"Go off with an easy heart, mother," said Mr. Leverett; "I will come home early this afternoon."



CHAPTER VIII

SINFUL OR NOT?

"You should have seen me when Jane tied a white sash about my waist. Then I was just complete."

"But you looked beautiful before—like a—well, a queen couldn't have looked prettier. Or the Empress Josephine."

Betty laughed and kissed the little girl whose eyes were still full of admiration. She had not come home until ten, and found her father waiting at the fireside, but Doris was snuggled up in bed and soundly asleep. She had risen at her father's call, made the breakfast, and sent the men off in time; then heard the lesson Doris wasn't quite sure of, and sent her to school; and now the dinner was cleared away and they were sitting by the fire.

The Empress Josephine was in her glory then, one of the notables of Europe.

"And Mrs. Morse said such lace as that would be ten dollars a yard now. Think of that! Thirty dollars! But didn't you get lonesome waiting for father?"

"He came just half an hour afterward. And, oh, we had such a grand, funny time getting supper. It was as good as a party. I poured the tea. And he called me Miss Adams, like a grown lady. And, then, what do you think? We played fox and geese! And do you know I thought the geese were dumb to let the fox get them all. And then he took the geese and soon penned my fox in a corner. Then he told me about the fox and the goose and the measure of corn and the man crossing the stream. It was just delightful. I wanted to stay up until you came home, but I did get so sleepy. And was the party splendid? I don't think anyone could have been prettier than you!"

"Sally Prentiss had a pink silk frock, and the ruffles were fringed out, which made them fluffy. It was beautiful! Oh, I should have felt just awful in my gray cloth or my blue winter frock. And I owe most of the delight to you, little Doris. I've been thinking—sometime I will work you a beautiful white frock, fine India muslin."

"And what did they do?"

"We didn't sew much," Betty laughed. "We talked and talked. I knew all but one girl, and we were soon acquainted. Jane didn't have a thing to do, of course. Then the gentlemen came and we went out to supper. The table was like a picture. There was cold turkey and cold ham and cold baked pork. They were all delicious. And bread and biscuits and puffy little cakes quite new. Mrs. Morse's cousin brought the recipe, and she has promised it to mother. And there were jams and jellies and ever so many things, and then all the plates and meats were sent away, and the birthday cake with seventeen tiny candles was lighted up. And cake of every kind, and whipped cream and nuts and candies. Then we went back to the parlor and played "proverbs" and "What is my thought like?" and then black Joe came with his fiddle. First they danced the minuet. It was beautiful. And then they had what is called cotillions. I believe that is the new fashionable dance. It takes eight people, but you can have two or three at the same time. They dance in figures. And, oh, it is just delightful! I do wonder if it is wrong?"

"What would make it wrong?" asked Doris gravely.

"That's what puzzles me. A great many people think it right and send their children to dancing-school. On all great occasions there seems to be dancing. It is stepping and floating around gracefully. You think of swallows flying and flowers swinging and grass waving in the summer sun."

"But if there is so much of it in the world, and if God made the world gay and glad and rejoicing and full of butterflies and birds and ever so many things that don't do any real work but just have a lovely time——"

Doris' wide-open eyes questioned her companion.

"They haven't any souls. I don't know." Betty shook her head. "Let's ask father about it to-night. When you are little you play tag and puss-in-the-corner and other things, and run about full of fun. Dancing is more orderly and refined. And there's the delicious music! All the young men were so nice and polite,—so kind of elegant,—and it makes you feel of greater consequence. I don't mean vain, only as if it was worth while to behave prettily. It's like the parlor and the kitchen. You don't take your washing and scrubbing and scouring in the parlor, though that work is all necessary. So there are two sides to life. And my side just now is getting supper, while your side is studying tables. Oh, I do wonder if you will ever get to know them!"

Doris sighed. She would so much rather talk about the party.

"And your frock was—pretty?" she ventured timidly.

"All the girls thought it lovely. And I told them it was a gift from my little cousin, who came from old Boston—and they were so interested in you. They thought Doris a beautiful name, but Sally said the family name ought to be grander to go with it. But Adams is a fine old name, too—the first name that was ever given. There was only one man then, and when there came to be such hosts of them they tacked the 's' on to make it a noun of multitude."

"Did they really? Some of the children are learning about nouns. Oh, dear, how much there is to learn!" said the little girl with a sigh.

Betty went at her supper. People ate three good stout meals in those days. It made a deal of cooking. It made a stout race of people as well, and one heard very little about nerves and indigestion. Betty was getting to be quite a practiced cook.

Mr. Leverett took a good deal of interest hearing about the party. Warren had enjoyed it mightily. And then they besieged him for an opinion on the question of dancing. Warren presented his petition that he might be allowed to join a class of young men that was being formed. There were only a few vacancies.

"I do not think I have a very decided opinion about it," he returned slowly. "Times have changed a good deal since I was young, and amusements have changed with them. A hundred or so years ago life was very strenuous, and prejudices of people very strong. Yet the young people skated and had out-of-door games, and indoor plays that we consider very rough now. And you remember that our ancestors were opposed to nearly everything their oppressors did. Their own lives were too serious to indulge in much pleasuring. The pioneers of a nation rarely do. But we have come to an era of more leisure as to social life. Whether it will make us as strong as a nation remains to be seen."

"That doesn't answer my question," said Warren respectfully.

"I am going to ask you to wait until you are of age, mostly for your mother's sake. I think she dreads leaving the old ways. And then Betty will have no excuse," with a shrewd little smile.

Warren looked disappointed.

"But I danced last night," said Betty. "And we used to dance last winter at school. Two or three of the girls were good enough to show us the new steps. And one of the amusing things was a draw cotillion. The girls drew out a slip of paper that had a young man's name on it, and then she had to pass it over to him, and he danced with her. And who do you think I had?" triumphantly.

"I do not know the young men who were there," said her father.

"I hope it was the very nicest and best," exclaimed Doris.

"It just was! Jane's cousin, Morris Winslow. And he was quite the leader in everything, almost as if it was his party. And he is one of the real quality, you know. I was almost afraid to dance with him, but he was so nice and told me what to do every time, so I did not make any serious blunders. But it is a pleasure to feel that you know just how."

"There will be years for you to learn," said her father. "Meanwhile the ghost of old Miles Standish may come back."

"What would he do?" asked Doris, big-eyed.

Warren laughed. "What he did in the flesh was this: The Royalists—you see, they were not all Puritans that came over—were going to keep an old-time festival at a place called Merry Mount. They erected a May pole and were going to dance around it."

"That is what they do at home. And they have a merry time. Miss Arabella took me. And didn't Miles Standish like it?"

"I guess not. He sent a force of men to tear it down, and marched Morton and his party into Plymouth, where they were severely reprimanded—fined as well, some people say."

"We do not rule our neighbors quite as strictly now. But one must admire those stanch old fellows, after all."

"I am glad the world has grown wider," said Warren. But he wished its wideness had taken in his mother, who had a great fear of the evils lying in wait for unwary youth. Still he would not go against her wishes while he was yet under age. Young people were considered children in their subjection to their parents until this period. And girls who stayed at home were often in subjection all their lives. There were men who ruled their families with a sort of iron sway, but Mr. Leverett had always been considered rather easy.

Doris begged to come out and dry the dishes, but they said tables instead of talking of the seductive party. Mr. Leverett had to go out for an hour. Betty sat down and took up her knitting. She felt rather tired and sleepy, for she had gone on with the party the night before, after she was in bed. A modern girl would be just getting ready to go to her party at ten. But then she would not have to get up at half-past five the next morning, make a fire, and cook breakfast. Suddenly Betty found herself nodding.

"Put up your book, Doris. I'll mix the cakes and we will go to bed. You can dream on the lessons."

The party had demoralized Doris as well.

Among the real quality young men came to inquire after the welfare of the ladies the next morning, or evening at the latest. But people in the middle classes were occupied with their employments, which were the main things of their lives.

And though the lines were strongly drawn and the "quality" were aristocratic, there were pleasant gradations, marked by a fine breeding on the one side and a sense of fitness on the other, that met when there was occasion, and mingled and fused agreeably, then returned each to his proper sphere. The Morses were well connected and had some quite high-up relatives. For that matter, so were the Leveretts, but Foster Leverett was not ambitions for wealth or social distinction, and Mrs. Leverett clung to the safety of the good old ways.

Jane ran over in the morning with a basket of some of the choicer kinds of cake, and some nuts, raisins, and mottoes for the little girl. There were so many nice things she was dying to tell Betty,—compliments,—and some from Cousin Morris. And didn't she think everything went off nicely?

"It was splendid, all through," cried Betty enthusiastically. "I would like to go to a party—well, I suppose every week would be too often, but at least twice a month."

"The Chauncey Winslows are going to have a party Thanksgiving night. They are Morris' cousins and not mine, but I've been there; and Morris said last night I should have an invitation. It will be just splendid, I know."

"But you are seventeen. And mother thinks I am only a little girl," returned Betty.

"Oh, yes; I didn't go scarcely anywhere last winter. Being grown up is ever so much nicer. But it will come for you."

"Electa wants me to visit her this winter. The assembly is to meet, you know, and she has plenty of good times, although she has three children. I do hope I can go! And I have that lovely frock."

"That would be delightful. I wish I had a sister married and living away somewhere—New York, for instance. They have such fine times. Oh, dear! how do you get along alone?"

"It keeps me pretty busy."

Jane had come out in the kitchen, so Betty could go on with her dinner preparations.

"Mother thinks of keeping Cousin Nabby all winter. She likes Boston so, and it's lonely up in New Hampshire on the farm. That will ease me up wonderfully."

"If I go away mother will have to get someone."

"Although they do not think we young people are of much account," laughed Jane. "Give your little girl a good big chunk of party cake and run over when you can."

"But I can't now."

"Then I will have to do the visiting."

Dinner was ready on the mark, and Mr. Leverett praised it. Doris came home in high feather. She had not missed a word, and she had done all her sums.

"I think I am growing smarter," she announced with a kind of grave exultation. "Don't you think Aunt Elizabeth will teach me how to knit when she comes back?"

Not to have knit a pair of stockings was considered rather disgraceful for a little girl.

Aunt Priscilla came over early Saturday afternoon. She found the house in very good order, and she glanced sharply about, too. They had not heard from Mary yet, but the elder lady said no news was good news. Then she insisted on looking over the clothes for the Monday's wash and mending up the rents. Tuesday she would come in and darn the stockings. When she was nine years old it was her business to do all the family darning, looking askance at Doris.

"Now, if you had been an only child, Aunt Priscilla, and had no parents, what a small amount of darning would have fallen to your share!" said Betty.

"Well, I suppose I would have been put out somewhere and trained to make myself useful. And if I'd had any money that would have been on interest, so that I could have some security against want in my old age. Anyway, it isn't likely I should have been allowed to fritter away my time."

Betty wondered how Aunt Priscilla could content herself with doing such a very little now! Not but what she had earned a rest. And Foster Leverett, who managed some of her business, said sub rosa that she was not spending all her income.

"You can't come up to your mother making tea," she said at the supper table. "Your mother makes the best cup of tea I ever tasted."

Taking it altogether they did get on passably well without Mrs. Leverett during the ten days. She brought little James, six years of age, who couldn't go the long distance to school in cold weather with the two older children, and so was treated to a visit at grandmother's.

Mary was doing well and had a sweet little girl, as good as a kitten. Mr. Manning's Aunt Comfort had come to stay a spell through the winter. And now there was getting ready for Thanksgiving. There was no time to make mince pies, but then Mrs. Leverett didn't care so much for them early in the season. Hollis' family would come up, they would ask Aunt Priscilla, and maybe Cousin Winthrop would join them. So they were busy as possible.

Little James took a great liking to his shy cousin Doris, and helped her say tables and spell. He had been at school all summer and was very bright and quick.

"But, Uncle Foster," she declared, "the children in America are much smarter than English children. They understand everything so easily."

Then came the first big snowstorm of the season. There had been two or three little dashes and squalls. It began at noon and snowed all night. The sky was so white in the early morning you could hardly tell where the snow line ended and where it began; but by and by there came a bluish, silvery streak that parted it like a band, and presently a pale sun ventured forth, hanging on the edge of yellowish clouds and growing stronger, until about noon it flooded everything with gold, and the heavens were one broad sheet of blue magnificence.

Doris did not go to school in the morning. There were no broken paths, and boys and men were busy shoveling out or tracking down.

"It is a heavy snow for so early in the season," declared Uncle Leverett. "We are not likely to see bare ground in a long while."

Doris thought it wonderful. And when Uncle Winthrop came the next day and took them out in a big sleigh with a span of horses, her heart beat with unwonted enjoyment. But the familiarity little James evinced with it quite startled her.

Thanksgiving Day was a great festival even then, and had been for a long while. Christmas was held of little account. New Year's Day had a greater social aspect. Commencement, election, and training days were in high favor, and every good housewife baked election cake, and every voter felt entitled to a half-holiday at least. Then there was an annual fast day, with church-going and solemnity quite different from its modern successor.

The Hollis Leveretts, two grown people and four children, came up early. Sam, or little Sam as he was often called to distinguish him from his two uncles, was a nice well-grown and well-looking boy of about ten. Mrs. Hollis had lost her next child, a boy also, and Bessy was just beyond six. Charles and the baby completed the group.

Uncle Leverett made a fire in the best room early in the morning. Doris was a little curious to see it with the shutters open. It was a large room, with a "boughten" ingrain carpet, stiff chairs, two great square ottomans, a big sofa, and some curious old paintings, besides a number of framed silhouettes of different members of the family.

The most splendid thing of all was the great roaring fire in the wide chimney. The high shelf was adorned with two pitchers in curious glittering bronze, with odd designs in blue and white raised from the surface. The children brought their stools and sat around the fire.

Adjoining this was the spare room, the guest chamber par excellence. Sometimes the old house had been full, when there were young people coming and going, and relatives from distant places visiting. Electa and Mary had both married young, though in the early years of her married life Electa had made long visits home. But her husband had prospered in business and gone into public life, and she entertained a good deal, and the journey home was long and tedious. Mary was much nearer, but she had a little family and many cares.

Sam took the leadership of the children. He had seen Doris for a few minutes on several occasions and had not a very exalted opinion of a girl who could only cipher in addition, while he was over in interest and tare and tret. To be sure he could neither read nor talk French. This year he had gone to the Latin school. He hadn't a very high opinion of Latin, and he did not want to go to college. He was going to be a shipping merchant, and own vessels to go all over the world and bring cargoes back to Boston. He meant to be a rich man and own a fine big house like the Hancock House.

Doris thought it would be very wonderful for a little boy to get rich.

"And you might be lord mayor of Boston," she said, thinking of the renowned Whittington.

"We don't have lord mayors nor lord anything now, except occasionally a French or English nobleman. And we don't care much for them," said the uncompromising young republican. "I should like to be Governor or perhaps President, but I shouldn't want to waste my time on anything else."

Grandfather Leverett smiled over these boyish ambitions, but he wished Sam's heart was not quite so set on making money.

There were so few grown people that by bringing in one of the kitchen tables and placing it alongside they could make room for all. Betty was to be at the end, flanked on both sides by the children; Mrs. Hollis at the other end. There was a savory fragrance of turkey, sauces, and vegetables, and the table seemed literally piled up with good things.

Just as they were about to sit down Uncle Winthrop came in for a moment to express his regrets again at not being able to make one of the family circle. Doris thought he looked very handsome in his best clothes, his elegant brocaded waistcoat, and fine double-ruffled shirt-front. He wore his hair brushed back and tied in a queue and slightly powdered.

He was to go to a grand dinner with some of the city officials, a gathering that was not exactly to his taste, but one he could not well decline. And when Doris glanced up with such eager admiration and approval, his heart warmed tenderly toward her, as it recalled other appreciative eyes that had long ago closed for the last time.

What a dinner it was! Sam studied hard and played hard in the brief while he could devote to play, and he ate accordingly. Doris was filled with amazement. No wonder he was round and rosy.

"Doesn't that child ever eat any more?" asked Mrs. Hollis. "No wonder she is so slim and peaked. I'd give her some gentian, mother, or anything that would start her up a little."

Doris turned scarlet.

"She's always well," answered Mrs. Leverett. "She hasn't had a sick day since she came here. I think she hasn't much color naturally, and her skin is very fair."

"I do hope she will stay well. I've had such excellent luck with my children, who certainly do give their keeping credit. I think she's been housed too much. I'm afraid she won't stand the cold winter very well."

"You can't always go by looks," commented Aunt Priscilla.

After the dinner was cleared away and the dishes washed (all the grown people helped and made short work of it), the kitchen was straightened, the chairs being put over in the corner, and the children who were large enough allowed a game of blindman's buff, Uncle Leverett watching to see that no untoward accidents happened, and presently allowing himself to be caught. And, oh, what a scattering and laughing there was then! His arms were so large that it seemed as if he must sweep everybody into them, but, strange to relate, no one was caught so easily. They dodged and tiptoed about and gave little half-giggles and thrilled with success. He did catch Sam presently, and the boy did not enjoy it a bit. Not that he minded being blindfolded, but he should have liked to boast that grandfather could not catch him.

Sam could see under the blinder just the least bit. Doris had on red morocco boots, and they were barely up to her slim ankles. They were getting small, so Aunt Elizabeth thought she might take a little good out of them, as they were by far too light for school wear. Sam was sure he could tell by them, and he resolved to capture her. But every time he came near grandfather rushed before her, and he didn't want to catch back right away, neither did he want Bessy, whose half-shriek betrayed her whereabouts.

Mrs. Leverett opened the door.

"I think you have made noise enough," she said. People believed in the old adage then that children should "be seen and not heard," and that indoors was no place for a racket. "Aunt Priscilla thinks she must go, but she wants you to sing a little."

This was for Mr. Leverett, but Sam had a very nice boy's voice and felt proud enough when he lifted it up in church.

"I'll come, grandmother," he said with some elation, as if he alone had been asked. And as he tore off the blinder he put his head down close to Doris, and whispered:

"It was mean of you to hide behind grandfather every time, and he didn't play fair a bit."

But having a peep at the red shoes as they went dancing round was fair enough!

Hollis Leverett sang in the choir. They had come to this innovation, though they drew the line at instrumental music. He had a really fine tenor voice. Mr. Leverett sang in a sort of natural, untrained tone, very sweet. Mrs. Hollis couldn't sing at all, but she was very proud to have the children take after their father. There were times when Aunt Priscilla sang for herself, but her voice had grown rather quivering and uncertain. So Betty and her mother had to do their best to keep from being drowned out. But the old hymns were touching, with here and there a line of rare sweetness.

Hollis Leverett was going to take Aunt Priscilla home and then return for the others. Sam insisted upon going with them, so grandfather roasted some corn for Bessy and Doris. They had not the high art of popping it then and turning it inside out, although now and then a grain achieved such a success all by itself. Bessy thought Doris rather queer and not very smart.

The two little ones were bundled up and made ready, and the sleigh came back with a jingle for warning. Mrs. Hollis took her baby in her arms, grandfather carried out little Foster, and they were all packed in snugly and covered up almost head and ears with the great fur robes, while little Sam shouted out the last good-night.

Mrs. Leverett straightened things in the best room until all the company air had gone out of it. Doris felt the difference and was glad to come out to her own chimney corner. Then Betty spread the table and they had a light supper, for, what with dinner being a little late and very hearty, no one was hungry. But they sipped their tea and talked over the children and how finely Sam was getting along in his studies, and Mrs. Leverett brought up the Manning children, for much as she loved Hollis, her daughter Mary's children came in for a share of grandmotherly affection. And in her heart she felt that little James was quite as good as anybody.

Warren had promised to spend the evening with some young friends. Betty wished she were a year older and could have the privilege of inviting in schoolmates and their brothers, and that she might have fire in the parlor on special occasions. But, to compensate, some of the neighbors dropped in. Doris and James played fox and geese until they were sleepy. James had a little cot in the corner of grandmother's room.



CHAPTER IX

WHAT WINTER BROUGHT

Oh, what a lovely white world it was! The low, sedgy places were frozen over and covered with snow; the edges of the bay, Charles River, and Mystic River were assuming their winter garments as well. And when, just a week after, another snowstorm came, there seemed a multitude of white peaks out in the harbor, and the hills were transformed into veritable snow-capped mountains. Winter had set in with a rigor unknown to-day. But people did not seem to mind it. Even the children had a good time sledding and snowballing and building snow forts and fighting battles. There were mighty struggles between the North Enders and the South Enders. Louisburg was retaken, 1775 was re-enacted, and Paul Revere again swung his lantern and roused his party to arms, and snowballs whitened instead of darkening the air with the smoke of firearms. Deeds of mighty prowess were done on both sides.

But the boys had the best of it surely. The girls had too much to do. They were soon too large for romping and playing. There were stockings to knit and to darn. There were long overseams in sheets; there was no end of shirt-making for the men. They put the hems in their own frocks and aprons, they stitched gussets and bands and seams. People were still spinning and weaving, though the mills that were to lead the revolution in industries had come in. The Embargo was taxing the ingenuity of brains as well as hands, and as more of everything was needed for the increase of population, new methods were invented to shorten processes that were to make New England the manufacturing center of the new world.

When the children had nothing else to do there was always a bag of carpet rags handy. There were braided rugs that were quite marvels of taste, and even the hit-or-miss ones were not bad.

Still they were allowed out after supper on moonlight nights for an hour or so, and then they had grand good times. The father or elder brothers went along to see that no harm happened. Fort Hill was one of the favorite coasting places, and parties of a larger growth thronged here. But Beacon Hill had not been shorn of all its glory.

Uncle Winthrop came over one day and took the children and Betty to see the battle at Fort Hill. The British had intrenched themselves with forts and breastworks and had their colors flying. It really had been hard work to enlist men or boys in this army. No one likes to go into a fight with the foregone conclusion that he is to be beaten. But they were to do their best, and they did it. The elders went out to see the fun. The rebels directed all their energies to the capture of one fort instead of opening fire all along the line, and by dusk they had succeeded in demolishing that, when the troops on both sides were summoned home to supper and to comfortable beds, an innovation not laid down in the rules of warfare.

Little James had been fired with military ardor. Cousin Sam was the leader of one detachment of the rebel forces. Catch him anywhere but on the winning side!

Doris had been much interested as well, and that evening Uncle Leverett told them stories about Boston thirty years before. He was a young man of three-and-twenty when Paul Revere swung his lantern to give the alarm. He could only touch lightly upon what had been such solemn earnest to the men of that time, the women as well.

"I'm going to be a soldier," declared James, with all the fervor of his youthful years. "But you can't ever be, Doris."

"No," answered Doris softly, squeezing Uncle Leverett's hand in both of hers. "But there isn't any war."

"Yes there is—over in France and England, and ever so many places. My father was reading about it. And if there wasn't any war here, couldn't we go and fight for some other country?"

"I hope there will never be war in your time, Jimmie, boy," said his grandmother. "And it is bedtime for little people."

"Why does it come bedtime so soon?" in a deeply aggrieved tone. "When I am a big man I am going to sit up clear till morning. And I'll tell my grandchildren all night long how I fought in the wars."

"That is looking a long way ahead," returned grandfather.

Besides the lessons, Doris was writing a letter to Miss Arabella. That lady would have warmly welcomed any little scrawl in Doris' own hand. Uncle Winthrop had acknowledged her safe arrival in good health, and enlarged somewhat on the pleasant home she had found with her relatives. Betty had overlooked the little girl's letter and made numerous corrections, and she had copied and thought of some new things and copied it over again. She had added a little French verse also.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, "when will the child ever learn anything useful! There doesn't seem any time. The idea of a girl of ten years old never having knit a stocking! And she will be full that and more!"

"But everybody doesn't knit," said Betty.

"Oh, yes, you can buy those flimsy French things that do not give you any wear. And presently we may not be able to buy either French or English. She is not going to be so rich either. It's nonsense to think of that marshy land ever being valuable. Whatever possessed anyone to buy it, I can't see! And if Doris was to be a queen I think she ought to know something useful."

"I do not suppose I shall ever need to spin," Betty said rather archly.

Mrs. Leverett had insisted that all her girls should learn to spin both wool and flax. Betty had rebelled a little two years ago, but she had learned nevertheless.

"And there was a time when a premium was paid to the most skillful spinner. Your grandmother, Betty, was among those who spun on the Common. The women used to go out there with their wheels. And there were spinning schools. The better class had to pay, but a certain number of poor women were taught on condition that they would teach their children at home. And it is not a hundred years ago either. There was no cloth to be had, and Manufactory House was established."

Betty had heard the story of spinning on the Commons, for her own grandmother had told it. But she had an idea that the world would go on rather than retrograde. For now they were turning out cotton cloth and printing calico and making canvas and duck, and it was the boast of the famous Constitution that everything besides her armament was made in Massachusetts.

Uncle Winthrop thought Doris' letter was quite a masterpiece for a little girl. At least, that was what he said. I think he was a good deal more interested in that than in the sampler she had begun. And he agreed privately with Betty that "useless" sometimes was misspelled into "useful."

Another letter created quite a consternation. This was from Hartford. Mrs. King wrote that a friend, a Mr. Eastman, was going from Springfield to Boston on some business, and on his return he would bring Betty home with him. His wife was going on to Hartford a few days later and would be very pleased to have Betty's company. She did not know when another chance would offer, for not many people were journeying about in the winter.

Betty was to bring her nicest gowns, and she needed a good thick pelisse and heavy woolen frock for outside wear. The new hats were very large, and young girls were wearing white or cream beaver. Some very handsome ones had come from New York recently. There was a big bow on the top, and two feathers if you could afford it, and ribbon of the same width tied under the chin. She was to bring her slippers and clocked stockings, her newest white frock, and if she had to buy a new one of any kind it need not be made until she came to Hartford.

"I never heard of such a thing!" declared Mrs. Leverett, aghast. "She must think your father is made of money. And when 'Lecty and Matthias were married they went to housekeeping in three rooms in old Mrs. Morton's house, and 'Lecty was happy as a queen, and had to save at every turn. She wasn't talking then about white hats and wide ribbons and feathers and gewgaws. The idea!"

"Of course I can't have the hat," returned Betty resignedly. "But my brown one will do. And, oh, isn't it lucky my silk is made and trimmed with that beautiful lace! If I only had my white skirt worked! And that India muslin might do with a little fixing up. If I had a lace ruffle to put around the bottom!"

"I don't know how I can spare you, Betty. I can't put Doris to doing anything. When any of my girls were ten years old they could do quite a bit of housekeeping. If she wasn't so behind in her studies!"

Betty had twenty plans in a moment, but she knew her mother would object to every one. She would be very discreet until she could talk the matter over with her father.

"Everything about the journey is so nicely arranged," she began; "and, you see, Electa says it will not cost anything to Springfield. There may not be a chance again this whole winter."

"The summer will be a good deal pleasanter."

"But the Capital won't be nearly so"—"gay," she was about to say, but changed it to "interesting."

"Betty, I do wish you were more serious-minded. To think you're sixteen, almost a woman, and in some things you're just a companion for Doris!"

Betty thought it was rather hard to be between everything. She was not old enough for society, she was not a young lady, but she was too old to indulge in the frolics of girlhood. She couldn't be wise and sedate—at least, she did not want to be. And were the fun and the good times really wicked?

She was on the lookout for her father that evening. Warren was going to the house of a friend to supper, as the debating society met there, and it saved him a long walk.

"Father, Electa's letter has come," in a hurried whisper. "She's planned out my visit, but mother thinks—oh, do try and persuade her, and make it possible! I want to go so much."

But Betty began to think the subject never would be mentioned. Supper was cleared away, Doris and James studied, and she sat and worked diligently on her white gown. Then she knew her mother did not mean to say a word before her and presently she went to bed.

Mrs. Leverett handed the letter over to her husband. "From 'Lecty," she said briefly.

He read it and re-read it, while she knit on her stocking.

"Yes"—slowly. "Well—Betty might as well go. She has been promised the visit so long."

"I can't spare her. Even if I sent James home, there's Doris. And I am not as spry as I was ten years ago. The work is heavy."

"Oh, you must have someone. John Grant was in from Roxbury to-day. He has two girls quite anxious to go out this winter. I think the oldest means to marry next spring or summer, and wants to earn a little money."

"We can't take in everyone who wants to earn a little money."

"No," humorously. "It would bankrupt us these hard times. The keep would be the same as for Betty, and a few dollars wages wouldn't signify."

"But Betty'll want no end of things. It does seem as if 'Lecty had turned into a fine lady. Whether it would be a good influence on Betty! She's never been serious yet."

"And Electa joined the church at fourteen. I think you can trust Betty with her. To be sure, Mat's prospered beyond everything."

Prosperity and every good gift came from the Lord, Mrs. Leverett fully believed. And yet David had seen the "ungodly in great prosperity." She had a mother's pride in Mr. and Mrs. King, but they were rather gay with dinner parties and everything.

"She will have to take Betty just as she is. Her clothes are good enough."

Mr. Leverett re-read the letter. He wasn't much judge of white hats and wide ribbons, and, since the time was short, perhaps Electa could help her to spend the money to better advantage, and there would be no worry. He would just slip a bill or two in Betty's hand toward the last.

"Betty's a nice-looking girl," said her father.

"I should be sorry to have her niceness all come out in looks," said Betty's mother.

There was no reply to this.

"I really do not think she ought to go. There will be other winters."

"Well—we will sleep on the matter. We can't tell about next winter."

Warren thought she ought to go. Aunt Priscilla came over a day or two after in Jonas Field's sleigh. He was out collecting, and would call for her at half-past five, though she still insisted she was pretty sure-footed in walking.

Mr. Perkins in a moment of annoyance had once said to his wife: "Priscilla, you have one virtue, at least. One can always tell just where to find you. You are sure to be on the opposition side."

She had a faculty of always seeing how the other side looked. She had a curious sympathy with it as well. And though she was not an irresolute woman, she did sometimes have a longing to go over to the enemy when it was very attractive.

She listened now—and nodded at Mrs. Leverett's reasoning, adding the pungency of her sniff. Betty's heart dropped like lead. True, she had not really counted on Aunt Priscilla's influence.

"I just do suppose if 'Lecty was ill and alone, and wanted Betty, there'd be no difficulty. It's the question between work and play. There wan't much time to play when I was young, and now I wish I had some of the work, since I'm too old to play. I do believe the thing ought to be evened up."

This was rather non-committal, but the girl's heart rose a little.

"Oh, if 'Lecty was ill—but you know, Aunt Priscilla, they keep a man beside the girl, and it seems to me she is always having a nurse when the children are ailing, or a woman in to sew, or some extra help. She doesn't need Betty, and it seems as if I did."

"Now, if that little young one was good for anything!"

"She's at her lessons all the time, and she must learn to sew. I should have been ashamed of my girls if they had not known how to make one single garment by the time they were ten year old."

"But Doris isn't ten," interposed Betty. "And here is Electa's letter, Aunt Priscilla."

"No, I don't see how I can spare Betty," said Mrs. Leverett decisively.

Aunt Priscilla took out her glasses and polished them and then adjusted them to her rather high nose.

"Well, 'Lecty's got to be quite quality, hasn't she? And Matthias, too. I suppose it's proper to give folks their whole name when they're getting up in the world and going to legislatures. But land! I remember Mat King when he was a patched-up, barefooted little boy. He was always hanging after 'Lecty, and your uncle thought she might have done better. 'Lecty was real good-looking. And now they're top of the heap with menservants and maidservants, and goodness knows what all."

"Yes, they have prospered remarkably."

"The Kings were a nice family. My, how Mis' King did keep them children, five of them, when their father died, and not a black sheep among them! Theron's a big sea captain, and Zenas in Washington building up the Capitol, and I dare say Mat is thinking of being sent to Congress. Joe is in the Army, and the young one keeps his mother a lady in New York, I've heard say. Mis' King deserves some reward."

Betty glanced up in surprise. It was seldom Aunt Priscilla praised in this wholesale fashion.

"And this about the hat is just queer, Betty. You should have seen old Madam Clarissa Bowdoin, who came to call yesterday, with a fine sleigh and driver and footman. She just holds on to this world's good things, I tell you, and she's past seventy. My, how she was trigged out in a black satin pelisse lined with fur! And she had a black beaver bonnet or hat, whatever you call it, with a big bow on top, and two black feathers flying. I should hate to have my feathers whip all out in such a windy day."

"Oh, yes, that is the first style," said Betty. "Hartford can't keep it all."

"Hartford can't hold a candle to Boston, even if Mat King is there. Stands to reason we can get fashions just as soon here, if theirs do come from New York. Madam was mighty fine. You see, I do have some grand friends, Betty. Your uncle was a man well thought of."

"Madam Bowdoin holds her age wonderfully," said Mrs. Leverett.

"Yes. But she's never done a day's work in her life, and I don't remember when I didn't work. Let me see—I've most forgot the thread of my discourse. Oh, you never would believe, Betty, that twenty year ago there was just such a fashion. I had a white beaver—what possessed me to get it I don't know. Everything was awful high. I had an idea that white would be rather plain, but when it had that great bow on top, and strings a full finger wide—well, I didn't even dare show it to your uncle! So I packed it away with white wax and in a linen towel, and when she'd gone yesterday I went and looked at it. 'Taint white now, but it's just the color of rich cream when it's stood twenty-four hours or so. Fursisee, they were just as much alike as two peas except as to color and the feathers. I declare I was beat! Now, if you were going to be married, Betty, it might do for a wedding hat."

"But I'm not going to be married," with a sigh.

"I should hope not," said her mother—"at sixteen."

"My sister Patty was married when she was sixteen, and Submit when she was seventeen. The oldest girls went off in a hurry, so the others had to fill their places. Well—it just amazes me reading about this bonnet. And whatever I'll do with mine except to give it away, I don't know. I did think once of having it dyed. But the bow on top was so handsome, and I've kept paper wadded up inside, and it hasn't flatted down a mite. Now, Elizabeth, she has that silk we all thought so foolish, and her brown frock and pelisse will be just the thing to travel in. And maybe I could find something else. The things will be scattered when I am dead and gone, and I might as well have the good of giving them away. Most of the girls are married off and have husbands to provide for them. I used to think I'd take some orphan body to train and sort of fill Polly's place, for she grows more unreliable every day. Yet I do suppose it's Christian charity to keep her. And young folks are so trifling."

"Go make a cup of tea, Betty," said Mrs. Leverett.

"Now, Elizabeth," when Betty had shut the door, "I don't see why you mightn't as well let Betty go as not. 'Tisn't as if it was among strangers. And there's really no telling what may happen next year. We haven't any promise of that."

Mrs. Leverett looked up in surprise.

"Tisn't every day such a chance comes to hand. She couldn't go alone on a journey like that. And 'Lecty seems quite lotting on it."

"But Betty's just started in at housekeeping, and she would forget so much."

"Betty started in full six months ago. And the world swings round so fast I dare say what she learns will be as old-fashioned as the hills in a few years. I didn't do the way my mother taught me—husband used to laugh me out of it. She'll have time enough to learn."

The tea, a biscuit, and a piece of pie came in in tempting array. Aunt Priscilla was at her second cup when Jonas Field arrived, good ten minutes before the time.

"You come over to-morrow, Betty," said Aunt Priscilla. "You and Dorothy just take a run; it'll do you good. That child will turn into a book next. She's got some of the Adams streaks in her. And girls don't need so much book learning. Solomon's wise, and he don't even know his letters."

That made Doris laugh. She was getting quite used to Aunt Priscilla. She rose and made a pretty courtesy, and said she would like to come.

Polly had forgotten to light the lamp. She had been nursing Solomon, and the fire had burned low. Aunt Priscilla scolded, to be sure. Polly was getting rather deaf as well.

"It's warm out in the kitchen," said Polly.

"I want it warm here. I aint going to begin to save on firing at my time of life! I have enough to last me out, and I don't suppose anybody will thank me for the rest. Bring in some logs."

Aunt Priscilla sat with a shawl around her until the cheerful warmth began to diffuse itself and the blaze lightened up the room. Polly out in the kitchen was rehearsing her woes to Solomon.

"It's my 'pinion if missus lives much longer she'll be queerer'n Dick's hatband. That just wouldn't lay anyhow, I've heerd tell, though I don't know who Dick was and what he'd been doing, but he was mighty queer. 'Pears to me he must a-lived before the war when General Washington licked the English. And there's no suitin' missus. First it's too hot and you're 'stravagant, then it's too cold and she wants to burn up all the wood in creation!"

Aunt Priscilla watched the flame of the dancing scarlet, blue, and leaping white-capped arrows that shot up, and out of the side of one eye she saw a picture on the end of the braided rug—a little girl with a cloud of light curls sitting there with a great gray cat in her lap. The room was so much less lonely then. Perhaps she was getting old, real old, with a weakness for human kind. Was that a sign? She did enjoy the runs over to the Leveretts'. What would happen if she should not be able to go out!

She gave a little shudder over that. Of all the large family of sisters and brothers there was no one living very near or dear to her. She was next to the youngest. They had all married, some had died, one brother had gone to the Carolinas and found the climate so agreeable he had settled there. One sister had gone back to England. There were some nieces and nephews, but in the early part of her married life Mr. Perkins had objected to any of them making a home at his house. "We have no children of our own," he said, "and I take it as a sign that if the Lord had meant us to care for any, he would have sent them direct to us, and not had us taking them in at second-hand."

They had both grown selfish and only considered their own wants and comforts. But the years of solitude looked less and less inviting to the woman, who had been born with a large social side that had met with a pinch here, been lopped off there, and crowded in another person's measure. If the person had not been upright, scrupulously just in his dealings, and a good provider, that would have altered her respect for him. And wives were to obey their husbands, just as children were trained to obey their parents.

But children were having ideas of their own now. Well, when she was sixteen she went to Marblehead and spent a summer with her sister Esther, who was having hard times then with her flock of little children, and who a few years after had given up the struggle. Mr. Green had married again and gone out to the lake countries and started a sawmill, where there were forests to his hand.

But this long-ago summer had been an epoch in her life. She had baked and brewed, swept and scrubbed, cooked and put in her spare time spinning, while poor Esther sewed and took care of a very cross pair of twins and crawled about a little. There had been some merrymaking that would hardly have been allowed at home, and a young man who had sat on the doorstep and talked, who had taken her driving, and with whom she had wickedly and frivolously danced one afternoon when a party of young people had a merrymaking after the hay was in. It was the only time in her life she had ever danced, and it was a glimpse of fairy delight to her. But she was frightened half to death when she came home, and began to have two sides to her life, and she had never gotten rid of the other side.

She had a vague idea that next summer she would go again. Meanwhile Mr. Perkins began to come. There was an older sister, and no one surmised it was Priscilla, until in March, when he spoke to Priscilla's father.

"I declare I was clear beat," said the worthy parent. "Seems to me Martha would be more suitable, but his heart's set on Priscilla. He's a good, steady man, forehanded and all that, and will make her a good husband, and she'll keep growing older. There is nothing to say against it."

The idea that Priscilla would say anything was not entertained for a moment. Mr. Perkins began to walk home from church with her and come to tea on Sunday evening, and it was soon noised about that they were keeping steady company. Martha went to Marblehead that summer and one of the twins died. In the fall Priscilla was married and went to housekeeping in King Street, over her husband's place of business. She was engrossed with her life, but she dreamed sometimes of the other side and the young man who had remarked upon the gowns she wore and put roses in her hair, and she had ideas of lace and ribbons and the vanities of the world in that early married period. Her attire was rich but severely plain; she was not stinted in anything. She was even allowed to "lay by" on her own account, which meant saving up a little money. She made a good, careful wife. And some months before he died, touched by her attentive care, her husband said:

"Silla, I don't see but you might as well have all I'm worth, as to divide it round in the family. They will be disappointed, I suppose, but they haven't earned nor saved. You have been a good wife, and you just take your comfort on it when I'm gone. Then if you should feel minded to give back some of it—why, that's your affair."

The Perkins family had not liked it very well. They knew Aunt Priscilla would marry again, and all that money go to a second husband. But she had not married, though there had been opportunities. Later on she almost wished she had. She had entertained plans of taking a girl to bring up, and had considered this little orphaned Adams girl,—who she had imagined in a vague way would be glad of a good home with a prospect of some money,—if she behaved herself rightly. She had pictured a stout, red-cheeked girl who needed training, and not a fine little lady like Doris Adams.

But she was glad Doris had sat there on the rug with the cat in her lap. And she was glad there had been the summer at Marblehead, and the young man who had said more with his eyes than with his lips. He had never married, and had been among the earliest to lay down his life for his country. She always felt that in a way he belonged to her. And if in youth she had had one good time, why shouldn't Betty? Perhaps Betty might marry in some sensible way that would be for the best, and this visit at Hartford would illume all her life.

There were things about it she had never confessed. When her conscience upbraided her mightily she called them sins and prayed over them. There were other matters—the white bonnet had been one. She had purchased it of a friend who was going in mourning, who had made her try it on, and said:

"Just look at yourself in the glass, Priscilla Perkins. You never had anything half so becoming. You look five years younger!"

She did look in the glass. She could have pirouetted around the room in delight. She was in love with her pretty youthful face.

So she bought the hat—at a bargain, of course. She put it away when it came home, and visited it surreptitiously, but somehow never had the courage to confess, or to propose wearing it, though other women of her age indulged in as much and more gayety. In the spring she bought a new silk gown, a gray with a kind of lilac tint, and cut off the breadths to make sure of it.

Mr. Perkins viewed it critically.

"I'm not quite certain, Priscilla, that it is appropriate. And a brown would give you so much more good wear. It looks too—too youthful."

He never remembered there were fifteen years between himself and Priscilla.

"I—I think I would change it."

"Oh," with the best accent of regret she could assume, "I have cut off the breadths and begun to sew them up. It's the spring color. And summer is coming."

"Uu—um——" with a reluctant nod.

She wore it to a christening and a wedding, but the real delight in it had to be smothered. And when her husband proposed she should have it dyed she laid it away.

There were other foolish indulgences. Bows and artificial flowers that she had put on bonnets and worn in her own room with locked doors, then pulled them off and laid them away. She was so fond of pretty things, gay things, the pleasures of life—and she was always relegated to the prose! Other people wore finery with a serene calmness, and went about their daily duties, to church, on missions of mercy, and were well thought of. Where was the sin? Her clothes cost quite as much. Mr. Perkins was a close manager but not stingy with his wife.

She used to think she would confess to her mother about the dancing, but she never had. She ought to bring out these "sins of the eye" and lay them before her husband, but she never found the right moment and the courage. She had meant to deal them out to the Leverett girls, especially Electa—but Electa seemed to prosper so amazingly! She must do something with them, and clear up her life, sweep, and garnish before the summons came. She was getting to be old now, and if she went off suddenly someone would come in and take possession and scatter her treasures. Likely as not it would be the Perkinses, for she hadn't made any will.

Why shouldn't Betty have some of them and go off on her good time. It wouldn't be housekeeping and spinning and looking after fractious children. But those evenings out on the stoop, and the timid invitations to take a walk, the pressure of the hand, the smile out of the eyes—oh, why——

All her life she had been asking "Why?"—taking the hard and distasteful because she thought there was a virtue in it, not because she had been trained to believe goodness must have a severe side and that really pleasant things were wicked. The "Whys" had never been answered, much as she had prayed about them.

She would never take the girl to bring up now. As for Doris Adams—Cousin Winthrop would be thinking presently that the ground wasn't good enough for her to walk on. So there was only Betty, unless she took up some of the Perkins girls. Abby was rather nice. But, after all, her father was only a half-brother to Aunt Priscilla's husband. And she must make that will.

"Missus, aint you goin' to come to supper? I told you 'twas ready full five minutes ago," said an aggrieved voice.

Aunt Priscilla sprang up and gave herself a kind of mental shaking. She stepped around to avoid the little girl on the rug with the cat in her lap. Polly went on grumbling. The toast was cold, the tea had drawn too long, and for once the mistress never said a word in dispraise.

"She's goin' off," thought Polly. "That's a bad sign, though she does sit over the fire a good deal, and you can't tell by that. Land alive! I hope she'll live my time out, or I'll sure have to go to the poorhouse!"

Aunt Priscilla went back to her fire and the vision of the little girl who had made a curious impression on her by a kind of sweetness quite new in her experience. It had disturbed her greatly. Nothing about the child had been as she supposed.

Everybody went down to her, which meant that she had some subtle, indescribable charm, but Aunt Priscilla would have said she had no dictionary words to explain it, though there had been a speller and definer in her day.

The little girl had come to "seven times" in the tables. She had studied an hour, when Betty said they had better go and get back by dark. Jamie boy gave a little "snicker" as she shut her book. The disdain of her young compeer was quite hard to bear, but she meekly accepted the fact that she "wasn't smart." If she had known how he longed to go with them, she would have felt quite even, but he kept that to himself.

All Boston was still hooded in snow, for every few days there came a new fall. Oh, how beautiful it was! Everybody walked in the middle of the street,—it was so hard and smooth,—though you had to keep turning out for vehicles, but one didn't meet them very often.

Boots were not made high for girls and women then, but everybody had a pair of thick woolen stockings, some of them with a leather sole on the outside, which was more durable. The children pulled them well up over their knees and kept good and warm. Some people had leather leggings, but rubber boots had not been invented.

Boys were out snowballing—girls, too, for that matter. Someone sent a ball that flew all over Doris, but she only laughed. She snowballed with little James now and then.

So they were bright and merry when they reached the sign of "Jonas Field," and Doris gave her pretty, rather formal greeting. She was never quite sure of Aunt Priscilla.

"I suppose you came to see Solomon!" exclaimed that lady.

"Not altogether," replied Doris.

"Well, he is out in the kitchen. And, Betty, what is the prospect to-day?"

"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I almost think I'll get off. Father is on my side, and mother did really promise 'Lecty last summer. Mother couldn't get along alone, you know, and Jimmie boy is doing so well at school that she would like to keep him all winter. Father knows of a girl who would be very glad to come in and work for three dollars a month, though he says everybody gives four or more. But Mr. Eastman will be here so soon. Father said I might get some things in Hartford."

"We'll see what Boston has first," returned Aunt Priscilla with a little snort. "I've been hunting over my things."

People in those days thought it a great favor to have clothes left to them, as you will see by old wills. And occasionally the grandmothers brought out garments beforehand, and did not wait until they were dead and gone.

"I have a silk gown that I never wore above half a dozen times. I could have it dyed, I suppose, but they're so apt to get stringy afterward. Maybe you wouldn't like it because it's a kind of gray. You're free to leave it alone. I shan't be a mite put out."

The old spirit of holding on reasserted itself. Of course, if Betty didn't like it, her duty would be done.

"Oh, Aunt Priscilla! It looks like moonlight over the harbor. It's beautiful."

The elder woman had shaken it out and made ripples with it, and Betty stood in admiring wonderment. It looked to her like a wedding gown, but she knew Aunt Priscilla's had been Canton crape, dyed brown first and then black and then worn out. There was an old adage to the effect that one never could get rich until one's wedding clothes were worn out.

"It's spotted some, I find—just a faint kind of yellow, but that may cut out. I never had any good of it," and she sighed. "It isn't what you might call gay; but, land alive! I might as well have bought bright red! There's plenty of it to make over. They weren't wearing such skimping skirts then, and I had an extra breadth put in so that it would all fade alike. Well——" And she gave a half-reluctant sigh.

"Why, I feel as if it ought to be saved for a wedding gown," declared Betty, her eyes alight with pleasure. "It's the most beautiful thing. Oh, Aunt Priscilla!"

A modern girl would have thrown her arms around Aunt Priscilla's neck and kissed her, if one could imagine a modern girl being grateful for a gown a quarter of a century old, except for masquerading purposes. People who could remember the great Jonathan Edwards awakening still classed all outward demonstrations of regard as carnal affections to be subdued. The poor old life hungered now for a little human love without understanding what its want really was, just as it had hungered for more than half a century.

"Well, child, maybe 'Lecty can plan to make something out of it. You better just take it to her. And here's a box of ribbons, things I've had no use for this many a year. You see I had a way of saving up—I didn't have much call for wearing such."

Aunt Priscilla felt that she was renouncing idols. How many times she had fingered these things with exquisite love and longing and a desire to wear them! Madam Bowdoin, almost ten years older, wore her fine ribbons and laces and her own snowy white hair in little rings about her forehead. No one accused her of aping youth. Aunt Priscilla had worn a false front under her cap for many a year that was now a rusty, faded brown. Her own white hair was cut off close.

"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I think my ship has come in from the Indies. I never can thank you enough. I'm so glad you saved them. You see, times are hard, and if father had to pay a girl for taking my place at home, he wouldn't feel that he could afford me much finery. And the journey, too. But I have only to pay from Springfield to Boston, for Mr. Eastman has his own conveyance—a nice big covered sleigh. And now all these beautiful things! I feel as rich as a queen."

Doris had been standing there big-eyed and never once asked for Solomon.

Aunt Priscilla began to fold the gown. It still had a crackle and rustle delightful to hear. And there was a roll of new pieces.

"Why, next summer I could have a lovely drawn bonnet—only it does cost so much to have one made. I wish I knew how," said Betty.

"I suppose—you don't want to see my old thing?" rather contemptuously.

"The hat, do you mean? Oh, I just should! I've thought so much about it, and how queer it is that old-fashioned articles should come round."

"Every seven years, people say; but I don't believe it's quite as often as that."

From the careful way it was pinned up, one would never imagine it had been out that very morning. The bows were filled with paper to keep them up, and bits of paper crumpled up around, so they could not be crushed. Its days of whiteness were over, but it was the loveliest, softest cream tint, and looked as if it had just come over from France. The beaver was almost like plush, and the puffed satin lining inside was as fresh as if its reverse plaits had just been laid in place.

"Oh, do put it on!" cried Doris eagerly.

Betty held the strings together under her fair round chin.

"You look like a queen!" said the child admiringly.

"Why it is just as they are wearing them now, the tip-top style. 'Lecty couldn't have described this hat any better if she had seen it. And if I can have it, Aunt Priscilla, I shall not care a bit about feathers. It's beautiful enough without."

"Yes, yes, take them all and have a good time with them. Now you see if you can pack it up—you'll have to learn."

Aunt Priscilla dropped into her chair. She had cast out her life's temptations, and it had been a great struggle.

"Not that way—make the bow stand up. The bandbox is large enough. And give the strings a loose fold, so. Now put that white paper over. It's like making a gambrel roof. Then bring up the ends of the towel and pin them. Polly shall go along and carry it home for you."

"I'm a thousand times obliged. I wish I knew what to do in return."

"Have a good time, but don't forget that a good time is not all to life. Child—why do you look at me so?" for Doris had come close to Aunt Priscilla and seemed studying her.

"Were you ever a little girl, and what was your good time like?"

Doris' wondering eyes were soft and seemed more pitying than curious.

"No, I never was a little girl. There were no little girls in my time." She jerked the words out in a spasmodic way, and put her hand to her heart as if there was a pain or pressure. "When I was three year old I had to take care of my little brother. I stood up on a bench to wash dishes when I was four, and scoured milk-pans and the pewter plates we used then. And at six I was spinning on the little wheel and knitting stockings. I went to school part of every year, and at thirteen I was doing a woman's work. No, I never was a little girl."

Doris put her soft hand over the one that had been strained and made coarse and large in the joints, and roughened as to skin while yet it was in its tender youth. And all the pay there had been from her father's estate had been three hundred dollars to each girl, the remainder being divided evenly among the boys. She felt suddenly grateful to Hatfield Perkins for the easier times of her married life.

"Now, both of you go out in the kitchen and get a piece of Polly's fresh gingerbread. She hasn't lost her art in that yet. Then you must run off home, for it will soon be dark, and Betty will be needed about the supper."

The gingerbread was splendid. Doris broke off little crumbs and fed them to Solomon, and told him sometime she would come and spend the afternoon with him. She should be so lonesome when Betty went away.

Polly carried the bandbox and bundle for them, and Betty took the box of ribbons. Aunt Priscilla brought out the light-stand and set her candle on it and turned over the leaves of her old Bible to read about the daughters of Zion with their tinkling feet and their cauls and their round tires like the moon, the chains and the bracelets and the bonnets, the earrings, the mantles, the wimples and the crisping pins, the fine linen and the hoods and the veils—and all these were to be done away with! To be sure she did not really know what they all were, but her few had been snares and a source of secret idolatry for years and years. She had nothing to do now but to consider the end of all things and prepare for it. But there was the dreaded will yet to make. If only there was someone who really cared about her!



CHAPTER X

CONCERNING MANY THINGS

When Providence overruled, in the early part of the century, people generally gave in. The stronger tide was called Providence. Perhaps there was a small degree of fatalism in it. So Mrs. Leverett acquiesced, and recalled the fact that she had promised Electa that Betty should come.

Aunt Priscilla's generosity was astonishing. The silken gown would not be made over until Betty reached Hartford. She worked industriously on her white one, but her mother found so many things for her to do. Then Martha Grant came—a stout, hearty, pink-cheeked country girl who knew how to "take hold," and was glad of an opportunity to earn something toward a wedding gown. Doris was so interested that she hardly remembered how much she should miss Betty, though Warren promised to help her with her lessons.

So the trunk was packed. Luckily the bandbox could go in it, for it was quite small. Most of the bandboxes were immense affairs in which you could stow a good many things besides the bonnet. Then they had a calico cover with a stout cord run through the hem.

Mr. Eastman looked rather askance at the trunk—he had so many budgets of his own, and for his wife. However, they strapped it on the back securely, and the good-bys were uttered for a whole month.

Doris had said hers in the morning. She could not divest herself of a vague presentiment that something would happen to keep Betty until to-morrow. But Martha was to sit in her place at the table.

Now that the reign of slavery was over, the farmers' girls from the country often came in for a while. They were generally taken in as one of the family—indeed, few of them would have come to be put down to the level of a common servant. Many had their old slaves still living with them, and numbers of the quality preferred colored servants.

Jamie boy went out to snowball after dinner. Doris worked a line across her sampler. She was going to begin the alphabet next. There were three kinds of letters. Ordinary capitals like printing, small letters, and writing capitals. These were very difficult, little girls thought.

She put up her work presently, studied her spelling, and went over "nine times." She could say the ten and eleven perfectly, but that very day she had missed on "nine times," and Mrs. Webb told her she had better study it a little more.

"I do wonder if you will ever get through with the multiplication tables!" said Aunt Elizabeth.

Doris sighed. It was hard to be so slow at learning.

"'Nine times' floored me pretty well, I remember," confessed Martha Grant. "There's great difference in children. Some have heads for figures and some don't. My sister Catharine could go all round me. But she's that dumb about sewing—I don't believe you ever saw the beat! She just hates it. She'd like to teach school!"

Doris was very glad to hear that someone else had been slow.

Betty had been out to tea occasionally, and Doris tried to make believe it was so now. They would have missed her more but Martha was a great talker. There were seven children at the Grants', and one son married. They had a big farm and a good deal of stock. Martha's lover had bought a farm also, with a small old house of two rooms. He had to build a new barn, so they would wait for their house. She had a nice cow she had raised, a flock of twelve geese, and her father had promised her the old mare and another cow. She wanted to be married by planting time. She had a nice feather bed and two pairs of pillows and five quilts, beside two wool blankets.

Mrs. Leverett was a good deal interested in all this. It took her back to her own early life. City girls did come to have different ideas. There was something refreshing in this very homeliness.

Martha knit and sewed as fast as she talked. Mrs. Leverett said "she didn't let the grass grow under her feet," and Doris wondered if she would tread it out in the summer. Of course, it couldn't grow in the winter.

"Aunt Elizabeth," she said presently, in a sad little voice, "am I to sleep all alone?"

"Oh dear, no. You would freeze to an icicle. Martha will take Betty's place."

They wrapped up a piece of brick heated pretty well when Doris went to bed. For it was desperately cold. But the soft feathers came up all around one, and in a little while she was as warm as toast. She did not even wake when Martha came to bed. Sometimes Betty cuddled the dear little human ball, and only half awake Doris would return the hug and find a place to kiss, whether it was cheek or chin.

"Aunt Elizabeth," when she came in from school one day, "do you know that Christmas will be here soon—next Tuesday?"

"Well, yes," deliberately, "it is supposed to be Christmas."

"But it really is," with child-like eagerness. "The day on which Christ was born."

"The day that is kept in commemoration of the birth of Christ. But some people try to remember every day that Christ cams to redeem the world. So that one day is not any better than another."

Doris looked puzzled. "At home we always kept it," she said slowly. "Miss Arabella made a Christmas cake and ever so many little ones. The boys came around to sing Noel, and they were given a cake and a penny, and we went to church."

"Yes; it is quite an English fashion. When you are a larger girl and more used to our ways you will understand why we do not keep it."

"Don't you really keep it?" in surprise.

"No, my dear."

The tone was kind, but not encouraging to further enlightenment. Doris experienced a great sense of disappointment. For a little while she was very homesick for Betty. To have her away a whole month! And a curious thing was that no one seemed really to miss her and wish her back. Mrs. Leverett scanned the weather and the almanac and hoped they would get safely to Springfield without a storm. Mr. Leverett counted up the time. It had not stormed yet.

No Christmas and no Betty. Not even a wise old cat like Solomon, or a playful, amusing little kitten. The school children stared when she talked about Christmas.

Two big tears fell on her book. She was frightened, for she had not meant to cry. And now a sense of desolation rushed over her. Oh, what could she do without Betty!

Then a sleigh stopped at the door. She ran to the window, and when she saw that it was Uncle Winthrop she was out of the door like a flash.

"Well, little one?" he said in pleasant inquiry, which seemed to comprehend a great deal. "How do you get along without Betty? Come in out of the cold. I've just been wondering if you would like to come over and keep Christmas with me. I believe they do not have any Christmas here."

"No, they do not. Oh, Uncle Win, I should be so glad to come, if I wouldn't trouble you!"

The eyes were full of entreating light.

"I have been thinking about it a day or two. And Recompense is quite willing. The trouble really would be hers, you know."

"I would try and not make any trouble."

"Oh, it was where we should put you to sleep this cold weather. You would be lost in the great guest chamber. But Recompense arranged it all. She has put up a little cot in the corner of her room. I insisted last winter that she should keep a fire; she is a little troubled with rheumatism. And now she enjoys the warmth very much."

"Oh, how good you are!"

She was smiling now and dancing around on one foot. He smiled too.

"Where's Aunt Elizabeth?" said Uncle Winthrop.

Doris ran to the kitchen and, not seeing her, made the same inquiry.

"She's gone up to the storeroom to find a lot of woolen patches for me, and I'm going to start another quilt. She said she'd never use them in the days of creation, and they wan't but six. She'll be down in a minute," said Martha.

"Uncle Winthrop," going back to him beside the fire, and wrinkling up her brow a little, "is not Christmas truly Christmas? Has anyone made a mistake about it?"

"My child, everybody does not keep it in the same manner. Sometime you will learn about the brave heroes who came over and settled in a strange land, fought Indians and wild beasts, and then fought again for liberty, and why they differed from their brethren. But I always keep it; and I thought now that Betty was gone you might like to come and go to church with me."

"Oh, I shall be glad to!" with a joyful smile.

Aunt Elizabeth entered. Cousin Winthrop presented his petition that he should take Doris over this afternoon and bring her back on Wednesday, unless there was to be no school all the week.

"I'm afraid she will bother Recompense. You're so little used to children. I keep my hand in with grandchildren," smilingly.

"No word from Betty yet? About Doris now—oh, you need not be afraid; I think Recompense is quite in the notion."

"Well, if you think best. Doris isn't a mite of trouble, I will say that. No, we can't hear from Betty before to-morrow. Mr. Eastman thought likely he'd find someone coming right back from Springfield, and I charged Betty to send if she could. I'm glad there has been no snow so far."

"Very fair winter weather. How is Foster and business?"

"Desperately dull, both of them," and Mrs. Leverett gave a piquant nod that would have done Betty credit.

"Go get your other clothes, Doris, and Martha will see to you. And two white aprons. Recompense keeps her house as clean as a pink, and you couldn't get soiled if you rolled round the floor. But dirt doesn't stick to Doris. There, run along, child."

Martha scrubbed her rigorously, and then helped her dress. She came back bright as a new pin, with her two high-necked aprons in her hand, and her nightgown, which Aunt Elizabeth put in her big black camlet bag.

"I wish you'd see that she studies a little, Winthrop. She is so behind in some things."

He nodded. Then Doris put on her hood and cloak and said good-by to Martha, while she kissed Aunt Elizabeth and left a message for the rest.

"It's early, so we will take a little ride around," he said, wrapping her up snug and warm.

The plan had been in his mind for several days. The evening before he had broached it to Recompense. Not but what he was master in his own house, but he hardly knew how to plan for a child.

"If Doris was a boy I could put him on the big sofa in my room. Still, Cato can look after a fire in the guest chamber. It would be too cruel to put a child alone in that great cold barn."

There was a very obstinate impression that it was healthy to sleep in cold rooms, so people shut themselves up pretty close, and sometimes drew the bedclothes over their heads. But Winthrop Adams had a rather luxurious side to his nature; he called it a premonition of old age. He kept a fire in his dressing room, where he often sat and read a while at night. His sleeping room adjoined it.

"Why, we might bring a cot in my room," she said. "I remember how the child delights in a fire. She's such a delicate-looking little thing."

"She is standing our winter very well and goes to school every day. I'm afraid she might disturb you?"

"Not if she has a bed by herself. And there is the corner jog; the cot will just fit into it."

When they put it there in the morning it looked as if it must have taken root long ago. Then Recompense arranged a nice dressing table with a white cover and a pretty bowl and ewer, and a low chair beside it covered with chintz cushions. Her own high-post bedstead had curtains all around it of English damask, and the curiously carved high-back chairs had cushions tied in of the same material. There was no carpet on the painted floor, but a rug beside the bed and one at the stand, and a great braided square before the fire. It was a well-furnished room for the times, though that of Mr. Adams was rather more luxurious.

He was very glad that Recompense had assented so readily, for he was beginning to feel that he ought to take a deeper interest in his little ward.

There were numberless sleighs out on some of the favorite thoroughfares. For even now, in spite of the complaints of hard times, there was a good deal of real wealth in Boston, fine equipages with colored coachmen and footmen. There were handsome houses with lawns and gardens, some of them having orchards besides. There were rich furnishings as well, from France and England and from the East. There were china and plate and glass proud of their age, having come through several generations.

And though there were shades and degrees of social position, there was a fine breeding among the richer people and a kind of pride among the poorer ones. There were occasions when they mingled with an agreeable courtesy, yet each side kept its proper and distinctive relations; real worth was respected and dignified living held in esteem. From a printer's boy, Benjamin Franklin had stood before kings and added luster to his country. From a farm at Braintree had come one of the famous Adamses and his not less notable wife, who had admirably filled the position of the first lady of the land.

Yet the odd, narrow, crooked streets of a hundred years before were running everywhere, occasionally broadened and straightened. There were still wide spaces and pasture fields, declivities where the barberry bush and locust and May flower grew undisturbed. There were quaint nooks with legends, made famous since by eloquent pens; there were curious old shops designated by queer sign and symbols.

But even the pleasures were taken in a leisurely, dignified way. There was no wild rush to stand at the head or to outdo a neighbor, or astonish those who might be looking on and could not participate.

Doris enjoyed it wonderfully. She had a sudden accession of subtle pride when some fine old gentleman bowed to Uncle Win, or a sleigh full of elegantly attired ladies smiled and nodded. There were large hats framing in pretty faces, and bows and nodding plumes on the top such as Mrs. King had written about. Oh, how lovely Betty would look in hers! What was Hartford like; and New Haven, with its college; then, farther on, New York; and Washington, where the Presidents lived while they held office? She was learning so many things about this new home.

Over here on the Common the boys were drawn up in two lines and snowballing as if it was all in dead earnest. And this was the rambling old house with its big porch and stepping block, and its delightful welcome.

"Are you not most frozen?" asked Miss Recompense. "Here is the fire you like so much. Take off your cloak and hood. We are very glad to have you come and make us a visit."

"Oh, are you?" Doris' face was a gleam of delight. "And I am glad to come. I was beginning to feel dreadfully lonesome without Betty. I ought not when there were so many left," and a bright color suffused her face. "Then there is little James."

"And we have no small people."

"I never had any over home, you know. And so many people here have such numbers of brothers and sisters. It must be delightful."

"But they are not all little at once."

"No," laughed Doris. "I should like to be somewhere in the middle. Babies are so cunning, when they don't cry."

Miss Recompense smiled at that.

There was a comfortable low chair for Doris, and Uncle Win found her seated there, the ruddy firelight throwing up her face like a painting. Miss Recompense went out to see about the supper. There was a good-natured black woman in the kitchen to do the cooking, and Cato, who did the outside work and waited on Dinah and Miss Recompense—a tall, sedate, rather pompous colored man.

Some indefinable charm about the house appealed to Doris. The table was arranged in such an attractive manner. Nothing could be more delightful than Aunt Elizabeth's cooking, but she stopped short at an invisible something. The china was saved for company, though there was one pretty cup they always gave to Aunt Priscilla. The everyday dishes were earthen, such as ordinary people used, and being of rather poor glaze they soon checked. Doris knew these pretty plates and the tall cream jug and sugar dish had not been brought out especially for her, though she had supposed they were when they all came over to a company tea.

She started so when Uncle Winthrop addressed her in French, and glanced at him in amaze; then turned to a pink glow and laughed as she collected her scattered wits to answer.

What a soft, exquisite accent the child had! Miss Recompense paused in her pouring tea to listen.

Uncle Win smiled and continued. They were around the pretty tea table in a sort of triangle. Uncle Win passed the thin, dainty slices of bread. Miss Recompense, when she was done with the tea, passed the cold chicken. Then there were cheese and two kinds of preserves, plain cake and fruit cake.

Children rarely drank tea, so Doris had some milk in a glass which was cut with just a sparkle here and there that the light caught and made brilliant.

"How you can understand any such talk as that beats me," said Miss Recompense in a sort of helpless fashion as she glanced from one to the other.

"And if we were abroad talking English the forsigners would say the same thing," replied Mr. Adams.

"But there is some sense in English."

He laughed a little. "And if we lived in China we would think there was a good deal of sense in Chinese, which is said to be one of the queerest languages in the world."

We did not know very much about China in those days, and our knowledge was chiefly gleaned from rather rude maps and some old histories, and the wonderful tales of sea captains.

"It would be a pity for you to fall back when you are such a good scholar," Uncle Win said, looking over to Doris. "One forgets quite easily. I find I am a little lame. But you like your school, and it is near by this cold weather. Perhaps you and I can keep up enough interest to exercise our memories. You have some French books?"

"Two or three. I tried to read 'Paul and Virginia' to Betty, but it took so long to tell the story over that she didn't get interested. There were so many lessons, too."

She did not say that Aunt Elizabeth had discountenanced it. People were horrified by French novels in those days. Rousseau and Voltaire had been held in some degree responsible for the terrible French Revolution. And people shuddered at the name of Tom Paine.

At first the Colonies, as they were still largely called, had been very much interested in the new French Republic. Lafayette had been so impressed with the idea of a government of the people when he had lent his assistance to America, that he had joined heartily in a plan for the regeneration of France. But after the king was executed, Sunday abolished, and the government passed into the hands of tyrants who shouted "liberty" and yet brought about the slavery of terror, he and many others had stood aside—indeed, left their beloved city to the mob. Then had come the first strong and promising theories of Napoleon. He had been first Consul, then Consul for life, then Emperor, and was now the scourge of Europe.

To Mrs. Leverett all French books were as actors and plays, to be shunned. That any little girl should have read a French story or be able to repeat French verses was quite horrifying. She had a feeling that it really belittled the Bible to appear in the French language.

"Yes," returned Uncle Winthrop assentingly. He could understand the situation, for he knew Mrs. Leverett's prejudices were very strong, and continuous. That she was a thoroughly good and upright woman he readily admitted.