"Ah, Miss Winn!" exclaimed a pleasant-faced woman. "And that is Captain Leverett's little girl? Why, she looks as if she was quite well again. We heard of her being so poorly. I suppose the shock of her father's death was dreadful! Poor little thing! And she's to be quite an heiress, I heard. What are they going to do with her? Won't she be sent to Boston to school?"

"Oh, I think not. Mr. Leverett has been teaching her a little."

They had fairly to elbow their way in. Long counters were piled with goods. Silks, laces, sheerest of muslins embroidered beautifully, lace wraps, India shawls, jewelry, caps, collars, handkerchiefs, stockings, slippers that were dainty enough for a Cinderella.

And all down one side were ranged tables, and jars, and vases, and articles one could hardly find a name for. Such exquisite carving, such odd figures painted and embroidered on silk, birds the like of which were never seen on land or sea, dragons that flew, and crawled, and climbed trees, and disported themselves on waves.

"Oh, it looks like home," cried Cynthia, for the moment forgetting herself. And she kept sauntering round among the beautiful things, her heart growing strangely light, and her pulses throbbing with a sort of joy.

She was almost hidden by a great pile of tapestry. The Indians had found some secrets of beauty as well as France, if they did make it with infinite pains. And this was made with the little hand-looms and joined together so neatly and the colors blended so harmoniously that it was like a dream. Only the little girl did not like the dragons and strange animals. She had never seen any real ones like them. They were in the stories Nalla used to tell.

Then some one else spoke to Miss Winn. "Is your little charge here?" she asked. "I'm quite anxious to see her. I've called twice on the Leveretts, and really asked for her once when they said she was quite ill. But I saw her out in the carriage with—isn't it her uncle? No? And she's to be very well to do, I've heard. The idea of the Leverett women undertaking to bring up a child! They're good as gold and some of the best housekeepers in Salem, but I dare say they'll teach her to knit stockings, and make bedquilts, and braid rag mats, and do fifty-year-old things—make a regular little Puritan of her. I knew her mother quite well before she was married. Doesn't seem as if we were near of an age and went to school together. But some of the Ornes married in our line. And I was married when I was seventeen, and now I'm a grandmother. How the years do fly on! And she had to die out in that heathen land; he too. Wasn't it odd about sending her here beforehand? I do want to see her."

"She is somewhere about, interested in all these foreign things." Miss Winn was not quite sure of the chattering woman. She had learned that the Leverett ladies were exclusive, whether from inclination or lack of time. They asked their minister and a few old family friends in to tea on rare occasions, and then it was cooking and baking and cleaning up the choice old silver and dusting and polishing, and the next day clearing up. Everything out of the routine made so much extra work. Among the few English-speaking people in India there had been a sort of free and easy sociability.

Cynthia meanwhile had slipped around the end of the counter and came up to them. She wanted to see the woman who had been to school with her mother. Then her mother was a little girl, perhaps no older than she. Did she like it? Cynthia wondered.

"This is Captain Leverett's little daughter," Rachel announced rather stiffly.

"My—but you don't favor your mother at all. I'm Mrs. Turner and I knew her off and on. We lived about thirty miles above here. Then her folks died and she went to Boston, but she used to be at the Leveretts' a good deal. I married and came here. I'm living up North River way and have a house full of children—like steps—and one grandchild, and I'm just on the eve of thirty-seven. I've one little girl about your age, but she's ever so much bigger. I'd like you to be friends with her. The next older is a girl, too. Why, you'd have real nice times if the old aunties were willing. Do they keep her strict? And she's going to be a considerable heiress, I heard. I wonder where her eyes came from? They're not Leverett eyes, and her mother's were a clear blue, real china blue, but then there's different blues in china," and she laughed. "Sad about the captain, wasn't it? He should have lived to enjoy his fortune, and now his little girl will have it all. I must come and scrape acquaintance for the sake of my girls. You'd like them, I know, they're full of fun. We're not strait-laced people—that's going out of date."

Then she passed on. They wandered about a little more among the vases and jars and the paintings on silk. The air was heavy with sandalwood, and attar of rose, and incense. The fragrance seemed never to die out of those old things that became family heirlooms.

"Come," Rachel said, taking her by the hand. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and the shadows of everything were growing longer. She could not understand why it was at first, but now she knew. And the sun would be round there in Asia presently. In her secret heart she still believed the sun went round and the earth stood still, for in the movement people must slip off. But then what held it in the air? Cousin Chilian had a globe, but you see there was a strong wire through the middle, fastened to the frame at both ends. Perhaps the earth was fastened somewhere! She liked to make it revolve on its axis, and in imagination she crossed the oceans, and seas, and capes, and found her father again.

The stage had just come in. They paused on the corner, waiting for Cousin Chilian. Some one was with him—yes, it was Cousin Giles Leverett.

"Well, little woman," he began, "so I find you out here meandering round, and so much improved that I hardly know you. We were afraid in the winter you were going to slip away and leave all this fortune behind you, never having had a bit of good of it. But you look now as if you had taken a new lease. And you are positively growing!"

Chilian smiled at the remark. He had begun to think so himself. And she looked so pretty just now with the pink in her cheeks and the soft tendrils of hair about her forehead, the eager, luminous eyes. He reached out and took her hand.

"Have you been inspecting old Salem, and did you find any queer things?" Cousin Giles asked.

"Oh, there was a great shipload of goods from India and it seemed almost as if you were walking through the booths at home, only there were no natives and no beggars or holy men——"

"Tut! tut! child; they are not holy men who are too lazy to move and waiting for other people to fill their mouths. If they were here we'd make them work or they'd have to starve. They're talking about missionaries being sent out to convert them. I heard a rousing sermon on Sunday, but it didn't loosen my purse-strings. Your greatest missionary is work, good hard labor, clearing up and planting. Suppose those old Mayflower people had sat down and held out their hands for alms. Do you suppose our Indians would have filled 'em with their corn, and fish, and game? Not much. They'd tied 'em to a tree and set fire to 'em." When Cousin Giles was excited he made elisions of speech rather unusual for a Boston man. "They went to work and cut down trees, and built houses, and raised farm and garden truck, and made shoes and clothes, and roads and bridges, and built cities and towns, and shamed those countries thousands of years old. And now we're trying to help them by bringing over their goods and selling them."

"And creating extravagance, Elizabeth would say," returned Chilian, with a sort of humorous smile.

"Oh, you might as well keep the money going as to hoard it up in an old stocking, so long as it is honestly yours. We're getting to be quite a notable country, Chilian Leverett."

They turned into Derby Street, and Cousin Giles paused to survey the garden.

"You've lots of things to enjoy here," he said. "I don't know but it's a sensible thing to take the good of what you have as you go along. And little Miss here will have enough without your adding to the store. You men of Salem ought to begin to do some big things—build a college."

"Oh, I think our young men would rather go to Harvard. We don't want to rival you. We shall be the biggest New England seaport. We'll divide up the glories."

Elizabeth was so taken by surprise that she was rather cross. She liked things planned beforehand. Now the tablecloth must come off. This one had been on since Sunday and it had two darns in it. And the old silver must come out.

"I don't believe Cousin Giles would ever notice," Eunice said. "And I do think the china prettier than that old silver."

"Well, it has the crown mark on it and the Leveretts owned it before they came from England. Giles' folks had some of it, too, but the Lord only knows what he's done with his. I dare say servants have made way with it, or banged it out of shape. Anybody can have china. Come, do be spry, Eunice."

Cynthia went upstairs and had her hair brushed and a clean apron put on, though the other was not soiled.

"Rachel, what is an heiress?" she asked.

"Why—some one, a woman, who inherits a good deal of money."

"Does she have to wait until she is a woman?"

"Why, no. Yes, in a way, too. She can have the money spent upon her, but she can't have it herself until she is twenty-one."

Cynthia wondered how it would seem to go and spend money, buy ever so many things. But she really couldn't think of anything she wanted, unless it was a house of her very own, and books, and pretty pictures, not portraits of old-fashioned men and women. And a pony and a dainty chaise. But then—she was such a little girl, and she wouldn't want to leave Cousin Chilian.

Elizabeth made delicious cream shortcake for supper. Cousin Giles said everything tasted better up here, perhaps it was the clear salt water. There were so many fresh ponds and streams around Boston. But there were big plans for drainage and for docking out. Then Elizabeth was such a fine cook.

The two men sat out on the stoop in the summer moonlight and Cynthia thought Cousin Giles really quarrelled trying to establish the superiority of Boston. Then they talked about investments and Captain Leverett, and Giles said, "Cynthia will be one of the richest women of Salem. Chilian, you'll have to look sharp that some schemer doesn't marry her for her money."

"You must come to bed, Cynthia," declared Rachel. Through the open window they could hear Cousin Giles' voice plainly.

The men went the next morning to consider an investment Chilian had in view. It had been thought best to divide the sums coming in between Salem and Boston. Then they walked about and saw the improvements, the new docks being built to accommodate the shipping, the great fleet of boats, the busy ship-yard, the hurrying to and fro everywhere. It was not merely finery, but spices and articles used in the arts. Gum copal was brought from Zanzibar. Indigo came in, though they were trying to raise that at the South.

And when Giles saw the new streets and fine houses, and Mr. Derby's, that was to cost eighty thousand dollars, he did open his eyes in surprise. Though he said rather grudgingly:

"It's a shame for one little girl to have all that money. There should have been three or four children. Fifty years ago the Leveretts had such big families they bid fair to overrun the earth, and now they've dwindled down to next to nothing. Chilian, why don't you marry?"

"The same to yourself. Are you clinging to any old memory?"

"Well, not just that. I don't seem to have time. Now you are a fellow of leisure. Get about it, man, and hunt up a wife."



CHAPTER X

A NEW DEPARTURE

Cynthia Leverett was making great improvement in every respect. She was no longer the thin, wan little thing that had come from India. She had outgrown her clothes, which was a good sign, Eunice said.

Elizabeth made a stand for good wearing ginghams and plain cloths for winter.

"There's that gray cloth of mine that's too nice to hack around for every day. I could have it dyed, I suppose, but I've two nice black stuff dresses beside my silk, and that other one Chilian gave me that must have cost a sight of money; it's thick enough to almost stand alone. I can't bear those sleazy stuffs that come from India. But I've wished more than once that I had the money it cost, out at interest. And the cloth——"

"It isn't a very pretty color," ventured Eunice timidly.

"What does that matter for a child? It won't show dirt easily. And it is settled that she is going to school, I'm thankful to say."

The dress in question was not a clear, pretty gray, but had an ugly yellow tint.

"She certainly is rich enough to buy her own clothes, or have them bought for her. I'd dip that dress over a good deal darker brown. You know Chilian didn't like it for you, and he will not for her."

Eunice was amazed at her own protest. The child had always been prettily attired. And more attention was being paid to children's clothes she noticed in church on Sunday, and after she had indulged in such sinful wanderings, she read the chapter in Isaiah where the prophet denounced the "round tires like the moon, the bonnets and the head bands, the mantles, and wimples, and crisping pins, and changeable suits of apparel," and other vanities, and predicted dire punishments for them.

Mrs. Turner had called according to her proposal. She brought her little daughter Arabella, commonly called Bella. Cousin Chilian was out in the garden with Cynthia, and received her with his usual kindly cordiality, inviting them to walk into the house. The parlor shutters were tightly closed, and Mrs. Turner abhorred state parlors. Hers was always open, for guests were no rarity.

"Why can't we sit out here a spell? It is so delightful to have this garden in view. And your clematis is a perfect show. Then let the children run around and get acquainted. How are the ladies?"

She seated herself on the bench at the side of the porch.

"I will call them," he said. "But—hadn't you better walk in?"

"Oh, we can't stay very long. I've been waiting for the ladies to return my last call, but we were down in this vicinity, so I stopped. You see, I don't always stand on ceremony. And we have been so interested in your little girl. I saw her in Merrit's with Miss Winn."

He summoned the ladies, and then he returned to the guests. The children were both down the path—Bella talking and gesticulating, and Cynthia laughing.

Mrs. Turner was in nowise formal. She talked of Mr. Turner's business—he was a shipbuilder—of the rapid strides Salem was making; indeed one would hardly know it for old Salem of the witch days. And people's ideas had broadened out so, softened from their rigidity, "though some of the old folks are thinking the very trade we are so proud of is going to ruin our character and morals, and fill us with pride and vanity. But I say to Mr. Turner the people did their hard work and bore their deprivations bravely all through the Revolution, and we can't go back and make their lot easier by depriving ourselves of comforts, or even pleasures."

There might be some casuistry in that, but there was truth as well.

Then he asked if she knew of any nice schools for girls. Where did hers go?

"Oh, to Madam Torrey's. That's up Church Street. Maybe it would be too far in bad weather, though our girls don't mind it. Alice is thirteen, but she's been there since she was eight, and Bella has been going these two years. The boys are at the Bertram School, and your neighbor Bentley Upham goes there. He's a nice boy. But Madam Torrey is a fine woman. She has an assistant, and a woman comes in to teach the French class. Then—I don't suppose everybody will approve of this, but there is going to be a dancing-class out of school hours, yet no one is compelled to send their children to that. There's fine needlework, too, and fancy knitting, indeed about all that it is necessary for a girl to know. And the children are all from good families; that is quite an important point."

"I think I must walk over and see her."

"Do. I am sure you will be pleased. The walk will be the only objection. Isn't she delicate?"

"She wasn't well last winter. She took a cold. She was not used to our bleak winters. And there was her father's death. She had counted so much on his return."

"It was very sad. She looks well now."

Then the ladies made their appearance. Elizabeth apologized for Chilian not asking her into the parlor. "It looked inhospitable."

"It was my fault. The stoop was so tempting. A shady porch in the afternoon is a luxury. We take our sewing out there; that is, Alice and I, and sometimes the guests. How lovely your vines are! And your garden is a regular show place, quite worth coming to see if there were no other charm. And, Miss Leverett, I hear you have been making the most beautiful white quilt there is in Salem."

"Oh, no. But as nice as any. And it was a sight of work. I don't know as I'd do it again. I've no chick or child to leave it to."

"May I come over some day and see it? Not that I shall do anything of the kind. With four big boys to mend for and the two girls, I have my hands full."

Then they talked about putting up fruit and making jellies, and Mrs. Turner said she must go over to the Uphams. She heard that Polly was getting to be such a nice, smart girl, and had worked the bottom of her white frock and a round cape to match. Then she called Bella.

"Oh, can't I go over with them?" pleaded Cynthia.

Cousin Chilian nodded. Elizabeth rose stiffly and went in. Eunice pulled out her knitting. It was so lovely here. There were the warmth and perfume of summer and the rich fragrance of ripening fruits and grass mown for feed, not snipped with a lawn-mower, such things had not been heard of even in the rapidly improving Salem.

"There are some countries where people live out of doors nearly all the time," began Eunice reflectively. "Well, they do a good deal in India. But I think this is in Europe. And this is so lovely, so restful. But I'm afraid you have affronted Elizabeth by not insisting Mrs. Turner should walk into the parlor. Though really—we had not returned her last call. I do wish Elizabeth could find some time to get out. I don't see why there should be so much work."

"Couldn't you have some one to help?"

"Well, it isn't just the cooking and kitchenwork. And no one could suit her there. She's up in that old garret toiling, and moiling, and packing away enough things to furnish an inn. We shall never want them. And there's your mother's, and some of your grandmother's, blankets."

"The New England thrift is rather too thrifty sometimes," he commented dryly.

Cynthia staid after Mrs. Turner made her adieus. Indeed, as it was nearing supper-time, he walked over for her. She and Betty were in the wide-seated swing and Ben was swinging them so high that Betty, used as she was to it, gave now and then little squeals. Chilian held up his hand and Ben let the "cat die," which meant the swing stopping of itself.

"Oh, Mr. Leverett, can't Cynthy stay to tea? I'll run and ask mother."

"Not to-day. She had better come home now."

"Oh, dear!" cried Bentley disappointedly.

"Yes, I had better go. And I've had such a lovely time. Cousin Chilian, can't I come over again?"

How pretty she looked with her shining eyes, her rosy cheeks, and her entreating lips! What would she coax out of men as she grew older!

"Oh, yes; any time they want you."

"Well, we'd like her every day!" cried Ben eagerly. "And isn't it splendid that she's grown so well and strong, and can run and play, and have good out-of-doors times? Though I used to like it in the winter up in your room, and Mr. Price said he never knew a boy to improve so in Latin."

Bentley made a graceful bow to Mr. Leverett.

"Oh," said Cynthia, skipping along in exuberant joy, "children are nice, aren't they? You can't have much fun alone by yourself, and the days are so long when you go in to Boston."

"I wonder if you would like to try school again?"

"Yes, I think I would;" after a pause. "You see," with a gravity that sat oddly upon her, "I'm not so afraid as I was, and I have more sense. And I know things more evenly than I did. I can write now quite well, and I know most of the tables, though division does bother me. And I can spell all but the very difficult words. I don't think any one would laugh at me now."

"No, they wouldn't," he answered decisively.

"I shouldn't like little boys, but I wouldn't mind them as big as Bentley. And, oh, I wish we had a swing. And they have a real sailors' hammock, such as they have on shipboard. It's delightful under the trees."

"I think we can manage that."

"Well, if your head isn't tousled!" cried Elizabeth. "It looks like a brush heap. Get it fixed, for supper is all ready. Why didn't you stay?" the last ironically.

"Cousin Chilian thought I had better not. They did want me to."

"Are you sure they wanted you to?"

"Why, yes," she answered in ignorance of the sarcasm.

She walked up and down the garden path with Cousin Chilian and asked about the school, was glad when she found Bella and her sister Alice went there. Now and then she gave two or three skips and pulled on the hand she held so tightly. He had never seen her in quite such glee, and how charming she was!

"Chilian, bring that child in out of the dew. Next thing she'll be in for a winter's cold," said the severe voice.

The interview with Madam Torrey was very satisfactory. Chilian asked Miss Winn to go out and buy what was needed and get it made. They went over to Mrs. Turner's one day and took the school in on their way.

"When it rains Silas can take you and come for you. I think the walk will not tire you out."

"Oh, no; I don't get tired out now."

It was Miss Winn's place to look after the child, of course, but Elizabeth felt in some way defrauded. She wished Cynthia had been poor and dependent upon them. Then she would stand a chance to be brought up in a useful manner.

Chilian took her to school the first morning. Miss Winn was to come for her. She had been rather shy at first. But Bella Turner told the girls about her, how she had been born in Salem, and gone to Calcutta when only a few months old, come and gone again in her father's ship, and he was Captain Leverett, and then returned to America. He was to come afterward, but he had died. And Mr. Chilian Leverett, who was something in Harvard College, was her guardian. And she was to have ever so much money when she was a young lady.

Any other child might have been spoiled by the attentions lavished upon her. The girls thought her curly hair so pretty, and her hands were so small, with their dainty, tapering fingers. Then she found one of the girls, Lois Brinsmaid, lived in Central Avenue, so there was no further question of troubling any one. Cousin Chilian had given her a good foundation for study and she was eager for knowledge of all sorts, except that of the needle.

Then autumn began to merge into winter and there were storms and bleak winds, and some days she staid at home. She caught light colds, but Chilian and Miss Winn were very watchful.

She went to the Turners one afternoon and staid to tea, and the big boys hovered about her like bees. She was not forward or aggressive, but there was a sort of charming sweetness about her. When she raised her lovely eyes they seemed to appeal to every heart, though they never went very far with Cousin Elizabeth.

One day she came home and found the house in a great state of excitement. Elizabeth had started to go down into the cellar with both hands full. She had been a little dizzy for several days, and meant to take a dose of herb tea, boneset being her great stand-by, when she could find time. Whether it was the vertigo, or she slipped, she lay there unconscious, and they sent for Doctor Prescott.

Silas and the doctor carried her upstairs, and the latter brought her out of the faint. But when she started to stand up, she toppled over and fainted again.

"There's something quite serious. Let us carry her up to her room, and you women undress her. Her legs are sound, so the trouble is higher up."

Then he found her hip was broken, a bad thing at any time of life, but at her age doubly so. And he sent for Doctor Lapham to help him set it. It was very bad. They were still there when Chilian came home.

"I'm afraid she's laid up for a year or so;" and the doctor shook his head ominously.

"Do your very best for her," besought Chilian.

He said to Eunice, "Now you must have some one. You can't carry on the house alone."

"If it is the same to you, Chilian, I'd rather have a nurse. There's Mother Taft, who is good and strong, and used to nursing. She's willing to help about a little, too."

"Just as you think best. I want every care taken of her."

For a month it was a very serious matter. They thought the spine was somewhat injured as well. And Elizabeth knew they could never get on without her.

"I expect I shall find the house in such a state when I do get about, it will take me all summer to right it. You never were as thorough as I could wish, Eunice."

Miss Winn begged that she might be of service. She had so little to do, or to think about, that time hung heavy on her hands, now that Cynthia was in school. For then school hours were from nine to five. And the child was getting so handy caring for herself. She curled her hair and put on her clothes, brought her shoes down every evening for Silas to black, and sometimes wiped the tea dishes while Miss Winn washed them. Somehow there didn't seem so much work to do. Eunice didn't always have two kinds of cake for supper, nor a great shelf full of pies for Silas to take home. There was plenty of everything and no one complained.

They found Mother Taft invaluable. She was about the average height, and had long arms, and strength according. Then she had a most excellent way with her. When Elizabeth groaned that they never could get on without her, and she must be up and about before everything went to "wrack and ruin," Mother Taft said:

"The kitchen looks like a new pin. There's no signs of ruin that I can see. Meals are good, cake fine, house clean. When you get downstairs you'll think you haven't been out of the harness more'n a week."

"A likely story," Elizabeth moaned.

Cynthia went through March very successfully, but with the first warm spell in April she caught a cold and coughed, and Chilian was almost wild about her, his nerves having been worn somewhat by Elizabeth's mishap. But after ten days or so she came around all right and was eager for school again.

She was sitting in her old place by the window late one afternoon and he had been reading some poems to her—a volume lately come from England.

"Cousin Chilian," she said, "will you tell me what true relation we are?"

"Why, what has put that in your head?"

"I want to know." She said it persuasively.

"Well, it isn't very near after all. My father and yours were cousins. My father was the son of the oldest brother, your father the son of the youngest, that stretched them quite far apart. When I wasn't much more than a baby Anthony came to live with us, and was like an elder brother to me. Father was very fond of him. But he would go to sea and he made a fine sailor and captain. Then he was married from here, and you were born here."

"The girls sometimes say, 'your uncle.' I wonder if you would like to have me call you uncle?"

Something in him protested. He could not tell what it was, unless an odd feeling that it made him seem older. He wished he were ten years younger, and he could give no reason for that either.

"I think I like the 'cousin' best;" after some deliberation.

"And it is so lovely to be dear to some one, very dear. I like Rachel, she's been almost a mother to me, and I like Cousin Eunice for her sweet ways. But I've no one of my very own, and so—I'm very glad to be dear to you. It is like a ship being anchored to something safe and strong."

She came and put her arms about his neck and kissed him. He drew her down on his knee. She was her mother's child, and her mother had been dear to him, his first love, his only love so far.

Oh, how would the garden get made and the house cleaned, the blankets and the winter clothing aired and put away, those in use washed? Eunice and Miss Winn went up in the garret one day and swept and dusted, not giving a whole week to it.

"Now," said Mother Taft, "I'm going to take a holiday off. I'm tired of puttering round in the sick room, and she's so much better now that she doesn't keep one on the jump. And I'm going to wash them there blankets and you can pack them away, so there'll be one thing less to worry about."

"But Silas' wife would come and do it. And a holiday! Why don't you go off somewhere——"

"I want to do it."

And do it she did. Some way the house did get cleaned. "After a fashion," Elizabeth said. And the garden was made. Chilian and Eunice trimmed up roses. Cynthia and Miss Winn planted seeds. There were always some things that wintered over—sweet Williams, lilies of various sorts, pinks, laurels, some spiraeas, snowball and syringas, hosts of lilacs that made a fragrant hedge. Cynthia thought it had never been so lovely before. She wore a nosegay at her throat, and in her belt just a few; she had the fine taste that never overloaded. She and Cousin Chilian used to walk up and down the fragrant paths after supper and no one fretted at them about the dew. Sometimes Rachel or Eunice would bring out a dainty scarf. And how many things they found to talk about. She loved to dwell on the times with her father, and it seemed as if she remembered a great deal more about her mother than she did at first, but she never imagined it was Cousin Chilian's memory that helped out hers.

She had enjoyed the school very much. There were no high up "isms" or "ologies" for girls in those days. She learned about her own country, for already there were some histories written, and the causes that led to the war. Some of the girls had grandmothers who had lived through those exciting years, and made the relation of incidents much more interesting than any dry written account that was mostly dates and names. What heroes they had been! And the old Mayflower story and John Alden, and others who were to inspire a poet's pen.

Then there was the dread story of the witchcraft that had led Salem astray. Cousin Chilian would never have it mentioned, and had taken away several books he did not want her to see. But the girls had gone to some of the old places, where witches had been taken from their homes and cast into jail, the Court House where they had been tried, and Gallows Hill, that most people shunned even now.

One rainy evening, after her lessons had been studied, Cynthia went downstairs. Rachel had been fomenting her face for the toothache and was lying down. Cousin Chilian had gone to a town-meeting, and the house seemed so still that she almost believed she might see the ghost or witch of the stories she had heard. No one was in the sitting-room, or the kitchen proper, but she heard voices in what was called the summer kitchen, a roughly constructed place with a stone chimney and a great swinging crane. Here they did much of the autumn work, for Elizabeth was quite a stickler for having a common place to save something nicer.

Mother Taft always smoked a pipe of tobacco in the evening. "It soothed her," she said, after her tussle of fixing her patient for the night, "and made her sleep better."

"And it's my opinion if Miss 'Lisbeth could just have a good smoke at night 'twould do her more good than the doctor's powders."

"Why, Cynthy!" Cousin Eunice exclaimed.

"I was lonesome. Rachel's gone to sleep, Cousin Eunice—were there such things as witches over a hundred years ago?"

Eunice glanced at Mother Taft. Witchcraft was a tabooed subject, yet it lingered in more than one imaginative mind, though few would confess a belief in it.

"Well, people may talk as they like, but there's many queer things in the world. Now there's that falling sickness, as they call it. Jabez Green has two children that roll on the floor, and froth at the mouth, and their eyes bulge most out of their heads. They're lacking, we all know. But when they come out of the fit they tell queer things that they saw, and I do suppose it was that way then. They do act as if they were bewitched."

We know this misfortune now as epilepsy, but medical science in the earlier century did not understand that, nor incipient insanity.

"It was very strange," said Eunice rather awesomely. "And Mr. Parris was a minister and a good man, yet it broke out in his family."

"But he had them slaves, and in their own land black people do awful things to each other. But it was strange; again, after his wife was accused, Governor Phipps ordered there should be no more punished and all set free, and then the thing stopped."

"And it wasn't real witchcraft?" said Cynthia.

"Well, I wouldn't undertake to say. There were witches in Bible times and they kept themselves mighty close, for they were not to be allowed to live. And Saul had a hard time getting anything out of the witch of Endor, you know, Miss Eunice."

Eunice nodded. They were trenching on forbidden ground.

"My grandmother believed in them and she was a good God-fearing woman, too. You see what made it worse for Salem was their sending so many here for trial from the places round. Grandfather lived way up above Topsfield, had a farm there and 'twas woods all around. No one troubled them then, but afterward—well, they'd cleared the woods and built a road and new houses were put up around, for some people were glad enough to get out of Salem. There was a woman named Martha Goodno, who had been in prison, and people were shy of her. Grandmother had two cows, and folks turned them out in the woods then. One of them went in Martha's garden, but she spied her out and drove her off before much damage was done. The fence had been broken down and she laid it to the cow, but people said it had been down for days. Well, something got the matter with the cow. She gave good rich milk and mother saved it for butter. But when she churned there came queer streaks in it that looked like blood. She doctored the cow, although it seemed well enough. One day a neighbor was in and the same thing happened. 'Throw some in the fire,' said the neighbor, 'and if you hear of any one being burned you'll know who is the witch.' So grandmother threw two dippers full in the fire and she said it made an awful smell. The rest she dumped out of doors, she wouldn't feed it to the pigs. About an hour afterward another neighbor came in. Grandmother made a salve that was splendid for burns and cuts. 'Mis' Denfield,' she says, 'won't you come over to Martha Goodno's and bring your pot of salve. She's burned herself dreadfully drawin' the coals out of the oven, set her dress on fire just at the waist.' So mother went over and found it was a pretty bad, sure enough burn, and she was groaning just fit to die. Mother spread a piece of linen and laid it on and left her some salve. 'What did I tell you?' says mother's neighbor, and they nodded their heads. But the queer thing was that after that the cow was all right and she never had any more trouble.

"After she was well she took a spite against another neighbor, who used to spin flax and sell the thread. Then her flax took to cutting up queer, and would break off, and turn yellow, and trouble her dreadfully. Mother was there one afternoon when it bothered so. 'Just throw a handful in the fire,' says mother. 'Fire's purifying;' and she did. They sent to mother again for salve, for Martha had scalded her right hand. Then the folks talked it over and a letter was written and tucked under her door, warning her to move, and the next-door man bought the place. I've heard grandmother tell this over—she lived to be ninety, and she was a good Christian woman, and she never added nor took away one iota. There, I oughtn't have told all this before the child; she's white as a ghost."

"You must go to bed this minute," exclaimed Eunice. "I'll go up with you."



CHAPTER XI

THE VOICE OF A ROSE

There were some marvellous ghost stories in those days, and haunted houses as well. The society of Psychical Research would have found many queer things if it had existed at that time. The sailors spun strange yarns over the power we call telepathy now. Many of the families had a retired captain or disabled first mate, or supercargo, who had seen mysterious appearances and heard warning voices. And it recalled to the little girl some of the stories she had heard in India that she pieced out of vague fragments. Maybe there were curious influences no one could explain.

Elizabeth improved a little. She had been moved from cot to bed, but now they packed her in a big chair and pushed her over to the window where she could see the vegetable garden and the chicken yard. They had not had very good luck at the hatching this season. The hens had missed Elizabeth's motherly care. She had trained them to an amusing habit of obedience, and the little chickens were her delight. Was she never to be out among them again?

One day Cynthia came up with two roses in a glass, most exquisite ones at that.

"Cousin Elizabeth," she began, "do you remember the little rosebush you put in my garden last summer? We thought it would die. It came out beautifully in the spring and these are the first roses that bloomed. I thought you ought to have them. Are you never going to get well enough to walk around the garden? Cousin Eunice has kept it so nice."

Elizabeth Leverett's heart was touched and she swallowed over a lump in her throat. She had taken up the rose from a place where it had been smothered with those of larger growth and given it to the child who had begged for "a garden of her very own." She had not supposed it would live. And that Cynthia should bring her the firstfruits!

"I'm obliged to you," she returned huskily. "They are very beautiful." And she wondered the child had not given them to Chilian.

"I wish you liked a few flowers every day," the little girl said wistfully.

"Well—I might;" reluctantly.

"They are so lovely. The world is so beautiful. It's very hard to be ill in summer, in winter one wouldn't mind it so much. But I am glad you can sit up."

Was it tears that Elizabeth winked away?

She had many serious thoughts through these months of helplessness. She had always measured everything by the strict line of duty, of usefulness. There was a virtue in enduring hardness as a good soldier, and the harder it was the more virtue it held in it. Her room was plain, almost to bareness. There had been a faded patchwork top quilt at first, until Mother Taft insisted upon having something nicer. But it had to be folded up carefully at sundown, when the likelihood of calls was over. And she did put one of the new rugs on the floor.

"That's beginning to go," Mrs. Taft said. "Some one will catch their foot in it and have a bad fall."

"It could be mended, I suppose."

"Yes. There's a new one needed in the kitchen. I'll sew it up for that. Land sakes! you've got enough in this house to last ten lifetimes!"

Friends came in to sit with her and brought their work. Sometimes she sewed a little, but drawing out her needle hurt her back after a while. She read her Bible and Baxter's "Saints' Rest" And she wondered a little what the other world would be like. She had never thought of heaven with joy—there was the judgment first. And now that she could begin to sit up it did prefigure recovery.

Most schools had kept open all the year round, but now the higher ones were giving a month's vacation. Altogether it had been a happy year to Cynthia. She had really been adored at school. Her frocks were admired, she let the girls curl her hair, usually she wore it tied in a bunch behind—not unlike the queue. Then she had some rings that she coaxed Rachel to let her wear, it was such a pleasure to lend them to the girls. She was learning what was considered necessary for a girl in those days; a good deal more with Cousin Chilian. She kept her love for the Latin and often read to him. She began to draw and paint flowers, she joined the dancing-class, which was a delight to her; but Chilian suggested she should not mention it to Elizabeth. She pirouetted up and down the path like a fairy, and he loved to watch her.

There had been parties among the girls, but he would rather not have her go, it was a bad thing for children to be up so late. She went to take tea now and then. The Turners were very fond of her and the Uphams wanted her once a week. She wondered if she might ever ask any one to tea.

Then they planned what they would do in this wonderful vacation. Go off for day's rides, take sails up and down, there were so many places. She was brimming over with joy.

Chilian was called up in the night by Mother Taft.

"She's had a stroke. And she seemed so smart yesterday. She even laughed over some school stories Cynthia told. That child's brought her flowers every morning, and she's softened so much to her. I really think she's been getting religion, as one may say, and being prepared."

Chilian heard the stertorous breathing. The eyes were half open and rolled up, her face was drawn. He took the hand. It was cold and heavy.

"I'll go for the doctor. I think the end has come."

Dr. Prescott said the same thing, adding with a slow turn of the head, "She will not last long."

What should he do with Cynthia? He remembered how careful her father had been to shield her. She must not see Elizabeth, she must not confront death in this awesome fashion.

When they came to breakfast he said:

"Cynthia, wouldn't you like to go in to Boston with me this morning?"

"Oh, it would be splendid!" She clapped her hands in delight.

"Well, Rachel must get you ready. We will take the stage. It goes early now."

Of course, she was full of excitement. It had been planned as one of the month's outings, but to take it as the first! Cousin Chilian was always thinking up such nice things.

"Oh," she cried, tying the big Leghorn hat down, making a great bow under her chin, "I must get my flowers for Cousin Elizabeth."

When she came in she would have flown upstairs, but Rachel stopped her.

"Miss Elizabeth is asleep. She had a bad spell in the night and the doctor doesn't want her disturbed. I'll take them."

"Oh!" She looked disappointed. "Tell her good-bye and that I was sorry not to come in and say it. And give her the flowers. I hope she will be better to-night."

What a great thing it was to go off in the stage! It was a fine morning with an easterly breeze. To be sure, the roads were dusty, but travellers were not so dainty in those days. Cynthia had a dust cloak of some thin material that shielded her white frock. There were three men and two women. They sat on the middle seat, two of the men on front with the driver, the other back with the ladies. Presently the driver blew a long toot on his horn and they came to a little town with a tavern, as they were called then, at its very entrance.

Two of the passengers left, one came in. The horses had a drink and on they went over hill and dale, through great farms, where there were not more than two or three houses in sight. The stage stopped for a man who gave a loud halloo, and he climbed in. Then the horn gave another loud signal.

So it went on. Some places were very pretty, great fields of corn waving in the sunshine, potatoes, stubble where grain had been cut, stretches of woodland, high, rather rough hills, then towns again. The sun went under a cloud, which made it pleasanter. The passengers changed now and then. One woman told her next neighbor "she was goin' in to Boston to shop, because things were cheaper now. She always went after the rush was over. There were cambrics, she heard, for one and ninepence, and cotton cloth home-made was so much cheaper than the imported, but you had to bleach it. And little traps that you couldn't get at a country store."

Cynthia was tired and sleepy when they reached their journey's end, which was Marlborough Street, where Cousin Giles had an office.

"Well! well! well!" he ejaculated in surprise. "Why, Miss Cynthia Leverett, I'm glad to see you. Have you come to town to shop?"

Chilian made a little sign. "She has a whole month's vacation and we are going to fill it up with journeys, taking Boston first."

"That's right. We shall have lots to show her. You'll hardly want to go back to Salem. It was a long warm ride, wasn't it? Chilian, take off her hat. Don't you want a drink?"

"I am thirsty," she admitted.

He fixed a glass of lemonade, and lemons were dear at that period—scarce, too. While she was sipping it, being refreshed in every pulse, the two men went down to the end of the room for a talk.

"She's dreadfully disfigured," Chilian said in a low tone. "And Elizabeth wasn't a bad-looking woman. The doctor thinks she can't live but a few days, her body is growing cold rapidly. I'd like to have the child out of it all. Death is a great shock and very mysterious to a child."

"Oh, I'll be glad to keep her, if she will stay content. I wish you could have brought that woman with you. Poor Elizabeth! How Eunice will miss her. Chilian, you've been like a son to those women. Women ought to marry and have children of their own, but children are not always kind. Yes. After you're rested we'll go home. I'm going to change my office, get nearer to the business centre, only this is so pleasant with a nice outlook."

"You ought to retire."

"Oh, what would I do? Like that Roman fellow, buy a farm? I don't know a bit about farming and don't want to. There's so much going on here."

Presently they returned to the little girl, who was quite refreshed, and then they went out, as it would be dinner-time presently. Cousin Giles lived in Cambridge Street in quite an imposing row, though it had no such spacious grounds as at Salem.

An immaculate black man opened the door and took the men's hats. "Ask Mrs. Stevens to come down," Cousin Giles said.

Mrs. Stevens seemed a great lady. Eudora Castleton's mother was like this, always looking as if she was dressed for a party. She had a pretty silk gown, with some ruffles about the bottom, short enough to show her clocked silk stockings. The waist was short also, the square neck filled in with lace, and great balloon sleeves—so large at the top they came almost up to her ears.

"This is the little girl who came from India, that I told you about, and who is going to be a great lady some day. When she gets older we'll have to have her down here to Boston, and give balls and parties for her, and pick out a fine lover for her; hey, Cynthia?"

Cynthia turned scarlet.

"I think you must be warm and tired with the long stage ride; wouldn't you like to come upstairs with me?"

Cynthia rose as Cousin Chilian looked approval, and followed up the stairway, where her feet sank in the carpet. There were several rooms, with the air blowing through delightfully, and there was fragrance everywhere from vases of flowers.

Mrs. Stevens took off her hat and inspected her. She was going to be a big heiress and a pretty girl in the bargain, piquant with a slightly foreign look, though perhaps it was more in her manner.

"Susan," she called to a girl sewing in the next room, "come and wash this little visitor's hands and face. She has come all the way from Salem this morning. I wish we had a fresh frock for you, but we have no little girls."

The voice was so soft and charming that Cynthia looked up with a kind of admiring smile.

Susan took off her frock, bathed her face and hands with some perfumed water, brushed out her hair, and said, "What lovely hair you have, and so much of it. A queen might envy you!"

The idea of a queen wanting anything she had! Oh, how nice and refreshed she felt.

Susan shook out the frock and put it on again, pulled out the sleeves, smoothed the wrinkled skirt, and took her in the next room.

"It rests one so much. Are you hungry? We shall have dinner in half an hour."

"Oh, no," Cynthia said. "And—and I am very much obliged to Susan."

"Come and sit here. Tell me how the aunties are—the one with the broken limb."

"I think she isn't so well. Yesterday she was so much improved. The doctor was there this morning."

"Poor lady! She has been ill a long while. And you are quite at home in Salem, I suppose? You had a long journey. Did you like India?"

"Father was there;" with a sweet, attractive simplicity. "And some of it was very beautiful. Oh, I almost froze the first winter here, but last winter I didn't mind. And the sleigh-riding was splendid."

"Are there many little girls to be friends with?"

"Oh, I go to a nice school. And we have so many funny plays and dancing once a week. I didn't tease about it, though I wanted to go, and Cousin Chilian said I might. It's queer, but in India they come and dance for you, and you pay them. But it is lovely to do it for yourself;" and she made some graceful motions with her hands, while her beautiful eyes were alight with emotion, as if she heard the music.

"Did you ever want to go back?"

"At first. But when I heard that father had gone away, he had meant to come to Salem, but——" she made a pause, "mother was there in India. Only the bodies, you know, the other part that thinks and feels is in heaven. He wanted mother so much. He used to talk about her. And now I am going to live in Salem with Cousin Chilian all my life long."

How simply sweet she was, with no self-consciousness.

Then they were summoned to dinner. The elegant black servant waited on them, and that suggested India again. They went out on a back porch and sat in the shade. Cousin Giles found an opportunity to explain the matter to Mrs. Stevens, and after that the men went out for a while.

Quite in the afternoon there were calls from stylishly-dressed ladies, and cake and cool drinks were brought in. Then Cousin Chilian told her that he would like her to stay all night and he would come in to-morrow.

She didn't want to a bit. "Why, I would be very quiet and not disturb Cousin Elizabeth," she said, with beseeching eyes.

"Will you not do it to please me?"

She choked down a great lump. "Oh, yes," she answered in a low tone, without looking up. But it seemed very queer to her to be left this way.

There was company in the evening—quite a party playing cards. She had a pretty story book to read until Susan came to put her to bed. And what a delightful little bed it was, like her little pallet at home, so much nicer than the big bed at Salem.

She would not show that she was homesick, for so many nice things were being done for her. A note came from Chilian—Cousin Elizabeth was very ill, and he hoped she would be content. Some clothes were sent for her, some of her very best ones, and she was glad to have them.

There were so many things to see in Boston, really much more than at Salem. They were putting up some fine public buildings. And there was Bunker Hill and Copp's Hill, and, down near the bay, Fort Hill. There seemed little rivers running all about and submerged lands.

There were many other entertainments and her days were full. Mrs. Stevens sent out some cards and seven or eight young girls came in and chatted quite like the grown-up ladies, asking her about Salem, and being not a little surprised that she had lived in India. They had a pretty sort of half tea, cakes and delicacies after the thin bread and butter, and a most delightful cool drink that seemed to have all flavors in it. One of the girls played on the spinet afterward. So she had her first party at Cousin Giles', instead of Salem.

Notes came from Cousin Chilian, and at last the welcome news that he was coming down for her.

She had come to like Cousin Giles very much. He was so different from Chilian—breezy and rather teasing—and, oh, what would Cousin Elizabeth have said to his fashion of getting things about, putting papers or books on chairs, mislaying his glasses and his gloves, and she would think the fine furniture, and the servants, and the little feasts awfully extravagant.

Poor Elizabeth! She had never come back to consciousness. She had shrunk intensely from the last moment when she would have to face death and the judgment, though she had been striving all her life to prepare for it. But God had mercifully spared her that, the two worlds had touched and merged with each other and left her to God.

There had been a quiet funeral, though it was well attended, but the coffin was closed and a pall thrown over it, for the poor face had never recovered its natural look.

All this was softened to Cynthia, as she sat with Cousin Chilian's arm about her. She had the sweet remembrance of that last day, and the smile that somehow had made the wrinkled face pretty. It had been thoughtful and tender in Cousin Chilian to spare her the rest.

They went over to Cambridge and he took her through the place that was to be so much grander before she was done with life. And here was the house where he had lived through the week, going home to spend Sundays, for his father was alive then. And he told her stories about old Boston, some quaintly funny, but she was rather proud that Salem had been the first capital of the State.

"I've had such a nice time," she said with her adieu. "Every day has been full of pleasure. I thank you both very much."

She was to come again, and again, they rejoined cordially.

"What a nice child!" Cousin Giles said. "She doesn't seem to consider what an heiress she is. And she's enough like Chilian to be his own child. He always had that dainty way with him, like a woman, and everything must be fine and nice, yet he never was ostentatious. She'll make a charming young woman. I wish I could persuade Chilian to come to Boston."

Chilian had driven in with the carriage. There had been a shower in the night and the travelling was delightful. He had missed his little girl so much, yet he knew it had been better to save her the poignancy of the sad occurrence. So her father had thought in his trusting appeal.



CHAPTER XII

CHANGES IN THE OLD HOUSE

There was not as much change in household affairs as Cynthia supposed there would be. Elizabeth had been laid by so long that her place at the table had been filled by Eunice. Indeed, the former had an unfortunate habit of running out in the kitchen to see to something, then returning, pouring a cup of tea, passing some article of food, then disappearing again. It had grown on her, the belief that she must be everywhere or something would go wrong. It did annoy Chilian. And no one hustled up the dishes when you had eaten the last crumb of cake. He liked to linger over the table.

Eunice was very glad to see her. Rachel took her wrap and her parcel upstairs, for supper had been waiting. Eunice poured the tea, Rachel passed the eatables, and they were both eager to hear how it had fared with the little girl.

"It's been just splendid! Mrs. Stevens is—well, she is grand, and, oh, you ought to see the beautiful gowns she wears; but she doesn't hold you way off. You can come up close and lean on her shoulder or her lap. They were both so good. And, look! Cousin Giles would buy me these two rings;" and she held up her hand laughingly. "And an elegant necklace. I told him there were so many things here that were my mother's, but he wouldn't mind. And slippers! There's white, and a kind of gray, and a bronze, and a red pair. The little girls wear them when they come from school and go out to companies. Oh, Cousin Chilian, doesn't any one play on the spinet? I'd like to learn."

"It's very old. It was mother's. I think we must have a new one. And you can learn."

"Oh, I shall be so glad."

Mrs. Taft was out in the kitchen. "Now you all go your ways," she began. "'Taint nothing to clear off the supper table."

They sat out on the front porch. But through the talk Cynthia kept thinking of poor Cousin Elizabeth and feeling sorry she had not enjoyed more of the pleasures of life. Was there so much real virtue in making life hard and cold? But there were some girls in school who were very much afraid of dancing and reading story-books.

Truth to tell, as Chilian listened, he came to experience a queer feeling—he would have scouted the idea of jealousy about Cousin Giles, but that he should have devoted himself so much to her and taken her about, wanted to buy trinkets for her and all that! There was still a week of vacation left. They would go somewhere to-morrow.

He had asked Mrs. Taft to stay with them.

"Well, I can't exactly promise. You see, I like to 'wrastle' with things and fight off the worst. Though I hadn't much hope of 'Lisbeth when the doctor said her spine was hurt. That's a kind of queer hidden thing that even doctors can't see into. And the poor creature suffered a good deal. My, but she was spunky and was bound not to die, and I fought for her all I could. But the last few weeks there was a change. She liked Cynthy to come in with the posies and say something bright. And now it's all done and over, and she was a good upright woman in the old-fashioned way. So I'll stay a spell till Miss Eunice gets used to the change, and when I see another good fight somewhere, you mustn't have hard feelings if I go."

They went out the next morning and found a boat going up to Plum Island. It was like going to sea to go around Rockport Point. Captain Green declared "he wan't much on passengers, but he had a nice cabin and an awning on the for'ard deck, and there was a woman and some children whose husband living up there had bespoke passage."

It was a fine day with the right sort of wind. Oh, how splendid it was as they went out oceanward. She had been on the water such a very little since her long voyage.

Mrs. Halcom had three children and a baby. She was a plain, commonplace body, who had been living up to North Salem, but her folks were Newburyport people and she should be glad to get in sight and sound of them once again. Chilian had brought a book along, Ben Johnson's Plays, and now and then he met with such a charming line or two he must read it to her. There were some new poets coming to the fore as well, but he knew most of the older ones. Oh, he must get back his youth for her sake. Cousin Giles was ever so much older.

She was interested in the ship as well and talked to Captain Green. He had so many funny nautical terms, provincialisms, that she had to inquire what some of the words meant. For most of the early people of New England had not dropped into the careless modes of speech that were to come later on and be adopted as a sort of patois. They read their Bibles a good deal and the older divines, and if their speech was a little stilted it had a certain correctness. Then Chilian Leverett was rather fastidious in this respect.

The wind filled the sails and they skimmed along merrily. Now the sea was green and so clear you could see the fish disporting themselves. Then the sun tinted it with gold and threw up diamond, amethyst, and emeralds, taunting one with treasures.

There are new names along the coast, though a few of the old ones remain. They passed Gloucester, Thatcher's Island, rounded Rockport, where in the inside harbor they had to unload part of their cargo. Then on to Plum Island, where the rest were set ashore and the woman and her children. Some few things were taken on board, but they were to stop at Gloucester, going down for the return cargo.

They walked about a little and bought some ripe, luscious dewberries and fruit.

"How queer it would be to live on an island and have to take your boat when you went anywhere," and Cynthia laughed gayly.

"People do, farther up. There are a great many islands on the coast of Maine, and fishermen are living on them."

"And in Boston Harbor Cousin Giles took us out. It's funny that they don't float off. Do they go 'way down to the bottom of the sea?"

"I think they must. Sometimes one does disappear."

"Suppose you were living on it. And you saw the water coming up all around you and you couldn't get away——"

Her eyes filled with a kind of terror.

"Oh, you would have some boats."

"But if it happened in the night?"

"We won't go and live on an island," he said with a smile.

It was rougher going back, but not bad enough to cause any alarm. The wind had died down, but the swells were coming in. They stopped at Gloucester and took on some boxes and great planks, and several pieces of furniture.

"There's enough old truck in Salem now," declared Captain Green ungraciously. "'F I had my way I'd turn it out on the Common and put a match to it. Now there's the Hibbins—came over in 1680 and brought their housen goods. There wan't any way of makin' 'em then but just outen rough logs. An' now the old granma'am's died and 'twas her mother's, I b'lieve, and Mis' Hibbins she's just gone crazy over it. And they're buildin' a fine new house. Strange how Salem's buildin' up! Those East Ingy traders do make lots of money. But before I'd have that old truck in my nice new house!" And the captain gave a snort of disdain.

He did not dream that before another hundred years had passed there would be comparative fortunes made in the old truck.

"We'll be a little late gettin' in, but there'll be a moon. Lucky wind ain't dead agin us."

How good the supper tasted, for Cynthia was very hungry. And then they went on and on, hugging the shore, the captain said, until it was a kind of shadowy waving blur, but on the other side most beautiful. It made her think of coming from India, but she was glad to see the vague outline of the shore.

The captain was much surprised that she had been such a traveller. He had been to New York and all around Long Island, and up as far as Nova Scotia. The Bay of Fundy was wonderful, with its strange dangerous tides.

"We will go there another summer," Chilian said, holding her hand, and she returned the soft pressure.

"I was 'most afraid something had happened." Eunice had gone down the street to meet them. "But it's clear as a bell and no wind to speak of, and the captains of the coasting vessels know every inch of the way."

"Only just lovely things happened. It's been splendid. But I'm hungry again. Can't I have a second supper?"

How different she looked from the little girl who had come to him for care and friendship. And he had been rather unwilling to accept her. She was growing tall, and—yes, really pretty.

They had one more excursion to Winter Island. Why, it seemed as if they were building ships enough for the whole world. And there were the fisheries, and the curious musical singing, not really words, but sort of detached sounds that floated off in a weird kind of way.

After that school again. She was glad to see the girls, and Madam Torrey gave her a warm welcome, saying, "Why, Miss Cynthia, how tall you have grown!"

"I'm very glad," she said smilingly. "All the Leveretts are tall, but I don't ever want to be very large."

"And she had really been to Boston! Was it so much handsomer than Salem? They had a real theatre, and parties, and balls. Sadie Adams' big sister was going to spend the whole winter there."

Chilian Leverett decided to alter his house a little. The two rooms at the back had always seemed crowded up, though Elizabeth preferred a separate one so long as they connected. But he had the memory of the poor drawn face, as he had seen it the morning of her seizure. Wouldn't Eunice recall it as well?

"I think I will make some alterations," he announced to her. "I'll push that upstairs room out over the summer kitchen and make it a good deal larger. While they are doing it, Eunice, you had better go over the other side and let Mrs. Taft take your room."

She assented, though she thought the house and the rooms were large enough for the few people in it. Cynthia was interested in her studies, and the girls, and the new books coming in. For now Sir Walter Scott was having a great hearing, and there were some new poets.

It was not expected that people would be at all gay when there had been a death in the family, so Cynthia felt compelled to decline her few invitations. The new room was finished and made much brighter with the two added windows. The walls were painted a soft gray, with a warm tint. There were yards and yards of new rag carpet up in the garret, sewed in bagging to keep out moths. Of course, it might as well be used. The old bedstead was taken out and though the one substituted was quite as old, it was very much prettier, with its carved posts and the tester frame from which depended white curtains. Some of the other furniture was changed and it made a very pretty room, so Eunice came back to it very much pleased, though not quite sure so much comeliness was best for the soul.

At Christmas Chilian took the little girl down to Boston on a special invitation. There were two visitors a little older than herself, one whose father was a representative from the State, the other from New York.

Washington was not much thought of in those days. Other cities had yielded their claims unwillingly, and there had been much talk of its being set in a morass. Mrs. President Adams had described her infelicities very graphically. The rooms were not finished, and she took one of the parlors for an adjunct to the laundry to dry the wash in. New York considered itself the great head for fashion and gayety, Boston for education and refinement, and she too, had quite an extensive port trade.

But Giles Leverett thought the little girl from Salem was quite as pretty and well bred as Boston girls, and really she never seemed at loss now, and was seldom overtaken with a fit of shyness. They had a gay, happy time, with a regular dancing party, which filled Cynthia with the utmost delight.

And though the winter seemed cold and bleak spring came again, as it always does. Mrs. Taft had gone away to another bad case. Eunice and Miss Winn kept the house. There had been quite an entertaining episode with Miss Winn. A very prosperous man, who lived up on the North side, and had a fine house and five children, asked her to be his wife, thinking she would make such an excellent mother for girls. It was supposed at that time that no woman could refuse a good offer of marriage.

"Consider it well," said Mr. Leverett. "I don't know how we could give you up, and, of course, you could not take Cynthia. Her father made a generous provision for you, and I think he chose wisely for his child. But——"

"I don't know that I want to begin over again," and she gave a peculiar smile. "Five seems quite an undertaking when you have had only one. And you have taken so much the charge of her."

"But you see, now she will need a woman's guidance more than ever. She has outgrown childhood. I see the change in her every day. Eunice could not supervise her clothes and her pleasures, times have changed so much. I want her to be very happy and have a life like other girls——"

She thought she could give up the prospect good as it was, won by that persuasive voice. And she had come to really love Miss Eunice, who was blossoming in a new phase now that there was nothing to restrain her natural sweetness.

"I promised her father to do the best I could for her. I love her very much. I enjoy the home here. I do not think I could be any happier. And I am so used to owning myself that I do not feel disposed to give up my liberty. If I had no prospect, I might consider it. And Cynthia will need some one as she grows older to see that she makes the right sort of acquaintances and guide her a little."

"Then since all is agreeable we can count on your staying. You cannot imagine my own thankfulness;" and he pressed her hand cordially.

"Isn't it funny!" cried Cynthia. "Why, Margaret Plummer goes to Madam Torrey's, but she is very—well, I don't know just how to describe it, only she said once that they would all make the house too hot to hold a step-mother. And, oh, dear Rachel, I couldn't bear to have anybody ugly to you. And then you know we couldn't give you up. Cousin Chilian said so, and Miss Eunice cried."

Miss Winn winked some tears out of her eyes, though she tried to smile. It was very comforting to a woman without kith or kin to feel so welcome in a household.

Cynthia was sitting on the step of the porch one May night when the moon was making shifting shadows through the trees and silvering the paths. Chilian was studying the face, and wondering a little what was flitting through the brain that now and then gave it such intentness.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Oh, Cousin Chilian!" She flushed a lovely, rosy glow. "Building an air castle."

"Is it very airy? So far that it would be a journey for another person to reach it?"

"Oh, part of it is near by. The other is what could be, maybe;" wistfully.

"Can't I hear about it?"

"Cousin Chilian, why are the parlors always shut up, and why don't you have people coming and going, and saying bright things, and talking about the improvements and—and Napoleon and the wars in Europe, and the new streets and houses, and, oh, ever so many things?"

He looked at the tightly closed shutters. In his father's time there were visitors, discussions, playing at whist and loo, and little suppers. She wouldn't care for that, of course. Yet he remembered that she had been interested in the talks at Boston.

"Why, yes; the rooms could be opened. Only we have grown so at home in the sitting-room, and you and I in the study."

"At the Dearborns' they keep the house all open and lighted up, as they do in Boston. And they ask in young people and have plays, and charades, and funny conundrums——"

Oh, she was young and should have this kind of life. How should he set about it? He must ask Miss Winn. But he ventured rather timidly, for a man.

"Would you like—well, some girls in to tea? They ask you so often. And there is no reason why we should all be hermits."

She sprang up and clasped her arms about his neck.

"Oh, I just should. At first when Cousin Elizabeth went away, and the lessons were difficult, and it was winter, but now everything seems so joyous——"

"Why, yes; we must talk to Miss Winn about it, Cynthia," and his voice dropped to a tender inflection. "I want you to feel this is your home and you must have all the joy and pleasures of youth. You need never be afraid. I've been a rather dull old fellow——"

"Oh, you're not old. You're not as old as Cousin Giles, and ever so much handsomer. The girls at school think," she flushed and paused, "that you were so good to get me the pony and the pretty wagon." She was going to say something much more flattering, but delicacy stopped her.

"My dear," he said gravely, "I was glad to make you the gift, but I want you to know that there is a considerable sum of money of your own, and your father wished you to enjoy it. Whatever you want and is proper for you to have, I shall be glad to get, and to do. For I have no little girl but you."

"Would it be wicked and selfish if I said I was glad?"

The arms tightened a little. How soft they were! And her hair brushed his cheek. It always seemed to have a delicate subtle perfume.

"No, dear. You and I are curiously alone in the world. I haven't a first cousin, neither have you."

"And a whole houseful of folks is so nice," she said wistfully.

He had been very well content with his books and his college friends. But women were different, at least—those who shut out everybody narrowed their lives fearfully.

"We will try and have some."

"And you must like it. If you do not, the greatest pleasure will be taken out of it for me."

"I shall like it;" encouragingly.

"How good you are to me. Father said I must love you and obey you, for you would know what would be best for me."

Then they sat in silence, the contentment of affection.

He spoke to Miss Winn the next day. Afterward they went into the parlor and opened the shutters. It was stately, grand, and gloomy.

Before Anthony Leverett had thought of sending his little girl to his care he had forwarded to Chilian a gift "for old remembrance' sake," he said, of a very handsome Oriental rug. Floors of the "best rooms" had been polished until you could see your shadow in them. Chilian did not like the noise or the continual trouble. So he laid down the rug and bought one for the other room. But the heavy curtains, with their silken linings, staid up year after year. He noticed those at Giles' house were much lighter and in soft colors. And his furniture was not so massive.

"I wish we could change things a little. That old sofa might go up in the new room. It was grand enough in my father's time, with its borders of brass-headed tacks, and its flat, hard seat. Two of these chairs might come up in my room."

"I wish we could find a place for the lovely sort of cabinet that Cynthia's father sent over. I keep it covered from dust and scratches. She will be glad to have it when she has a house of her own."

"One of the rooms ought to be hers—well, both," he added reflectively.

"The rugs are elegant. Yes, lighter curtains would change it a good deal. How very handsome the mantels are with all their carving."

They would have adorned a modern house. They went nearly up to the ceiling with small shelves and nooks, on which were vases and ornaments such as bring fortunes now.

"And—about the party?"

"Oh, that will be only a girls' tea—her schoolmates where she has been. Next year will be time enough for the party;" with a little laugh.

So the two spacious rooms were quite remodelled and modernized, and the gloomy appearance was a thing of the past. Why shouldn't he spend his money on her? There was no one else.

He had not lost sight of Anthony Drayton. The father had been exigent. Anthony, being the eldest, must take the farm when he was done with it. The lad had worked his time out. Cousin Chilian had offered him enough to take him to a preparatory school where he would be fitted for college. He had come in to Boston and Chilian had been attracted to the manly young fellow.

Cynthia was more than delighted with the privilege of the tea party.

"Some of the girls have brothers, but I don't know them very well. I like Bentley, but he is away at school. And I'd rather have just girls."

Her admiration of the parlor knew no bounds, and it gratified him.

She had been taking lessons on the spinet, but the painting was a great rival. And this was old, thin, and creaky.

"I have found a much better one in Boston, and the dealer wants this because it was made in London in 1680. How strenuous some people are over old things. It has no special interest that I know of, and is comparatively useless."

The new ones were really the beginning of pianofortes and this one was very sweet in tone.

Chilian had been very greatly interested in the changes. He began to cultivate his neighbors a little more. Indeed improvements were taking place in the town. New streets were laid out, old ones straightened, fine new houses built. There seemed a sudden outburst of commercial grandeur. Furnishings of the richest sort were eagerly caught up by the shoppers, who did not think it necessary to go to Boston and buy goods that had come in port here. Many of the old wooden houses were replaced with brick, and the beautiful doorways, windows, roofs, and porches still attract craftsmen and architects from different sections of the country, while illustrators find rich material in old Colonial doorways.

Miss Winn consulted Mrs. Upham as to what was proper for a girls' tea.

"Miss Cynthia is old enough now to begin with friends in a simple manner. The family have lived so quietly that I have not gained much experience in such matters, and Miss Eunice doesn't feel equal to managing it. Of course, Miss Cynthia is quite an heiress and will go in with the best people."

"As the Leveretts always have. There's been many a cap set for Chilian Leverett and it's been a wonder to every one that he hasn't married. But there's time enough yet."

She came over and admired the parlors without stint.

"You see," she said confidentially, "Miss Elizabeth was no hand for company. Some of the older people did the same, shut up the best rooms lest they should get faded, or something scratched, or worn. And I suppose he kept giving in; then there was his going in to college, and that's a sort of man's life. I'm glad he has had something to stir him up. He has been to several town-meetings. They are talking up improvements. It's a fine thing to have so many vessels flying Salem flags in different ports; nigh on to two hundred registered, husband said. But I told him there ought to be some home interest as well. We must not let Boston get so far ahead of us, nor forget the young people are to be the next generation."

"And young people want some pleasure. I do not see how they stood so much of the gloomy side twenty years ago. I was that surprised when I first came here."

"Well, there had been a good many things, and all that witchcraft business. Puritan ways grew sterner and sterner. I can't say that people were really the better for it, in my way of thinking, and the Saviour talked a good deal about loving and helping people. He didn't stop to make them subscribe to all sorts of hard things before he worked a miracle. But we were going to talk about the tea."

"Yes; about what time now? I want Cynthia to have it just right and proper;" laughing.

"They come—we'll say about four. They will want to run around and see things, and I'd have supper about five and they'll sit over it, and talk, and laugh. Suppose I send my 'Mimy over to pass things and wait. You would not want Miss Eunice to do it, and you will have other things on your hands."

"Oh, thank you. You are very kind about it."

"Well, I've had a girl to grow up and be married, and Polly's to leave school this summer, and next winter she will be setting up for a young lady. Little cookies and spicenuts are nice and two kinds of cake. You never give them real tea, you know, though it's called a tea party. And some cold chicken, or sliced ham. I'd spread the plates of bread, it's so much less trouble. They'll be sure to enjoy everything. A lot of girls always do have a good time."



CHAPTER XIII

A TASTE OF PLEASURE

Cynthia was full of joy, running down to the gate to meet and greet guests. They came in groups of twos and threes, having called for each other. There were fifteen in all—the girls she knew best, who were nearest her own age, and at most of the houses she had been made a welcome guest. Indeed, more than one mother was glad to have her daughter good friends with Miss Cynthia Leverett, who was to be a rich young woman, and whose trustee in Boston lived in fine style.

Yet it was not exactly that money was so much thought of either, though it was always esteemed an excellent thing. Somehow it was rather relegated to the men. A father had an idea that his daughters would marry well, so business opportunities, and often the homestead, went to the sons. Here was an undivided fortune. And now it was hardly likely Chilian Leverett would marry, so she might come in for that.

The house had always been considered rather gloomy, as even on state occasions not much light was allowed in the parlors. Some of the girls had been gently advised to notice if there had been changes made.

Cynthia led them upstairs to take off their things. They were rather particular about complexions in those days. Some of the summer hats were really ornate sunbonnets, others were the great poke shape with a big bow on top and wide strings that were allowed to float on a hot day, so as not to get crushed by the warmth under the chin. They had long muslin sleeves to pull over their arms, indeed some of them were finished with mittens, so that the hands might not get tanned.

The girls wore rather scant straight skirts, tucked up to the waist, or with needlework at the bottom, or two or three tiny ruffles. The stockings were not always white, oftener they matched the color of the slippers that were laced across the instep. The necks were cut square, often finished with a lace berthe. Some old families have handed these down and kept them laid away in rose leaves and lavender, and they are so sweet that when they are shaken out they perfume the room.

Cynthia wore a white gauzy frock made over blue silk that was soft as a pansy leaf. It had blue satin stripes and she was very glad she had the pretty blue slippers to match. Then almost every girl had a coral necklace, or was allowed to wear grandmother's gold beads. Some had their hair tied up high on their heads with a great bow, and maybe the family silver or gold comb put in artistically. Chilian liked the little girl's to hang loose, and now it was down to her waist.

It was said the Holland wives of centuries ago took their visitors through their wardrobes and displayed their silk and velvet gowns. And when England passed some sumptuary laws that no one below titled rank should wear silk, the good wives of traders lined theirs with silk and hung them up in grand array to gratify their visitors or themselves.

"You have so many lovely things," said a girl enviously. "I haven't but one silk frock, and that was Mary's until she outgrew it. And mother's so choice of it; she thinks it ought to last and go to Ruth."

"Why, you see, so many things came from India," apologized Cynthia, almost ashamed of having so much. "And there's a boxful upstairs, but I think I like the white muslins best, they look so pretty when they are clean, and you don't have to be so careful."

"Do you ever get scolded when accidents happen?"

"Well, not much. Cousin Eunice is so sweet. Cousin Elizabeth was more particular."

"And Miss Winn?"

"Oh, my dear Rachel loves me too much," the child said laughingly.

There were so many odd and pretty things that they staid up until all the girls had come—not one of them declined. Then they went down to the parlors.

"Cousin Chilian said this back room was to be mine. That lovely desk and the cabinet were my own mother's. And the table is teakwood. The chair father had carved for me, and that big portrait is father. This case has miniatures of them both, but it is too big ever to wear."

"What a pity!"

It was a beautifully engraved gold case, set with jewels.

"Well, you are a lucky girl! And you can have all these yourself. You just don't have to share them with anybody. Is the room truly yours?"

"Why, it is to put my things in, but anybody can come in it, and we can go in the other room. Most of those articles were Cousin Chilian's father's and mother's, and the great clock in the hall came over in 1640. It's funny;" and she laughed. "Old furniture and quilts and things never get cross and queer as folks sometimes do."

"Well, they're not really alive."

"And they last so much longer than folks."

They had not inspected all the things when Miss Winn invited them out to supper. She took the head of the table, and began to talk so that they should not feel embarrassed. The lovely old china was on the table, and two vases of flowers that looked as if they were set with gems. 'Mimy passed the plates of bread and butter and cold meats and cottage cheese, and after a little they all began to talk as if it was recess at school.

Mr. Chilian Leverett passed through the sitting-room and thought it was really an enchanting sight, and that Cynthia was the prettiest girl of them all.

People had not thought up ice cream in those days, but they made lovely custards, baked in cups with handles, and a tiny spoon to eat them with. They were the last of the tea.

Then they went into the front parlor, which was the larger and played fox and geese, and blind-man's buff in a ring. Oh, Elizabeth, it was enough to disturb your rest to have those merry feet twinkle over the beautiful rug, when you scarcely dared walk tiptoe for fear of crushing the soft pile. But they had a grand, good time.

Then Mr. Leverett brought in Cousin Eunice, who had a bit of white at her neck and wrists, and a lavender bow on her cap. She had protested against the bow, but Miss Winn had carried her point.

Mr. Leverett set them to doing some amusing things he had resurrected from his own boyhood. Catches on words, such as "Malaga grapes are very good grapes, but the grapes of Oporto are better." And then, "A hen, a hen, but not a rooster. Can you say that?" They were greatly puzzled and looked at Cynthia, who was silently smiling, saying it over in every manner, until at last one girl almost shrieked out, "That," and there was a chorus of laughter.

At nine o'clock they were bidden to come home. Some of them were sent for and those who lived near together went in a group. Ben Upham came for his sisters.

"I don't see why they couldn't have had boys," said Ben to Polly. "Ever so many of us would have been glad to come."

"Well, we didn't have any real boys' plays. But the supper was elegant. And 'Mimy waited so nicely. Cynthia's going to have the back parlor for hers, and Mr. Leverett has bought a new spinet. And she has the most beautiful things——"

"Oh, yes, I've seen those;" rather impatiently.

"And Mr. Leverett's just splendid!"

"I always told you so;" somewhat grumpily. "But I'd rather be up in the study with him and Cynthy than to go to half a dozen parties."

"Oh, we weren't in the study at all."

"No, that isn't for girls." So he had scored one, after all.

It was the general verdict when the tea party was talked over that Cynthia Leverett was in a fair way of being spoiled. A man didn't know how to bring up a girl, and, of course, Miss Winn let her have her own way. Miss Eunice had given in to her sister so long that she gave in to every one else.

Friends went to call and found the children had not exaggerated. Now and then a neighbor was asked in to supper, and found Cynthia a nice, modest girl, with no airs of superiority.

They had some journeys about. They went up to the bay of Fundy and cruised around, chatting with fishermen and French settlers in their odd costumes, looked at their funny little huts, and were amazed at the children rolling round in the sand and the sun. Cousin Chilian talked to them, but their language was a sort of patois difficult to understand.

After that Cynthia was much interested in the French and English war. And the whole country was watching the Corsican who had made himself master of half of Europe.

"It is a wonderful world," Cynthia said when they were safe in the study again. "And I wonder if it is narrow and selfish to be glad that you are just you?"

He was amused at the idea. But he couldn't recall that he had ever been anxious to change with any one.

"And that you are just you. I couldn't like any one else as well, not even Cousin Giles, and I do like him very much."

Chilian felt a rise of color stealing up his cheek. The preference was sweet, for Cousin Giles was extremely indulgent to her, and he was not a child enthusiast either.

In those days no one supposed parents and friends were put in the world purposely for children's pleasure. They didn't even consider they came for their pleasure. It was right to have them, they were to be the future men and women, workers, legislators, and homemakers. They didn't always have easy times, nor their own way, and they were not thought to be wiser than their parents, even in the choice of professions for life. But there were many fine brave fellows among the boys, and the girls went on, making pretty good wives and mothers. If life did not bring them just what they wished, they accepted it and did the best they could.

Anthony Drayton came to make Cousin Chilian a visit and pass an examination for Harvard. With a little help he had worked his way through the academy. He was one of the brave, resolute boys, and, though it grieved him to go against his father's wishes, he had decided for himself.

"I really could not bury myself on a farm," he confessed. "I want a wider life, I want to mix with men and take an interest in the country. Not that I despise farming, and if one could branch out and do many new things, but to keep on year after year in the old rut, corn and potatoes, wheat and rye—just as grandfather did. What is the use of a man living if he can't strike out some new ways? Maybe I'd been willing to go to the new countries, but father was just as opposed to that."

He was a fresh, fair lad, with eyes of the Leverett blue, a strong, fine face, not delicate as Cousin Chilian's. His hair was not very dark, but his brows well defined, and with the eyelashes much darker than the hair. His voice had such a cheerful uplift.

"You have quite decided then?" Chilian wondered if he could ever have gone against his father's wishes, but in that case father and son had similar tastes.

"Oh, yes; I've nothing farther to look for, and I'm willing to leave my share to the other children. I know I can make my way, and I'm ready to work and wait."

His voice had such a nice wholesome ring that it inspired you with faith in him.

Cousin Eunice took a great fancy to him. They talked over the visit of years ago. It seemed to her as if it had just been the beginning of things.

One sister was grown up and "keeping company," the other a nice handy girl. The next brother would be a great help—he cared nothing for books. Both of the Brent cousins were married, one living on the farm with his mother, the other having struck out for himself. And Miss Eliza Leverett was weakly. Like many women of that period, when all hope of marrying and having a home of her own was past, she sank down into a gentle nonentity and dreamed of Cousin Chilian. Not that she had expected to captivate him, but life with some one like that would set one on the highest pinnacle.

He thought Cousin Cynthia—they were always cousins, to the fourth generation—was the sweetest, daintiest, and most winsome thing he had ever seen—and so she was, for his acquaintance with girls had been limited. They looked over the old treasures in the house and thought it wonderful any one should ever go to India and return without being wrecked. They walked about the lovely garden, and he was amazed at her familiarity with flowers and plants he had never seen.

Then she took him over to the Uphams, for an old friend came in to play checkers with Cousin Chilian. Polly was bright and merry, but somehow Ben seemed rather captious. Anthony listened with surprise at the bright sayings they flung at one another.

The next day he and Cousin Chilian went over topics for examination. His reading had not been extensive but thorough. In mathematics he was excellent. But he found some time to chat with Cynthia, and they both walked down to the warehouse with Cousin Chilian.

What a sight it was! He had read of such things, but to see the hundreds of busy men, the great fleet of vessels, the docks piled with all kinds of wares, the boxes and bales lying round in endless confusion. And the great ocean, lost over beyond in the far-off sky.

When the two had gone up to Boston, Cynthia felt very lonely. She had been sipping the sweets of unspoken admiration. She saw it in the eyes, in the deference, as if he was almost afraid of her, in the sudden flush when she turned her eyes to him. It was a new kind of worship.

She went over to the Uphams. Polly had been having her sampler framed. The acorn border was very pretty in its greens and browns. Then a stiff little tree grew up both sides, about like those that came in the Noah's Ark later on. And between these two trees was worked in cross-stitch: