugustus Smythe, sir, advance agent and head manager of the KalamazooNone-Like-It Salve Company. I came, sir, to make arrangements fortheir arrival to-morrow morning. They show in this town to-morrownight. Now perhaps you understand, sir, that my business is rathermore important than hunting up any old bug man that ever lived!" Andhe strode to the desk and picked up the pen. 

For a moment there was absolute silence; then Seth Wilber spoke. 

"Well, by ginger!--you--you'd oughter have come ter see the Professor, anyhow, " he muttered, weakly, as he fell back in his chair. "Say, Squire, 'member when Marvin--"

Over at the desk Theophilus Augustus Smythe crossed his _t_ with soviolent an energy that the pen sputtered and made two blots. 

That Angel Boy

"I am so glad you consented to stay over until Monday, auntie, for nowyou can hear our famous boy choir, " Ethel had said at the breakfasttable that Sunday morning. 

"Humph! I've heard of 'em, " Ann Wetherby had returned crisply, "but Inever took much stock in 'em. A choir--made o' boys--just as if musiccould come from yellin', hootin' boys!"

An hour later at St. Mark's, the softly swelling music of the organ wassending curious little thrills tingling to Miss Wetherby's finger tips. The voluntary had become a mere whisper when she noticed that the greatdoors near her were swinging outward. The music ceased, and there wasa moment's breathless hush--then faintly in the distance sounded thefirst sweet notes of the processional. 

Ethel stirred slightly and threw a meaning glance at her aunt. Thewoman met the look unflinchingly. 

"Them ain't no boys!" she whispered tartly. 

Nearer and nearer swelled the chorus until the leaders reached the opendoors. Miss Wetherby gave one look at the white-robed singers, thenshe reached over and clutched Ethel's fingers. 

"They be!--and in their nighties, too!" she added in a horrifiedwhisper. 

One of the boys had a solo in the anthem that morning, and as theclear, pure soprano rose higher and higher, Miss Wetherby gazed inundisguised awe at the young singer. She noted the soulful eyesuplifted devoutly, and the broad forehead framed in clustering browncurls. To Miss Wetherby it was the face of an angel; and as theglorious voice rose and swelled and died away in exquisite melody, twobig tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the shining, blacksilk gown. 

At dinner that day Miss Wetherby learned that the soloist was "BobbySawyer. " She also learned that he was one of Ethel's "fresh-air"mission children, and that, as yet, there was no place for him to gofor a vacation. 

"That angel child with the heavenly voice--and no one to take him in?"Miss Wetherby bethought herself of her own airy rooms and floweringmeadows, and snapped her lips together with sudden determination. 

"I'll take him!" she announced tersely, and went home the next day toprepare for her expected guest. 

Early in the morning of the first Monday in July, Miss Wetherby addedthe finishing touches to the dainty white bedroom upstairs. 

"Dear little soul--I hope he'll like it!" she murmured, giving a lovingpat to the spotless, beruffled pillow shams; then her approving eyesfell upon the "Morning Prayer" hanging at the foot of the bed. "There!them sweet little cherubs sayin' their prayers is jest the thing furthe little saint to see when he first wakes ev'ry mornin'. Littleangel!" she finished softly. 

On the table in the comer were hymn books, the great red-and-goldfamily Bible, and a "Baxter's Saint's Rest"--the only reading mattersuited to Miss Wetherby's conception of the mind behind those soulfulorbs upraised in devout adoration. 

Just before Ann started for the station Tommy Green came over to leavehis pet dog, Rover, for Miss Wetherby's "fresh-air" boy to play with. 

"Now, Thomas Green, " remonstrated Ann severely, "you can take thatdirty dog right home. I won't have him around. Besides, Robert Sawyerain't the kind of a boy you be. He don't care fur sech things--I knowhe don't. "

Half an hour later, Ann Wetherby, her heart thumping loudly against herribs, anxiously scanned the passengers as they alighted at SlocumvilleStation. There were not many--an old man, two girls, three or fourwomen, and a small, dirty boy with a dirtier dog and a brown paperparcel in his arms. 

He had not come!

Miss Wetherby held her breath and looked furtively at the small boy. There was nothing familiar in _his_ appearance, she was thankful tosay! He must be another one for somebody else. Still, perhaps hemight know something about her own angel boy--she would ask. 

Ann advanced warily, with a disapproving eye on the dog. 

"Little boy, can you tell me why Robert Sawyer did n't come?" she askedseverely. 

The result of her cautious question disconcerted her not a little. Theboy dropped the dog and bundle to the platform, threw his hat in theair, and capered about in wild glee. 

"Hi, there. Bones! We're all right! Golly--but I thought we wasside-tracked, fur sure!"

Miss Wetherby sank in limp dismay to a box of freight near by--thebared head disclosed the clustering brown curls and broad forehead, andthe eyes uplifted to the whirling hat completed the tell-tale picture. 

The urchin caught the hat deftly on the back of his head, and prancedup to Ann with his hands in his pockets. 

"Gee-whiz! marm--but I thought you'd flunked fur sure. I reckoned mean' Bones was barkin' up the wrong tree this time. It looked as ifwe'd come to a jumpin'-off place, an' you'd given us the slip. I'mBob, myself, ye see, an' I've come all right!"

"Are you Robert Sawyer?" she gasped. 

"Jest ye hear that, Bones!" laughed the boy shrilly, capering round andround the small dog again. "I's 'Robert' now--do ye hear?" Then hewhirled back to his position in front of Miss Wetherby, and made a lowbow. "Robert Sawyer, at yer service, " he announced in mock pomposity. "Oh, I say, " he added with a quick change of position, "yer 'd bettercall me 'Bob'; I ain't uster nothin' else. I'd fly off the handlequicker 'n no time, puttin' on airs like that. "

Miss Wetherby's back straightened. She made a desperate attempt toregain her usual stern self-possession. 

"I shall call ye 'Robert, ' boy. I don't like--er--that other name. "

There was a prolonged stare and a low whistle from the boy. Then heturned to pick up his bundle. 

"Come on, Bones, stir yer stumps; lively, now! This 'ere lady 'sa-goin' ter take us ter her shebang ter stay mos' two weeks. Gee-whiz!Bones, ain't this great!" And with one bound he was off the platformand turning a series of somersaults on the soft grass followed by theskinny, mangy dog which was barking itself nearly wild with joy. 

Ann Wetherby gazed at the revolving mass of heads and legs of boy anddog in mute despair, then she rose to her feet and started down thestreet. 

"You c'n foller me, " she said sternly, without turning her head towardthe culprits on the grass. 

The boy came upright instantly. 

"Do ye stump it, marm?"

"What?" she demanded, stopping short in her stupefaction. 

"Do ye stump it--hoof it--foot it, I mean, " he enumerated quickly, in apraise-worthy attempt to bring his vocabulary to the point where ittouched hers. 

"Oh--yes; 't ain't fur, " vouchsafed Ann feebly. 

Bobby trotted alongside of Miss Wetherby, meekly followed by the dog. Soon the boy gave his trousers an awkward hitch, and glanced sidewaysup at the woman. 

"Oh, I say, marm, I think it's bully of yer ter let me an' Bones come, "he began sheepishly. "It looked 's if our case 'd hang fire till thecrack o' doom; there wa'n't no one ter have us. When Miss Ethel, shetold me her aunt 'd take us, it jest struck me all of a heap. I tellye, me an' Bones made tracks fur Slocumville 'bout's soon as they 'dlet us. "

"I hain't no doubt of it!" retorted Ann, looking back hopelessly at thedog. 

"Ye see, " continued the boy confidentially, "there ain't ev'ry one whatlikes boys, an'--hi, there!--go it, Bones!" he suddenly shrieked, andscampered wildly after the dog which had dashed into the bushes by theside of the road. Ann did not see her young charge again until she hadbeen home half an hour. He came in at the gate, then, cheerfullysmiling, the dog at his heels. 

"Jiminy Christmas!" he exclaimed, "I begun ter think I 'd lost ye, butI remembered yer last name was the same's Miss Ethel's, an' aboy--Tommy Green, around the corner--he told me where ye lived. And, oh, I say, me an' Bones are a-goin' off with him an' Rover after I 'vehad somethin' ter eat--'t is mos' grub time, ain't it?" he addedanxiously. 

Ann sighed in a discouraged way. 

"Yes, I s'pose 't is. I left some beans a-bakin', and dinner'll beready pretty quick. You can come upstairs with me, Robert, an' I'llshow ye where yer goin' ter sleep, " she finished, with a sinking heart, as she thought of those ruffled pillow shams. 

Bobby followed Miss Wetherby into the dainty chamber. He gave onelook, and puckered up his lips into a long, low whistle. 

"Well, I'll be flabbergasted! Oh, I say, now, ye don't expect me terstay in all this fuss an' fixin's!" he exclaimed ruefully. 

"It--it is the room I calculated fur ye, " said Ann, with almost a chokein her voice. 

The boy looked up quickly and something rose within him that he did notquite understand. 

"Oh, well, ye know, it's slick as a whistle an' all that, but I ain'tuster havin' it laid on so thick. I ain't no great shakes, ye know, but I'll walk the chalk all right this time. Golly! Ain't it squashy, though!" he exclaimed, as with a run and a skip he landed straight inthe middle of the puffy bed. 

With one agitated hand Miss Wetherby rescued her pillow shams, and withthe other, forcibly removed the dog which had lost no time in followinghis master into the feathery nest. Then she abruptly left the room;she could not trust herself to speak. 

Miss Wetherby did not see much of her guest that afternoon; he wentaway immediately after dinner and did not return until supper time. Then he was so completely tired out that he had but two words in replyto Miss Wetherby's question. 

"Did ye have a good time?" she asked wistfully. 

"You bet!"

After supper he went at once to his room; but it was not until MissWetherby ceased to hear the patter of his feet on the floor above thatshe leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief. 

When Ann went upstairs to make the bed that Tuesday morning, the sightthat met her eyes struck terror to her heart. The bedclothes werescattered in wild confusion half over the room. The washbowl, with twolong singing-books across it, she discovered to her horror, was servingas a prison for a small green snake. The Bible and the remaining hymnbooks, topped by "Baxter's Saints' Rest, " lay in a suspicious-lookingpile on the floor. Under these Miss Wetherby did not look. After herexperience with the snake and the washbowl, her nerves were not strongenough. She recoiled in dismay, also, from the sight of two yellow, paper-covered books on the table, flaunting shamelessly the titles:"Jack; the Pirate of Red Island, " and "Haunted by a Headless Ghost. "

She made the bed as rapidly as possible, with many a backward glance atthe book-covered washbowl, then she went downstairs and shook andbrushed herself with little nervous shudders. 

Ann Wetherby never forgot that Fourth of July, nor, for that matter, the days that immediately followed. She went about with both earsstuffed with cotton, and eyes that were ever on the alert for allmanner of creeping, crawling things in which Bobby's soul delighted. 

The boy, reinforced by the children of the entire neighborhood, held acircus in Miss Wetherby's wood-shed, and instituted a Wild Indian Campin her attic. The poor woman was quite powerless, and remonstrated allin vain. The boy was so cheerfully good-tempered under her sharpestwords that the victory was easily his. 

But on Saturday when Miss Wetherby, returning from a neighbor's, foundtwo cats, four dogs, and two toads tied to her parlor chairs, togetherwith three cages containing respectively a canary, a parrot, and asquirrel (collected from obliging households), she rebelled in earnestand summoned Bobby to her side. 

"Robert, I've stood all I'm a-goin' ter. You've got to go home Monday. Do you hear?"

"Oh, come off, Miss Wetherby, 't ain't only a menag'ry, an' you don'tuse the room none. "

Miss Wetherby's mouth worked convulsively. 

"Robert!" she gasped, as soon as she could find her voice, "I never, never heard of such dreadful goin's-on! You certainly can't stay hereno longer, " she continued sternly, resolutely trying to combat thefatal weakness that always overcame her when the boy lifted thosesoulful eyes to her face. "Now take them horrid critters out of theparlor this minute. You go home Monday--now mind what I say!"

An hour later, Miss Wetherby had a caller. It was the chorister of herchurch choir. The man sat down gingerly on one of the slipperyhaircloth chairs, and proceeded at once to state his business. 

"I understand, Miss Wetherby, that you have an--er--young singer withyou. "

Miss Wetherby choked, and stammered "Yes. "

"He sings--er--very well, does n't he?"

The woman was still more visibly embarrassed. 

"I--I don't know, " she murmured; then in stronger tones, "The one thatlooked like him did. "

"Are there two?" he asked in stupid amazement. 

Miss Wetherby laughed uneasily, then she sighed. 

"Well, ter tell the truth, Mr. Wiggins, I s'pose there ain't; butsometimes I think there must be. I'll send Robert down ter therehearsal to-night, and you can see what ye can do with him. " And withthis Mr. Wiggins was forced to be content. 

Bobby sang on Sunday. The little church was full to the doors. Bobbywas already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity asto what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer inthe way of a sacred song. The "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much tothe sorrow of Ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered againinto the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation homein an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage. 

At breakfast time Monday morning, Bobby came downstairs with his brownpaper parcel under his arm. Ann glanced at his woeful face, then wentout into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply. 

"Well, marm, I've had a bully time---sure's a gun, " said the boywistfully, following her. 

Miss Wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; thenshe straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side. 

"Robert, " she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth offeeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day--now mind what I say! Takethem things upstairs. Quick--breakfast's all ready!"

A great light transfigured Bobby's face. He tossed his bundle into acorner and fell upon Miss Wetherby with a bearlike hug. 

"Gee-whiz! marm--but yer are a brick! An' I 'll run yer errands an'split yer wood, an' I won't take no dogs an' cats in the parlor, an'I'll do ev'rythin'--ev'rythin' ye want me to! Oh, golly--golly!--I'mgoin' ter stay--I'm goin' ter stay!" And Bobby danced out of the houseinto the yard there to turn somersault after somersault in hilariousglee. 

A queer choking feeling came into Ann Wetherby's throat. She seemedstill to feel the loving clasp of those small young arms. 

"Well, he--he's part angel, anyhow, " she muttered, drawing a longbreath and watching with tear-dimmed eyes Bobby's antics on the grassoutside. 

And Bobby stayed--not only Monday, but through four other longdays--days which he filled to the brim with fun and frolic and joyousshouts as before--and yet with a change. 

The shouts were less shrill and the yells less prolonged when Bobby wasnear the house. No toads nor cats graced the parlor floor, and no bugsnor snakes tortured Miss Wetherby's nerves when Bobby's bed was madeeach day. The kitchen woodbox threatened to overflow--so high were itscontents piled--and Miss Wetherby was put to her wits' end to satisfyBobby's urgent clamorings for errands to run. 

And when the four long days were over and Saturday came, a note--andnot Bobby--was sent to the city. The note was addressed to "Miss EthelWetherby, " and this is what Ethel's amazed eyes read:

_My Dear Niece_:--You can tell that singer man of Robert's that he isnot going back any more. He is going to live with me and go to schoolnext winter. I am going to adopt him for my very own. His father andmother are dead--he said so. 

I must close now, for Robert is hungry, and wants his dinner. 

Love to all, ANN WETHERBY. 

The Lady in Black

The house was very still. In the little room over the porch the Ladyin Black sat alone. Near her a child's white dress lay across a chair, and on the floor at her feet a tiny pair of shoes, stubbed at the toes, lay where an apparently hasty hand had thrown them. A doll, headdownward, hung over a chair-back, and a toy soldier with drawn sworddominated the little stand by the bed. And everywhere was silence--thepeculiar silence that comes only to a room where the clock has ceasedto tick. 

The clock--such a foolish little clock of filigree gilt--stood on theshelf at the foot of the bed; and as the Lady in Black looked at it sheremembered the wave of anger that had surged over her when she hadthrust out her hand and silenced it that night three months before. Ithad seemed so monstrous to her that the pulse in that senseless thingof gilt should throb on unheeding while below, on the little white bed, that other pulse was so pitiably still. Hence she had thrust out herhand and stopped it. It had been silent ever since--and it shouldremain silent, too. Of what possible use were the hours it would tickaway now? As if anything mattered, with little Kathleen lying outthere white and still under the black earth!

"Muvver!"

The Lady in Black stirred restlessly, and glanced toward the closeddoor. Behind it she knew was a little lad with wide blue eyes and adimpling mouth who wanted her; but she wished he would not call her bythat name. It only reminded her of those other little lips--silent now. 

"_Muvver_!" The voice was more insistent. 

The Lady in Black did not answer. He might go away, she thought, ifshe did not reply. 

There was a short silence, then the door-knob rattled and turned halfaround under the touch of plainly unskilled fingers. The next momentthe door swung slowly back on its hinges and revealed at full lengththe little figure in the Russian suit. 

"Pe-eek!" It was a gurgling cry of joyful discovery, but it wasfollowed almost instantly by silence. The black-garbed, unsmilingwoman did not invite approach, and the boy fell back at his first step. He hesitated, then spoke, tentatively, "I's--here. "

It was, perhaps, the worst thing he could have said. To the Lady inBlack it was a yet more bitter reminder of that other one who was notthere. She gave a sharp cry and covered her face with her hands. 

"Bobby, Bobby, how can you taunt me with it?" she moaned, in a frenzyof unreasoning grief. "Go away--go away! I want to be alone--alone!"

All the brightness fled from the boy's face. His mouth was no longerdimpled, and his eyes showed a grieved hurt in their depths. Veryslowly he turned away. At the top of the stairs he stopped and lookedback. The door was still open, and the Lady in Black still sat withher hands over her face. He waited, but she did not move; then, with ahalf-stifled sob, he dropped on the top step and began to bump down thestairs, one at a time. 

Long minutes afterward the Lady in Black raised her head and saw himthrough the window. He was down in the yard with his father, having afrolic under the apple tree. 

A frolic!

The Lady in Black looked at them with somber eyes, and her mouthhardened at the corners. Bobby down there in the yard could laugh anddance and frolic. Bobby had some one to play with him, some one tolove him and care for him; while out there on the hillside Kathleen wasalone--all alone. Kathleen had no one--

With a little cry the Lady in Black sprang to her feet and hurried intoher own room. Her hands shook as she pinned on her hat and shroudedherself in the long folds of her black veil; but her step was firm asshe swept downstairs and out through the hall. 

The man under the apple tree rose hurriedly and came forward. 

"Helen, dearest, --not again, to-day!" he begged. "Darling, it can't doany good!"

"But she's alone--all alone. You don't seem to think! No onethinks--no one knows how I feel. You don't understand--if you did, you'd come with me. You wouldn't ask me to stay--here!" choked thewoman. 

"I have been with you, dear, " said the man gently. "I 've been withyou to-day, and every day, almost, since--since she left us. But itcan't do any good--this constant brooding over her grave. It onlymakes additional sorrow for you, for me, and for Bobby. Bobbyis--here, you know, dear!"

"No, no, don't say it, " sobbed the woman wildly. "You don'tunderstand--you don't understand!" And she turned and hurried away, atall black shadow of grief, followed by the anguished eyes of the man, and the wistful puzzled eyes of the boy. 

It was not a long walk to the tree-embowered plot of ground where themarble shafts and slabs glistened in the sunlight, and the Lady inBlack knew the way; yet she stumbled and reached out blindly, and shefell, as if exhausted, before a little stone marked "Kathleen. " Nearher a gray-haired woman, with her hands full of pink and white roses, watched her sympathetically. She hesitated, and opened her lips as ifshe would speak, then she turned slowly and began to arrange herflowers on a grave near by. 

At the slight stir the Lady in Black raised her head. For a time shewatched in silence; then she threw back her veil and spoke. 

"You care, too, " she said softly. "You understand. I've seen you herebefore, I'm sure. And was yours--a little girl?"

The gray-haired woman shook her head. 

"No, dearie, it's a little boy--or he was a little boy forty years ago. "

"Forty years--so long! How could you have lived forty years--withouthim?"

Again the little woman shook her head. 

"One has to--sometimes, dearie; but this little boy was n't mine. Hewas none of my kith nor kin. "

"But you care--you understand. I 've seen you here so often before. "

"Yes. You see, there's no one else to care. But there was once, and I'm caring now--for her. "

"For--her?"

"His mother. "

"Oh-h!" It was a tender little cry, full of quick sympathy--the eyesof the Lady in Black were on the stone marked "Kathleen. "

"It ain't as if I did n't know how she'd feel, " muttered thegray-haired little woman musingly, as she patted her work intocompletion and turned toward the Lady in Black. "You see, I was nurseto the boy when it happened, and for years afterward I worked in thefamily; so I know. I saw the whole thing from the beginning, from thevery day when the little boy here met with the accident. "

"Accident!" It was a sob of anguished sympathy from Kathleen's mother. 

"Yes. 'T was a runaway; and he did n't live two days. "

"I know--I know!" choked the Lady in Black--yet she was not thinking ofthe boy and the runaway. 

"Things stopped then for my mistress, " resumed the little gray-hairedwoman, after a moment, "and that was the beginning of the end. She hada husband and a daughter, but they did n't count--not either of 'em. Nothin' counted but this little grave out here; and she came and spenthours over it, trimmin' it with flowers and talkin' to it. "

The Lady in Black raised her head suddenly and threw a quick glanceinto the other's face; but the gray-haired woman's eyes were turnedaway, and after a moment she went on speaking. 

"The house got gloomier and gloomier, but she did n't seem to mind. She seemed to want it so. She shut out the sunshine and put away lotsof the pictures; and she wouldn't let the pianner be opened at all. She never sat anywhere in the house only in the boy's room, and thereeverything was just as 'twas when he left it. She would n't let athing be touched. I wondered afterward that she did n't see where 'twas all leadin' to--but she did n't. "

"'Leading to'?" The voice shook. 

"Yes. I wondered she did n't see she was losin' 'em--that husband anddaughter; but she did n't see it. "

The Lady in Black sat very still. Even the birds seemed to havestopped their singing. Then the gray-haired woman spoke:

"So, you see, that's why I come and put flowers here--it's for hersake. There's no one else now to care, " she sighed, rising to her feet. 

"But you haven't told yet--what happened, " murmured the Lady in Black, faintly. 

"I don't know myself--quite. I know the man went away. He gotsomethin' to do travelin', so he was n't home much. When he did comehe looked sick and bad. There were stories that he wa'n't quitestraight always--but maybe that wa'n't true. Anyhow, he come less andless, and he died away--but that was after she died. He's buried overthere, beside her and the boy. The girl--well, nobody knows where thegirl is. Girls like flowers and sunshine and laughter and young folks, you know, and she did n't get any of them at home. So she went--whereshe did get 'em, I suppose. Anyhow, nobody knows just where she isnow. . . . There, and if I have n't gone and tired you all out with mychatter!" broke off the little gray-haired woman contritely. "I 'msure I don't know why I got to runnin' on so!"

"No, no--I was glad to hear it, " faltered the Lady in Black, risingunsteadily to her feet. Her face had grown white, and her eyes showeda sudden fear. "But I must go now. Thank you. " And she turned andhurried away. 

The house was very still when the Lady in Black reached home--and sheshivered at its silence. Through the hall and up the stairs she wenthurriedly, almost guiltily. In her own room she plucked at the shadowyveil with fingers that tore the filmy mesh and found only the points ofthe pins. She was crying now--a choking little cry with broken wordsrunning through it; and she was still crying all the while her handswere fumbling at the fastenings of her somber black dress. 

Long minutes later, the Lady--in Black no longer--trailed slowly downthe stairway. Her eyes showed traces of tears, and her chin quivered, but her lips were bravely curved in a smile. She wore a white dressand a single white rose in her hair; while behind her, in the littleroom over the porch, a tiny clock of filigree gilt ticked loudly on itsshelf at the foot of the bed. 

There came a sound of running feet in the hall below; then:

"Muvver!--it's muvver come back!" cried a rapturous voice. 

And with a little sobbing cry Bobby's mother opened her arms to her son. 

The Saving of Dad

On the boundary fence sat James, known as "Jim"; on the stunted grassof the neighboring back yard lay Robert, known as "Bob. " In age, size, and frank-faced open-heartedness the boys seemed alike; but there werea presence of care and an absence of holes in Jim's shirt andknee-breeches that were quite wanting in those of the boy on theground. Jim was the son of James Barlow, lately come into thepossession of the corner grocery. Bob was the son of "Handy Mike, " whoworked out by the day, doing "odd jobs" for the neighboring housewives. 

"I hain't no doubt of it, " Bob was saying, with mock solemnity. "Yerdad can eat more an' run faster an' jump higher an' shoot straighterthan any man what walks round. "

"Shucks!" retorted the boy on the fence, with a quick, frown. "Thatain't what I said, and you know it. "

"So?" teased Bob. "Well, now, 'twas all I could remember. There'slots more, 'course, only I furgit 'em, an'--"

"Shut up!" snapped Jim tersely. 

"'Course ev'ry one knows he's only a sample, " went on Bobimperturbably. "An' so he's handsomer an'--"

"Will you quit?" demanded Jim sharply. 

"No, I won't, " retorted Bob, with a quick change of manner. "You 'vebeen here just two weeks, an' it hain't been nothin' but 'Dad saysthis, ' an' 'Dad says that, ' ever since. Jiminy! a feller'd think you'dmade out ter have the only dad that's goin'!"

There was a pause--so long a pause that the boy on the grass sent asideways glance at the motionless figure on the fence. 

"It wa'n't right, of course, " began Jim, at last, awkwardly, "crowin'over dad as I do. I never thought how--how 't would make the rest ofyou fellers feel. " Bob, on the grass, bridled and opened his lips, butsomething in Jim's rapt face kept him from giving voice to his scorn. "'Course there ain't any one like dad--there can't be, " continued Jimhurriedly. "He treats me white, an' he's straight there every time. Dad don't dodge. Maybe I should n't say so much about him, only--well, me an' dad are all alone. There ain't any one else; they're dead. "

The boy on the grass turned over and kicked both heels in the air; thenhe dug at the turf with his forefinger. He wished he would not thinkof his mother and beloved little sister May just then. He opened hiseyes very wide and winked hard, once, twice, and again. He tried tospeak; failing in that, he puckered his lips for a whistle. But thelips twitched and would not stay steady, and the whistle, when it came, sounded like nothing so much as the far-away fog-whistle off the shoreat night. With a snort of shamed terror lest that lump in his throatbreak loose, Bob sprang upright and began to turn a handspring withvariations. 

"Bet ye can't do this, " he challenged thickly. 

"Bet ye I can, " retorted Jim, landing with a thump at Bob's side. 

It was after supper the next night that the two boys again occupied thefence and the grass-plot. They had fallen into the way of discussingat this time the day's fires, dog-fights, and parades. To-day, however, fires had been few, dog-fights fewer, and parades so veryscarce that they numbered none at all. Conversation had come to a deadpause, when Jim, his eyes on the rod of sidewalk visible from where hesat, called softly:

"Hi, Bob, who's the guy with the plug?"

Bob raised his head. He caught a glimpse of checkered trousers, tail-coat, and tall hat, then he dropped to the ground with a shortlaugh. 

"Yes, who is it?" he scoffed. "Don't ye know?"

"Would I be askin' if I did?" demanded Jim. 

"Humph!" grunted the other. "Well, you'll know him fast enough one ofthese days, sonny, never fear. There don't no one hang out here more'na month 'fore he spots 'em. "

"'Spots 'em'!"

"Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan. "

"Well?"

Into Bob's face came a look of pitying derision. 

"'Well, '" he mocked. "Mebbe 't will be 'well, ' an' then again mebbe 'twon't. It all depends on yer dad. "

"On _dad_!"

"Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan, the boss o' this ward. "

"But what has that got to do with my dad?"

"Aw, come off--as if ye did n't know! It all depends whether he'snailed him or not. "

"'Nailed him'!"

"Sure. If he nails him fur a friend, he gits customers an' picnics an'boo-kays all the time. If he don't--" Bob made a wry face and anexpressive gesture. 

The frown that had been gathering on Jim's brow fled. 

"Ho!" he laughed. "Don't you worry. Dad always nails folks--nevermisses hittin' 'em on the head, either, " he added, in reckless triumph, confident that there was nothing "dad" could not do. 

The boy on the grass sat up and stared; then he lay back and gave ahoarse laugh--a long, chuckling laugh that brought the frown back toJim's face. 

"Well, what you laughin' at?" demanded Jim sharply. 

"Oh, gee, gee!--that's too good!" gurgled the boy on the grass, rollingfrom side to side. "The saint, the sample, the pattern, the fellerwhat treats 'em square, a-sellin' his vote! Oh, gee, gee!"

The ground suddenly shook with the impact of two sturdy little feet, and Bob found his throat in the grasp of two strong little hands. 

"Bob Sullivan, quit yer laughin' an' tell me what you're talkin'about, " stormed a shrill treble. "Who's a-sellin' their vote?"

Bob squirmed and struggled. 

"A feller--can't talk--without--breathin'!" he choked. 

"Well, then, --breathe!" commanded Jim, jerking his companion to asitting posture and loosening his clasp on his throat. "Now--who'sa-sellin' their vote?"

"Ye said it yerself, I didn't, " snarled Bob sullenly. 

"Said what?"

"That yer dad would nail Danny O'Flannigan, sure. "

"And is that sellin' his vote?"

"What else is it, then?" demanded Bob wrathfully. "He votes as Dannysays, an' Danny sends him trade, an'--oh, oh, q-quit it--q-quit it--Isay!" choked Bob, breath and speech almost cut off by the furiousclutch of Jim's lean little fingers. 

"I won't quit it; I won't!" stormed Jim, shaking his victim with aforce that was as strong as it was sudden. "You know I never meant itthat way; an' dad won't sell his vote; he won't--he won't--he won't!"

The next instant a wrathful, palpitating Bob lay alone on the grass, while a no less wrathful and palpitating Jim vaulted the fence at abound and disappeared into the next house. 

Jim awoke the next morning with a haunting sense that something hadhappened. In a moment he remembered; and with memory came rage and adefiant up tilting of the chin. 

As if dad--_dad_ could do this thing! Very possibly--evenprobably--Handy Mike had long ago gone down before this creature in thecheckered trousers and tall hat; but dad--dad was not Handy Mike!

The ins and outs, the fine points, the ethics of it all were not quiteclear to Jim; but the derision in Bob's laugh was unmistakable; and onthat derision and on that laugh hung his unfaltering confidence thatdad would not, could not, do anything to merit either. 

For three nights the boys shunned the fence and the back yard. On thefourth night, as if by common impulse, each took his accustomed place, wearing an elaborate air of absolute forgetfulness of the past. Therehad been two fires and a parade that day, so any embarrassment that thesituation held was easily talked down. Not until Handy Mike on theside porch of his dilapidated cottage had greeted a visitor did therecome a silence between the two boys. Even then it did not last long, for Bob broke it with a hoarse whisper. 

"It's Danny O'Flannigan, sure's a gun! It's gittin' mos''lection-time, an' he's drummin' 'em up. Now, jest watch pap. Hehain't no use fur Danny. Oh, of course, " he added, in hurriedconciliation, "'t ain't as if it made any difference ter pap. Papworks fur the women-folks, an' women don't cut much ice in pol'tics. "

And Jim did watch--with his eyes wide open and his hands so tightlyclenched they fairly ached. He could not hear the words, but he couldthe voices, and he noted that for the first five minutes one wasjovial, the other sullen; and for the next five minutes one waspersuasive, the other contradictory; and for the third five minutes onewas angry and the other back to its old sullenness. Then he saw thatDanny O'Flannigan jerked himself to his feet and strode away, leavingHandy Mike stolidly smoking on the side porch. 

"Humph!" muttered Bob. "Danny hung to longer 'n I thought he would. Must be somethin' special's up. "

It was on the next night that Jim, from his perch on the back fence, saw the checkered trousers and tall hat on his own doorstep. Bob, onthe grass below, could not see, so Jim held his breath while the dooropened and his father admitted Danny O'Flannigan to the house. 

Jim's heart swelled, and his eyes flashed with pride. Now, we shouldsee how a _man_ dealt with this thing. Surely now there would be nofifteen minutes' dallying. Danny O'Flannigan would soon find out whatsort of a person he had to deal with. He would see that dad was notHandy Mike. 

It was on Jim's lips to speak to Bob, that Bob might share with him thesight of Danny O'Flannigan's discomfiture. He longed to display thisoverwhelming proof of the falseness of Bob's assertion that dad wouldsell his vote; but--best let by-gones be by-gones; he had punished Bobfor that, and, after all, Handy Mike _was_ Bob's father. He could tellBob of it later--how dad had sent Danny O'Flannigan to the right-aboutat once. Yes, that was the better way. 

So Jim schooled himself to hide his exultation, and he listened withwell-feigned interest to Bob's animated account of the morning's fire. 

Two, three, five minutes passed, and Danny O'Flannigan had not comeout. Jim hitched about on his narrow perch, and sent furtive glancesacross the expanse of yard to his own door. Six, seven, ten minutespassed; Jim's throat grew dry, and his fingers cold at their tips. Hiseyes had long ago ceased to look at Bob; they were fixed in growinghorror on that closed door, behind which were dad--and that man. Eleven, thirteen, fifteen minutes passed. 

"I--I'm goin' in now, " faltered Jim. "I--I reckon I don't feel well, "he finished thickly, as he slipped to the ground and walked unsteadilyacross the yard. 

In the woodshed he stopped short at the kitchen door. A murmur ofvoices came from far inside, and Jim's knees shook beneath him--it wasnot so--it could not be possible that dad was _still_ talking! Jimstole through the back hallway and out on to the grass beneath thesitting-room windows on the other side of the house. The voices werelouder now--the visitor's very loud. 

Jim raised his head and tried to smile. 

Of course!--dad was sending him about his business, and the man wasangry--that was it. It had taken longer than he thought, but dad--dadnever did like to hurt folks' feelings. Some men--some men did notcare how they talked; but not dad. Why, dad--dad did not even like tokill a mouse; he--

There came the sound of a laugh--a long, ringing laugh with a gleefulchuckle at the end. Jim grew faint. That was--_dad_!

Ten seconds later the two men in the sitting-room were confronted by awhite-faced, shaking boy. 

"Maybe you did n't know, Mr. O'Flannigan, " began Jim eagerly, "maybeyou did n't know that dad don't speak sharp. He ain't much for hurtin'folks' feelings; but he means it just the same--that he won't do whatyou want him to do. He's square and straight--dad is, an' he don'tdodge; but maybe you thought 'cause he laughed that he was easy--but heain't. Why, dad would n't--"

"Tut, tut, not so fast, my boy, " cut in Danny O'Flannigan pompously. "Your father has already--"

A strong hand gripped O'Flannigan's shoulder, and an agonized pair ofeyes arrested his words. 

"For God's sake, man, " muttered Barlow, "have you no mercy?Think--have you no son of your own that believes you 're almost--GodHimself?"

For a brief instant Danny O'Flannigan's eyebrows and shoulders rose inan expressive gesture, and his hands made a disdainful sweep; then hiseyes softened strangely. 

"As you please, " he said, and reached for his hat with an air that wasmeant to show indifference. "Then the deal is off, I suppose. "

"There!" crowed Jim, as the door clicked behind the checkered trousers. "There, I knew you'd do it, dad. Just as if-- Why, dad, you're--_cryin_'! Pooh! who cares for Danny O'Flannigan?" he soothed, patting the broad shoulders bowed low over the table. "I would n't cryfor him!"

Millionaire Mike's Thanksgiving

He was not Mike at first; he was only the Millionaire--a youngmillionaire who sat in a wheel chair on the pier waiting for the boat. He had turned his coat-collar up to shut out the wind, and his hatbrimdown to shut out the sun. For the time being he was alone. He hadsent his attendant back for a forgotten book. 

It was Thanksgiving, but the Millionaire was not thankful. He was notthinking of what he had, but of what he wanted. He wanted his oldstrength of limb, and his old freedom from pain. True, the doctors hadsaid that he might have them again in time, but he wanted them now. Hewanted the Girl, also. He would have her, to be sure, that veryevening; but he wanted her now. 

The girl had been very sweet and gentle about it, but she had beenfirm. As he could recollect it, their conversation had run somethinglike this:

"But I want you myself, all day. "

"But, Billy, don't you see? I promised; besides, I ought to do it. Iam the president of the club. If I shirk responsibility, what can Iexpect the others to do?"

"But I need you just as much--yes, more--than those poor families. "

"Oh, Billy, how can you say that, when they are so very poor, and whenevery one of them is the proud kind that would simply rather starvethan go after their turkey and things! That's why we girls take themto them. Don't you see?"

"Oh, yes, I see. I see I don't count. It could n't be expected thatI'd count--now!" And he patted the crutches at his side. 

It was despicable in him, and he knew it. But he said it. He couldsee her eyes now, all hurt and sorrowful as she went away. . . . Andso this morning he sat waiting for the boat, a long, lonely day inprospect in his bungalow on the island, while behind him he had leftthe dearest girl in the world, who, with other petted darlings ofwealth and luxury, was to distribute Thanksgiving baskets to the poor. 

Not that his day needed to be lonely. He knew that. A dozen friendsstood ready and anxious to supply him with a good dinner and plenty ofcompanionship. But he would have none of them. As if _he_ wanted aThanksgiving dinner!

And thus alone he waited in the wheel chair; and how he abhorredit--that chair--which was not strange, perhaps, considering theautomobile that he loved. Since the accident, however, his injuredback had forbidden the speed and jar of motor cars, allowing only theslow but exasperating safety of crutches and a wheel chair. To-dayeven that seemed denied him, for the man who wheeled his chair did notcome. 

With a frown the Millionaire twisted himself about and looked behindhim. It was near the time for the boat to start, and there would notbe another for three hours. From the street hurried a jostling throngof men, women, and children. Longingly the Millionaire watched them. He had no mind to spend the next three hours where he was. If he couldbe pushed on to the boat, he would trust to luck for the other side. With his still weak left arm he could not propel himself, but if hecould find some one--

Twice, with one of the newspapers that lay in his lap, he made a feebleattempt to attract attention; but the Millionaire was used tocommanding, not begging, and his action passed unnoticed. He saw thenin the crowd the face of a friend, and with a despairing gesture hewaved the paper again. But the friend passed by unheeding. Whathappened then was so entirely unexpected that the Millionaire fell backin his chair dumb with amazement. 

"Here, Mike, ye ain't on ter yer job. Youse can't sell nuttin' datway, " scoffed a friendly voice. "Here, now, watch!" And before theMillionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had boughtthat morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimyhands of a small boy and promptly made off with. 

The man's angry word of remonstrance died on his lips. The boy wasdarting in and out of the crowd, shouting "Poiper, here's yer poiper!"at the top of his voice. Nor did he return until the last pair of feethad crossed the gangplank. Then in triumph he hurried back to thewaiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap ofcoppers. 

"Sold out, pardner! Dat's what we be, " he crowed delighted. "Soldout!"

"But--I--you--" gasped the man. 

"Aw, furgit it--'t wa'n't nuttin', " disdained the boy airily. "Ye see, youse got ter holler. "

"To--to 'holler'!"

"Sure, Mike, or ye can't sell nuttin'. I been a-watchin' ye, an' I seeright off ye wa'n't on ter yer job. Why, pardner, ye can't sellpoipers like ye was shellin' out free sody-checks at a picnic. Yousegot ter yell at 'em, an' git dere 'tention. 'Course, ye can't run likeI can"--his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutchesat the man's side--"but ye can holler, an' not jest set dere a-shakin''em easy at 'em, like ye did a minute ago. Dat ain't no way ter sellpoipers!"

With a half-smothered exclamation the Millionaire fell back in hischair. He knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a "Mike" to theboy. He was not William Seymore Haynes, but a cripple selling papersfor a living. He would not have believed that a turned-up collar, aturned down soft hat, and a few jerks of a newspaper could have madesuch a metamorphosis. 

"Youse'll catch on in no time now, pardner, " resumed the boysoothingly, "an' I'm mighty glad I was here ter set ye goin'. Sure, Isells poipers meself, I does, an' I knows how 't is. Don't look soflabbergasted. 'T ain't nuttin'. Shucks! hain't fellers what'spardners oughter do a turn fur 't odder?"

The Millionaire bit his lip. He had intended to offer money to thisboy, but with his gaze on that glowing countenance, he knew that hecould not. He had come suddenly face to face with something for whichhis gold could not pay. 

"Th-thank you, " he stammered embarrassedly. "You--you were very kind. "He paused, and gazed nervously back toward the street. "I--I wasexpecting some one. We were going to take that boat. "

"No! Was ye? An' he did n't show up? Say, now, dat's tough--an'T'anksgivin', too!"

"As if I cared for Thanksgiving!" The words came tense with bitterness. 

"Aw, come now, furgit it!" There was a look of real concern on theboy's face. "Dat ain't no way ter talk. It's T'anksgivin'!"

"Yes, I know--for some. " The man's lips snapped shut grimly. 

"Aw, come off! Never mind if yer pal did n't show up. Dere 's odders;dere 's me now. Tell ye what, youse come home wid me. Dere won't beno boat now fur a heap o' time, an' I 'm goin' ter T'anksgive. Comeon! 'T ain't fur. I'll wheel ye. "

The man stared frankly. 

"Er--thank you, " he murmured, with an odd little laugh; "but--"

"Shucks! 'Course ye can. What be ye goin' ter do?--set here? What'sthe use o' mopin' like dis when youse got a invite out terT'anksgivin'? An' ye better catch it while it's goin', too. Ye see, some days I could n't ask ye--not grub enough; but I can ter-day. Wegot a s'prise comin'. "

"Indeed!" The tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boyignored this. 

"Sure! It's a dinner--a T'anksgivin' dinner bringed in to us. Nowain't ye comin'?"

"A dinner, did you say?--brought to you?"

"Yeaup!"

"Who brings it?"

"A lady what comes ter see me an' Kitty sometimes; an' she's apeacherino, she is! She said she 'd bring it. "

"Do you know--her name?" The words came a little breathlessly. 

"You bet! Why, she's our friend, I tell ye! Her name is Miss DaisyCarrolton; dat 's what 't is. "

The man relaxed in his chair. It was the dearest girl in the world. 

"Say, ain't ye comin'?" urged the boy, anxiously. 

"Coming? Of course I'm coming, " cried the man, with sudden energy. "Just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you'll see. "

"Say, now, dat's sumpin' like, " crowed the boy, as he briskly startedthe chair. "'T ain't fur, ye know. "

Neither the boy nor the Millionaire talked much on the way. The boywas busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts. Just why he wasdoing this thing was not clear even to the man himself. He suspectedit was because of the girl. He could fancy her face when she shouldfind that it was to him she was bringing her turkey dinner! He rousedhimself with a start. The boy was speaking. 

"My! but I 'm glad I stopped an' watched ye tryin' ter sell poipers. T'ink o' youse a-settin' dere all dis time a-waitin' fur dat boat--an'T'anksgivin', too! An' don't ye worry none. Ma an' Kitty 'll be rightglad to see ye. 'T ain't often we can have comp'ny. It's most allersus what's takin' t'ings give ter us--not givin' ourselves. "

"Oh, " replied the man uncertainly. "Is--is that so?"

With a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was notmerely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease thedearest girl in the world. He was the honored guest of a family whowere rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple aThanksgiving dinner. His face grew red at the thought. 

"Ugh-uh. An', oh, I say, what _is_ yer name, pardner?" went on theboy. "'Course I called ye 'Mike, ' but--"

"Then suppose you still call me 'Mike, '" retorted the man, nervouslywondering if he _could_ play the part. He caught a glimpse of thebeaming face of his benefactor--and decided that he _must_ play it. 

"A' right, den; an' here we be, " announced the boy in triumph, stoppingbefore a flight of steps that led to a basement door. 

With the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. Behind himcame the boy with the chair. At the foot the boy flung wide the doorand escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into akitchen beyond. 

"Ma! Kitty! look a-here!" he shouted, leaving the chair, and springinginto the room. "I 've bringed home comp'ny ter dinner. Dis is Mike. He was sellin' poipers down ter de dock, an' he lost his boat. I toldhim ter come on here an' eat wid us. I knowed what was comin', ye see!"

"Why, yes, indeed, of course, " fluttered a wan-faced little woman, plainly trying not to look surprised. "Sit down, Mr. Mike, " shefinished, drawing up a chair to the old stove. 

"Thank you, but I--I--" The man looked about for a means of escape. In the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair. 

"Here, Mr. Mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. Say, Kitty, ain't dis grand?"he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room. 

From the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what hehad not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with ahelpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem. 

"Oh, oh!" she breathed, her eyes aflame with excitement. "It is--itis--a _wheel_ one! Oh, sir, how glad and proud you must be--with that!"

The man sat down, though not in the wheel chair. He dropped a littlehelplessly into the one his hostess had brought forward. 

"Perhaps you--you'd like to try it, " he managed to stammer. 

"Oh, can I? Thank you!" breathed a rapturous voice. And there, forthe next five minutes, sat the Millionaire watching a slip of a girlwheeling herself back and forth in his chair--his chair, which he hadnever before suspected of being "fine" or "wonderful" or "grand"--asthe girl declared it to be. 

Shrinkingly he looked about him. Nowhere did his eyes fall uponanything that was whole. He had almost struggled to his feet to fleefrom it all when the boy's voice arrested him. 

"Ye see, it's comin' 'bout noon--de grub is; an' it's goin' ter be allcooked so we can begin ter eat right off. Dere, how's dat?" hequestioned, standing away to admire the propped-up table he and hismother were setting with a few broken dishes. "Now ain't ye glad youseain't down dere a-waitin' fur a boat what don't come?"

"Sure I am, " declared the man, gazing into the happy face before him, and valiantly determining to be Mike now no matter what happened. 

"An' ain't the table pretty!" exulted the little girl. "I found thatchiny cup with the gold on it. 'Course it don't hold nothin', 'causethe bottom's fell out; but it looks pretty--an' looks counts whencomp'ny's here!"

The boy lifted his head suddenly. 

"Look a-here! I'll make it hold sumpin', " he cried, diving his handsinto his pockets, and bringing out five coppers and a dime. "Yousejest wait. I 'll get a posy up ter de square. 'Course, we 'd oughtter have a posy, wid comp'ny here. "

"Hold on!" The Millionaire's hand was in his pocket now. His fingerswere on a gold piece, and his eyes--in fancy--were on a glorious riotof Jacqueminots that filled the little room to overflowing, and broughta wondrous light to three pairs of unbelieving eyes--then Mikeremembered. "Here, " he said a little huskily, "let me help. " But thefingers, when he held them out, carried only the dime that Mike mightgive, not the gold piece of the Millionaire. 

"Aw, g'wan, " scoffed the boy, jubilantly. "As if we'd let comp'ny pay!Dis is our show!" And for the second time that day the Millionaire hadfound something that money could not buy. 

And thus it happened that the table, a little later, held a centerpieceof flowers--four near-to-fading pinks in a bottomless, gold-bandedchina cup. 

It was the man who heard the honk of a motor-car in the street outside. Instinctively he braced himself, and none too soon. There was a lightknock, then in the doorway stood the dearest girl in the world, a largebasket and a box in her hands. 

"Oh, how lovely! You have the table all ready, " she exclaimed, comingswiftly forward. "And what a fine--_Billy_!" she gasped, as shedropped the box and the basket on the table. 

The boy turned sharply. 

"Aw! Why did n't ye tell a feller?" he reproached the man; then to theGirl: "_Does_ ye know him? He _said_ ter call him 'Mike. '"

The man rose now. With an odd directness he looked straight into theGirl's startled eyes. 

"Maybe Miss Carrolton don't remember me much, as I am now, " he murmured. 

The Girl flushed. The man, who knew her so well, did not need to betold that the angry light in her eyes meant that she suspected him ofplaying this masquerade for a joke, and that she did not like it. Eventhe dearest girl in the world had a temper--at times. 

"But why--are you--here?" she asked in a cold little voice. 

The man's eyes did not swerve. 

"Jimmy asked me to come. "

"He asked you to come!"

"Sure I did, " interposed Jimmy, with all the anxiety of a host who seeshis guest, for some unknown reason, being made uncomfortable. "Iknowed youse would n't mind if we did ask comp'ny ter help eat dedinner, an' he lost his boat, ye see, an' had a mug on him as long asme arm, he was that cut up 'bout it. He was sellin' poipers down t' dedock. "

"Selling papers!"

"As it happened, I did not _sell_ them, " interposed the man, still withthat steady meeting of her eyes. "Jimmy sold them for me. He willtell you that I was n't on to my job, so he helped me out. "

"Aw, furgit it, " grinned Jimmy sheepishly. "Dat wa'n't nuttin'. Ionly showed him ye could n't sell no poipers widout hollerin'. "

A curious look of admiration and relief came to the face of the Girl. Her eyes softened. "You mean--"

She stopped, and the man nodded his head gravely. 

"Yes, miss. I was alone, waiting for Thompson. He must have gotdelayed. I had four papers in my lap, and after Jimmy had sold themand the boat had gone, he very kindly asked me to dinner, and--I came. "

"Whew! Look at dis!" cried an excited voice. Jimmy was investigatingthe contents of the basket. "Say, Mike, we got turkey! Ye see, " heexplained, turning to Miss Carrolton, "he kinder hung back fur a while, an' wa'n't fast on comin'. An' I did hope 't would be turkey--furcomp'ny. Folks don't have comp'ny ev'ry day!"

"No, folks don't have company every day, " repeated the Girl softly; andinto the longing eyes opposite she threw, before she went away, onelook such as only the dearest girl in the world can give--a look fullof tenderness and love and understanding. 

Long hours later, in quite a different place, the Girl saw the managain. He was not Mike now. He was the Millionaire. For a time hetalked eagerly of his curious visit, chatting excitedly of all thedelightful results that were to come from it; rest and ease for thewoman; a wheel chair and the best of surgeons for the little girl;school and college for the boy. Then, after a long minute of silence, he said something else. He said it diffidently, and with a rush ofbright color to his face--he was not used to treading quite so near tohis heart. 

"I never thought, " he said, just touching the crutches at his side, "that I 'd ever be thankful for--for these. But I was--almost--to-day. You see, it was they that--that brought me--my dinner, " he finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the shake in his voice. 

When Mother Fell Ill

Tom was eighteen, and was spending the long summer days behind thevillage-store counter--Tom hoped to go to college in the fall. 

Carrie was fifteen; the long days found her oftenest down by the brook, reading--Carrie was a bit romantic, and the book was usually poetry. 

Robert and Rosamond, the twins--known to all their world as "Rob" and"Rose"--were eight; existence for them meant play, food, and sleep. Tobe sure, there were books and school; but those were in the remote pastor dim future together with winter, mittens, and fires. It was summer, now--summer, and the two filled the hours with rollicking games andgleeful shouts--and incidentally their mother's workbasket withnumerous torn pinafores and trousers. 

Behind everything, above everything, and beneath everything, withall-powerful hands and an all-wise brain, was mother. There wasfather, of course; but father could not cook the meals, sweep therooms, sew on buttons, find lost pencils, bathe bumped foreheads, anddo countless other things. So thought Tom, Carrie, and the twins thatdreadful morning when father came dolefully downstairs and said thatmother was sick. 

_Mother sick_! Tom stared blankly at the sugar bowl, Carrie felllimply into the nearest chair, and the twins began to cry softly. 

The next thirty-six hours were never forgotten by the Dudleys. Thecool nook in the woods was deserted, and Carrie spent a hot, discouraged morning in the kitchen--sole mistress where before she hadbeen an all too seldom helper. At noon Mr. Dudley and Tom came home topartake of underdone potatoes and overdone meat. The twins, repressedand admonished into a state of hysterical nervousness, repaireddirectly after dinner to the attic. Half an hour later a prolongedwail told that Rob had cut his finger severely with an old knife; andit was during the attendant excitement that Rose managed to fall theentire length of the attic stairs. At night, after a supper of soggyrolls and burnt omelet, Mr. Dudley sent an appealing telegram to"Cousin Helen"; and the next afternoon, at five, she came. 

Miss Helen Mortimer was pretty, sweet-tempered, and twenty-five. Theentire family fell captive to her first smile. There was a world ofcomfort and relief in her very presence, and in the way she saidcheerily:

"We shall do very well, I am sure. Carrie can attend to her mother, and I will take the helm downstairs. "

The doctor said that rest and quiet was what Mrs. Dudley most needed, so Carrie's task would be comparatively light; and with a stout womanto come twice a week for the heavy work downstairs, the household gavepromise of being once more on a livable basis. 

It was at breakfast the next morning that the first cloud appeared onMiss Mortimer's horizon. It came in the shape of the crisply friedpotatoes she was serving. The four children were eating late aftertheir father had left. 

"Oh, Cousin Helen, " began Tom, in an annoyed manner, "I forgot to tellyou; I don't like fried potatoes. I have baked ones. "

"Baked ones?"

"Yes; mother always baked them for me. "'

"Oh, that's too bad; you can't eat them, then, --they hurt you!"

Tom laughed. 

"Hurt me? Not a bit of it! I don't like them, that's all. Nevermind; you can do it to-morrow. "

When "to-morrow" came Miss Mortimer had not forgotten. The big rounddish was heaped with potatoes baked to a turn. 

"Thank you, I'll take the fried, " said Carrie, as the dish was passedto her. 

"The f-fried?" stammered Miss Mortimer. 

"Yes; I prefer those. "

"But there _are_ no fried. I baked them. "

"Well, how funny!" laughed Carrie. "I thought we had it all fixedyesterday. I thought we were to have both fried and baked. Motheralways did, you know. You see, we don't like them the same way. Nevermind, " she added with a beaming smile, quite misunderstanding the lookon her cousin's face, "it does n't matter a bit and you must n't feelso bad. It 'll be all right to-morrow, I'm sure. "

"Yes, and I want buckwheat cakes, please, " piped up Rob. 

"All right, you shall have them, " agreed Cousin Helen with a smile. 

Tom laughed. 

"Maybe you don't quite know what you 're getting into, Cousin Helen, "he suggested. "If you make buckwheat cakes for Rob--it means grahammuffins for Rose. "

"And she shall have them; the very next morning, too. "

"Oh, no, that will never do. She demands them the same day. "

"What!"

"Oh, I thought you didn't understand, " chuckled Tom. "When you makeone, you have to make both. Mother always did--she had to; 't was theonly way she could suit both the twins, and I don't believe you 'llfind any other way out of it. As for us--we don't mind; we eat themall!"

"Oh!" said Cousin Helen faintly. 

"And another thing, " resumed Tom, "we might as well settle the drinkquestion right away--of course you 'll want to know. Father is theonly one who drinks cereal coffee. We (Carrie and I) like the realthing, every time; and the twins have cocoa--weak, of course, so there's not much to it. "

"And you must n't sweeten mine while you 're cooking it, " interposedRose decidedly. 

"Sure enough--lucky you thought of that, " laughed Tom, "or else poorCousin Helen would have had another mistake to fret over. You see, " heexplained pleasantly, "Rose insists on putting in _all_ the sugarherself, so hers has to be made unsweetened; but Rob is n't soparticular and prefers his made in the regular way--sweetened whilecooking, you know. "

"Oh, I make two kinds of cocoa, do I?" asked Cousin Helen. 

"Yes--er--that is, in two ways. "

"Hm-m; and coffee and the cereal drink, making four in all?" continuedCousin Helen, with ominous sweetness. 

Tom stirred uneasily and threw a sharp glance into his cousin's face. 

"Well--er--it does seem a good many; but--well, mother did, you know, and we might as well have what we want, as something different, Isuppose, " he finished, with vague uneasiness. 

"Oh, certainly, who would mind a small thing like that!" laughed MissMortimer, a queer little gleam in her eyes. 

This was but the beginning. On the pantry-shelf were four kinds ofcereals. Carrie explained that all were served each morning, for thefamily could n't agree on any particular one. As for eggs; Tom alwayshad to have his dropped on a slice of toast; the twins liked theirsscrambled; but Carrie herself preferred hers boiled in the shell. Apple-pie must always be in the house for Tom, though it so happened, strangely enough, Carrie said, that no one else cared for it at all. 

"Mother was always making apple-pie, " laughed Carrie apologetically. "You see, they get stale so quickly, and Tom is the only one to eatthem, they have to be made pretty often--one at a time, of course. "

Bread, rolls, pastry, meat, vegetables--each had its own particularstory, backed always by that ever-silencing "mother did, " until MissMortimer was almost in despair. Sometimes she made a feeble protest, but the children were so good-natured, so entirely unaware that theywere asking anything out of the ordinary, and so amazed at any proposeddeviation from the established rules, that her protests fell powerlessat their feet. 

"Mother did"--"mother did"--"mother did, " Miss Mortimer would murmurwearily to herself each day, until she came to think of the tiredlittle woman upstairs as "Mother Did" instead of "Aunt Maria. " "Nowonder 'Mother Did' fell ill, " she thought bitterly. "Who wouldn't!"

The weeks passed, as weeks will--even the dreariest of them--and theday came for Cousin Helen to go home, Mrs. Dudley being now quite herold self. Loud were the regrets at her departure, and overwhelmingwere the thanks and blessings showered in loving profusion; but it wastwo weeks later, when Tom, Carrie, and the twins each sent her abirthday present, that an idea came to Miss Mortimer. She determinedat once to carry it out, even though the process might cause her someheartache. 

Thus it came about that Tom, Carrie, Rob, and Rose, each received aletter (together with the gift each had sent) almost by return mail. 

Tom's ran:

_My dear Cousin_: Thank you very much for the novel you sent me, but Iam going to ask you to change it for a book of travels. I like thatkind better, and mother and all my friends give me travels wheneverthey want to please me. I might as well have something I want assomething different, I suppose, so I am asking you to change. 

Very lovingly YOUR COUSIN HELEN

Carrie read this:

_My dear Carrie_: Thank you for the pretty little turnover collar andcuffs you sent me for my birthday; but I think it is so funny you nevernoticed that I don't care for pink. Mother found it out even when Iwas but little more than a baby. Oh, I can wear it, but I don't carefor it. Don't feel badly, however, my dear Carrie; all you've got todo is just to take these back and make me some blue ones, and I knowyou won't mind doing that. 

Lovingly COUSIN HELEN

Rob's letter ran:

_My dear Rob_: I am writing to thank you for the box of chocolates yousent yesterday. I am sending them back to you, though, because Iseldom eat chocolates. Oh, no, they don't hurt me, but I don't likethem as well as I do caramels, so won't you please change them? Mothergives me a box of candy every Christmas, but it is never chocolates. Iknow you would rather give me what I like, Rob, dear. 

Lots of love COUSIN HELEN

Rose had striven early and late over a crocheted tidy, spending longhours of her playtime in doing work to which her fingers were butlittle accustomed. She confidently expected a loving letter of thanksand praise, and could scarcely wait to open the envelope. This is whatshe read:

_My dear Rose_: Thank you very much for the tidy, dear, but whatever inthe world caused you to make it in that stitch? I like shell-stitchever so much better, so would you mind doing it over for me? I amreturning this one, for maybe you will decide to ravel it out; if youdon't, you can just make me a new one. Mother has crocheted severalthings for me, but most of them are in shell-stitch, which, after all, is about the only stitch I care for. 

Lots of love from YOUR COUSIN HELEN

After a dazed five minutes of letter-reading, the four children hurriedto the attic--always their refuge for a conference. There they readthe four letters aloud, one after another. A dumfounded silencefollowed the last word. Rose was the first to break it. 

"I think she's a mean old thing--so there!" Rose was almost crying. 

"Hush, dear, hush!" choked Carrie. "She isn't mean; she's good andkind--we know she is. She--she means something by it; she must. Let'sread them again!"

Bit by bit they went over the letters. It was at the third mention of"mother" that Tom raised his head with a jerk. He looked sheepishlyinto Carrie's face. 

"I--I guess I know, " he said with a shame-faced laugh. 

It must have been a month later that Miss Mortimer received a letterfrom Mrs. Dudley. One paragraph sent a quick wave of color to thereader's face; and this was the paragraph:

I am feeling better than for a long time. Some way, the work does n'tseem nearly so hard as it used to. Perhaps it is because I amstronger, or perhaps it is because the children are not nearly soparticular about their food as they used to be. I am so glad, for itworried me sometimes--they were so very fussy. I wondered how theywould get along out in the world where "mother" could n't fixeverything to their liking. Perhaps you noticed it when you were here. At any rate, they are lots better now. Perhaps they have out-grown it. I hope so, I'm sure. 

The Glory and the Sacrifice

The Honorable Peter Wentworth was not a church-going man, and when heappeared at the prayer-meeting on that memorable Friday evening therewas at once a most irreligious interest manifested by every onepresent, even to the tired little minister himself. The object oftheir amazed glances fortunately did not keep the good people long insuspense. After a timid prayer--slightly incoherent, but abounding inpetitions for single-mindedness and worshipful reverence--from theminister's wife, the Honorable Peter Wentworth rose to his feet andloudly cleared his throat:

"Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen--er--ah--brethren, " he corrected, hastily, faint memories of a godly youth prompting his now unaccustomed lips;"I--er--I understand that you are desirous of building a new church. Avery laudable wish--very, " with his eyes fixed on a zigzag crack in thewall across the room; "and I understand that your fundsare--er--insufficient. I am, in fact, informed that you need twothousand dollars. Ahem! Ladies--er--brethren, I stand here toannounce that on the first day of January I will place in your pastor'shands the sum of one thousand dollars, provided"--and he paused and putthe tips of his forefingers together impressively--"provided you willraise an equal amount on your own part. The first day of next January, remember. You have nearly a year, you will notice, in which to raisethe money. I--er--I hope you will be successful. " And he sat downheavily. 

The remainder of that meeting was not conspicuous for deepspirituality, and after the benediction the Honorable Peter Wentworthfound himself surrounded by an excited crowd of grateful churchmembers. The honorable gentleman was distinctly pleased. He had notgiven anything away before since--well, he had the same curious chokingfeeling in his throat now that he remembered to have felt when he gavethe contents of his dinner pail to the boy across the aisle at the oldred schoolhouse. After all, it was a rather pleasant sensation; healmost wished it had oftener been his. 

It was not until the silent hours of the night brought a hauntingpremonition of evil to the Reverend John Grey that the little ministerbegan to realize what the church had undertaken. One thousand dollars!The village was small and the church society smaller. The HonorablePeter Wentworth was the only man who by even the politest fiction couldbe called rich. Where, indeed, was the thousand to be found?

When morning came, the Reverend John Grey's kindly blue eyes weretroubled, and his forehead drawn into unwonted lines of care; but hisfathers had fought King George and the devil in years long past, and hewas a worthy descendant of a noble race and had no intention of weaklysuccumbing, even though King George and the devil now masqueraded as atwo-thousand-dollar debt. 

By the end of the week an urgent appeal for money had entered the doorof every house in Fairville. The minister had spent sleepless nightsand weary days in composing this masterly letter. His faithfulmimeograph had saved the expense of printing, and his youngest boy'swilling feet had obviated the necessity of postage stamps. The FirstCongregational Church being the only religious organization in the townof Fairville, John Grey had no hesitation in asking aid from one andall alike. 

This was in February, yet by the end of May there was only four hundreddollars in the fund treasury. The pastor sent out a second appeal, following it up with a house-to-house visit. The sum grew to sixhundred dollars. 

Then the ladies held a mass-meeting in the damp, ill-smelling vestry. The result was a series of entertainments varying from a strawberryfestival to the "passion play" illustrated. The entertainers wereindefatigable. They fed their guests with baked beans and "redflannel" hash, and acted charades from the Bible. They heldinnumerable guessing contests, where one might surmise as to theidentity of a baby's photograph or conjecture as to the cook of a mincepie. These heroic efforts brought the fund up to eight hundreddollars. Two hundred yet to be found--and it was November!

With anxious faces and puckered brows, the ladies held another meetingin that cheerless vestry--then hastened home with new courage and a newplan. 

Bits of silk and tissue-paper, gay-colored worsteds and knots of ribbonappeared as by magic in every cottage. Weary fingers fashionedimpossible fancy articles of no earthly use to any one, and tiredhousewives sat up till midnight dressing dolls in flimsy muslin. Thechurch was going to hold a fair! Everything and everybody succumbedgraciously or ungraciously to the inevitable. The prayer-meetings wereneglected, the missionary meetings postponed, the children went raggedto school, and the men sewed on their own buttons. In time, however, the men had to forego even that luxury, and were obliged to remainbuttonless, for they themselves were dragged into the dizzy whirl andset to making patchwork squares. 

The culminating feature of the fair was to be a silk crazy quilt, andin an evil moment Miss Wiggins, a spinster of uncertain age, hadsuggested that it would be "perfectly lovely" to have the gentlemencontribute a square each. The result would have made the craziestinmate of a lunatic asylum green with envy. The square made by oldDeacon White, composed of pieces of blue, green, scarlet, and purplesilk fastened together as one would sew the leather on a baseball, camenext to the dainty square of the town milliner's covered withembroidered butterflies and startling cupids. Nor were the othersfound wanting in variety. It was indeed a wonderful quilt. 

The fair and a blizzard began simultaneously the first day of December. The one lasted a week, and the other three days. The peopleconscientiously ploughed through the snow, attended the fair, andbought recklessly. The children made themselves sick with richcandies, and Deacon White lost his temper over a tin trumpet he drew ina grab bag. At the end of the week there were three cases of nervousprostration, one of pneumonia, two of grippe--and one hundred dollarsand five cents in money. 

The ladies drew a long breath and looked pleased; then their faces wentsuddenly white. Where was ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents tocome from in the few days yet remaining? Silently and dejectedly theywent home. 

It was then that the Reverend John Grey rose to the occasion and shuthimself in his study all night, struggling with a last appeal to becopied on his faithful mimeograph and delivered by his patient youngestborn. That appeal was straight from the heart of an all but despairingman. Was two thousand dollars to be lost--and because of a paltryninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents?

The man's face had seemed to age a dozen years in the last twelvemonths. Little streaks of gray showed above his temples, and hischeeks had pitiful hollows in them. The minister's family had meat buttwice a week now. The money that might have bought it for the otherfive days had gone to add its tiny weight to the minister'scontribution to the fund. 

The pressure was severe and became crushing as the holidays approached. The tree for the Sunday-School had long since been given up, butChristmas Eve a forlorn group of wistful-eyed children gathered in thechurch and spoke Christmas pieces and sang Christmas carols, withlonging gaze fixed on the empty corner where was wont to be the shiningtree. 

It was on Christmas Day that the widow Blake fought the good fight inher little six-by-nine room. On the bed lay a black cashmere gown, faded and rusty and carefully darned; on the table lay a little heap ofbills and silver. The woman gathered the money in her two hands anddropped it into her lap; then she smoothed the bills neatly one uponanother, and built little pyramids of the dimes and quarters. Fifteendollars! It must be five years now that she had been saving thatmoney, and she did so need a new dress! She needed it to be--why--evendecent!--looking sourly at the frayed folds on the bed. 

It was on Christmas Day, too, that the little cripple who lived acrossthe bridge received a five-dollar gold piece by registered mail. Donald's eyes shone and his thin fingers clutched the yellow goldgreedily. Now he could have those books!--his eyes rested on an openletter on the floor by his chair; a mimeograph letter signed "John W. Grey. " Gradually his fingers relaxed; the bit of money slipped fromthe imprisoning clasp, fell to the floor, and rolled in flashing, gleaming circles round and round the letter, ending in a glisteningdisk, like a seal, just at the left of the signature. The lad lookedat the yellow, whirling thing with frightened eyes, then covered hisface with his hands, and burst into a storm of sobs. 

On the 26th of December, the Reverend John Grey entered on his list:"Mrs. Blake, $15. 00; Donald Marsh, $5. 00. "

The little minister's face grew pale and drawn. The money came in bitby bit, but it wanted twenty dollars and ninety-five cents yet tocomplete the needed thousand. On the 27th the teacher of the infantclass brought a dollar, the gift of her young pupils. On the 28th, nothing came; on the 29th, five cents from a small boy who rang thebell with a peal that brought the Reverend John Grey to the door with astartled hope in his eyes. He took the five pennies from the smalldirty fingers and opened his mouth to speak his thanks, but his drylips refused to frame the words. 

The morning of the 30th dawned raw and cloudy. The little ministerneither ate nor slept now. The doorbell rang at brief intervalsthroughout the day, and stray quarters, dimes, and nickels, with anoccasional dollar, were added to the precious store until it amountedto nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars and eighty-five cents. 

When the Reverend John Grey looked out of his bedroom window on thelast day of that weary year, he found a snow-white world, and thefeathery flakes still falling. Five times that day he swept his stepsand shoveled his path--mute invitations to possible donors; but thepath remained white and smooth in untrodden purity, and the doorbellwas ominously silent. 

He tried to read, to write, to pray; but he haunted the windows like amaiden awaiting her lover, and he opened the door and looked up anddown the street every fifteen minutes. The poor man had exhausted allhis resources. He himself had given far more than he could afford, andhe had begged of every man, woman and child in the place. Andyet--must two thousand dollars be lost, all for the lack of ten dollarsand fifteen cents? Mechanically he thrust his hands into his pocketsand fingered the few coins therein. 

It was nearly midnight when there came a gentle tap at the study door. Without waiting for permission the minister's wife turned the knob andentered the room. Her husband sat with bowed head resting on hisoutstretched arms on the desk, and her eyes filled with tears at thepicture of despair before her. 

"John, I suppose we can take this, " said she, in a low voice, reluctantly laying a little pile of silver on the desk; "there's justten dollars there. " Then she recoiled in terror, so wildly did herhusband clutch the money. 

"Where did you get this?" he gasped. 

"I--I saved it from time to time out of the household money. I meantyou should take it and go out to Cousin Frank's for a rest and vacationafter this was over, " said she doggedly. 

"Vacation! Mary--vacation!" he exclaimed, with unutterable scorn. Then he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a little change. Withtrembling fingers he picked out ten pennies and a five-cent piece, putting a lone quarter back in his empty pocket. 

"Thank God, Mary, we've done it!" and the man's voice broke, and a bigtear rolled down his cheek and splashed on a dingy nickel. 

New Year's night there was a jubilee meeting in the town hall. TheReverend John Grey hurried through his bread-and-milk supper in someexcitement. He was to preside, and must not be late. 

The hall was full to overflowing. On the platform with the ministersat the deacons of the First Congregational Church--and the HonorablePeter Wentworth. The well-fed, well-groomed, honorable gentlemanhimself looked about with a complacent smile--this was indeed a mostdelightful occasion. 

The Reverend John Grey's address was an eloquent tribute to the greatgenerosity of their distinguished fellow-townsman. The minister'svoice trembled affectingly, and his thin cheeks flushed with emotion. The First Congregational Church was deeply indebted to the HonorablePeter Wentworth, and would fain express its gratitude. 

The minister's wife listened with a far-away look on her face, andlittle Donald Marsh gazed with round eyes of awe at the great man whohad been so very generous; while over in an obscure corner of the halla pale little woman stealthily rearranged the folds of her gown, thatshe might hide from inquisitive eyes the great darn on the frontbreadth of her worn black cashmere. 

The Daltons and the Legacy

The legacy amounted to ten thousand dollars; and coming as it did froma little known, scarcely remembered relative it seemed even more unrealthan the man who had bequeathed it. Not until lawyers' visits andnumerous official-looking papers had convinced the Daltons beyond thesmallest doubt did the family believe their good fortune genuine; then, with the conviction, came all the overwhelming ambitions andunsatisfied longings of past years. 

"There, now we can leave the farm, " exulted Mrs. Dalton. 

"Why, Sarah, do--do you think that is quite--wise?" asked her husband. 

"Wise? Of course it is!" she returned decidedly. "Why, Caleb, don'tyou know?--we've always wanted to go to the city; and Cousin John saidhe 'd give you a place in his store any time, so you'll earn somethingto start with right away. We never dared to before, you know, for youwa'n't sure how you'd do; but now we 've got all this money we shan'thave to worry a mite. Oh, isn't it just splendid, Caleb?"

"Yes; but--" he hesitated. 

"Why, Caleb, I don't believe you appreciate it a bit!"

"Oh, I do, indeed I do, Sarah, but--" again he hesitated. 

"But there is n't any 'but, ' Caleb, " laughed Sarah, and turned to a boyof twelve and a girl of fourteen who entered the room at that moment. "We've got it all settled, children. We 're going to Boston, sure, this fall. "

"Oh, mother!"--Ethel's hands came together in ecstasy, while Fredwhooped in glee. 

"There's the lovely big stores and the people, " cried Ethel. 

"And the cars and Bunker Hill Monument, " supplemented Fred. 

"And we won't ever have to come back to this snippy little town, "continued Ethel. 

"My, won't Bill Higgins just stare!" interposed Fred. "Oh, I say, sis, we might come back just once, you know, just to tell them about things. "

"Yes, that's so, " agreed Ethel readily; "and--say, let's tell them nowthat we're going. Come on!" she finished over her shoulder as she flewthrough the door. 

"There, Caleb, I told you how it would be, " smiled Mrs. Dalton as thedoor banged behind Fred; then, anxiously: "You would n't want to spoilit all, now, would you?"

"N-no; but--no, no, of course not, " murmured Caleb, rising to his feetand crossing to the outside door with heavy, slow-moving steps. 

This was in August. By the middle of September such household goods asthe Daltons had planned to take with them were packed, burlapped, crated, and labeled. It had been Mrs. Dalton's idea to sell the restof the furniture and the farm at auction, but just here she encounteredan unexpected but stubborn resistance from her husband. Consequently, the remainder of the goods were stored in the attic, and the farm wasrented until the first of May--the house being close to the village, itmade a not undesirable winter residence. A longer lease than thisCaleb would not grant, in spite of his wife's remonstrances. 

"Just as if we would want to come back by May, Caleb!" she scoffed. "Why, by that time we shall be real city folks, and you 'll be apartner in the business, maybe. "

"Hm-m, --maybe, " echoed Caleb imperturbably; "but--we'll see when Maycomes. "

"Cousin John" in Boston had received the news of their intended comingwith cordial interest, and had already procured for them a six-roomapartment in Roxbury; and it was in his thriving market and grocerystore on Warren Avenue that Caleb was to have a position as clerk. Thewages, at first, were not large--Cousin John explained when hegood-naturedly ran up to the farm to make arrangements--but the figureslooked fabulous to Sarah until John told her that they must paytwenty-five dollars every month for their flat. 

"Twenty-five dollars, and not even a spare room!" she gasped. "Why, John, it's too nice--it must be. We did n't want such a fancy one. "

"Oh, 't is n't fancy, " laughed the man, "not a bit! It's clean andneat and on a respectable street. Land costs something down there, youknow. You have to pay something for rent. Why, I pay fifty, myself. "

"Oh, oh!" moaned Sarah. Then she threw back her head with an assumedcourage. "Never mind, I 'll just have to change my plans a bit. I didn't intend to keep anything, but I can have just a few hens and a cowas well as not, and that will help some. Like enough I can sell alittle butter and what eggs I don't use, too, and--" a long, heartylaugh interrupted her. 

"Oh, Cousin Sarah, Cousin Sarah!" choked John, as soon as he could findhis voice. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Dalton, with some dignity, "I'm waiting. "

Cousin John pulled his face into shape and steadied his voice. 

"Sarah, your flat is up three flights, and has n't even a back piazza. Where are you going to keep hens and cows?"

Mrs. Dalton's jaw fell. 

"Three flights!" she gasped. 

He nodded. 

"And is n't there a yard, or--or anything?"

"Not that belongs to you--except the fire escape and a place on theroof to dry your clothes. " His lips were twitching, as Mrs. Dalton wasnot slow to see. 

"Never mind, " she retorted airily. "I did n't want them, anyhow, and, after all, we've got the money, so why can't we take a little good inspending it!"

Some weeks later when Mrs. Dalton saw her new home, she did n't knowwhether to laugh or to cry. The three long flights of stairs and dim, narrow halls filled her with dismay, but the entrance with its shiningletter-boxes and leaded-glass door-panels overwhelmed her with itsmagnificence. The big brick block in which she was to live looked likea palace to her eyes; but the six rooms in which she was to stowherself and family amazed and disheartened her with theirdiminutiveness. 

"Why, Caleb, I--I can't breathe--they 're so small!" she gasped. Thenshe broke off suddenly, as she glanced through the window: "Oh, my, my--who 'd ever have thought there were so many roofs and chimneys inthe world!"

Getting settled was a wonderful experience. The Daltons had nevermoved before, and it took many days to bring even a semblance of orderout of the chaos into which the six small rooms were thrown by theunpacking of the boxes and barrels. The delay worried Sarah more thandid the work itself. 

"Oh, dear, Ethel, " she moaned each afternoon, "we're so slow in gettingsettled, and I just know some one will call before we 're even halffixed!"

At last the tiny "parlor" with its mirror-adorned mantel and showy gasfixtures--the pride of Sarah's heart--was in order; and, after that, Sarah made sure each day that three o'clock found her dressed in herbest and sitting in solemn state in that same parlor waiting for thecalls that were surely now long overdue. 

Days passed, and her patience was unrewarded save for a sharp ring froma sewing-machine agent, and another from a book canvasser. 

Sarah could not understand it. Surely, her neighbors in the block mustknow of her arrival even if those in her immediate vicinity on thestreet did not. Occasionally she met women in the halls, or going inand out of the big main door. At first she looked at them with ahalf-formed smile on her face, waiting for the confidently expectedgreeting; later, she eyed them with a distinctly grievedexpression--the greeting had never been given; but at last, her hungerto talk with some one not of her own family led her to take theinitiative herself. Meeting a tall, slender woman, whom she hadalready seen three times, she spoke. 

"How--how d'ye do?" she began timidly. 

The tall woman started, threw a hurried glance around her, then came tothe conclusion that the salutation was meant for herself. 

"Good-morning, " she returned, then hurried along through the hall. 

Sarah stood looking after her with dazed eyes. 

"Why, how funny!" she murmured. "She did n't even stop a minute. Maybe she's sort of bashful, now. I should n't wonder a mite if shewas. "

Three days later the two ladies again met at the outer door. 

"Oh, how d'ye do? Nice day, ain't it?" began Sarah, hurriedly. "You--you live here, don't you?"

"Why--yes, " said the woman, smiling a little. 

"I do, too--on the top floor. You 're not so high up, are you?"

The woman shook her head. 

"Not quite, " she said. 

"I--I 'm all settled, now, " announced Sarah, stumbling over the words alittle. 

"Is that so?" returned the woman politely, but without enthusiasm. 

Sarah nodded. 

"Yes, all ready for callers. I--I hope you'll come soon, " she finishedwith sudden courage. 

"Thank you; you are very kind, " murmured the woman, as she smiled andturned away. 

The tall woman did not call, and Sarah never asked her again. A fewwords from Cousin John's wife at about this time opened Sarah's eyes, and taught her not to expect to become acquainted with her neighbors. At first Sarah was more than dismayed; but she quickly brought to bearthe courage with which she fought all the strange things in this newlife. 

"Of course they can't call on every one, Cousin Mary, " she said airilyto John's wife; "and like enough they 're not the kind of folks I wouldcare to know, anyhow. "

Sarah was not the only member of the family who had found trials by theway. Ethel and Fred had entered school, and at first they came homeeach afternoon with woeful faces. New methods of study, recitation, discipline, and even of recreation puzzled and frightened them. Theyregularly begged each morning not to go back; but as regularly theirmother's diplomatic bantering and systematic appeals to their prideconquered, and they started off at half-past eight, heads high, andchins bravely up-raised. 

To Caleb, the city was a thing of noise, hurry, and more people than hehad thought existed. Early and late he worked in the store. To the"early" part he did not object--it even seemed late to his farm-bredideas of early rising; but to the evenings--Caleb never understood therush and confusion that entered the big market and grocery with thelighting of the flaring gas jets. To him it was a time for quietmeditation and sleep--not for haggling over the price of sugar andbeans. 

"I don't like it, " he would say sometimes to his wife; "I don't likeit, Sarah. This doling out a peck of potatoes and two quarts ofapples--why, Sarah, just think of the bushels and barrels I 've grownmyself! It's so small, Sarah, so small!"

"Of course it is now, " comforted Sarah, "but only think what 't will belater on--only think. "

December, January, February, and March passed; and the first of Aprilbrought a letter from the lessee of the farm asking if he was to havethe place through the summer. 

"Of course he can have it, " declared Sarah. "Just as if we wanted itagain!"

"Yes, yes, of course, " murmured Caleb. "I--I'll write later on. Hesaid if he heard by the middle of the month, 't would do. "

It was an early, and a wonderfully beautiful spring that year. Warm, moist winds came up from the south and stirred the twigs and branchesinto life. The grass grew green on sunny slopes, and the tulips andcrocuses turned the dull brown beds into riotous color and bloom. Caleb went out of his way each day that he might pass a tiny littlepark, and he always stopped there a motionless two minutes--he wouldhave told you that he was listening to the green things growing. Sarahgrew restless indoors. She even crawled out on to the fire escape andsat there one day; but she never tried that but once. 

Downstairs, on each side of the big front door was a square-yard patchof puny, straggling grass; and it was these two bits of possibilitiesthat put a happy thought into Sarah's head. For three days she saidnothing, but she fell into the way of going often in and out of thatdoor, and always her eyes were hungrily fixed on one or the other ofthose squares. On the fourth day she bought a trowel and some flowerseeds and set resolutely to work. She had dug the trowel into theearth four times, and was delightedly sniffing the odor from the moistearth when the janitor appeared. 

"Did ye lose something, ma'am?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Lose something?" laughed the woman. "Of course not! I've foundsomething, William. I 've found a flower bed. I 'm going to have theprettiest one ever was. "

"Oh, come now, " began the man, plainly disturbed, "that ain't going todo, you know. I'll have to--"

"Oh, I'll tend it, " she interrupted eagerly. "You won't even have totouch it. "

The man shook his head. 

"'T won't do, ma 'am, --'t won't, really, now. I'm sorry, but the bosswon't stand it. "

"Won't stand it!--not even for flowers!" she gasped. 

"No, ma'am"--the janitor's tone was firm but regretful. A queerfeeling of sympathy came over him for this gentle little woman on thetop floor whom he had always liked. "There hain't none of the tenantsno business with them yards; he said so. "

"Oh!" said Mrs. Dalton, "I--I'll go then. " And she picked up thetrowel and rose to her feet. 

She passed the janitor without a word, her head held high, and her eyeslooking straight before her; but once in the seclusion of the halls, her head drooped, and her eyes rained tears that rolled down her cheeksunceasingly all the way to the top floor. 

It was that night that Caleb brought out the paper and pen to write theletter which would lease the farm for another six months. Twice hedipped his pen in the ink, and paused with no word written. Finally hespoke. 

"I--I'm going to give him some hints, Sarah. He won't know how to runsome of the things, I 'm sure. If he should plant the meadow lot topotatoes, now, it--"

"And, Caleb, " cut in Sarah, "be sure and send word to his wife aboutthe roses; if she don't spray 'em real early, the bugs and worms willget an awful start. Caleb, don't you remember how lovely that crimsonrambler was last year?"

Caleb nodded; his eyes were fixed on the wallpaper. 

"I--I wonder if this warm weather has made the leaves start out on it, "resumed Sarah. "I hope not--you know we always have frosts up there. "

"Hm-m, " murmured Caleb. 

There was a long silence; then Sarah drew a deep breath. 

"Caleb, do you s'pose it 'll get up to the front-chamber window thisyear--that rosebush, I mean?"

"I don't know, Sarah. " Caleb's eyes were still on the wall-paper. 

There was another long silence, broken this time by the children'sentrance. 

"Mother, " began Fred discontentedly, "don't they ever go fishing downhere, or swimming, or anything?"

Sarah sprang to her feet with a nervous little laugh. 

"Caleb, we--we might go up home just for--for a visit, " she said. 

"Hurrah!--let's!" crowed Fred; and Ethel clapped her hands. 

"I'll do it, " cried Caleb suddenly, bringing his fist down hard on hisknee. "I'll write that we 'll go up next week for three days. There'slots of room, and they can tuck us away somewhere for just that littletime. We can show 'em things better than we can tell 'em, and I canclose the deal when I get there. "

It was a jubilant four that left the North Station a few days later, and it was a still more jubilant four that arrived in the village atthe foot of the green hills. The Dalton's intended visit had beenheralded far and near, and the progress from the train to the farmhousewas a succession of hand-shakes and cordial greetings. 

"Oh, don't it look splendid and roomy!" cried Sarah, as they reachedthe turn where they could see the farmhouse. "And don't the air smellgood!"

"Hm-m, " murmured Caleb, and turned his face away with set lips. 

How crowded to overflowing those three days were! Caleb valiantlytried to give his intended suggestions, but the most of his time wasspent in joyous tramps from one end of the farm to the other, that nofavorite field nor pet pasture should escape his adoring eyes. Sarah, when not gloating over every tender shoot and starting bud in herflower garden, was being f�ted and fed by the entire neighborhood. 

"Oh, how good it is to just talk!" murmured Sarah, as she went to sleepthat first night. 

As for Fred and Ethel, they were scarcely seen at the farmhouse. 

Just at dusk on the third day Caleb found his wife in the oldsummer-house. Wrapped in shawls, she was fastening vines to thetrellis. 

"Well, Sarah, I--I s'pose I'd better settle up with West, now. Ihain't yet, you know. "

Sarah nodded, without speaking. 

"I hain't seemed to amount to much about telling him things, " continuedCaleb. "Somehow, I did n't get time. He's careless, too; I'm afraidhe ain't going to do well. "

"She is, too, " moaned Sarah. "She don't know a thing about roses. Caleb, do you think that rosebush will get up to that window?"

"I don't know, " returned Caleb absently. Then, with a choke in hisvoice, he said: "Things look first-rate, now, but--I've got my doubtsof West. I--I wish I could handle them myself. "

Sarah threw a quick glance at his averted face. 

"Well--why--don't you?" she almost whispered. 

"Sarah!" exclaimed Caleb. 

"Oh, here you are, " cried Fred from the doorway. "Say, is it to-morrowwe go?--just to-morrow? Why, we have n't done half that we wanted to!"Behind him stood Ethel, her eyes wistful, her mouth drooping at thecorners. 

Sarah drew a quick breath. 

"Ask--ask your father, " she faltered. 

"Sarah, would you?--would you come back? Do you mean it?" cried Caleb, with a swift joy in his eyes. 

Sarah burst into tears, and threw herself into her husband's arms. "Oh, Caleb, I--just would! I--I 've wanted to ever so long, but--Ijust would n't own up. "

"There, there, " soothed the man, with loving pats, his face alight, "we'll come back, so we will; we'll come back right away. "

Ethel and Fred ran shouting from the summer-house, and Sarah raised atear-stained face. 

"Well, anyhow, " she laughed softly, "now we can see just how high thatrosebush does get!"

The Letter

Monday noon the postman gave the letter to twelve-year-old Emily, andEmily in turn handed it to her young brother. Between the gate and thedoor, however, Teddy encountered Rover, and Rover wanted to play. Itended in the letter disappearing around the corner of the house, beingfast held in the jaws of a small black-and-tan dog. 

Five minutes later the assembled family in the dining-room heard of theloss and demanded an explanation. 

"'T wasn't t-ten minutes ago, mother, " stammered Emily defensively. "The postman handed it to me and I gave it to Teddy to bring in. "

"But whose letter was it?" demanded several voices. 

Emily shook her head. 

"I don't know, " she faltered. 

"Don't know! Why, daughter, how could you be so careless?" cried Mrs. Clayton. "It is probably that note from the Bixbys--they were to writeif they could not come. But I should like to know what they said. "

"But it might have been to me, " cut in Ethel. (Ethel was pretty, eighteen, and admired. )

There was a sudden exclamation across the table as James, thefirst-born, pushed back his chair. 

"Confound it, Emily, you've got us in a pretty mess! It so happened Iwas looking for a letter myself, " he snapped, as he jerked himself tohis feet. "See here, Teddy, where did that rascally little dog go to?Come, let's go find Rover, " he finished, stooping and lifting the smallboy to his shoulder. The next moment the dining-room door had bangedbehind them. 

"Dear, dear!" laughed Mrs. Clayton, a little hysterically, turning toher husband. "You don't happen to be expecting a letter, do you, Charles?"

"I do happen to be--and a very important one, too, " returned the man;and Mrs. Clayton, after a nervous glance at his frowning face, subsidedinto her chair with a murmured word of regret. When luncheon was overshe slipped from the room and joined in the hunt for Rover. 

They scoured the yard, the street, the house, and the woodshed, findingthe culprit at last in the barn asleep under the big automobile. Ofthe letter, however, there was not a trace. 

"Dear, dear, if dogs only could talk!" moaned Mrs. Clayton that nightas, restless and full of fancies, she lay on her bed. "If only I knewwhere and what that letter was. But then, of course, it's from theBixbys; I'm going to think so, anyway, " she comforted herself, andresolutely closed her eyes. 

"If that _should_ be Dennison's letter, " mused Mr. Clayton as he lockedup the house; "if that should be--confound it, and I know it is! I 'dswear it! It serves me right, too, I suppose, for telling him to writeme at the house instead of at the office. Confound that little beastof a dog!"

In the south chamber Ethel, sending long, even strokes over the brownsatin of her hair, eyed her image in the glass with a plaintive pout. 

"Now, if that letter _should_ be an invitation from Fred!" she saidaloud. "And when I 'd so much rather go on that ride with him! Oh, dear! Where can Rover have put it?"

Across the hall James Clayton paced the room from end to end. 

"Great Scott! What if it _were_ May's letter, after all?" he groaned. "What a fool I was to leave it that if I did n't hear by Thursday nightI'd understand 'twas 'no'! And now she may have written and beexpecting me to-morrow, Wednesday, --_to-night_, even, and I not knowit--tied hand and foot! Oh, hang that dog!"

Tuesday morning the family awoke and met at the breakfast table. Theair was electric with unrest, and the food almost untouched. It wasMrs. Clayton who broke the long silence that followed the morning'sgreetings. 

"I--I don't think I 'll do much to get ready for the Bixbys, " shebegan; "I 'm so sure that letter was from them. "

"You mean that, Julia?" demanded her husband, brightening. "Are youreally positive?"

"Yes, really positive. They said all the time that they did n't thinkthey could come, and that without doubt I should get a letter sayingso. "

"Then of course 'twas it, " asserted Ethel, her face suddenly clearing. 

"Of course, " echoed her brother with a promptitude that hinted at morethan a willingness to be convinced that the letter was the Bixbys' andnone other. 

It was about ten minutes past five that afternoon when the four Bixbyscame. 

"There, we did get here!" they chorused gleefully. 

"Yes, yes, I see, I see, " murmured Mrs. Clayton, and signaled to Ethelto hurry into the kitchen and give the alarm to the cook. "Thenyou--you did n't write?"

"Write? Why, no, of course not! We were n't to, you know, if we couldcome. "

"Yes--er--I mean no, " stammered Mrs. Clayton, trying to calculate justhow long it would take the maid to put three rooms in order. 

At half-past six the family, with their guests, sat down to a dinnerthat showed unmistakable signs of having been started as a simple onefor six, and finished as a would-be elaborate one for ten. To thefaces of Mr. Clayton, Ethel, and James the cloud of the morning hadreturned. Mrs. Clayton, confident that the missing letter containednothing worse for her than its absence had already brought her, lookedcomparatively serene. 

After dinner, as by common consent, Mr. Clayton and his elder son anddaughter met in a secluded comer of the library. 

"Hang it all, dad, _now_ whose letter do you suppose that was?" beganJames aggressively. 

"It's mine, " groaned the father, with a shake of his head. "I knowit's mine. "

"But it might n't be, " demurred Ethel, with a hesitation that showed afear lest her suggestion meet with prompt acceptance. 

"I tell you I know it's mine, " retorted Mr. Clayton, and Ethel sighedher relief. "I did hope 't was your mother's, " he continued; "but Imight have known better. It's mine, and--and it means dollars tome--hundreds of them. "

"Why, father!" The two voices were one in shocked surprise. 

"Well, it does. Dennison was going to drop me a line here if certainthings happened. And if they have happened, and I don't sell my P. &Z. Before to-morrow noon, it 'll mean--well, there 'll be something topay. On the other hand, if those certain things have n't happened, andI do sell--it 'll be worse. "

"Well, well, " laughed James in a surprisingly buoyant tone, consideringthe gloom on his father's face. "I guess the letter was yours allright. I should take it so, anyhow, and go ahead and sell. "

"Yes, so should I, " tossed Ethel over her shoulder as she trippedhappily away. 

"After all, " mused James, slowly crossing the hall, "it could n't havebeen my letter. May would n't have written so soon; she 'd have waiteduntil nearer Thursday. She would n't let me have the 'yes' quite soquickly. Not she!--the little tease of a sweetheart!"

On Wednesday morning, at half-past eight, the maid brought in the mailand laid it at her master's plate. There were a paper and two letters. 

"Hm-m, " began Mr. Clayton, "one for you, Julia, my dear, and--by Jove, it's Dennison's letter!" he finished joyfully, thrusting an eager thumbunder the flap of the other envelope. 

Twenty minutes later, with head erect and shoulders squared, the seniormember of the firm of Clayton & Company left his home and hurried downthe street. Behind him, on the veranda steps, were a young man and ayoung girl looking into each other's faces in blank dismay. 

"You--you said _you_ were expecting a letter, did n't you?" began Ethelhopefully. 

"Well, so were you, were n't you?" The tone showed quick irritation. 

"Why, yes, but--"

"Well, don't you think it is yours?"

"Why, I--I don't know. It might be, of course; but--"

"You _said_ you thought it was yours, the very first thing. "

"Yes, I know; but--well, perhaps it is. "

"Of course it is, " asserted James, as he ran down the steps. AndEthel, looking after him, frowned in vague wonder. 

Thursday morning's mail brought four letters, and Ethel blushedprettily as she tucked them all in her belt. 

"But they aren't all yours, " protested her brother James. 

"But they are!" she laughed. 

"All?"

"All. "

"But _I_ was expecting a letter. "

"Oh-ho!--so you were, were you?" teased the girl merrily. Ethel couldafford to be merry; she had recognized a certain bold handwriting onone of the envelopes. "I really don't see, then, but you 'll have togo to Rover. Perhaps he can tell you where it is. "

"Confound that dog!" growled James, turning on his heel. 

"I'm going to accept Fred's invitation, " soliloquized Ethel happily, asshe hurried into her own room. "I shall read his first, so, of course, that will be the first one that I get!"

The noon delivery brought no letters for any one. James Claytonfidgeted about the house all the afternoon instead of going down to thegolf club to see the open handicap--the annual club event. He feltthat, in the present state of affairs, he could take no chances ofseeing a certain young woman who was just then very much in histhoughts. If she _had_ written, and he should meet her as though shehad not!--his blood chilled at the thought; and if she had not written, and he should meet her as though she had!--To James Clayton, at themoment, the thought of her precious letter lost forever to his longingeyes was only a shade worse than that there should have been no letterat all. 

Five o'clock came, bringing the last mail--and still no letter. In theClayton residence that night dinner was served at a table which showeda vacant place; James Clayton was reported to be indisposed. Yet, twohours later, after a sharp peal of the doorbell and a hasty knocking athis chamber door by the maid, James Clayton left the house; and one whomet him on the steps said that his face was certainly not that of asick man. 

It was after breakfast the next morning, before the family haddispersed, that Ethel rushed headlong into the dining-room. 

"Oh, James, James!" she cried breathlessly. "It _was_ your letter thatRover had, and here 't is!"

"But it was n't, " retorted the young man airily. "I got mine lastnight--special delivery. "

"But it is yours. Teddy found it in a hole under the barn. See!"crowed Ethel; and she thrust into his hand a tattered, chewed, bedraggled envelope whose seal was yet unbroken. 

"Well, by George--'t is for me, " muttered the young man, as he descriedhis own name among the marks left by dirt-stained paws and sharp littleteeth. "Humph!" he ejaculated a moment later, eyeing the torn andcrumpled sheet of paper which the envelope had contained. 

"Well?" prompted several voices. 

"It's an advertising letter from the Clover Farm kennels, " heannounced, with a slight twitching of his lips. "Do you thinkwe--er--need another--dog?"

The Indivisible Five

At the ages of fifty-four and fifty, respectively, Mr. And Mrs. Wentworth found themselves possessed of a roomy, old-fashionedfarmhouse near a thriving city, together with large holdings of lands, mortgages, and bank stock. At the same time they awoke to anunpleasant realization that many of their fellow creatures were not sofortunate. 

"James, " began Mrs. Wentworth, with some hesitation, one June day, "I've been thinking--with all our rambling rooms and great big yards, and we with never a chick nor a child to enjoy them--I 've beenthinking--that is, I went by the orphan asylum in town yesterday andsaw the poor little mites playing in that miserable brick oven theycall a yard, and--well, don't you think we ought to have one--or maybetwo--of them down here for a week or two, just to show them what summerreally is?"

The man's face beamed. 

"My dear, it's the very thing! We'll take two--they'll be company foreach other; only"--he looked doubtfully at the stout little womanopposite--"the worst of it will come on you, Mary. Of course Hannahcan manage the work part, I suppose, but the noise--well, we 'll askfor quiet ones, " he finished, with an air that indicated an entirelysatisfactory solution of the problem. 

Life at "Meadowbrook" was a thing of peaceful mornings and long, drowsyafternoons; a thing of spotless order and methodical routine. In along, childless marriage Mr. And Mrs. Wentworth's days had come to beordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations: andnoise and confusion in the household machinery were the unforgivableoffenses. It was into this placid existence that Mr. And Mrs. Wentworth proposed to introduce two children from the orphan asylum. 

Before the week was out a note was sent to the matron of theinstitution, and the prospective host and hostess were making theirplans with unwonted excitement. 

"We 'll rise at six and breakfast at seven, " began Mrs. Wentworth. 

"And they must be in bed by eight o'clock, " supplemented her husband. 

"I did n't say whether to send boys or girls, and I forgot to sayanything about their being quiet; but if they 're boys, you can teachthem gardening, James, and if they 're girls, they can sew with me agood deal. "

"Hm-m--yes; I really don't know what we shall do to entertain them. Perhaps they might like to read, " suggested Mr. Wentworth, looking withsome doubt at his big bookcases filled with heavy, calf-bound volumes. 

"Of course; and they can walk in the garden and sit on the piazza, "murmured Mrs. Wentworth happily. 

In the orphan asylum that same evening there was even greaterexcitement. Mrs. Wentworth's handwriting was not of the clearest, andher request for "two" children had been read as "ten"; and since theasylum--which was only a small branch of a much larger institution--hadrecently been depleted until it contained but five children, the matronwas sorely perplexed to know just how to fill so generous an order. Itended in her writing an apologetic note to Mrs. Wentworth anddispatching it the next morning by the hand of the eldest girl, Tilly, who was placed at the head of four other jubilant children, brushed, scrubbed, and admonished into a state of immaculate primness. 

At half-past nine o'clock the driver of the big carry-all set fivesquirming children on to their feet before the front door at"Meadowbrook, " and rang the bell. 

"Here you are, " he called gayly, as Hannah opened the door. "I'vewashed my hands of 'em--now they're yours!" And he drove briskly outof the yard. 

Hannah neither moved nor spoke. She simply stared. 

"Here's a note, " began Tilly, advancing shyly, "for Mis' Wentworth. "

Mechanically Hannah took the note and, scarcely realizing what she wasdoing, threw open the door of the parlor--that parlor which was sacredto funerals, weddings, and the minister's calls. 

The children filed in slowly and deposited themselves with some skillupon the slippery haircloth chairs and sofa. Hannah, still dazed, wentupstairs to her mistress. 

"From the asylum, ma'am, " she said faintly, holding out the note. 

Mrs. Wentworth's eyes shone. 

"Oh, the children! Where are they, Hannah?"

"In the parlor, ma'am. "

"The parlor? Why, Hannah, the parlor is no place for those twochildren!" Mrs. Wentworth started toward the door. 

Hannah coughed and uptilted her chin. 

"They ain't two, ma'am. There's as much as half a dozen of 'em. "

"What!"

"There is, ma'am. "

"Why, Hannah, what--" The lady tore open the note with shakingfingers, and read:

_My dear Madam_: You very generously asked for ten children, but I hopeyou will pardon me for sending only five. That is all we have with usnow, owing to several recent adoptions from our ranks--you know we arenever very large, being only a branch of the Hollingsworth Asylum. Thechildren were so crazy, though, at the idea of a trip to the country, that I am sure each child will have fun enough--and make noise enough, also, I fear--for two, so in the end you may think you've got your tenchildren, after all. You must be fond of children to be willing togive so many a two-weeks' vacation, but you don't know what a lot ofgood you are doing. If you could have seen the children when I readthem your note, you would have been well repaid for all your trouble. I wish there were more like you in the world. Yours respectfully, AMANDA HIGGINS. 

"Hannah, " faltered Mrs. Wentworth, dropping into her chair, "they didn't read my note right. They--they've actually sent us the wholeasylum!"

"Well, it looks like it--downstairs, " returned Hannah grimly. 

"Sure enough, they _are_ downstairs, and I must go to them, " murmuredMrs. Wentworth, rising irresolutely to her feet. "I--I 'll go down. I'll have to send all but two home, of course, " she finished, as sheleft the room. 

Downstairs she confronted five pairs of eyes shining out at her fromthe gloom. 

"Good-morning, children, " she began, trying to steady her voice. "There is--er--I--well--" She stopped helplessly, and a small girlslid to the floor from her perch on the sofa and looked longinglytoward the hall. 

"Please, ma'am, there's a kitty out there; may I get it?" she askedtimidly. 

"Please, have you got a dog, too?" piped up a boy's voice. 

"An' chickens an' little pigs? They said you had!" interposed abrown-eyed girl from the corner. 

"An' there's hammocks an' swings, maybe, " broke in Tilly; "an' please, ma'am, may n't we go outdoors and begin right away? Two weeks is anawful short time, you know, for all we want to do, " she finishedearnestly. 

Four pairs of feet came down to the floor with a thump and eight smallboots danced a tattoo of impatience on the parlor carpet--the smallgirl was already out in the hall and on her knees to the cat. 

"Why, yes, --that is--you see, there was a mistake; I--" Mrs. Wentworthstopped suddenly, for as soon as the "yes" had left her lips thechildren had fled like sheep. 

She stepped to the front door and looked out. 

A boy was turning somersaults on the grass. Three girls had started agame of tag. Watching all this with eager eyes was a boy of eight, onefoot tightly bound into an iron brace. It was on this child that Mrs. Wentworth's eyes lingered the longest. 

"Poor little fellow! Well, he shall be one of the two, " she murmured, as she hurried out to Hannah. 

"When they going, ma'am?" began Hannah, with an assurance born of longservice. 

"I--I haven't told them; I--well, I waited for Mr. Wentworth, "confessed her mistress hastily. Then, with some dignity: "They canjust as well have to-day outdoors, anyway. "

It was nearly noon when Mr. Wentworth drove into the yard, gave hishorse into the care of Bill, the man-of-all-work, and hurried into thehouse. 

"Mary, Mary--where are you?" he called sharply. Never before had JamesWentworth broken the serene calm of his home with a voice like that. 

"Yes, dear, I 'm here--in the dining-room. "

Mrs. Wentworth's cheeks were flushed, her hair was disordered, and herneck-bow was untied; but she was smiling happily as she hovered over alarge table laden with good things and set for six. 

"You can sit down with them, James, " she exclaimed; "I'm going to helpHannah serve them. "

"Mary, what in the world does this mean? The yard is overrun withscreaming children! Have they sent us the whole asylum?" he demanded. 

Mrs. Wentworth laughed hysterically. 

"That's exactly what they have done, dear. They took my 'two' for a'ten, ' and--and they did the best they could to supply my wants!"

"Well, but--why don't you send them home? We can't--"

"Yes, yes; I know, dear, " interrupted the woman hastily, the happy lookgone from her eyes. "After dinner I am--that is, you may send all buttwo home. I thought I 'd let them play awhile. "

"Humph!" ejaculated the man; "send them home?--I should think so!" hemuttered, as his wife went to call the children to dinner. 

What a wonderful meal that was, and how the good things did vanish downthose five hungry throats!

The man at the head of the table looked on in dumb amazement, and hewas still speechless when, after dinner, five children set upon him anddragged him out to see the bird's nest behind the barn. 

"An' we found the pigs an' the chickens, Mister, jest as they said wewould, " piped up Tommy eagerly, as they hurried along. 

"An' a teeny little baby cow, too, " panted the smaller girl, "an' I fedhim. "

"Well, I guess you could n't 'a' fed him if I had n't held him with therope, " crowed Bobby. 

"Or if I had n't scared him with my stick!" cut in Tilly. "I guess youain't the only pebble on the beach, Bobby Mack!"

"Good Heavens!" groaned Mr. Wentworth, under his breath. "And have Igot to keep two of these little hoodlums for a whole fortnight?Er--children, " he said aloud, after the bird's nest had been dulyadmired; "er--suppose we go and--er--read. "

Into the house trooped the five chattering boys and girls in the wakeof an anxious, perplexed man. Some minutes later the children sat in astiff row along the wall, while the man, facing them, read aloud from aponderous calf-bound volume on "The Fundamental Causes of the GreatRebellion. "

For some time Mr. Wentworth read without pausing to look up, hissonorous voice filling the room, and his mind wholly given to thesubject in hand; then he raised his eyes--and almost dropped the bookin his hand: Tommy, the cripple, sat alone. 

"Why, where--what--" stammered Mr. Wentworth. 

"They've gone out ter the barn, Mister, " explained Tommy cheerfully, pointing to the empty chairs. 

"Oh!" murmured Mr. Wentworth faintly, as he placed the book on theshelf. "I--er--I think we won't read any more. "

"Come on, then; let's go to the barn, " cried Tommy. And to the barnthey went. 

There were no "Fundamental Causes of the Great Rebellion" in the barn, but there were fundamental causes of lots of other things, and Mr. Wentworth found that now his words were listened to with moreeagerness; and before he knew it, he was almost as excited as were thechildren themselves. 

They were really a very intelligent lot of youngsters, he told himself, and the prospect of having two of them for guests did not look soformidable after all. 

From the barn they went to the garden, from the garden to the pond, from the pond back to the yard; then they all sat down under the appletrees while Mr. Wentworth built them a miniature boat; in days longgone by James Wentworth had loved the sea, and boat-making had been oneof his boyhood joys. 

At four o'clock Mrs. Wentworth called from the house:

"James, will you come here a minute, please?"

A slow red stole over the man's face as he rose to his feet. The redwas a deep crimson by the time he faced his wife. 

"How are you going to send them home, dear?" she asked. 

He shook his head. 

"But it's four o'clock, and we ought to be thinking of it. Which twoare you going to keep?"

"I--I don't know, " he acknowledged. 

For some unapparent reason Mrs. Wentworth's spirits rose, but sheassumed an air of severity. 

"Why, James!--have n't you told them?" she demanded. 

"Mary, I couldn't; I've been trying to all the afternoon. Er--you tellthem--do!" he urged desperately. "I can't--playing with them as Ihave!"

"Suppose we keep them all, then?" she hazarded. 

"Mary!"

"Oh, I can manage it! I 've been talking with Hannah--I saw how thingswere going with you "--his features relaxed into a shame-facedsmile--"and Hannah says her sister can come to help, and we 've gotbeds enough with the cots in the attic. "

He drew a deep breath. 

"Then we won't have to tell them!" he exclaimed. 

"No, we won't have to tell them, " she laughed, as she turned back intothe house. 

What a fortnight that was at "Meadowbrook!" The mornings--no longerpeaceful--were full of rollicking games; and the long, drowsyafternoons became very much awake with gleeful shouts. The spotlessorder fled before the bats and balls and books and dolls that Mr. Wentworth brought home from the store; and the methodical routine ofthe household was shattered to atoms by daily picnics and frequentluncheons of bread and butter. 

No longer were the days ordered with a precision that admitted of nofrivolous deviations, for who could tell in the morning how many bumpedheads, cut fingers, bruised noses and wounded hearts would needsympathetic attention before night?

And so it went on until the evening before the two weeks werecompleted; then, after the children were abed and asleep, the man andhis wife talked it over. 

"Well, this ends to-morrow, I suppose. You must be tired, Mary; it'sbeen a hard time for you, dear, " he began. 

"Not a bit of it, James, " she demurred. "Hannah and Betsey have doneall the work, and you 've been with the children so much I 've not felttheir care at all. "

The man stirred uneasily. 

"Well, I--I wanted to relieve you as much as possible, " he exclaimed, wondering if she knew how many boats he had built for the boys, and howmany jackknives he had broken in the process. 

"Do you know?--I think I shall be actually lonely when they are gone, "declared Mrs. Wentworth, without looking up. 

The man threw a sharp glance at his wife. 

"So shall I, " he said. 

"James, I've been wondering, could n't we--adopt one of them?" shesuggested, trying to make it appear as if the thought had but justentered her head. 

Again the man gave his wife a swift glance. 

"Why--we--might--I suppose, " he returned, hoping that his hesitationwould indicate that the idea was quite new to him--instead of havingbeen almost constantly in his thoughts for a week. 

"We might take two--company for each other, you know!" She looked athim out of the corner of her eye. 

"Hm-m, " he agreed pleasantly. 

"The only trouble is the selecting, James. "

"Yes, that is a drawback, " murmured the man, with a vivid recollectionof a certain afternoon under the apple trees. 

"Well, I'll tell you"--Mrs. Wentworth leaned forward in suddenanimation--"to-morrow you pick out the one you want and ask him--orher--to go into the parlor for a few minutes at nine o'clock in themorning, and I will do the same. "

"Well, maybe, " he began a little doubtfully, "but--"

"And if there are two, and you are n't real sure which you want, justask both of them to go, and we 'll settle it together, later, " shefinished. 

To this, with some measure of content, her husband agreed. 

The next morning at ten minutes before nine Mrs. Wentworth began hersearch. With no hesitation she accosted the little cripple. 

"Tommy, dear, I want you to go into the parlor for a few minutes. Takeyour book in there and read, and I 'll come very soon and tell you whatI want. "

Tommy obeyed at once and Mrs. Wentworth sighed in relief. At thatmoment Tilly came into the garden. 

What a dear little woman those two weeks of happiness had caused Tillyto become! How much she loved Tommy, and what care she took of him!Really, it was a shame to separate them--they ought to be brought uptogether--perhaps Mr. Wentworth would n't find any child that hewanted; anyway, she believed she should send Tilly in, at a venture. 

A moment later Tilly was following in Tommy's footsteps. On the piazzasteps sat Bobby--homely, unattractive Bobby, crying. 

"Why, my dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Wentworth. 

"Tommy's gone! I can't find him, " sobbed the boy. 

Mrs. Wentworth's back straightened. 

Of course Bobby cried--no one was so good to him as Tommy was--no oneseemed to care for him but Tommy. Poor, homely Bobby! He had a hardrow to hoe. He--

But she could n't take Bobby! Of course not--she had Tommy and Tillyalready. Still--

Mrs. Wentworth stooped and whispered a magic word in Bobby's ear, andthe boy sprang to his feet and trotted through the hall to the parlordoor. 

"I don't care, " muttered Mrs. Wentworth recklessly. "I could n't bearto leave him alone out here. I can settle it later. "

Twice she had evaded her husband during the last fifteen minutes; now, at nine o'clock, the appointed time, they both reached the parlor door. Neither one could meet the other's eyes, and with averted faces theyentered the room together; then both gave a cry of amazement. 

In the corner, stiff, uncomfortable, and with faces that expressedpuzzled anxiety, sat five silent children. 

Mrs. Wentworth was the first to recover presence of mind. 

"There, there, dears, it's all right, " she began a little hysterically. "You can call it a little game we were playing. You may all runoutdoors now. "

As the last white apron fluttered through the door she dropped limplyinto a chair. 

"James, what in the world are we going to do?" she demanded. 

"Give it up!" said the man, his hands in his pockets--James Wentworth'svocabulary had grown twenty years younger in the last two weeks. 

"But really, it's serious!"

"It certainly is. "

"But what _shall_ we do?"

The man took his hands from his pockets and waved them in a manner thatwould indicate entire irresponsibility. 

"We might end it as we did two weeks ago and keep the whole lot ofthem, " she proposed merrily. 

"Well--why don't you?" he asked calmly. 

"James!"

His face grew red with a shame-faced laugh. 

"Well--there are families with five children in them, and I guess wecould manage it, " he asserted in self-defense. 

She sat up and looked at him with amazement. 

"Surely we have money enough--and I don't know how we could spend itbetter, " he continued rapidly; "and with plenty of help for you--there's nothing to hinder turning ourselves into an orphan asylum if we wantto, " he added triumphantly. 

"Oh, James, could we--do you think?" she cried, her eyes shining with agrowing joy. "Tommy, and Tilly, and all? Oh, we will--we will!And--and--we'll never have to choose any more, will we, James?" shefinished fervently. 

The Elephant's Board and Keep

On twelve hundred dollars a year the Wheelers had contrived to livethus far with some comforts and a few luxuries--they had been marriedtwo years. Genial, fun-loving, and hospitable, they had evenentertained occasionally; but Brainerd was a modest town, and its FourHundred was not given to lavish display. 

In the bank Herbert Wheeler spent long hours handling money that wasnot his, only to hurry home and spend other long hours over a tiny lawnand a tinier garden, where every blade of grass and every lettuce-headwere marvels of grace and beauty, simply because they were his. 

It was June now, and the lawn and the garden were very important; butit was on a June morning that the large blue envelope came. Herbertwent home that night and burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind. 

"Jessica, we 've got one at last, " he cried. 

"One what?"

"An automobile. "

Jessica sat down helplessly. In each hand she held an egg--she hadbeen selecting two big ones for an omelet. 

"Herbert, are you crazy? What are you talking about?" she demanded. 

"About our automobile, to be sure, " he retorted. "'T was CousinJohn's. I heard to-day--he's left it to us. "

"To _us_! But we hardly knew him, and he was only a third or fourthcousin, anyway, was n't he? Why, we never even thought of going to thefuneral!"

"I know; but he was a queer old codger, and he took a great fancy toyou when he saw you. Don't you remember? Anyhow, the deed is done. "

"And it's ours?--a whole automobile?"

"That's what they say--and it's a three-thousand-dollar car. "

"Oh, Herbert!" When Jessica was pleased she clapped her hands; sheclapped them now--or rather she clapped the eggs--and in the resultingdisaster even the automobile was for a moment forgetten [Transcriber'snote: forgotten?]. But for only a moment. 

"And to think how we 've wanted an automobile!" she cried, when theimpromptu omelet in her lap had been banished into oblivion. "Therides we 'll have--and _we_ won't be pigs! _We 'll_ take our friends!"

"Indeed we will, " agreed Herbert. 

"And our trips and vacations, and even down town--why, we won't needany carfare. We 'll save money, Herbert, lots of money!"

"Er. --well, an auto costs something to run, you know, " ventured Herbert. 

"Gasoline, 'course!--but what's a little gasoline? I fancy we canafford that when we get the whole car for nothing!"

"Well, I should say!" chuckled the man. 

"Where is it now?"

"In the garage on the estate, " returned Herbert, consulting his letter. "I'm requested to take it away. "

"Requested! Only fancy! As if we were n't dying to take it away!"

"Yes, but--how?" The man's face had grown suddenly perplexed. 

"Why, go and get it, of course. "

"But one can't walk in and pocket a motor-car as one would a package ofgreenbacks. "

"Of course not! But you can get it and run it home. It's only fiftymiles, anyhow. "

"I don't know how to run an automobile. Besides, there's licenses andthings that have to be 'tended to first, I think. "

"Well, _somebody_ can run it, can't there?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. But--where are we going to keep it?"

"Herbert Wheeler, one would think you were displeased that we 've beengiven this automobile. As if it mattered _where_ we kept it, so longas we had it to keep!"

"Yes, but--really, Jessica, we can't keep it here--in the kitchen, " hecried. "It's smashed two eggs already, just the mention of it, " hefinished whimsically. 

"But there _are_ places--garages and things, Herbert; you know thereare. "

"Yes, but they--cost something. "

"I know it; but if the car is ours for nothing, seems as if we might beable to afford its board and keep!"

"Well, by George! it does, Jessica; that's a fact, " cried the man, starting to his feet. "There 's Dearborn's down to the Square. I 'llgo and see them about it. They 'll know, too, how to get it here. I'll go down right after supper. And, by the way, how about thatomelet? Did our new automobile leave any eggs to make one?"

"Well, a few, " laughed Jessica. 

There was no elation in Herbert Wheeler's step when, two hours later, the young bank teller came home from Dearborn's. 

"Well, I guess we--we're up against it, Jessica, " he groaned. 

"What's the matter? Won't they take it? Never mind; there are others. "

"Oh, yes, they 'll take it and take care of it for fifteen or twentydollars a month, according to the amount of work I have them do on it. "

"Why, I never heard of such a thing! Does it cost that--all that? Butthen, the _car_ does n't cost anything, " she added soothingly, after apause. 

"Oh, no, the car doesn't cost anything--only eight or ten dollars tobring it down by train, or else two dollars an hour for a chauffeur torun it down for us, " retorted her husband. 

"Eight or ten dollars! Two dollars an hour to run it!" gasped Jessica. "Why, Herbert, what shall we do? There is only ten dollars now of thehousehold money to last the rest of the month; and there 's this week'sgrocery bill and a dollar and a half for the laundry to pay!"

"That's exactly it--what shall we do?" snapped Herbert. This thing wasgetting on his nerves. 

"But we must do, " laughed Jessica hysterically. "The idea of giving upa three-thousand-dollar automobile because one owes a grocery bill anda dollar and a half for laundry!"

"Well, we can't eat the automobile, and 't won't wash our clothes forus. "

"Naturally not! Who wants it to?" Jessica's nerves, also, werefeeling the strain. 

"We might--sell it. "

"Sell it! Sell our automobile!" flamed Jessica; and to hear her, onewould think the proposition was to sell an old family heirloom, belovedfor years. 

Her husband sighed. 

"Isn't there something somewhere about selling the pot to get somethingto put into it?" he muttered dismally, as he rose to lock up the housefor the night. "Well, I fancy that's what we 'll have to do--sell theautomobile to get money enough to move it!"

Two days later the automobile came. Perhaps the grocer waited. Perhaps the laundry bill went unpaid. Perhaps an obliging friendadvanced a loan. Whatever it was, spic and span in Dearborn's garagestood the three-thousand-dollar automobile, the admired of every eye. 

June had gone, and July was weeks old, however, before thepreliminaries of license and lessons were over, and Mr. And Mrs. Herbert Wheeler could enter into the full knowledge of what it meant tobe the joyous possessors of an automobile which one could run one'sself. 

"And now we'll take our friends, " cried Jessica. "Who'll go first?"

"Let's begin with the A's--the Arnolds. They 're always doing thingsfor us. "

"Good! I'll telephone Mrs. Arnold to-night. To-morrow is Saturday, half-holiday. We'll take them down to the lake and come home bymoonlight. Oh, Herbert, won't it be lovely?"

"You bet it will, " exulted Herbert, as he thought of the Arnolds'admiring eyes when their car should sweep up to their door. 

At three o'clock Saturday afternoon the Wheelers with their two guestsstarted for the lake. It was a beautiful day. The road was good andevery one was in excellent spirits--that is, every one but the host. It had come to him suddenly with overwhelming force that he wasresponsible not only for the happiness but for the lives of his wifeand their friends. What if something should go wrong?

But nothing did go wrong. He stopped twice, it is true, and examinedcarefully his car; but the only result of his search was a plentifulbedaubing of oil and gasoline on his hands and of roadway dust on hisclothing. He was used to this and did not mind it, however--until hewent in to dinner at the Lakeside House beside the fresh daintiness ofhis wife and their friends; then he did mind it. 

The ride home was delightful, so the Arnolds said. The Arnolds talkedof it, indeed, to each other, until they fell asleep--but even thenthey did not talk of it quite so long as their host worked cleaning upthe car after the trip. Wheeler kept the automobile now in aneighbor's barn and took care of it himself; it was much cheaper thankeeping it in Dearborn's garage. 

There were several other friends in the A's and B's and two in the C'swho were taken out in the Wheeler automobile before Herbert one daygroaned:

"Jessica, this alphabet business is killing me. It does seem as if Znever would be reached!"

"Why, Herbert!--and they 're all our friends, and you know how muchthey think of it. "

"I think of it, too, when the dinner checks and the supper checks comein. Jessica, we just simply can't stand it!"

Jessica frowned and sighed. 

"I know, dear; but when the _car_ did n't cost anything--"

"Well, lobster salads and chicken patties cost something, " mentionedthe man grimly. 

"I know it; but it seems so--so selfish to go all by ourselves withthose empty seats behind us. And there are so many I have promised totake. Herbert, what can we do?"

"I don't know; but I know what we can't do. We can't feed them to thetune of a dollar or two a plate any longer. "

There was a long pause; then Jessica clapped her hands. 

"Herbert, I have it! We'll have basket picnics. I 'll take a lunchfrom the house every time. And, after all, that'll be lots nicer;don't you think so?"

"Well, that might do, " acquiesced the man slowly. "Anyhow, there wouldn't be any dinner checks a-coming. "

August passed and September came. The Wheelers were in "M" now; theyhad been for days, indeed. Even home-prepared luncheons were beyondthe Wheelers' pocketbook now, and no friend had been invited to ridefor a week past. The spoiling of two tires and a rather seriousaccident to the machine had necessitated the Wheelers spending everyspare cent for repairs. 

In the eyes of most of the town the Wheelers were objects of envy. _They_ had an automobile. _They_ could ride while others must plodalong behind them on foot, blinded by their dust and sickened by theirnoisome odor of gasoline. 

As long as the Wheelers were "decently hospitable" about sharing theircar, the townspeople added to their envy an interested tolerance basedon a lively speculation as to when one's own turn for a ride wouldcome; but when a whole week went by, and not one of the many anxiouswould-be guests had been invited, the interest and the tolerance fled, leaving only an angry disdain as destructive to happiness as was thegasoline smell of the car itself. 

There were some things, however, that the townspeople did not know. They did not know that, though the Wheelers had a motor-car, they hadalmost nothing else; no new clothes, except dust coats and goggles; nonew books and magazines, except such as dealt with "the practicalupkeep and operation of a car"; no leisure, for the car must be keptrepaired and shining; no fresh vegetables to eat, for the garden haddied long ago from want of care, and they could buy only gasoline. Butthey did have an automobile. This much the town knew; and there came aday when this fact loomed large and ominous on the horizon of theWheelers' destiny. 

On the first day of October the bank in which young Wheeler workedclosed its doors. There had been a defalcation. A large sum of moneywas missing, and the long finger of suspicion pointed to HerbertWheeler. 

Did he not sport an automobile? Was he not living far beyond hismeans? Had not the Wheelers for weeks past flaunted their ill-gottenwealth in the very eyes of the whole town? To be sure they had. Theidea, indeed, of a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year clerk trying to cut adash like that! As if every one could not guess just where had gonethat missing sum of money. 

And so the town talked and wagged its head, and back in the tiny housein the midst of its unkept lawn and garden sat the angry, frightened, and appalled Herbert Wheeler, and Jessica, his wife. 

In vain did the Wheelers point out that the automobile was a gift. Invain did they bare to doubting eyes the whole pitiful poverty of theirdaily life. The town refused to see or to understand; in the town'seyes was the vision of the Wheeler automobile flying through thestreets with selfishly empty seats; in the town's nose was the hatefulsmell of gasoline. Nothing else signified. 

To the bank examiners, however, something else did signify. But ittook their sworn statement, together with the suicide of Cashier Jewett(the proved defaulter), to convince the town; and even then the townshook its head and said:

"Well, it might have been that automobile, anyhow!"

The Wheelers sold their elephant--their motor-car. 

"Yes, I think we 'd better sell it, " agreed Jessica tearfully, when herhusband made the proposition. "Of course the car did n't cost usanything, but we--"

"Cost us anything!" cut in Herbert Wheeler wrathfully. "Cost usanything! Why, it's done nothing but cost from the day it smashedthose two eggs in the kitchen to the day it almost smashed myreputation at the bank. Why, Jessica, it's cost us everything--food, clothing, fun, friends, and almost life itself! I think we 'll sellthat automobile. "

And they sold it. 

A Patron of Art

Mrs. Livingstone adored art--Art with a capital A, not the kind whosesign-manual is a milking-stool or a beribboned picture frame. Thefamily had lived for some time in a shabby-genteel house on BeaconHill, ever since, indeed, Mrs. Livingstone had insisted on herhusband's leaving the town of his birth and moving to Boston--thecenter of Art (according to Mrs. Livingstone). 

Here she attended the Symphony Concerts (on twenty-five cent tickets), and prattled knowingly of Mozart and Beethoven; and here she listenedto Patti or Bernhardt from the third balcony of the Boston Theater. Ifshe attended an exhibit of modern paintings she saw no beauty inpictured face or flower, but longed audibly for the masterpieces ofRubens and of Titian; and she ignored the ordinary books andperiodicals of the day, even to the newspapers, and adorned hercenter-table with copies of Shakespeare and of Milton. 

To be sure, she occasionally read a novel or a book of poems a trifleless ancient in character, but never unless the world had rung with theauthor's praises for at least a score of years. The stamp of Time'sapproval was absolutely necessary to the aspirant after Mrs. Livingstone's approbation. Indeed, there was only one of thepresent-day celebrities who interested the good lady at all, but thatone attracted with a power that compensated for any lack in the others. She would have given much--had it been hers to give--to once meet thatman. 

Of course he was famous--he had been for thirty years. She called himthe "Inimitable One, " and set him up in her heart and groveled joyfullyat his feet. She bought each of his books when published, whether shehad shoes to her feet or clothes to her back. He was the Prophet--theHigh Priest--the embodiment of Art. She occasionally even allowed hisbooks to rest on the table along with Milton and Shakespeare. 

Mrs. Livingstone's husband was only an ordinary being who knew nothingwhatever of Art; and it was a relief to her--and perhaps to him, poorman--when he departed this life, and left her to an artistic widowhoodwith anything but an artistic income--if size counts in Art. But onemust eat, and one must wear clothes (in chilly, civilized Boston, atleast), and Mrs. Livingstone suddenly realized that something must bedone toward supplying these necessities of life for herself and heryoung daughter, Mabel. 

It was at about this time that there came a sharp ring at the doorbell, and a stout man with small, but very bright, black eyes asked to seeMrs. Livingstone. 

"I have come, my dear madam, on a matter of business, " said he suavely;"and though I am a stranger to you, you certainly are not one to me. Isaid 'business, ' madam, yet I and the one for whom I am speaking are soanxious that you should look favorably upon our proposition that I hadalmost said that I had come to ask a favor. "

Mrs. Livingstone relaxed from the forbidding aspect she had assumed, and looked mildly interested. 

"A gentleman wishes to leave his house in your charge, madam. Thehouse is advertised for sale, and from time to time parties may wish tosee it. He would like it to be in the care of some one who willunderstand how to show it to the best advantage, you see. "

Mrs. Livingstone's back straightened, and her chin rose perceptibly. Had she come to this--a common caretaker? And yet--there was Mabel. Something must certainly be done. 

"Who is this man?" she asked aggressively; and then she almost startedfrom her chair as the name fell from the other's lips--it was thatborne by the Inimitable One. 

"That man!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "That famous creature with theworld at his feet!"

The stout gentleman opposite smiled, and his little eyes narrowed tomere slits of light. He had counted on this. His employer was indeedfamous--very famous, though perhaps not in the way this good ladysupposed. It was not the first time he had traded on this convenientsimilarity of names. 

"I thought, madam, we had made no mistake. I was sure you would deemit a privilege. And as for us, your keen appreciative sense of thefitness of things will--er--will make it a favor to us if you complywith our request, " said he, floundering in helpless confusion for amoment. 

But Mrs. Livingstone did not notice. She went through the rest of thatinterview in a dazed, ecstatic wonder. She only knew at its conclusionthat she was to go up to Vermont to care for His house, to live in therooms that He had lived in, to rest where He had rested, to walk whereHe had walked, to see what He had seen. And she was to receivepay--money for this blissful privilege. Incredible!

It did not take Mrs. Livingstone long to make all necessaryarrangements. The shabby-genteel house in Boston was rented by themonth, all furnished, and the good lady promptly gave her notice andpacked her trunks for departure. The first day of the month found herand her daughter whirling away from the city toward their destination. 

As they stepped from the train to the platform at the little countrystation, Mrs. Livingstone looked about her with awed interest. He hadbeen here! The jouncing yellow stage coach became a hallowed goldenchariot, and the ride to the house a sacred pilgrimage. She quoted Hispoetry on the doorstep, and entered the hall with a reverent obeisance;whereupon the man who brought the trunks ever after referred to herwith a significant tap on his forehead and the single word "cracked. "

"Only think, Mabel, He walked here, and sat here, " said the womanadoringly, suiting the action to the word and sinking into a greatMorris chair. 

Mabel sniffed her disdain. 

"I presume so; but I should like to know where he ate--maybe he leftsomething!"

Mrs. Livingstone rose in despairing resignation. 

"Just like your father, child. No conception of anything but thematerial things of life. I did hope my daughter would have somesympathy with me; but it seems she has n't. Bring me my bag--the blackone; the lunch is in that. Of course we can't have a warm supper untilwe get started. "

The next few days were a dream of bliss to Mrs. Livingstone. The housewas a handsome mansion set well back from the street, and surrounded bybeautiful grounds which were kept in order by a man who came two orthree times a week to attend to them. Mrs. Livingstone had but herselfand Mabel to care for, and she performed the work of the house as ahigh-priestess might have attended upon the altars of her gods. It wason the fifth day that a growing wonder in the mind of Mrs. Livingstonefound voice. 

"Mabel, there is n't one of His works in the house--not one. I 'vebeen everywhere!" said 'the woman plaintively. 

"Well, mother, " laughed the girl saucily, "that's the most sensiblething I ever knew of the man. I don't wonder he did n't want themround--I should n't!"

"Mabel!"

"Well, I shouldn't!" And Mabel laughed wickedly while her mothersighed at the out-spoken heresy. It was plain that Mabel had no soul. 

Mrs. Livingstone was furthermore surprised at her idol's taste in art;some of the pictures on the wall were a distinct shock to her. And ifthe absence of the Inimitable One's works astonished her, the presenceof some others' books certainly did more than that. 

The house was to be sold completely furnished, with the exception ofthe books and pictures. The price was high, and there were but fewprospective purchasers. Occasionally people came to see the property;such Mrs. Livingstone conducted about the house with reverentimpressiveness, displaying its various charms much as a young motherwould "show off" her baby. 

"It is something to buy a house owned by so famous a man, " sheinsinuated gently one day, after vainly trying to awaken a properenthusiasm in a prim little woman who was talking of purchasing. 

"Indeed!" replied the other, frigidly. "Do you think so? I mustconfess it is somewhat of a drawback to me. " And from that time Mrs. Livingstone wore an injured air--the young mother's baby had beensnubbed--grievously snubbed. 

There were times when Mrs. Livingstone was lonely. Only one of herneighbors had called, and that one had not repeated the visit. Perhapsthe lady's report--together with that of the trunkman--was notconducive to further acquaintance. It would appear so. 

Toward the last of the summer a wild plan entered Mrs. Livingstone'sbrain; and after some days of trembling consideration, she determinedto carry it out. The morning mail bore a letter from her to theInimitable One through his publishers. She had learned that he was tobe in Boston, and she had written to beg him to come up to his old homeand see if it was being cared for to his satisfaction. The momentsdragged as though weighted with lead until the answer came. When atlast it was in her hands, she twisted a hairpin under the flap of theenvelope and tore out the letter with shaking fingers. 

It was from the Inimitable One's private secretary. The Inimitable Onedid not understand her letter--he was the owner of no house in Vermont;there was doubtless some mistake. That was all. The communication waswholly enigmatic. 

The letter fluttered to the floor, and Mrs. Livingstone's dazed eyesrested on the gardener in the lawn below. In a moment she was at hisside. 

"Peter, isn't this house owned by a very famous man?"

"Indade it is, ma'am. "

"Who is he?" she demanded shortly, holding her breath until thatfamiliar name borne by the Inimitable One passed the other's lips. 

"Well, Peter, is n't he the writer? What does he do for a living?" shefaltered, still mystified. 

"Do? He fights, ma'am. He 's the big prize-fighter that won--" Hewas talking to empty air. The woman had fled. 

When Polly Ann Played Santa Claus

The Great Idea and What Came of It

Margaret Brackett turned her head petulantly from side to side on thepillow. "I'm sure I don't see why this had to come to me now, " shemoaned. 

Polly Ann Brackett, who had been hastily summoned to care for herstricken relative, patted the pillow hopefully. 

"Sho! now, Aunt Margaret, don't take on so. Just lie still and rest. You 're all beat out. That's what's the matter. "

The sick woman gave an impatient sigh. 

"But, Polly Ann, it's only the 22d. I ought not to be that--yet! Itnever comes until the 26th, and I 'm prepared for it then. Sarah Birdcomes Christmas Day, you know. "

Polly Ann's jaw dropped. Her eyes stared frankly. 

"Sarah Bird!" she cried. "You don't mean you engaged her beforehand--a_nurse_! That you knew you 'd need her!"

"Of course. I do every year. Polly Ann, don't stare so! As ifChristmas did n't use every one up--what with the shopping and all theplanning and care it takes!"

"But I thought Christmas was a--a pleasure, " argued Polly Ann feebly;"something to enjoy. Not to--to get sick over. "

"Enjoy--yes, though not to be taken lightly, understand, " returned theelder woman with dignity. "It is no light thing to select and buysuitable, appropriate gifts. And now, with half of them to be yet tiedup and labeled, here I am, flat on my back, " she finished with a groan. 

"Can't I do it? Of course I can!" cried Polly Ann confidently. 

The sick woman turned with troubled eyes. 

"Why, I suppose you'll have to do it, " she sighed, "as long as I can't. Part of them are done up, anyway; but there's John's family and Maryand the children left. John's are in the middle drawer of the bureauin the attic hall, and Mary's are in the big box near it. You'll knowthem right away when you see them. There's paper and strings andribbons, and cards for the names, besides the big boxes to send themin. Seems as if you ought to do it right, only--well, you know howutterly irresponsible and absent-minded you are sometimes. "

"Nonsense!" scoffed Polly Ann. "As if I could n't do up a parcel ofpresents as well as you! And I'll prove it, too. I'll go right upnow, " she declared, rising to her feet and marching out of the room. 

In the attic hall Polly Ann found the presents easily. She knew whichwas for which, too; she knew Margaret and her presents of old. She didnot need the little bits of paper marked, "For Mary, " "For Tom, " "ForJohn, " "For Julia, " to tell her that the woolen gloves and thick sockswent into Mary's box, and the handsomely bound books and the finelace-edged handkerchief into John's. 

Mary, as all the Bracketts knew, was the poor relation that had marriedshiftless Joe Hemenway, who had died after a time, leaving behind him alittle Joe and three younger girls and a boy. John, if possible evenbetter known to the Brackett family, was the millionaire Congressman towhom no Brackett ever failed to claim relationship with a proudlycareless "He's a cousin of ours, you know, Congressman Brackett is. "

At once Polly Ann began her task. And then--

It was the French doll that did it. Polly Ann was sure of that, as shethought it over afterward. From the middle drawer where were John'spresents the doll fell somehow into the box where were Mary's. Therethe fluffy gold of the doll's hair rioted gloriously across a pair ofblack woolen socks, and the blue satin of its gown swept glisteningfolds of sumptuousness across a red flannel petticoat. One rose-tippedwaxen hand, outflung, pointed, almost as if in scorn, to the corner ofthe box where lay another doll, a doll in a brown delaine dress, a dollwhose every line from her worsted-capped head to her black-painted feetspelled durability and lack of charm. 

Polly Ann saw this, and sighed. She was thinking of Mary's littlecrippled Nellie for whom the brown delaine doll was designed; and shewas remembering what that same Nellie had said one day, when they hadpaused before a window wherein stood another just such a littlesatin-clad lady as this interloper from the middle bureau drawer. 

"Oh, Cousin Polly, look--look!" Nellie had breathed. "Is n't shebe-yu-tiful? Oh, Cousin Polly, if--if I had--one--like that, I don'tthink I 'd mind even _these_--much, " she choked, patting the crutchesthat supported her. 

Polly Ann had sighed then, and had almost sobbed aloud as shedisdainfully eyed her own thin little purse, whose contents wouldscarcely have bought the gown that Miss Dolly wore. She sighed againnow, as she picked up the doll before her, and gently smoothed intoorder the shining hair. If only this were for Nellie!--but it was n't. It was for Julia's Roselle, Roselle who already possessed a dozenFrench dolls, and would probably possess as many more before her dolldays were over, while Nellie--

With a swift movement Polly Ann dropped the doll back into the box, andpicked up the other one. The next moment the brown delaine dress wasrubbing elbows with a richly bound book and a Duchesse lace collar inthe middle bureau drawer. Polly Ann cocked her head to one side anddebated; did she dare ask Aunt Margaret to make the change?

With a slow shake of her head she owned that she did not. She knew heraunt and her aunt's convictions as to the ethics of present-giving toowell. And, if she were tempted to doubt, there were the two sets ofpresents before her, both of which, even down to the hemp twine andbrown paper in one and the red ribbons and white tissue-paper in theother, proclaimed their donor's belief as to the proper distribution ofusefulness and beauty. 

The two dolls did look odd in their present environment. Polly Annadmitted that. Reluctantly she picked them up, and was about to returneach to her own place, when suddenly the Great Idea was born. 

With a little cry and a tense biting of her lip Polly Ann fell backbefore it. Then excitedly she leaned forward, and examined withsearching eyes the presents. She drew a long breath, and stood erectagain. 

"Well, why not?" she asked herself. Aunt Margaret had said she wasutterly irresponsible and absent-minded. Very well, then; she would beutterly irresponsible and absent-minded. She would change the labelsand misdirect the boxes. John's should go to Mary, and Mary's to John. Nellie should have that doll. Incidentally Nellie's mother and sistersand brother and grandmother should have, too, for once in their starvedlives, a Christmas present that did not shriek durability the momentthe wrappings fell away. 

It was nothing but fun for Polly Ann after this. With unafraid handsshe arranged the two sets of presents on the top of the bureau, andplanned their disposal. Mentally she reviewed the two families. InMary's home there were Mary herself; Joe, eighteen; Jennie, sixteen;Carrie, fourteen; Tom, eleven; and Nellie, six; besides Grandma. InJohn's there were John, his wife, Julia; their son Paul, ten; anddaughter Roselle, four; besides John's younger sister Barbara, eighteen, and his mother. 

It took a little planning to make the presents for six on the one handdo for seven on the other, and vice versa; but with a little skillfuldividing and combining it was done at last to Polly Ann's hugesatisfaction. Then came the tying-up and the labeling. And here againPolly Ann's absent-mindedness got in its fine work; for the red ribbonsand the white tissue-paper went into Mary's box, which left, of course, only the brown paper and hemp twine for John's. 

"There!" sighed Polly Ann when the boxes themselves were at last tiedup and addressed. "Now we 'll see what we shall see!" But even PollyAnn, in spite of her bravely upheld chin, trembled a little as sheturned toward the room where Margaret Brackett lay sick. 

It was a pity, as matters were, that Polly Ann could not have been afly on the wall of Mary's sitting-room at that moment, for Mary'sJennie was saying gloomily, "I suppose, mother, we'll have CousinMargaret's Christmas box as usual. "

"I suppose so, " her mother answered. Then with a determinedcheerfulness came the assertion, "Cousin Margaret is always very kindand thoughtful, you know, Jennie. "

There was a pause, broken at last by a mutinous "I don't think so, mother. "

"Why, _Jennie_!"

"Well, I don't. She may be kind, but she isn't--thoughtful. "

"Why, my daughter!" remonstrated the shocked mother again. "I 'mashamed of you!"

"I know; it's awful, of course, but I can't help it, " declared thegirl. "If she really were thoughtful, she 'd think sometimes that we'd like something for presents besides flannel things. "

"But they're so--sensible, Jennie, for--us. "

"That's just what they are--sensible, " retorted the girl bitterly. "But who wants sensible things always? We _have_ to have them thewhole year through. Seems as if at Christmas we might havesomething--foolish. "

"Jennie, Jennie, what are you saying? and when Cousin Margaret is sogood to us, too! Besides, she does send us candy always, and--andthat's foolish. "

"It would be if 't was nice candy, the kind we can't hope ever to buyourselves. But it isn't. It's the cheap Christmas candy, two poundsfor a quarter, the kind we have to buy when we buy any. Mother, it'sjust that; don't you see? Cousin Margaret thinks that's the only sortof thing that's fit for us! cheap, sensible things, the kind of thingswe have to buy. But that does n't mean that we would n't likesomething else, or that we have n't any taste, just because we have n'tthe means to gratify it, " finished the girl chokingly as she hurriedout of the room before her mother could reply. 

All this, however, Polly Ann did not hear, for Polly Ann was not a flyon Mary's sitting-room wall. 

On Christmas Day Sarah Bird appeared, cheerfully ready to take chargeof her yearly patient; and Polly Ann went home. In less than a week, however, Polly Ann was peremptorily sent for by the sick woman. PollyAnn had expected the summons and was prepared; yet she shook in hershoes when she met her kinswoman's wrathful eyes. 

"Polly Ann, _what_ did you do with those presents?" demanded MargaretBrackett abruptly. 

"P-presents?" Polly Ann tried to steady her voice. 

"Yes, yes, the ones for Mary and John's family. "

"Why, I did them up and sent them off, to be sure. Did n't they get'em?"

"Get them!" groaned Margaret Brackett, "get them! Polly Ann, what didyou do? You must have mixed them awfully somehow!"

"Mixed them?" In spite of her preparation for this very accusationPolly Ann was fencing for time. 

"Yes, mixed them. Look at that--and that--and that, " cried the iratewoman, thrusting under Polly Ann's nose one after another of the notesof thanks she had received the day before. 

They were from John and his family, and one by one Polly Ann pickedthem up and read them. 

John, who had not for years, probably, worn anything coarser than silkon his feet, expressed in a few stiff words his thanks for two pairs ofblack woolen socks. Julia, famed for the dainty slenderness of herhands, expressed in even stiffer language her thanks for a pair of graywoolen gloves. She also begged to thank Cousin Margaret for the dollso kindly sent Roselle and for the red mittens sent to Paul. John'smother, always in the minds of those who knew her associated withperfumed silks and laces, wrote a chilly little note of thanks for ared flannel petticoat; while John's sister, Barbara, worth a million inher own right, scrawled on gold-monogrammed paper her thanks for thedozen handkerchiefs that had been so kindly sent her in the Christmasbox. 

"And there were n't a dozen handkerchiefs, I tell you, " groanedMargaret, "except the cotton ones I sent to Mary's two girls, Jennieand Carrie, six to each. Think of it--cotton handkerchiefs to BarbaraMarsh! And that red flannel petticoat, and those ridiculous gloves andsocks! Oh, Polly Ann, Polly Ann, how could you have done such a thing, and got everything so hopelessly mixed? There was n't a thing, not asingle thing right but that doll for Roselle. "

Polly Ann lifted her head suddenly. 

"Have you heard from--Mary?" she asked in a faint voice. 

"Not yet. But I shall, of course. I suppose _they_ got John's things. Imagine it! Mary Hemenway and a Duchesse lace collar!"

"Oh, but Mary would like that, " interposed Polly Ann feverishly. "Youknow she's invited out a good deal in a quiet way, and a bit of nicelace does dress up a plain frock wonderfully. "

"Nonsense! As if she knew or cared whether it was Duchesse or--orimitation Val! She 's not used to such things, Polly Ann. She wouldn't know what to do with them if she had them. While John andJulia--dear, dear, what shall I do? Think of it--a red flannelpetticoat to Madam Marsh!"

Polly Ann laughed. A sudden vision had come to her of Madam Marsh asshe had seen her last at a family wedding clad in white lace andamethysts, and with an amethyst tiara in her beautifully dressed hair. 

Margaret Brackett frowned. 

"It's no laughing matter, Polly Ann, " she said severely. "I shallwrite to both families and explain, of course. In fact, I have donethat already to John and Julia. But nothing, nothing can take away mymortification that such a thing should have occurred at all. And whenI took so much pains in selecting those presents, to get suitable onesfor both boxes. I can't forgive you, Polly Ann; I just can't. And, what's more, I don't see how in the world you did it. I am positivethat I had each thing marked carefully, and--"

She did not finish her sentence. Sarah Bird brought in a letter, andwith a petulant exclamation Margaret Brackett tore it open. 

"It's from Mary, " she cried as soon as Sarah Bird had left the room;"and--goodness, look at the length of it! Here, you read it, PollyAnn. It's lighter by the window. " And she passed the letter to herniece. 

_Dear Cousin Margaret_ [read Polly Ann aloud]: I wonder if I canpossibly tell you what that Christmas box was to us. I 'm going totry, anyway; but I don't believe, even then, that you'll quiteunderstand it, for you never were just as we are, and you'd have to beto know what that box was to us. 

You see we can't buy nice things, really nice things, ever. There arealways so many "have-to-gets" that there is never anything left for the"want-to-gets"; and so we had to do without--till your box came. Andthen--but just let me tell you what did happen when it did come. 

The expressman brought it Christmas Eve, and Joe opened it at once. Mother and I and all the children stood around watching him. Youshould have heard the "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of delight when the prettywhite packages all tied with red ribbons were brought to light. By theway, Nellie has captured all those red ribbons, and her entire familyof dolls is rejoicing in a Merry Christmas of their own in consequence. 

As for the presents themselves--I don't know where to begin or how tosay it; but I'll begin with myself, and try to make you understand. 

That beautiful Duchesse lace collar! I love it already, and I'mactually vain as a peacock over it. I had made over mother's blacksilk for myself this fall, and I did so want some nice lace for it!You've no idea how beautiful, really beautiful, the dress looks withthat collar. I shan't cry now when I'm invited anywhere. It's a pity, and I'm ashamed that it is so; but clothes do make such a difference. 

Mother is fairly reveling in that lovely silk and lace workbag. Shehas carried it with her all day all over the house, just to look at it, she says. She has always wanted some such thing, but never thought sheought to take the money to buy one. She and two or three other oldladies in the neighborhood have a way of exchanging afternoon visitswith their work; and mother is as pleased as a child now, and isimpatiently awaiting the next "meet" so she can show off her newtreasure. Yet, to see her with it, one would think she had alwayscarried silk workbags, scented with lavender. 

Joe is more than delighted with his handsome set of books. And reallythey do lighten our dull sitting-room wonderfully, and we are all proudof them. He is planning to read them aloud to us all this winter, andI am so glad. I am particularly glad, for we not only shall have thepleasure of hearing the stories themselves, but I shall have thesatisfaction of knowing where my boy is evenings. Joe is a good ladalways, but he has been worrying me a little lately, for he seemed tolike to be away so much. Yet I could n't wonder, for I had so littleto offer him at home for entertainment. Now I have these books. 

Carrie is wild over her necklace of pretty stones. She says they're"all the rage" at school among the girls, and the very latest thingout. Dear child! she does so love pretty things, and of course I can'tgive them to her. It is the same with Jennie, and she is equallypleased with that dainty lace-edged handkerchief. It is such a nicehandkerchief, and Jennie, like her mother, does so love nice things!

Tom was almost speechless with joy when he discovered that sumptuousknife. But he has n't been speechless since--not a bit of it! Thereis n't any one anywhere within the radius of a mile, I guess, to whomhe has n't shown every blade and corkscrew and I don't-know-what-allthat that wonderful knife can unfold. 

I've left Nellie till the last, but not because she is the least. Poordear little girlie! My heart aches now that I realize how she haslonged for a beautiful doll, one that could open and shut its eyes, say"Papa" and "Mamma, " and one that was daintily dressed. I had no ideathe little thing would be so overcome. She turned white, then red, andactually sobbed with joy when the doll was put into her arms, thoughsince then she has been singing all over the house, and has seemed sohappy. I 'm sure you will believe this when I tell you that Ioverheard her last night whisper into dolly's ear that now she did n'tmind half so much not being like other girls who could run and play, because she had her to love and care for. 

And then the candy that was marked for all of us--and such candy! Alltheir lives the children have longingly gazed at such candy throughstore windows, and dreamed what it might taste like; but to have itright in their hands--in their mouths! You should have heard theirrapturous sighs of content as it disappeared. 

And now, dear Cousin Margaret, can you see a little what that Christmasbox has been to us? I can't bear to say, "Thank you"; it seems socommonplace and inadequate. And yet there is n't anything else I cansay. And we do thank you, each and every one of us. We thank you bothfor our own gift, and for all the others, for each one's gift is makingall the others happy. Do you see? Oh, I hope you do see and that youdo understand that we appreciate all the care and pains you must havetaken to select just the present that each of us most longed for. 

Lovingly and gratefully yours, MARY. 

Polly Ann's voice quivered into silence. It had already broken once ortwice, and it was very husky toward the last. For a moment no onespoke; then with an evident attempt at carelessness Margaret said: "Iguess, Polly Ann, I won't write to Mary at all that there was anymistake. We 'll let it--pass. "

There was no answer. Twice Polly Ann opened her lips, but no soundcame. After a moment she got to her feet, and walked slowly across theroom. At the door she turned abruptly. 

"Aunt Margaret, " she panted, "I suppose I ought to tell you. Therewa'n't any--mistake. I--I changed those presents on purpose. " Thenshe went out quickly and shut the door.