There was no complaint, it is true, no audible longing for lost treasures. There was only the unwonted joy of pouring into sympathetic ears the story of things loved and lost—things the very mention of which brought sweet faint echoes of voices long since silent.

"There, there," broke off the little old woman at last, "how I am runnin' on! But, somehow, somethin' set me to talkin' ter-day. Mebbe't was that chair that's like yer father's," she hazarded.

"Maybe it was," agreed Mrs. John quietly, as she rose to her feet.

The new house came on apace. In a wonderfully short time John Burton began to urge his wife to see about rugs and hangings. It was then that Mrs. John called him to one side and said a few hurried but very earnest words—words that made the Honorable John open wide his eyes.

"But, Edith," he remonstrated, "are you crazy? It simply couldn't be done! The things are scattered over half a dozen townships; besides, I haven't the least idea where the auctioneer's list is—if I saved it at all."

"Never mind, dear; I may try, surely," begged Mrs. John. And her husband laughed and reached for his check-book.

"Try? Of course you may try! And here's this by way of wishing you good luck," he finished, as he handed her an oblong bit of paper that would go far toward smoothing the most difficult of ways.

"You dear!" cried Mrs. John. "And now I'm going to work."

It was at about this time that Mrs. John went away. The children were at college and boarding-school; John was absorbed in business and house- building, and Grandpa and Grandma Burton were contented and well cared for. There really seemed to be no reason why Mrs. John should not go away, if she wished—and she apparently did wish. It was at about this time, too, that certain Vermont villages—one of which was the Honorable John Burton's birthplace—were stirred to sudden interest and action. A persistent, smiling-faced woman had dropped into their midst—a woman who drove from house to house, and who, in every case, left behind her a sworn ally and friend, pledged to serve her cause.

Little by little, in an unused room in the village hotel there began to accumulate a motley collection—a clock, a marble-topped table, a cradle, a patchwork quilt, a bureau, a hair wreath, a chair worn with age and use. And as this collection grew in size and fame, only that family which could not add to it counted itself abused and unfortunate, so great was the spell that the persistent, smiling-faced woman had cast about her.

Just before the Burton house was finished Mrs. John came back to town. She had to hurry a little about the last of the decorations and furnishings to make up for lost time; but there came a day when the place was pronounced ready for occupancy.

It was then that Mrs. John hurried into Grandpa and Grandma Burton's rooms at the hotel.

"Come, dears," she said gayly. "The house is all ready, and we're going home."

"Done? So soon?" faltered Grandma Burton, who had not been told very much concerning the new home's progress. "Why, how quick they have built it!"

There was a note of regret in the tremulous old voice, but Mrs. John did not seem to notice. The old man, too, rose from his chair with a long sigh—and again Mrs. John did not seem to notice.

* * * * *

"Yes, dearie, yes, it's all very nice and fine," said Grandma Burton wearily, half an hour later as she trudged through the sumptuous parlors and halls of the new house; "but, if you don't mind, I guess I'll go to my room, daughter. I'm tired—turrible tired."

Up the stairs and along the hall trailed the little procession—Mrs. John, John, the bent old man, and the little old woman. At the end of the hall Mrs. John paused a moment, then flung the door wide open.

There was a gasp and a quick step forward; then came the sudden illumination of two wrinkled old faces.

"John! Edith!"—it was a cry of mingled joy and wonder.

There was no reply. Mrs. John had closed the door and left them there with their treasures.



For Jimmy



Uncle Zeke's pipe had gone out—sure sign that Uncle Zeke's mind was not at rest. For five minutes the old man had occupied in frowning silence the other of my veranda rocking-chairs. As I expected, however, I had not long to wait.

"I met old Sam Hadley an' his wife in the cemetery just now," he observed.

"Yes?" I was careful to express just enough, and not too much, interest: one had to be circumspect with Uncle Zeke.

"Hm-m; I was thinkin'—" Uncle Zeke paused, shifted his position, and began again. This time I had the whole story.

"I was thinkin'—I don't say that Jimmy did right, an' I don't say that Jimmy did wrong. Maybe you can tell. 'Twas like this:

"In a way we all claimed Jimmy Hadley. As a little fellow, he was one of them big-eyed, curly-haired chaps that gets inside your heart no matter how tough't is. An' we was really fond of him, too,—so fond of him that we didn't do nothin' but jine in when his pa an' ma talked as if he was the only boy that ever was born, or ever would be—an' you know we must have been purty daft ter stood that, us bein' fathers ourselves!

"Well, as was natural, perhaps, the Hadleys jest lived fer Jimmy. They'd lost three, an' he was all there was left. They wasn't very well-to-do, but nothin' was too grand fer Jimmy, and when the boy begun ter draw them little pictures of his all over the shed an' the barn door, they was plumb crazy. There wan't no doubt of it—Jimmy was goin' ter be famous, they said. He was goin' ter be one o' them painter fellows, an' make big money.

"An' Jimmy did work, even then. He stood well in his studies, an' worked outside, earnin' money so's he could take drawin' lessons when he got bigger. An' by and by he did get bigger, an' he did take lessons down ter the Junction twice a week.

"There wan't no livin' with Mis' Hadley then, she was that proud; an' when he brought home his first picture, they say she never went ter bed at all that night, but jest set gloatin' over it till the sun came in an' made her kerosene lamp look as silly as she did when she saw 'twas mornin'. There was one thing that plagued her, though: 'twan't painted— that picture. Jimmy called it a 'black an' white,' an' said 'twan't paintin' that he wanted ter do, but 'lustratin'—fer books and magazines, you know. She felt hurt, an' all put out at first: but Jimmy told her 'twas all right, an' that there was big money in it; so she got 'round contented again. She couldn't help it, anyhow, with Jimmy, he was that lovin' an' nice with her. He was the kind that's always bringin' footstools and shawls, an' makin' folks comfortable. Everybody loved Jimmy. Even the cats an' dogs rubbed up against him an' wagged their tails at sight of him, an' the kids—goodness, Jimmy couldn't cross the street without a dozen kids makin' a grand rush fer him.

"Well, time went on, an' Jimmy grew tall an' good lookin'. Then came the girl—an' she was a girl, too. 'Course, Jimmy, bein' as how he'd had all the frostin' there was goin' on everythin' so fur, carried out the same idea in girls, an' picked out the purtiest one he could find— rich old Townsend's daughter, Bessie.

"To the Hadleys this seemed all right—Jimmy was merely gettin' the best, as usual; but the rest of us, includin' old man Townsend, begun ter sit up an' take notice. The old man was mad clean through. He had other plans fer Bessie, an' he said so purty plain."

"But it seems there didn't any of us—only Jimmy, maybe—take the girl herself into consideration. For a time she was a little skittish, an' led Jimmy a purty chase with her dancin' nearer an' nearer, an' then flyin' off out of reach. But at last she came out fair an' square fur Jimmy, an' they was as lively a pair of lovers as ye'd wish ter see. It looked, too, as if she'd even wheedle the old man 'round ter her side of thinkin'."

"The next thing we knew Jimmy had gone ter New York. He was ter study, an' at the same time pick up what work he could, ter turn an honest penny, the Hadleys said. We liked that in him. He was goin' ter make somethin' of himself, so's he'd be worthy of Bessie Townsend or any other girl."

"But't was hard on the Hadleys. Jimmy's lessons cost a lot, an' so did just livin' there in New York, an' 'course Jimmy couldn't pay fer it all, though I guess he worked nights an' Sundays ter piece out. Back home here the Hadleys scrimped an' scrimped till they didn't have half enough ter eat, an' hardly enough ter cover their nakedness. But they didn't mind—'t was fer Jimmy. He wrote often, an' told how he was workin', an' the girl got letters, too; at least, Mis' Hadley said she did. An' once in a while he'd tell of some picture he'd finished, or what the teacher said.

"But by an' by the letters didn't come so often. Sam told me about it at first, an' he said it plagued his wife a lot. He said she thought maybe Jimmy was gettin' discouraged, specially as he didn't seem ter say much of anything about his work now. Sam owned up that the letters wan't so free talkin'; an' that worried him. He was afraid the boy was keepin' back somethin'. He asked me, kind of sheepish-like, if I s'posed such a thing could be as that Jimmy had gone wrong, somehow. He knew cities was awful wicked an' temptin', he said.

"I laughed him out of that notion quick, an' I was honest in it, too. I'd have as soon suspected myself of goin' ter the bad as Jimmy, an' I told him so. Things didn't look right, though. The letters got skurser an' skurser, an' I began ter think myself maybe somethin' was up. Then come the newspaper.

"It was me that took it over to the Hadleys. It was a little notice in my weekly, an' I spied it 'way down in the corner just as I thought I had the paper all read. 'Twan't so much, but to us 'twas a powerful lot; jest a little notice that they was glad ter see that the first prize had gone ter the talented young illustrator, James Hadley, an' that he deserved it, an' they wished him luck.

"The Hadleys were purty pleased, you'd better believe. They hadn't seen it, 'course, as they wan't wastin' no money on weeklies them days. Sam set right down an' wrote, an' so did Mis' Hadley, right out of the fullness of their hearts. Mis' Hadley give me her letter ter read, she was that proud an' excited; an' 't was a good letter, all brimmin' over with love an' pride an' joy in his success. I could see just how Jimmy'd color up an' choke when he read it, specially where she owned up how she'd been gettin' purty near discouraged 'cause they didn't hear much from him, an' how she'd rather die than have her Jimmy fail.

"Well, they sent off the letters, an' by an' by come the answer. It was kind of shy and stiff-like, an' I think it sort of disappointed 'em; but they tried ter throw it off an' say that Jimmy was so modest he didn't like ter take praise.

"'Course the whole town was interested, an' proud, too, ter think he belonged ter us; an' we couldn't hear half enough about him. But as time went on we got worried. Things didn't look right. The Hadleys was still scrimpin', still sendin' money when they could, an' they owned up that Jimmy's letters wan't real satisfyin' an' that they didn't come often, though they always told how hard he was workin'.

"What was queerer still, every now an' then I'd see his name in my weekly. I looked fer it, I'll own. I run across it once in the 'Personals,' an' after that I hunted the paper all through every week. He went ter parties an' theaters, an' seemed ter be one of a gay crowd that was always havin' good times. I didn't say nothin' ter the Hadleys about all this, 'course, but it bothered me lots. What with all these fine doin's, an' his not sendin' any money home, it looked as if the old folks didn't count much now, an' that his head had got turned sure.

"As time passed, things got worse an' worse. Sam lost two cows, an' Mis' Hadley grew thinner an' whiter, an' finally got down sick in her bed. Then I wrote. I told Jimmy purty plain how things was an' what I thought of him. I told him that there wouldn't be any more money comin' from this direction (an' I meant ter see that there wan't, too!), an' I hinted that if that 'ere prize brought anythin' but honor, I should think 't would be a mighty good plan ter share it with the folks that helped him ter win it.

"It was a sharp letter, an' when it was gone I felt 'most sorry I'd sent it; an' when the answer come, I was sorry. Jimmy was all broke up, an' he showed it. He begged me ter tell him jest how his ma was; an' if they needed anythin', ter get it and call on him. He said he wished the prize had brought him lots of money, but it hadn't. He enclosed twenty-five dollars, however, and said he should write the folks not ter send him any more money, as he was goin' ter send it ter them now instead.

"Of course I took the letter an' the money right over ter Sam, an' after they'd got over frettin' 'cause I'd written at all, they took the money, an' I could see it made 'em look ten years younger. After that you couldn't come near either of 'em that you didn't hear how good Jimmy was an' how he was sendin' home money every week.

"Well, it wan't four months before I had ter write Jimmy again. Sam asked me too, this time. Mis' Hadley was sick again, an' Sam was worried. He thought Jimmy ought ter come home, but he didn't like ter say so himself. He wondered if I wouldn't drop him a hint. So I wrote, an' Jimmy wrote right away that he'd come.

"We was all of a twitter, 'course, then—the whole town. He'd got another prize—so the paper said—an' there was a paragraph praisin' up some pictures of his in the magazine. He was our Jimmy, an' we was proud of him, yet we couldn't help wonderin' how he'd act. We wan't used ter celebrities—not near to!

"Well, he came. He was taller an' thinner than when he went away, an' there was a tired look in his eyes that went straight ter my heart. 'Most the whole town was out ter meet him, an' that seemed ter bother him. He was cordial enough, in a way, but he seemed ter try ter avoid folks, an' he asked me right off ter get him 'out of it.' I could see he wan't hankerin' ter be made a lion of, so we got away soon's we could an' went ter his home.

"You should have seen Mis' Hadley's eyes when she saw him, tall an' straight in the doorway. And Sam—Sam cried like a baby, he was so proud of that boy. As fer Jimmy, his eyes jest shone, an' the tired look was all gone from them when he strode across the room an' dropped on his knees at his mother's bedside with a kind of choking cry. I come away then, and left them.

"We was kind of divided about Jimmy, after that. We liked him, 'most all of us, but we didn't like his ways. He was too stand-offish, an' queer, an' we was all mad at the way he treated the girl.

"'Twas given out that the engagement was broken, but we didn't believe 't was her done it, 'cause up ter the last minute she'd been runnin' down ter the house with posies and goodies. Then he came, an' she stopped. He didn't go there, neither, an', so far as we knew, they hadn't seen each other once. The whole town was put out. We didn't relish seein' her thrown off like an old glove, jest 'cause he was somebody out in the world now, an' could have his pick of girls with city airs and furbelows. But we couldn't do nothin', 'cause he he was good ter his folks, an' no mistake, an' we did like that.

"Mis' Hadley got better in a couple of weeks, an' he begun ter talk of goin' back. We wanted ter give him a banquet an' speeches and a serenade, but he wouldn't hear a word of it. He wouldn't let us tell him how pleased we was at his success, either. The one thing he wouldn't talk about was his work, an' some got most mad, he was so modest.

"He hardly ever left the house except fer long walks, and it was on one of them that the accident happened. It was in the road right in front of the field where I was ploughing, so I saw it all. Bessie Townsend, on her little gray mare, came tearin' down the Townsend Hill like mad.

"Jimmy had stopped ter speak ter me, at the fence, but the next minute he was off like a shot up the road. He ran an' made a flyin' leap, an' I saw the mare rear and plunge. Then beast and man came down together, and I saw Bessie slide to the ground, landin' on her feet.

"When I got there Bessie Townsend was sittin' on the ground, with Jimmy's head in her arms, which I thought uncommon good of her, seein' the mortification he'd caused her. But when I saw the look in her eyes, an' in his as he opened them an' gazed up at her, I reckoned there might be more ter that love-story than most folks knew. What he said ter her then I don't know, but ter me he said jest four words, 'Don't—tell— the—folks,' an' I didn't rightly understand jest then what he meant, for surely an accident like that couldn't be kept unbeknownst. The next minute he fell back unconscious.

"It was a bad business all around, an' from the very first there wan't no hope. In a week 'twas over, an' we laid poor Jimmy away. Two days after the funeral Sam come ter me with a letter. It was addressed ter Jimmy, an' the old man couldn't bring himself ter open it. He wanted, too, that I should go on ter New York an' get Jimmy's things; an' after I had opened the letter I said right off that I'd go. I was mad over that letter. It was a bill fer a suit of clothes, an' it asked him purty sharplike ter pay it.

"I had some trouble in New York findin' Jimmy's boardin'-place. There had been a fire the night before, an' his landlady had had ter move; but at last I found her an' asked anxiously fer Jimmy's things, an' if his pictures had been hurt.

"Jimmy's landlady was fat an' greasy an' foreign-lookin', an' she didn't seem ter understand what I was talkin' about till I repeated a bit sharply:—

"'Yes, his pictures. I've come fer 'em.'

"Then she shook her head.

"'Meester Hadley did not have any pictures.'

"'But he must have had 'em,' says I, 'fer them papers an' magazines he worked for. He made 'em!'

"She shook her head again; then she gave a queer hitch to her shoulders, and a little flourish with her hands.

"'Oh—ze pictures! He did do them—once—a leetle: months ago.'

"'But the prize,' says I. 'The prize ter James Hadley!'

"Then she laughed as if she suddenly understood.

"Oh, but it is ze grand mistake you are makin',' she cried, in her silly, outlandish way of talkin'. 'There is a Meester James Hadley, an' he does make pictures—beautiful pictures—but it is not this one. This Meester Hadley did try, long ago, but he failed to succeed, so my son said; an' he had to—to cease. For long time he has worked for me, for the grocer, for any one who would pay—till a leetle while ago. Then he left. In ze new clothes he had bought, he went away. Ze old ones— burned. He had nothing else.'

"She said more, but I didn't even listen. I was back with Jimmy by the roadside, and his 'Don't—tell—the—folks' was ringin' in my ears. I understood it then, the whole thing from the beginnin'; an' I felt dazed an' shocked, as if some one had struck me a blow in the face. I wan't brought up ter think lyin' an' deceivin' was right.

"I got up by an' by an' left the house. I paid poor Jimmy's bill fer clothes—the clothes that I knew he wore when he stood tall an' straight in the doorway ter meet his mother's adorin' eyes. Then I went home.

"I told Sam that Jimmy's things got burned up in the fire—which was the truth. I stopped there. Then I went to see the girl—an' right there I got the surprise of my life. She knew. He had told her the whole thing long before he come home, an' insisted on givin' her up. Jest what he meant ter do in the end, an' how he meant ter do it, she didn't know; an' she said with a great sob in her voice, that she didn't believe he knew either. All he did know, apparently, was that he didn't mean his ma should find out an' grieve over it—how he had failed. But whatever he was goin' ter do, it was taken quite out of his hands at the last.

"As fer Bessie, now,—it seems as if she can't do enough fer Sam an' Mis' Hadley, she's that good ter 'em; an' they set the world by her. She's got a sad, proud look to her eyes, but Jimmy's secret is safe.

"As I said, I saw old Sam an' his wife in the cemetery to-night. They stopped me as usual, an' told me all over again what a good boy Jimmy was, an' how smart he was, an' what a lot he'd made of himself in the little time he'd lived. The Hadleys are old an' feeble an' broken, an' it's their one comfort—Jimmy's success."

Uncle Zeke paused, and drew a long breath. Then he eyed me almost defiantly.

"I ain't sayin' that Jimmy did right, of course; but I ain't sayin'— that Jimmy did wrong," he finished.



A Summons Home



Mrs. Thaddeus Clayton came softly into the room and looked with apprehensive eyes upon the little old man in the rocking-chair.

"How be ye, dearie? Yer hain't wanted fer nothin', now, have ye?" she asked.

"Not a thing, Harriet," he returned cheerily. "I'm feelin' real pert, too. Was there lots there? An' did Parson Drew say a heap o' fine things?"

Mrs. Clayton dropped into a chair and pulled listlessly at the black strings of her bonnet.

"'T was a beautiful fun'ral, Thaddeus—a beautiful fun'ral. I—I 'most wished it was mine."

"Harriet!"

She gave a shamed-faced laugh.

"Well, I did—then Jehiel and Hannah Jane would 'a' come, an' I could 'a' seen 'em."

The horrified look on the old man's face gave way to a broad smile.

"Oh, Harriet—Harriet!" he chuckled, "how could ye seen 'em if you was dead?"

"Huh? Well, I—Thaddeus,"—her voice rose sharply in the silent room,— "every single one of them Perkins boys was there, and Annabel, too. Only think what poor Mis' Perkins would 'a' given ter seen 'em 'fore she went! But they waited—waited, Thaddeus, jest as everybody does, till their folks is dead."

"But, Harriet," demurred the old man, "surely you'd 'a' had them boys come ter their own mother's fun'ral!"

"Come! I'd 'a' had 'em come before, while Ella Perkins could 'a' feasted her eyes on 'em. Thaddeus,"—Mrs. Clayton rose to her feet and stretched out two gaunt hands longingly,—"Thaddeus, I get so hungry sometimes for Jehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though I jest couldn't stand it!"

"I know—I know, dearie," quavered the old man, vigorously polishing his glasses.

"Fifty years ago my first baby came," resumed the woman in tremulous tones; "then another came, and another, till I'd had six. I loved 'em, an' tended 'em, an' cared fer 'em, an' didn't have a thought but was fer them babies. Four died,"—her voice broke, then went on with renewed strength,—"but I've got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least, I've got two bits of paper that comes mebbe once a month, an' one of 'em's signed 'your dutiful son, Jehiel,' an' the other, 'from your loving daughter, Hannah Jane.'"

"Well, Harriet, they—they're pretty good ter write letters," ventured Mr. Clayton.

"Letters!" wailed his wife. "I can't hug an' kiss letters, though I try to, sometimes. I want warm flesh an' blood in my arms, Thaddeus; I want ter look down into Jehiel's blue eyes an' hear him call me 'dear old mumsey!' as he used to. I wouldn't ask 'em ter stay—I ain't unreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can't do that."

"Well, well, wife, mebbe they'll come—mebbe they'll come this summer; who knows?"

She shook her head dismally.

"You've said that ev'ry year for the last fifteen summers, an' they hain't come yet. Jehiel went West more than twenty years ago, an' he's never been home since. Why, Thaddeus, we've got a grandson 'most eighteen, that we hain't even seen! Hannah Jane's been home jest once since she was married, but that was nigh on ter sixteen years ago. She's always writin' of her Tommy and Nellie, but—I want ter see 'em, Thaddeus; I want ter see 'em!"

"Yes, yes; well, we'll ask 'em, Harriet, again—we'll ask 'em real urgent—like, an' mebbe that'll fetch 'em," comforted the old man. "We'll ask 'em ter be here the Fourth; that's eight weeks off yet, an' I shall be real smart by then."

Two letters that were certainly "urgent-like" left the New England farmhouse the next morning. One was addressed to a thriving Western city, the other to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

In course of time the answers came. Hannah Jane's appeared first, and was opened with shaking fingers.

Dear Mother [read Mrs. Clayton aloud]: Your letter came two or three days ago, and I have hurried round to answer it, for you seemed to be so anxious to hear. I'm real sorry, but I don't see how we can get away this summer. Nathan is real busy at the store; and, some way, I can't seem to get up energy enough to even think of fixing up the children to take them so far. Thank you for the invitation, though, and we should enjoy the visit very much; but I guess we can't go just yet. Of course if anything serious should come up that made it necessary— why, that would be different: but I know you are sensible, and will understand how it is with us.

Nathan is well, but business has been pretty brisk, and he is in the store early and late. As long as he's making money, he don't mind; but I tell him I think he might rest a little sometimes, and let some one else do the things he does.

Tom is a big boy now, smart in his studies and with a good head for figures. Nellie loves her books, too; and, for a little girl of eleven, does pretty well, we think.

I must close now. We all send love, and hope you are getting along all right. Was glad to hear father was gaining so fast.

Your loving daughter

HANNAH JANE

The letter dropped from Mrs. Clayton's fingers and lay unheeded on the floor. The woman covered her face with her hands and rocked her body back and forth.

"There, there, dearie," soothed the old man huskily; "mebbe Jehiel's will be diff'rent. I shouldn't wonder, now, if Jehiel would come. There, there! don't take on so, Harriet! don't! I jest know Jehiel'll come."

A week later Mrs. Clayton found another letter in the rural delivery box. She clutched it nervously, peered at the writing with her dim old eyes, and hurried into the house for her glasses.

Yes, it was from Jehiel.

She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of the envelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it into the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at times— which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence—when she took it from its hiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of the boldly written address.

At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tones so low he could scarcely hear:

"Thaddeus, I—I had a letter from Jehiel to-day."

"You did—and never told me? Why, Harriet, what—" He paused helplessly.

"I—I haven't read it, Thaddeus," she stammered. "I couldn't bear to, someway. I don't know why, but I couldn't. You read it!" She held out the letter with shaking hands.

He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began to read aloud she checked him.

"No; ter yerself, Thaddeus—ter yerself! Then—tell me."

As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and her chin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth. A minute more, and he had finished the letter and laid it down without a word.

"Thaddeus, ye don't mean—he didn't say—"

"Read it—I—I can't," choked the old man.

She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread it on the table before her.

Dear Mother [Jehiel had written]: Just a word to tell you we are all O. K. and doing finely. Your letter reminded me that it was about time I was writing home to the old folks. I don't mean to let so many weeks go by without a letter from me, but somehow the time just gets away from me before I know it.

Minnie is well and deep in spring sewing and house-cleaning. I know— because dressmaker's bills are beginning to come in, and every time I go home I find a carpet up in a new place!

Our boy Fred is eighteen to-morrow. You'd be proud of him, I know, if you could see him. Business is rushing. Glad to hear you're all right and that father's rheumatism is on the gain.

As ever, your affectionate and dutiful son, JEHIEL

Oh, by the way—about that visit East. I reckon we'll have to call it off this year. Too bad; but can't seem to see my way clear.

Bye-bye, J.

Harriet Clayton did not cry this time. She stared at the letter long minutes with wide-open, tearless eyes, then she slowly folded it and put it back in its envelope.

"Harriet, mebbe-" began the old man timidly.

"Don't, Thaddeus—please don't!" she interrupted. "I—I don't want ter talk." And she rose unsteadily to her feet and moved toward the kitchen door.

For a time Mrs. Clayton went about her work in a silence quite unusual, while her husband watched her with troubled eyes. His heart grieved over the bowed head and drooping shoulders, and over the blurred eyes that were so often surreptitiously wiped on a corner of the gingham apron. But at the end of a week the little old woman accosted him with a face full of aggressive yet anxious determination.

"Thaddeus, I want ter speak ter you about somethin'. I've been thinkin' it all out, an' I've decided that I've got ter kill one of us off."

"Harriet!"

"Well, I have. A fun'ral is the only thing that will fetch Jehiel and—"

"Harriet, are ye gone crazy? Have ye gone clean mad?"

She looked at him appealingly.

"Now, Thaddeus, don't try ter hender me, please. You see it's the only way. A fun'ral is the—"

"A 'fun'ral'—it's murder!" he shuddered.

"Oh, not ter make believe, as I shall," she protested eagerly. "It's—"

"Make believe!"

"Why, yes, of course. You'll have ter be the one ter do it, 'cause I'm goin' ter be the dead one, an'—"

"Harriet!"

"There, there, please, Thaddeus! I've jest got ter see Jehiel and Hannah Jane 'fore I die!"

"But—they—they'll come if—"

"No, they won't come. We've tried it over an' over again; you know we have. Hannah Jane herself said that if anythin' 'serious' came up it would be diff'rent. Well, I'm goin' ter have somethin' 'serious' come up!"

"But, Harriet—"

"Now, Thaddeus," begged the woman, almost crying, "you must help me, dear. I've thought it all out, an' it's easy as can be. I shan't tell any lies, of course. I cut my finger to-day, didn't I?"

"Why—yes—I believe so," he acknowledged dazedly; "but what has that to do—"

"That's the 'accident,' Thaddeus. You're ter send two telegrams at once— one ter Jehiel, an' one ter Hannah Jane. The telegrams will say: 'Accident to your mother. Funeral Saturday afternoon. Come at once.' That's jest ten words."

The old man gasped. He could not speak.

"Now, that's all true, ain't it?" she asked anxiously. "The 'accident' is this cut. The 'fun'ral' is old Mis' Wentworth's. I heard ter-day that they couldn't have it until Saturday, so that'll give us plenty of time ter get the folks here. I needn't say whose fun'ral it is that's goin' ter be on Saturday, Thaddeus! I want yer ter hitch up an' drive over ter Hopkinsville ter send the telegrams. The man's new over there, an' won't know yer. You couldn't send 'em from here, of course."

Thaddeus Clayton never knew just how he allowed himself to be persuaded to take his part in this "crazy scheme," as he termed it, but persuaded he certainly was.

It was a miserable time for Thaddeus then. First there was that hurried drive to Hopkinsville. Though the day was warm he fairly shivered as he handed those two fateful telegrams to the man behind the counter. Then there was the homeward trip, during which, like the guilty thing he was, he cast furtive glances from side to side.

Even home itself came to be a misery, for the sweeping and the dusting and the baking and the brewing which he encountered there left him no place to call his own, so that he lost his patience at last and moaned:

"Seems ter me, Harriet, you're a pretty lively corpse!"

His wife smiled, and flushed a little.

"There, there, dear! don't fret. Jest think how glad we'll be ter see 'em!" she exclaimed.

Harriet was blissfully happy. Both the children had promptly responded to the telegrams, and were now on their way. Hannah Jane, with her husband and two children, were expected on Friday evening; but Jehiel and his wife and boy could not possibly get in until early on the following morning.

All this brought scant joy to Thaddeus. There was always hanging over him the dread horror of what he had done, and the fearful questioning as to how it was all going to end.

Friday came, but a telegram at the last moment told of trains delayed and connections missed. Hannah Jane would not reach home until nine- forty the next morning. So it was with a four-seated carryall that Thaddeus Clayton started for the station on Saturday morning to meet both of his children and their families.

The ride home was a silent one; but once inside the house, Jehiel and Hannah Jane, amid a storm of sobs and cries, besieged their father with questions.

The family were all in the darkened sitting-room—all, indeed, save Harriet, who sat in solitary state in the chamber above, her face pale and her heart beating almost to suffocation. It had been arranged that she was not to be seen until some sort of explanation had been given.

"Father, what was it?" sobbed Hannah Jane. "How did it happen?"

"It must have been so sudden," faltered Jehiel. "It cut me up completely."

"I can't ever forgive myself," moaned Hannah Jane hysterically. "She wanted us to come East, and I wouldn't. 'Twas my selfishness—'twas easier to stay where I was; and now—now—"

"We've been brutes, father," cut in Jehiel, with a shake in his voice; "all of us. I never thought—I never dreamed-father, can—can we see— her?"

In the chamber above a woman sprang to her feet. Harriet had quite forgotten the stove-pipe hole to the room below, and every sob and moan and wailing cry had been woefully distinct to her ears. With streaming eyes and quivering lips she hurried down the stairs and threw open the sitting-room door.

"Jehiel! Hannah Jane! I'm here, right here—alive!" she cried. "An' I've been a wicked, wicked woman! I never thought how bad 'twas goin' ter make you feel. I truly never, never did. 'Twas only myself—I wanted yer so. Oh, children, children, I've been so wicked—so awful wicked!"

Jehiel and Hannah Jane were steady of head and strong of heartland joy, it is said, never kills; otherwise, the results of that sudden apparition in the sitting-room doorway might have been disastrous.

As it was, a wonderfully happy family party gathered around the table an hour later; and as Jehiel led a tremulous, gray-haired woman to the seat of honor, he looked into her shining eyes and whispered:

"Dear old mumsey, now that we've found the way home again, I reckon we'll be coming every year—don't you?"



The Black Silk Gowns



The Heath twins, Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, rose early that morning, and the world looked very beautiful to them—one does not buy a black silk gown every day; at least, Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia did not. They had waited, indeed, quite forty years to buy this one.

The women of the Heath family had always possessed a black silk gown. It was a sort of outward symbol of inward respectability—an unfailing indicator of their proud position as members of one of the old families. It might be donned at any time after one's twenty-first birthday, and it should be donned always for funerals, church, and calls after one had turned thirty. Such had been the code of the Heath family for generations, as Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia well knew; and it was this that had made all the harder their own fate—that their twenty- first birthday was now forty years behind them, and not yet had either of them attained this cachet of respectability.

To-day, however, there was to come a change. No longer need the carefully sponged and darned black alpaca gowns flaunt their wearers' poverty to the world, and no longer would they force these same wearers to seek dark corners and sunless rooms, lest the full extent of that poverty become known. It had taken forty years of the most rigid economy to save the necessary money; but it was saved now, and the dresses were to be bought. Long ago there had been enough for one, but neither of the women had so much as thought of the possibility of buying one silk gown. It was sometimes said in the town that if one of the Heath twins strained her eyes, the other one was obliged at once to put on glasses; and it is not to be supposed that two sisters whose sympathies were so delicately attuned would consent to appear clad one in new silk and the other in old alpaca.

In spite of their early rising that morning, it was quite ten o'clock before Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia had brought the house into the state of speckless nicety that would not shame the lustrous things that were so soon to be sheltered beneath its roof. Not that either of the ladies expressed this sentiment in words, or even in their thoughts; they merely went about their work that morning with the reverent joy that a devoted priestess might feel in making ready a shrine for its idol. They had to hurry a little to get themselves ready for the eleven o'clock stage that passed their door; and they were still a little breathless when they boarded the train at the home station for the city twenty miles away—the city where were countless yards of shimmering silk waiting to be bought.

In the city that night at least six clerks went home with an unusual weariness in their arms, which came from lifting down and displaying almost their entire stock of black silk. But with all the weariness, there was no irritation; there was only in their nostrils a curious perfume as of lavender and old lace, and in their hearts a strange exaltation as if they had that day been allowed a glad part in a sacred rite. As for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, they went home awed, yet triumphant: when one has waited forty years to make a purchase one does not make that purchase lightly.

"To-morrow we will go over to Mis' Snow's and see about having them made up," said Miss Priscilla with a sigh of content, as the stage lumbered through the dusty home streets.

"Yes; we want them rich, but plain," supplemented Miss Amelia, rapturously. "Dear me, Priscilla, but I am tired!"

In spite of their weariness the sisters did not get to bed very early that night. They could not decide whether the top drawer of the spare- room bureau or the long box in the parlor closet would be the safer refuge for their treasure. And when the matter was decided, and the sisters had gone to bed, Miss Priscilla, after a prolonged discussion, got up and moved the silk to the other place, only to slip out of bed later, after a much longer discussion, and put it back. Even then they did not sleep well: for the first time in their lives they knew the responsibility that comes with possessions; they feared—burglars.

With the morning sun, however, came peace and joy. No moth nor rust nor thief had appeared, and the lustrous lengths of shimmering silk defied the sun itself to find spot or blemish.

"It looks even nicer than it did in the store, don't it?" murmured Miss Priscilla, ecstatically, as she hovered over the glistening folds that she had draped in riotous luxury across the chair-back.

"Yes,—oh, yes!" breathed Miss Amelia. "Now let's hurry with the work so we can go right down to Mis' Snow's."

"Black silk-black silk!" ticked the clock to Miss Priscilla washing dishes at the kitchen sink.

"You've got a black silk! You've got a black silk!" chirped the robins to Miss Amelia looking for weeds in the garden.

At ten o'clock the sisters left the house, each with a long brown parcel carefully borne in her arms. At noon—at noon the sisters were back again, still carrying the parcels. Their faces wore a look of mingled triumph and defeat.

"As if we could have that beautiful silk put into a plaited skirt!" quavered Miss Priscilla, thrusting the key into the lock with a trembling hand. "Why, Amelia, plaits always crack!"

"Of course they do!" almost sobbed Miss Amelia. "Only think of it, Priscilla, our silk—cracked!"

"We will just wait until the styles change," said Miss Priscilla, with an air of finality. "They won't always wear plaits!"

"And we know all the time that we've really got the dresses, only they aren't made up!" finished Miss Amelia, in tearful triumph.

So the silk was laid away in two big rolls, and for another year the old black alpaca gowns trailed across the town's thresholds and down the aisle of the church on Sunday. Their owners no longer sought shadowed corners and sunless rooms, however; it was not as if one were obliged to wear sponged and darned alpacas!

Plaits were "out" next year, and the Heath sisters were among the first to read it in the fashion notes. Once more on a bright spring morning Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia left the house tenderly bearing in their arms the brown-paper parcels—and once more they returned, the brown parcels still in their arms. There was an air of indecision about them this time.

"You see, Amelia, it seemed foolish—almost wicked," Miss Priscilla was saying, "to put such a lot of that expensive silk into just sleeves."

"I know it," sighed her sister.

"Of course I want the dresses just as much as you do," went on Miss Priscilla, more confidently; "but when I thought of allowing Mis' Snow to slash into that beautiful silk and just waste it on those great balloon sleeves, I—I simply couldn't give my consent!—and 'tisn't as though we hadn't got the dresses!"

"No, indeed!" agreed Miss Amelia, lifting her chin. And so once more the rolls of black silk were laid away in the great box that had already held them a year; and for another twelve months the black alpacas, now grown shabby indeed, were worn with all the pride of one whose garments are beyond reproach.

When for the third time Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia returned to their home with the oblong brown parcels there was no indecision about them; there was only righteous scorn.

"And do you really think that Mis' Snow expected us to allow that silk to be cut up into those skimpy little skin-tight bags she called skirts?" demanded Miss Priscilla, in a shaking voice. "Why, Amelia, we couldn't ever make them over!"

"Of course we couldn't! And when skirts got bigger, what could we do?" cried Miss Amelia. "Why, I'd rather never have a black silk dress than to have one like that—that just couldn't be changed! We'll go on wearing the gowns we have. It isn't as if everybody didn't know we had these black silk dresses!"

When the fourth spring came the rolls of silk were not even taken from their box except to be examined with tender care and replaced in the enveloping paper. Miss Priscilla was not well. For weeks she had spent most of her waking hours on the sitting-room couch, growing thiner, weaker, and more hollow-eyed.

"You see, dear, I—I am not well enough now to wear it," she said faintly to her sister one day when they had been talking about the black silk gowns; "but you—" Miss Amelia had stopped her with a shocked gesture of the hand.

"Priscilla—as if I could!" she sobbed. And there the matter had ended.

* * * * *

The townspeople were grieved, but not surprised, when they learned that Miss Amelia was fast following her sister into a decline. It was what they had expected of the Heath twins, they said, and they reminded one another of the story of the strained eyes and the glasses. Then came the day when the little dressmaker's rooms were littered from end to end with black silk scraps.

"It's for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia,'" said Mrs. Snow, with tears in her eyes, in answer to the questions that were asked.

"It's their black silk gowns, you know."

"But I thought they were ill—almost dying!" gasped the questioner.

The little dressmaker nodded her head. Then she smiled, even while she brushed her eyes with her fingers.

"They are—but they're happy. They're even happy in this!" touching the dress in her lap. "They've been forty years buying it, and four making it up. Never until now could they decide to use it; never until now could they be sure they wouldn't want to—to make it—over." The little dressmaker's voice broke, then went on tremulously: "There are folks like that, you know—that never enjoy a thing for what it is, lest sometime they might want it—different. Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia never took the good that was goin'; they've always saved it for sometime—later."



A Belated Honeymoon



The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda a gray-haired, erect little figure sat knitting. After a time the needles began to move more and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, withered fingers.

"Well, well, Abby, takin' a nap?" demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man coming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the veranda steps.

The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously.

"Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin'." She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly: "—it's ever so much cooler here than up ter the fair grounds now, ain't it, Hezekiah?"

The old man threw a sharp look at her face. "Hm-m, yes," he said. "Mebbe 't is."

From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consent the old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front of the house where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a curve and crossed the road at right angles.

"Goes slick, don't it?" murmured the man.

There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish.

"An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued.

She drew a long breath.

"Well, ye see, I—I hain't had time, Hezekiah," she rejoined apologetically.

"Humph!" muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to their seats.

For a time neither spoke, then Hezekiah Warden cleared his throat determinedly and faced his wife.

"Look a' here, Abby," he began, "I'm agoin' ter say somethin' that has been 'most tumblin' off'n the end of my tongue fer mor'n a year. Jennie an' Frank are good an' kind an' they mean well, but they think 'cause our hair's white an' our feet ain't quite so lively as they once was, that we're jest as good as buried already, an' that we don't need anythin' more excitin' than a nap in the sun. Now, Abby, didn't ye want ter go ter that fair with the folks ter-day? Didn't ye?"

A swift flush came into the woman's cheek.

"Why, Hezekiah, it's ever so much cooler here, an'—" she paused helplessly.

"Humph!" retorted the man, "I thought as much. It's always 'nice an' cool' here in summer an' 'nice an' warm' here in winter when Jennie goes somewheres that you want ter go an' don't take ye. An' when 't ain't that, you say you 'hain't had time.' I know ye! You'd talk any way ter hide their selfishness. Look a' here, Abby, did ye ever ride in them 'lectric-cars? I mean anywheres?"

"Well, I hain't neither, an', by ginger, I'm agoin' to!"

"Oh, Hezekiah, Hezekiah, don't—swear!"

"I tell ye, Abby, I will swear. It's a swearin' matter. Ever since I heard of 'em I wanted ter try 'em. An' here they are now 'most ter my own door an' I hain't even been in 'em once. Look a' here, Abby, jest because we're 'most eighty ain't no sign we've lost int'rest in things. I'm spry as a cricket, an' so be you, yet Frank an' Jennie expect us ter stay cooped up here as if we was old—really old, ninety or a hundred, ye know—an' 't ain't fair. Why, we will be old one of these days!"

"I know it, Hezekiah."

"We couldn't go much when we was younger," he resumed. "Even our weddin' trip was chopped right off short 'fore it even begun."

A tender light came into the dim old eyes opposite.

"I know, dear, an' what plans we had!" cried Abigail; "Boston, an' Bunker Hill, an' Faneuil Hall."

The old man suddenly squared his shoulders and threw back his head.

"Abby, look a' here! Do ye remember that money I've been savin' off an' on when I could git a dollar here an' there that was extra? Well, there's as much as ten of 'em now, an' I'm agoin' ter spend 'em—all of 'em mebbe. I'm agoin' ter ride in them 'lectric-cars, an' so be you. An' I ain't goin' ter no old country fair, neither, an' no more be you. Look a' here, Abby, the folks are goin' again ter-morrer ter the fair, ain't they?"

Abigail nodded mutely. Her eyes were beginning to shine.

"Well," resumed Hezekiah, "when they go we'll be settin' in the sun where they say we'd oughter be. But we ain't agoin' ter stay there, Abby. We're goin' down the road an' git on them 'lectric-cars, an' when we git ter the Junction we're agoin' ter take the steam cars fer Boston. What if 'tis thirty miles! I calc'late we're equal to 'em. We'll have one good time, an' we won't come home until in the evenin'. We'll see Faneuil Hall an' Bunker Hill, an' you shall buy a new cap, an' ride in the subway. If there's a preachin' service we'll go ter that. They have 'em sometimes weekdays, ye know."

"Oh, Hezekiah, we—couldn't!" gasped the little old woman.

"Pooh! 'Course we could. Listen!" And Hezekiah proceeded to unfold his plans more in detail.

It was very early the next morning when the household awoke. By seven o'clock a two-seated carryall was drawn up to the side-door, and by a quarter past the carryall, bearing Jennie, Frank, the boys, and the lunch baskets, rumbled out of the yard and on to the high-way.

"Now, keep quiet and don't get heated, mother," cautioned Jennie, looking back at the little gray-haired woman standing all alone on the side veranda.

"Find a good cool spot to smoke your pipe in, father," called Frank, as an old man appeared in the doorway.

There followed a shout, a clatter, and a cloud of dust—then silence. Fifteen minutes later, hand in hand, a little old man and a little old woman walked down the white road together.

To most of the passengers on the trolley-car that day the trip was merely a necessary means to an end; to the old couple on the front seat it was something to be remembered and lived over all their lives. Even at the Junction the spell of unreality was so potent that the man forgot things so trivial as tickets, and marched into the car with head erect and eyes fixed straight ahead.

It was after Hezekiah had taken out the roll of bills—all ones—to pay the fares to the conductor that a young man in a tall hat sauntered down the aisle and dropped into the seat in front.

"Going to Boston, I take it," said the young man genially.

"Yes, sir," replied Hezehiah, no less genially. "Ye guessed right the first time."

Abigail lifted a cautious hand to her hair and her bonnet. So handsome and well-dressed a man would notice the slightest thing awry, she thought.

"Hm-m," smiled the stranger. "I was so successful that time, suppose I try my luck again.—You don't go every day, I fancy, eh?"

"Sugar! How'd he know that, now?" chuckled Hezekiah, turning to his wife in open glee. "So we don't, stranger, so we don't," he added, turning back to the man. "Ye hit it plumb right."

"Hm-m! great place, Boston," observed the stranger. "I'm glad you're going. I think you'll enjoy it."

The two wrinkled old faces before him fairly beamed.

"I thank ye, sir," said Hezekiah heartily. "I call that mighty kind of ye, specially as there are them that thinks we're too old ter be enj'yin' of anythin'."

"Old? Of course you're not too old! Why, you're just in the prime to enjoy things," cried the handsome man, and in the sunshine of his dazzling smile the hearts of the little old man and woman quite melted within them.

"Thank ye, sir, thank ye sir," nodded Abigail, while Hezekiah offered his hand.

"Shake, stranger, shake! An' I ain't too old, an' I'm agoin' ter prove it. I've got money, sir, heaps of it, an' I'm goin' ter spend it—mebbe I'll spend it all. We're agoin' ter see Bunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall, an' we're agoin' ter ride in the subway. Now, don't tell me we don't know how ter enj'y ourselves!"

It was a very simple matter after that. On the one hand were infinite tact and skill; on the other, innocence, ignorance, and an overwhelming gratitude for this sympathetic companionship.

Long before Boston was reached Mr. and Mrs. Warden and "Mr. Livingstone" were on the best of terms, and when they separated at the foot of the car-steps, to the old man and woman it seemed that half their joy and all their courage went with the smiling man who lifted his hat in farewell before being lost to sight in the crowd.

"There, Abby, we're here!" announced Hezekiah with an exultation that was a little forced. "Gorry! There must be somethin' goin' on ter-day," he added, as he followed the long line of people down the narrow passage between the cars.

There was no reply. Abigail's cheeks were pink and her bonnet-strings untied. Her eyes, wide opened and frightened, were fixed on the swaying, bobbing crowds ahead. In the great waiting-room she caught her husband's arm.

"Hezekiah, we can't, we mustn't ter-day," she whispered. "There's such a crowd. Let's go home an' come when it's quieter."

"But, Abby, we—here, let's set down," Hezekiah finished helplessly.

Near one of the outer doors Mr. Livingstone—better known to his friends and the police as "Slick Bill"—smiled behind his hand. Not once since he had left them had Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden been out of his sight.

"What's up, Bill? Need assistance?" demanded a voice at his elbow.

"Jim, by all that's lucky!" cried Livingstone, turning to greet a dapper little man in gray. "Sure I need you! It's a peach, though I doubt if we get much but fun, but there'll be enough of that to make up. Oh, he's got money—'heaps of it,' he says," laughed Livingstone, "and I saw a roll of bills myself. But I advise you not to count too much on that, though it'll be easy enough to get what there is, all right. As for the fun, Jim, look over by that post near the parcel window."

"Great Scott! Where'd you pick 'em?" chuckled the younger man.

"Never mind," returned the other with a shrug. "Meet me at Clyde's in half an hour. We'll be there, never fear."

Over by the parcel-room an old man looked about him with anxious eyes.

"But, Abby, don't ye see?" he urged. "We've come so fer, seems as though we oughter do the rest all right. Now, you jest set here an' let me go an' find out how ter git there. We'll try fer Bunker Hill first, 'cause we want ter see the munurmunt sure."

He rose to his feet only to be pulled back by his wife.

"Hezekiah Warden!" she almost sobbed. "If you dare ter stir ten feet away from me I'll never furgive ye as long as I live. We'd never find each other ag'in!"

"Well, well, Abby," soothed the man with grim humor, "if we never found each other ag'in, I don't see as 'twould make much diff'rence whether ye furgived me or not!"

For another long minute they silently watched the crowd. Then Hezekiah squared his shoulders.

"Come, come, Abby," he said, "this ain't no way ter do. Only think how we wanted ter git here an' now we're here an' don't dare ter stir. There ain't any less folks than there was—growin' worse, if anythin'—but I'm gittin' used ter 'em now, an' I'm goin' ter make a break. Come, what would Mr. Livin'stone say if he could see us now? Where'd he think our boastin' was about our bein' able ter enj'y ourselves? Come!" And once more he rose to his feet.

This time he was not held back. The little woman at his side adjusted her bonnet, tilted up her chin, and in her turn rose to her feet.

"Sure enough!" she quavered bravely. "Come, Hezekiah, we'll ask the way ter Bunker Hill." And, holding fast to her husband's coat sleeve, she tripped across the floor to one of the outer doors.

On the sidewalk Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden came once more to a halt. Before them swept an endless stream of cars, carriages, and people. Above thundered the elevated railway cars.

"Oh-h," shuddered Abigail and tightened her grasp on her husband's coat.

It was some minutes before Hezekiah's dry tongue and lips could frame his question, and then his words were so low-spoken and indistinct that the first two men he asked did not hear. The third man frowned and pointed to a policeman. The fourth snapped: "Take the elevated for Charlestown or the trolley-cars, either;" all of which served but to puzzle Hezekiah the more.

Little by little the dazed old man and his wife fell back before the jostling crowds. They were quite against the side of the building when Livingstone spoke to them.

"Well, well, if here aren't my friends again!" he exclaimed cordially.

There was something of the fierceness of a drowning man in the way Hezekiah took hold of that hand.

"Mr. Livin'stone!" he cried; then he recollected himself. "We was jest goin' ter Bunker Hill," he said jauntily.

"Yes?" smiled Livingstone. "But your luncheon—aren't you hungry? Come with me; I was just going to get mine."

"But you—I—" Hezekiah paused and looked doubtingly at his wife.

"Indeed, my dear Mrs. Warden, you'll say 'Yes,' I know," urged Livingstone suavely. "Only think how good a nice cup of tea would taste now."

"I know, but—" She glanced at her husband.

"Nonsense! Of course you'll come," insisted Livingstone, laying a gently compelling hand on the arm of each.

Fifteen minutes later Hezekiah stood looking about him with wondering eyes.

"Well, well, Abby, ain't this slick?" he cried.

His wife did not reply. The mirrors, the lights, the gleaming silver and glass had filled her with a delight too great for words. She was vaguely conscious of her husband, of Mr. Livingstone, and of a smooth-shaven little man in gray who was presented as "Mr. Harding." Then she found herself seated at that wonderful table, while beside her chair stood an awesome being who laid a printed card before her. With a little ecstatic sigh she gave Hezekiah her customary signal for the blessing and bowed her head.

"There!" exulted Livingstone aloud. "Here we—" He stopped short. From his left came a deep-toned, reverent voice invoking the divine blessing upon the place, the food, and the new friends who were so kind to strangers in a strange land.

"By Jove!" muttered Livingstone under his breath, as his eyes met those of Jim across the table. The waiter coughed and turned his back. Then, the blessing concluded, Hezekiah raised his head and smiled.

"Well, well, Abby, why don't ye say somethin'?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Ye hain't said a word. Mr. Livin'stone'll be thinkin' ye don't like it."

Mrs. Warden drew a long breath of delight.

"I can't say anythin', Hezekiah," she faltered. "It's all so beautiful."

Livingstone waited until the dazed old eyes had become in a measure accustomed to the surroundings, then he turned a smiling face on Hezekiah.

"And now, my friend, what do you propose to do after luncheon?" he asked.

"Well, we cal'late ter take in Bunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall sure," returned the old man with a confidence that told of new courage imbibed with his tea. "Then we thought mebbe we'd ride in the subway an' hear one of the big preachers if they happened ter be holdin' meetin's anywheres this week. Mebbe you can tell us, eh?"

Across the table the man called Harding choked over his food and Livingstone frowned.

"Well," began Livingstone slowly.

"I think," interrupted Harding, taking a newspaper from his pocket, "I think there are services there," he finished gravely, pointing to the glaring advertisement of a ten-cent show, as he handed the paper across to Livingstone.

"But what time do the exercises begin?" demanded Hezekiah in a troubled voice. "Ye see, there's Bunker Hill an'—sugar! Abby, ain't that pretty?" he broke off delightedly. Before him stood a slender glass into which the waiter was pouring something red and sparkling.

The old lady opposite grew white, then pink. "Of course that ain't wine, Mr. Livingstone?" she asked anxiously.

"Give yourself no uneasiness, my dear Mrs. Warden," interposed Harding. "It's lemonade—pink lemonade."

"Oh," she returned with a relieved sigh. "I ask yer pardon, I'm sure. You wouldn't have it, 'course, no more'n I would. But, ye see, bein' pledged so, I didn't want ter make a mistake."

There was an awkward silence, then Harding raised his glass.

"Here's to your health, Mrs. Warden!" he cried gayly. "May your trip——"

"Wait!" she interrupted excitedly, her old eyes alight and her cheeks flushed. "Let me tell ye first what this trip is ter us, then ye'll have a right ter wish us good luck."

Harding lowered his glass and turned upon her a gravely attentive face.

"'Most fifty years ago we was married, Hezekiah an' me," she began softly. "We'd saved, both of us, an' we'd planned a honeymoon trip. We was comin' ter Boston. They didn't have any 'lectric-cars then nor any steam-cars only half-way. But we was comin' an' we was plannin' on Bunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall, an' I don't know what all."

The little lady paused for breath and Harding stirred uneasily in his chair. Livingstone did not move. His eyes were fixed on a mirror across the room. Over at the sideboard the waiter vigorously wiped a bottle.

"Well, we was married," continued the tremulous voice, "an' not half an hour later mother fell down the cellar stairs an' broke her hip. Of course that stopped things right short. I took off my weddin' gown an' put on my old red caliker an' went ter work. Hezekiah came right there an' run the farm an' I nursed mother an' did the work. 'T was more'n a year 'fore she was up 'round, an' after that, what with the babies an' all, there didn't never seem a chance when Hezekiah an' me could take this trip.

"If we went anywhere we couldn't seem ter manage ter go tergether, an' we never stayed fer no sight-seein'. Late years my Jennie an' her husband seemed ter think we didn't need nothin' but naps an' knittin', an' somehow we got so we jest couldn't stand it. We wanted ter go somewhere an' see somethin', so."

Mrs. Warden paused, drew a long breath, and resumed. Her voice now had a ring of triumph.

"Well, last month they got the 'lectric-cars finished down our way. We hadn't been on 'em, neither of us. Jennie an' Frank didn't seem ter want us to. They said they was shaky an' noisy an' would tire us all out. But yesterday, when the folks was gone, Hezekiah an' me got ter talkin' an' thinkin' how all these years we hadn't never had that honeymoon trip, an' how by an' by we'd be old—real old, I mean, so's we couldn't take it—an' all of a sudden we said we'd take it now, right now. An' we did. We left a note fer the children, an'—an' we're here!"

There was a long silence. Over at the side-board the waiter still polished his bottle. Livingstone did not even turn his head. Finally Harding raised his glass.

"We'll drink to honeymoon trips in general and to this one in particular," he cried, a little constrainedly.

Mrs. Warden flushed, smiled, and reached for her glass. The pink lemonade was almost at her lips when Livingstone's arm shot out. Then came the tinkle of shattered glass and a crimson stain where the wine trailed across the damask.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Livingstone, while the other men lowered their glasses in surprise. "That was an awkward slip of mine, Mrs. Warden. I must have hit your arm."

"But, Bill," muttered Harding under his breath, "you don't mean—"

"But I do," corrected Livingstone quietly, looking straight into Harding's amazed eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Warden are my guests. They are going to drive to Bunker Hill with me by and by."

When the six o'clock accommodation train pulled out from Boston that night it bore a little old man and a little old woman, gray-haired, weary, but blissfully content.

"We've seen 'em all, Hezekiah, ev'ry single one of 'em," Abigail was saying. "An' wan't Mr. Livingstone good, a-gittin' that carriage an' takin' us ev'rywhere; an' it bein' open so all 'round the sides, we didn't miss seein' a single thing!"

"He was, Abby, he was, an' he wouldn't let me pay one cent!" cried Hezekiah, taking out his roll of bills and patting it lovingly. "But, Abby, did ye notice? 'Twas kind o' queer we never got one taste of that pink lemonade. The waiter-man took it away."



When Aunt Abby Waked Up



The room was very still. The gaunt figure on the bed lay motionless save for a slight lifting of the chest at long intervals. The face was turned toward the wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across the pillow. Just outside the door two physicians talked together in low tones, with an occasional troubled glance toward the silent figure on the bed.

"If there could be something that would rouse her," murmured one; "something that would prick her will-power and goad it into action! But this lethargy—this wholesale giving up!" he finished with a gesture of despair.

"I know," frowned the other; "and I've tried—day after day I've tried. But there's nothing. I've exhausted every means in my power. I didn't know but you—" He paused questioningly.

The younger man shook his head.

"No," he said. "If you can't, I can't. You've been her physician for years. If anyone knows how to reach her, you should know. I suppose you've thought of—her son?"

"Oh, yes. Jed was sent for long ago, but he had gone somewhere into the interior on a prospecting trip, and was very hard to reach. It is doubtful if word gets to him at all until—too late. As you know, perhaps, it is rather an unfortunate case. He has not been home for years, anyway, and the Nortons—James is Mrs. Darling's nephew—have been making all the capital they can out of it, and have been prejudicing her against him—quite unjustly, in my opinion, for I think it's nothing more nor less than thoughtlessness on the boy's part."

"Hm-m; too bad, too bad!" murmured the other, as he turned and led the way to the street door.

Back in the sick-room the old woman still lay motionless on the bed. She was wondering—as she had wondered so often before—why it took so long to die. For days now she had been trying to die, decently and in order. There was really no particular use in living, so far as she could see. Ella and Jim were very kind; but, after all, they were not Jed, and Jed was away—hopelessly away. He did not even want to come back, so Ella and Jim said.

There was the money, too. She did not like to think of the money. It seemed to her that every nickel and dime and quarter that she had painfully wrested from the cost of keeping soul and body together all these past years lay now on her breast with a weight that crushed like lead. She had meant that money for Jed. Ella and Jim were kind, of course, and she was willing they should have it; yet Jed—but Jed was away.

And she was so tired. She had ceased to rouse herself, either for the medicine or for the watery broths they forced through her lips. It was so hopelessly dragged out—this dying; yet it must be over soon. She had heard them tell the neighbors only yesterday that she was unconscious and that she did not know a thing of what was passing around her; and she had smiled—but only in her mind. Her lips, she knew, had not moved.

They were talking now—Ella and Jim—out in the other room. Their voices, even their words, were quite distinct, and dreamily, indifferently, she listened.

"You see," said Jim, "as long as I've got ter go ter town ter-morrer, anyhow, it seems a pity not ter do it all up at once. I could order the coffin an' the undertaker—it's only a question of a few hours, anyway, an' it seems such a pity ter make another trip—jest fer that!"

In the bedroom the old woman stirred suddenly. Somewhere, away back behind the consciousness of things, something snapped, and sent the blood tingling from toes to fingertips. A fierce anger sprang instantly into life and brushed the cobwebs of lethargy and indifference from her brain. She turned and opened her eyes, fixing them upon the oblong patch of light that marked the doorway leading to the room beyond where sat Ella and Jim.

"Jest fer that," Jim had said, and "that" was her death. It was not worth, it seemed, even an extra trip to town! And she had done so much— so much for those two out there!

"Let's see; ter-day's Monday," Jim went on. "We might fix the fun'ral for Saturday, I guess, an' I'll tell the folks at the store ter spread it. Puttin' it on Sat'day'll give us a leetle extry time if she shouldn't happen ter go soon's we expect—though there ain't much fear o' that now, I guess, she's so low. An' it'll save me 'most half a day ter do it all up this trip. I ain't—what's that?" he broke off sharply.

From the inner room had seemed to come a choking, inarticulate cry.

With a smothered ejaculation Jim picked up the lamp, hurried into the sick-room, and tiptoed to the bed. The gaunt figure lay motionless, face to the wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across the pillow.

"Gosh!" muttered the man as he turned away.

"There's nothin' doin'-but it did give me a start!"

On the bed the woman smiled grimly—but the man did not see it.

It was snowing hard when Jim got back from town Tuesday night. He came blustering into the kitchen with stamping feet and wide-flung arms, scattering the powdery whiteness in all directions.

"Whew! It's a reg'lar blizzard," he began, but he stopped short at the expression on his wife's face. "Why, Ella!" he cried.

"Jim—Aunt Abby sat up ten minutes in bed ter-day. She called fer toast an' tea."

Jim dropped into a chair. His jaw fell open.

"S-sat up!" he stammered.

"Yes."

"But she—hang it all, Herrick's comin' ter-morrer with the coffin!"

"Oh, Jim!"

"Well, I can't help it! You know how she was this mornin'," retorted Jim sharply. "I thought she was dead once. Why, I 'most had Herrick come back with me ter-night, I was so sure."

"I know it," shivered Ella, "but you hadn't been gone an hour 'fore she began to stir an' notice things. I found her lookin' at me first, an' it give me such a turn I 'most dropped the medicine bottle in my hand. I was clearin' off the little table by her bed, an' she was followin' me around with them big gray eyes. 'Slickin' up?' she asks after a minute; an' I could 'a' dropped right there an' then, 'cause I was slickin' up, fer her fun'ral. 'Where's Jim?' she asks then. 'Gone ter town,' says I, kind o' faint-like. 'Umph!' she says, an' snaps her lips tight shet. After a minute she opens 'em again. 'I think I'll have some tea and toast,' she says, casual-like, jest as if she'd been callin' fer victuals ev'ry day fer a month past. An' when I brought it, if she didn't drag herself up in bed an' call fer a piller to her back, so's she could set up. An' there she stayed, pantin' an' gaspin', but settin' up—an' she stayed there till the toast an' tea was gone."

"Gosh!" groaned Jim. "Who'd 'a' thought it? 'Course 't ain't that I grudge the old lady's livin'," he added hurriedly, "but jest now it's so— unhandy, things bein' as they be. We can't very well—" He stopped, a swift change coming to his face. "Say, Ella," he cried, "mebbe it's jest a spurt 'fore—'fore the last. Don't it happen some-times that way—when folks is dyin'?"

"I don't know," shuddered Ella. "Sh-h! I thought I heard her." And she hurried across the hall to the sitting-room and the bedroom beyond.

It did not snow much through the night, but in the early morning it began again with increased severity. The wind rose, too, and by the time Herrick, the undertaker, drove into the yard, the storm had become a blizzard.

"I calc'lated if I didn't git this 'ere coffin here purty quick there wouldn't be no gettin' it here yet awhile," called Herrick cheerfully, as Jim came to the door.

Jim flushed and raised a warning hand.

"Sh-h! Herrick, look out!" he whispered hoarsely. "She ain't dead yet. You'll have ter go back."

"Go back!" snorted Herrick. "Why, man alive, 'twas as much as my life's worth to get here. There won't be no goin' back yet awhile fer me nor no one else, I calc'late. An' the quicker you get this 'ere coffin in out of the snow, the better't will be," he went on authoritatively as he leaped to the ground.

It was not without talk and a great deal of commotion that the untimely addition to James Norton's household effects was finally deposited in the darkened parlor; neither was it accomplished without some echo of the confusion reaching the sick-room, despite all efforts of concealment. Jim, perspiring, redfaced, and palpably nervous, was passing on tiptoe through the sitting-room when a quavering voice from the bedroom brought him to a halt.

"Jim, is that you?"

"Yes, Aunt Abby."

"Who's come?"

Jim's face grew white, then red.

"C-ome?" he stammered.

"Yes, I heard a sleigh and voices. Who is it?"

"Why, jest-jest a man on—on business," he flung over his shoulder, as he fled through the hall.

Not half an hour later came Ella's turn. In accordance with the sick woman's orders she had prepared tea, toast, and a boiled egg; but she had not set the tray on the bed when the old woman turned upon her two keen eyes.

"Who's in the kitchen, Ella, with Jim?"

Ella started guiltily.

"Why, jest a—a man."

"Who is it?"

Ella hesitated; then, knowing that deceit was useless, she stammered out the truth.

"Why, er—only Mr. Herrick."

"Not William Herrick, the undertaker!" There was apparently only pleased surprise in the old woman's voice.

"Yes," nodded Ella feverishly, "he had business out this way, and—and got snowed up," she explained with some haste.

"Ye don't say," murmured the old woman. "Well, ask him in; I'd like ter see him."

"Aunt Abby!"—Ella's teeth fairly chattered with dismay.

"Yes, I'd like ter see him," repeated the old woman with cordial interest. "Call him in."

And Ella could do nothing but obey.

Herrick, however, did not stay long in the sick-room. The situation was uncommon for him, and not without its difficulties. As soon as possible he fled to the kitchen, telling Jim that it gave him "the creeps" to have her ask him where he'd started for, and if business was good.

All that day it snowed and all that night; nor did the dawn of Friday bring clear skies. For hours the wind had swept the snow from roofs and hilltops, piling it into great drifts that grew moment by moment deeper and more impassable.

In the farmhouse Herrick was still a prisoner.

The sick woman was better. Even Jim knew now that it was no momentary flare of the candle before it went out. Mrs. Darling was undeniably improving in health. She had sat up several times in bed, and had begun to talk of wrappers and slippers. She ate toast, eggs, and jellies, and hinted at chicken and beefsteak. She was weak, to be sure, but behind her, supporting and encouraging, there seemed to be a curious strength— a strength that sent a determined gleam to her eyes, and a grim tenseness to her lips.

At noon the sun came out, and the wind died into fitful gusts. The two men attacked the drifts with a will, and made a path to the gate. They even attempted to break out the road, and Herrick harnessed his horse and started for home; but he had not gone ten rods before he was forced to turn back.

"'T ain't no use," he grumbled. "I calc'late I'm booked here till the crack o' doom!"

"An' ter-morrer's the fun'ral," groaned Jim. "An' I can't git nowhere— nowhere ter tell 'em not ter come!"

"Well, it don't look now as if anybody'd come—or go," snapped the undertaker.

Saturday dawned fair and cold. Early in the morning the casket was moved from the parlor to the attic.

There had been sharp words at the breakfast table, Herrick declaring that he had made a sale, and refusing to take the casket back to town; hence the move to the attic; but in spite of their caution, the sick woman heard the commotion.

"What ye been cartin' upstairs?" she asked in a mildly curious voice.

Ella was ready for her.

"A chair," she explained smoothly; "the one that was broke in the front room, ye know." And she did not think it was necessary to add that the chair was not all that had been moved. She winced and changed color, however, when her aunt observed:

"Humph! Must be you're expectin' company, Ella."

It was almost two o'clock when loud voices and the crunch of heavy teams told that the road-breakers had come. All morning the Nortons had been hoping against hope that the fateful hour would pass, and the road be still left in unbroken whiteness. Someone, however, had known his duty too well—and had done it.

"I set ter work first thing on this road," said the man triumphantly to Ella as he stood, shovel in hand, at the door. "The parson's right behind, an' there's a lot more behind him. Gorry! I was afraid I wouldn't git here in time, but the fun'ral wan't till two, was it?"

Ella's dry lips refused to move. She shook her head.

"There's a mistake," she said faintly. "There ain't no fun'ral. Aunt Abby's better."

The man stared, then he whistled softly.

"Gorry!" he muttered, as he turned away.

If Jim and Ella had supposed that they could keep their aunt from attending her own "funeral"—as Herrick persisted in calling it—they soon found their mistake. Mrs. Darling heard the bells of the first arrival.

"I guess mebbe I'll git up an' set up a spell," she announced calmly to Ella. "I'll have my wrapper an' my slippers, an' I'll set in the big chair out in the settin'-room. That's Parson Gerry's voice, an' I want ter see him."

"But, Aunt Abby—" began Ella, feverishly.

"Well, I declare, if there ain't another sleigh drivin' in," cried the old woman excitedly, sitting up in bed and peering through the little window. "Must be they're givin' us a s'prise party. Now hurry, Ella, an' git them slippers. I ain't a-goin' to lose none o' the fun!" And Ella, nervous, perplexed, and thoroughly frightened, did as she was bid.

In state, in the big rocking-chair, the old woman received her guests. She said little, it is true, but she was there; and if she noticed that no guest entered the room without a few whispered words from Ella in the hall, she made no sign. Neither did she apparently consider it strange that ten women and six men should have braved the cold to spend fifteen rather embarrassed minutes in her sitting-room—and for this last both Ella and Jim were devoutly grateful. They could not help wondering about it, however, after she had gone to bed, and the house was still.

"What do ye s'pose she thought?" whispered Jim.

"I don't know," shivered Ella, "but, Jim, wan't it awful?—Mis' Blair brought a white wreath—everlastin's!"

One by one the days passed, and Jim and Ella ceased to tremble every time the old woman opened her lips. There was still that fearsome thing in the attic, but the chance of discovery was small now.

"If she should find out," Ella had said, "'twould be the end of the money—fer us."

"But she ain't a-goin' ter find out," Jim had retorted. "She can't last long, 'course, an' I guess she won't change the will now—unless some one tells her; an' I'll be plaguy careful there don't no one do that!"

The "funeral" was a week old when Mrs. Darling came into the sitting- room one day, fully dressed.

"I put on all my clo's," she said smilingly, in answer to Ella's shocked exclamation. "I got restless, somehow, an' sick o' wrappers. Besides, I wanted to walk around the house a little. I git kind o' tired o' jest one room." And she limped across the floor to the hall door.

"But, Aunt Abby, where ye goin' now?" faltered Ella.

"Jest up in the attic. I wanted ter see—" She stopped in apparent surprise. Ella and Jim had sprung to their feet.

"The attic!" they gasped.

"Yes, I—"

"But you mustn't!—you ain't strong enough!—you'll fall!—there's nothin' there!" they exclaimed wildly, talking both together and hurrying forward.

"Oh, I guess 't won't kill me," said the old woman; and something in the tone of her voice made them fall back. They were still staring into each other's eyes when the hall door closed sharply behind her.

"It's all—up!" breathed Jim.

Fully fifteen minutes passed before the old woman came back. She entered the room quietly, and limped across the floor to the chair by the window.

"It's real pretty," she said. "I allers did like gray."

"Gray?" stammered Ella.

"Yes!—fer coffins, ye know." Jim made a sudden movement, and started to speak; but the old woman raised her hand. "You don't need ter say anythin'," she interposed cheerfully. "I jest wanted ter make sure where 'twas, so I went up. You see, Jed's comin' home, an' I thought he might feel—queer if he run on to it, casual-like."

"Jed—comin' home!"

The old woman smiled oddly.

"Oh, I didn't tell ye, did I? The doctor had this telegram yesterday, an' brought it over to me. Ye know he was here last night. Read it." And she pulled from her pocket a crumpled slip of paper. And Jim read:

Shall be there the 8th. For God's sake don't let me be too late.

J. D. DARLING



Wristers for Three



The great chair, sumptuous with satin-damask and soft with springs, almost engulfed the tiny figure of the little old lady. To the old lady herself it suddenly seemed the very embodiment of the luxurious ease against which she was so impotently battling. With a spasmodic movement she jerked herself to her feet, and stood there motionless save for the wistful sweep of her eyes about the room.

A level ray from the setting sun shot through the window, gilding the silver of her hair and deepening the faint pink of her cheek; on the opposite wall it threw a sharp silhouette of the alert little figure— that figure which even the passage of years had been able to bend so very little to its will. For a moment the lace kerchief folded across the black gown rose and fell tumultuously; then its wearer crossed the room and seated herself with uncompromising discomfort in the only straight-backed chair the room contained. This done, Mrs. Nancy Wetherby, for the twentieth time, went over in her mind the whole matter.