"But, Drusilla—"

"Don't interrupt me, John. I want you to live here near me. These rooms are a man's rooms. I want to see a man in 'em; and, John, you're the man I want."

"But, Drusilla—"

"Now, John," raising her faded hand, "don't argue with me. I can see it's took you by surprise. But why shouldn't you live here, and me across the hall; and evenings, when the time is long, we can set before the fire like this and talk of the past. It's lonely, John, with no one."

"But, Drusilla, I couldn't—I couldn't—"

"Couldn't what, John? Couldn't you be happy here?"

"It isn't that."

"Well, what is it?"

"Drusilla, I couldn't accept even your charity."

"Now, John, I was afraid you'd say somethin' like that. When I was young, when we were young together, I'd 'a' give you all my life. What is a roof and the food you eat, compared to what I'd 'a' give you if things had been different?"

"But, Drusilla—"

"Yes, I know all you'd say. But see, John. I have more'n I can ever spend, though, goodness knows, I'm goin' to do my best; and there's some things I can't buy, John. I can't buy companionship and friends, John; and that's what we are, jest two old friends. We've drifted far apart, and now the winds has brought us together again, let's anchor side by side."

They were both silent, staring into the fire. Then Drusilla rose.

"Now we won't talk of it no more. These are your rooms. I want you to do what you want to do. If you'd feel that you could be happy here, send for your books and call this home, 'cause remember, John," and she went up to him and standing back of his chair put her hand around his head until it rested on his face, "remember, John, I always want you."

John reached up and covered the soft little hand with one of his for a moment, then he brought it down and kissed it.

Drusilla turned and left the room.

The next few days were happy days for Drusilla. She took great pride in showing John the place, and they spent long hours in the gallery studying and discussing the pictures. The armor room was John's especial delight, after the library. He found a book on armor and learned the rules of chivalry. Drusilla said she could always tell where to find him—"a-studyin' them tin clothes."

One sunshiny day they decided to visit the Doane home. John did not want to go where there were so many women, but Drusilla insisted.

"I want 'em to see a man, John. They're shet up all day with nothin' but women, and they're tired of seein' 'em."

"But I'm an old man, Drusilla."

"Never mind how old you are, you're a man, and any man'll look good to them. Even if most of the ladies is past seventy, they ain't dead yet, and they're still women. You'll see how they'll set up and take notice; Miss Lodema'll smooth back her hair as soon as you step on the porch. I want to give 'em some real pleasure. Barbara'd like to talk to you better'n gettin' new teeth even. We'll take the big car and take as many as we can git in it out for a ride."

Drusilla had the cook make some cakes, for, as she confided to John, "I ain't a-goin' to take 'em a thing sensible. They git that every day. I'm goin' to have the cook make 'em as big cakes as he can, and put lots of frostin' and chocolate on 'em; and I've sent to town for twenty pounds of candy—the real fancy kind, that'll quite likely make 'em all sick, but they'll love it; and I've bought 'em a lot of things they don't need and that no one would think of givin' 'em. They're going to have a real party when I come to see 'em, John."

Drusilla was as excited as a child about her visit; but her excitement did not equal that of the old ladies when Drusilla was seen driving into the grounds in a big limousine with a man beside her.

The women clustered around her and chattered and talked and asked questions, and fingered their gifts like a group of children at a visit of Santa Claus. After lunch Drusilla announced that five of the old ladies should go with her to the near-by city, where she was going to take Barbara to a dentist.

"I don't want the dentist that would come here to see the 'inmates.' He'd give charity teeth. I want Barbara to have real teeth, so's she can chew a bone if she wants to, and I want to take Grandma Perkins. She's never been in a motor and she's near ninety, so she'd better hurry up or she'll be ridin' in a chariot and after that a motorcar wouldn't be excitin'."

The old ladies were bundled up, Grandma Perkins was carried out to the car, and they were off to the city about twenty miles away. The women were awed at first, and rather uneasy, some of them a little frightened. Drusilla watched Grandma Perkins, to see that she was not nervous; but after a few miles had been passed, the old lady sat up straighter in her shawls, and her eyes became bright.

"Drusilla," she asked, "how fast are we goin'?"

"I don't know," Drusilla said. "We'll ask the man."

Twenty-five miles an hour, the chauffeur told them.

"We'll go slower if it scares you, Grandma," Drusilla said gently.

The old lady looked at her with scorn.

"Scares me, nothin'! I was only wonderin' if we couldn't go faster!"

Drusilla laughed.

"That's jest what I said when I first rode in the car with Mr. Thornton."

She gave the order and the car sped swiftly over the macadam road. The old lady settled back among her shawls, a look of absolute happiness on her wrinkled old face.

They arrived at the city all too soon. Barbara was taken to the dentist, and Drusilla had the other ladies taken to a tea shop and given tea while she waited for Barbara.

After tea they started home.

"I don't want to go back, Drusilla," Grandma Perkins began to whimper. "Must we go back right away?"

Drusilla looked puzzled.

"I don't know what to do. Where'll we go if we don't go back?" She thought a moment. "I'll ask Joseph; he always knows everything." She turned to the waiting chauffeur. "Joseph, we don't want to go home. Ain't there anything we can see?"

Joseph looked at the five old ladies, evidently at a loss as to what would please them; then a suggestion occurred to him.

"You might go to a moving-picture show."

"What's that?"

"It's—it's a kind of theater."

"Well, I ain't never seen one," said Drusilla; and turned to the old ladies, who were waiting patiently to learn of their final disposal. "Do you want to go to a movin'-picture show?"

"What's that?" came in chorus.

"I don't know myself, but it's a sort of—sort of—"

"Never mind what it is, we want to go."

"Yes, let's go, Drusilla; let's not go home."

And the patrons of the moving-picture house had a view of six old ladies, piloted by a smartly dressed chauffeur, who saw them seated in a box and then left them. It was really a very good moving-picture, and if the actors could have seen the delight of the box party they would have felt they had not toiled in vain. They sat for two hours entranced by the scenes that passed before them on the screen. One of the plays was a war-time drama, and the old ladies were quite likely the only ones in the house to whom the blue and the gray brought memories.

At the end of the reel, Drusilla decided that they should be leaving, as supper would be ready at the home. One of the old ladies objected.

"Let's not go home, Drusilla; let's miss supper."

"It's bean night, anyway," said another. "Let's stay."

Five pairs of dim old eyes looked at Drusilla beseechingly.

"Well, we'll stay just a little while longer," she concluded.

The little while quite likely would have been the rest of the evening if the performance had not finished for the afternoon. They rose with a sigh and left the theater. When they started to help Grandma Perkins into the car, she stopped with one foot on the step.

"Drusilla, I want to ride with the man," she said.

"Oh, but, Grandma, you'd catch cold," Drusilla objected.

"I wouldn't," she wailed, "and I want to. I might jest as well die fer a sheep as a lamb, and I won't never git no chance again to feel myself goin' through the air with nothin' in front of me."

"But, Grandma—"

The old lip quivered, and the eyes filled childishly.

"But I want to, Drusilla. I don't want to be all squshed up with a lot of old women where I can't see nothin'. I want to see, and I want to feel."

Drusilla turned helplessly to the other women, and then Joseph came to her aid.

"She can sit here, Ma'am. I'll fix the wind shield so's she won't catch cold, and you can put this rug around her. She'll be warm."

Grandma Perkins was lifted into the seat by the driver, bundled up in a big fur rug so that only her bright eyes could be seen, and they were off. Twice on the way home Grandma Perkins was seen to lean towards the chauffeur and the car jumped forward until it seemed that they were flying. When at last they drove into the "home" grounds, they found a very anxious superintendent and John waiting for them, fearing something had happened.

As Drusilla took her leave, Grandma Perkins chuckled childishly.

"I always said, Drusilla, that I didn't want to die and go to Heaven; but I've changed my mind. I'll go any time now, 'cause I like flyin' and am willin' to be an angel."

The superintendent was inclined to be angry with Drusilla—as angry as she could be with a woman who possessed a million dollars. She said stiffly:

"I'm afraid the ladies will be ill to-morrow."

One of them, hearing it, spoke up.

"Of course we'll all be sick; but, then, it was worth it!"

And Drusilla left with those words ringing in her ears.

"John," she said, "perhaps all is vanity and a strivin' after wind; but the preacher didn't know much about women, or his wives didn't have motorcars."



CHAPTER VIII

One morning James came to Drusilla.

"There is a man downstairs who wishes to see you," he announced.

"What does he want?" asked Drusilla.

"He does not say; just says he wants to see you personally. He says he is from your home town or village."

Drusilla looked up, pleased.

"Is that so. Take him in one of the setting-rooms and I'll be right down."

James hesitated.

"What is it, James?"

"He, well, he is not exactly a gentleman; he looks like a man from the country."

"That ain't nothin' to disgrace him for life. I'm from the country too, and I'm real glad to see any one from the place where I was raised. I ain't seen no one from there for a long time."

When she went downstairs she found a rather florid man, about fifty years of age, dressed as a farmer would dress when out on a holiday. She extended her hand cordially.

"James tells me you are from Adams," she said. "I'm real glad to see somebody from there. Set down. Won't you take off your coat?"

The man removed his overcoat and sat down.

"I am John Gleason," he said; "the brother of James Gleason, who owns the Spring Valley Stock Farm, just out of Adams."

Drusilla thought for a moment.

"I don't seem to recall the name, but perhaps you moved there sence I went away."

"I been there about thirty years. Of course you know William Fisher, the editor of the county paper? He is a friend of mine."

Drusilla's face brightened.

"Yes, indeed; I know him well. I nursed his wife through all her children and her last spell of sickness."

"Is that so! His wife was a cousin of my wife's. Her name was Jenny Jameson before she married me."

"The daughter of old Dr. Jameson! Well, I do declare, it's like meetin' old friends. How is she?"

"I'm sorry to say she is not very well. We lost our little girl about two years ago, and she has been sick ever since."

Kindly Drusilla was all sympathy at once.

"Do tell me. What did she die of."

"Diphtheria. She got it in school; it run through all the children in the county."

"How old was she?"

"She was eleven, and it near broke my wife's heart. She was our only child. I catch her settin' by the door waitin' for Julia to come home. It worries me very much."

"Well, I'm so sorry. Have you had a doctor?"

"Yes; we have had Dr. Friedman and another doctor from the city. But they don't seem to be doing her no good."

"It's too bad! Now perhaps I got something that'll help her. I got some harbs that make the best tonic. I always give it to mothers who didn't get along well, and it made them have an appetite; and if one can eat well, they can ginerally git enough strength to throw off sorrow. You just set still a minute, and I'll make a package for you. I ain't got much left, 'cause I been kind of savin' of it; but I know it'll do your wife good, so I'm goin' to give you some."

Drusilla left to go up to her room to find the "harbs" that she had been carefully cherishing for time of need. When she returned she handed the package to the man.

"You have her bile them fifteen minutes and drink it like a tea," she said.

They chatted for fifteen minutes about the families in Adams. Mr. Gleason seemed to be very familiar with them all, and Drusilla's eyes brightened as she heard the old names. She thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

"John Brierly is upstairs," she said finally. "I'll call him. He'd like to hear all the news of the old neighbors, and perhaps he'll know about your father."

The man looked embarrassed.

"Well, Miss Doane," he stammered, "I'd like to see him, but I'm in a hurry. I want to get the eleven o'clock train home. I'm worried about leaving my wife. She's not sick, you know, but just peculiar and I don't like to leave her longer than I can help. I had to come down on business—I've been seeing about some cattle over in New Jersey, and— and—Miss Doane, I'm in trouble, and I don't know a soul in New York, and I didn't know who I could go to but you, and I remembered you was from Adams and might help me."

Drusilla looked at him with inquiring, sympathetic eyes.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"Well,"—and the man was most embarrassed—"I've been farmer enough to have my pocket picked on the train. I was sleepy and went to sleep and when I woke up my pocketbook that I always carried right here"— showing an inside pocket in his coat—"was gone. It had all my money and my mileage ticket."

"Well, I swan!" said Drusilla.

"Yes; I didn't know what to do. I tried to tell the man in the ticket office that I would send back my ticket money, but he wouldn't give it to me, and I—well—I don't know what to do. I feel I ought to go home to my wife at once, and—and—"

"How much is the ticket?"

"The ticket is only about three dollars and sixty cents—"

"Pshaw, that is very little. I'll get some money from James. I never have any."

She rang the bell; and when James returned with fifteen dollars she handed it to the man.

"You'd better have a little extra, as somethin' might happen," she said.

He was more than thankful.

"I'll never forget your kindness, and I'll send it to you as soon as I get home. You'll get it day after to-morrow. And I'll see my wife takes this tea. We'll never forget you, Miss Doane."

He wrung her hand.

"Can't I get you anything from the country," he asked. "But I suppose you have everything. I'd like to send you something to show you how I feel."

Drusilla was touched.

"Now that's real kind of you to think of it," she said; "but I don't need nothin'."

She followed him to the door and helped him on with his overcoat.

"Be sure and let me know how your wife gets on. Perhaps if the tea don't do no good, my doctor will know of something that'll help her. She might come down here for a few days; a change might take her mind off her sorrow."

Again Mr. Gleason shook the kindly outstretched hand, and for a moment he seemed rather overcome by his feelings of gratitude.

"I'll let you know at once, and I'll remember your offer. I must catch my train. Thank you again, Miss Doane."

Drusilla watched him walk down the drive, and then she went up to tell John of his visit. As they were talking, Dr. Eaton's card was brought to her and Drusilla asked him to be shown to John's sitting-room. Drusilla met him with a happy smile on her face.

"Come right in, Dr. Eaton. I'm always glad to see you. You're just youth and strength and it does my old eyes good to see you. John, this is Dr. Eaton, my family doctor. You didn't know I was an ailin' woman and have to have a doctor by the year."

John looked at her anxiously.

"You ain't sick, are you, Drusilla?"

"Oh, money gives you lots of diseases that you didn't know you had till you could afford 'em."

The doctor laughed.

"Miss Doane'll never be sick in her life, Mr. Brierly. She's good for twenty-five years of hard work yet."

"Don't speak that word to me, Dr. Eaton. I don't like the word work. It's stuck closer to me than a brother for too many years."

"Oh, but there's work and work. But am I interrupting your visit with Mr. Brierly?"

"No; I just been tellin' him about a visitor I had who comes from Adams, where we used to live when we was young. I wanted John to come and see him, but the man couldn't wait. He had to catch a train."

"Was it an old friend? It's nice to see old friends."

"No, he wasn't exactly an old friend, but he knowed a lot of people I knowed once. Poor man, he was in a lot of trouble. He had his pocket picked and couldn't get home and his wife was sick—"

The doctor looked up quickly.

"Did you lend him money, Miss Doane?"

"Yes; I felt so sorry for him. He was so worried I let him have fifteen dollars. He'll send it back to me to-morrow. He was so grateful. It must be awful to be in a big city and know no one and have no money."

"Yes; it must," the doctor remarked dryly.

Drusilla looked at him quickly.

"What you speakin' in that tone of voice for?"

The doctor laughed rather hesitatingly.

"I'm afraid, Miss Doane, that you're what the small boys call 'stung.'"

"Stung? What do you mean?"

"I rather imagine that was a little confidence game."

"What is a confidence game?"

"Oh, a man gets money from people on false pretenses. They work a lot of games. One of them is to go to people whom they have looked up, and claim to be a relation or from their home town."

"But he knowed lots of names I knowed."

"Yes; he might have found them in a local paper from the place."

Drusilla sat back in her chair.

"Well, do tell!" Then, after a moment's pause, "But I don't believe he's dishonest. He looked honest. He looked like a man from the country."

"That's where they're clever. But don't worry; you can stand the touch—it wasn't much. You got off easy."

"But I don't like to think I bin cheated. It makes me mad clean through. It always did. I remember once I bought a cow when mother was bad; paid forty dollars for her to Silas Graham. He said she was young and would give fifteen quarts of milk a day, and I figgered out I could give mother all the milk she'd need and sell the rest and in that way pay for her, because forty dollars was a lot of money for me in them days. Why, when I got that cow she never give enough milk to wet down a salt risin', and she was as old as Methuselah. All she could do was to eat, and she et her head off. I couldn't see her starve and I couldn't sell her. I kept her for two years, and finally a butcher come along and offered me eight dollars for her and I let her go. Wasn't I mad! I never could abide any one by the name of Silas after that."

"Never mind; you're able to stand this loss. But you'd better write up to Adams and see if what he says is true. You can find it out easy enough."

"No; I'll wait and see. I believe he'll send it back to me. But it makes me excited."

"But, Miss Doane," said Dr. Eaton earnestly, "I want you to promise me one thing. You must not be annoyed. If the word gets around that you are 'easy' you'll be bothered to death. Now the next time that any one comes claiming to be from your home town, and asks you for money, for anything at all, just send for the police and have them arrested."

"Oh, I'd hate to do that."

"But you must, Miss Doane. You must protect yourself. Promise me that no matter who it is, or what kind of a con talk they give you, you'll send at once for the police."

"Well—"

"Please promise this, Miss Doane. You must make an example, or you'll have every confidence man in town working you. Will you do it, no matter what or who it is? If you are asked for money, and you don't know the man, have him locked up, and the story'll get around, and you won't be bothered any more."

"Well, if you think it necessary—"

"It is most necessary. You will promise?"

"Yes, I'll promise. I'll do it, though I hate to."

"All right; I have your word for it. Now be sure to do it. Don't believe a word they say, if you haven't known the person before. He's sure to be playing the old game, and I don't want them to think they can work you."

"Well, all right. I'll send for the police if any one ever comes again and says he's from Adams. I guess you are right. Now let's change the subject. What did you come for particular, beside wanting to see me, of course."

"Well, I wanted to see you, first of all, just for the pleasure of seeing you, and then I want to tell you about the mothers we've got by our advertisement."

Drusilla was interested at once.

"Did you git some? I told you we would. Did you advertise in all the papers?"

"Yes; every paper in New York City—Jewish, German, Bohemian, Russian, everything; and I've found three mothers out of the bunch."

"Well—well, I'm glad. Where are they, and who are they?"

"One of them is little John's mother. You remember you thought she'd come and she did. The other two, we've had their stories investigated and found them all right. One is an American girl about twenty years of age whose husband deserted her when he couldn't get work, and she was practically starving, and the other is a little Jewish girl, who works in a flower factory."

"The poor things! Did you bring them right up?"

"No; I wanted to talk with you first, and with Mr. Thornton—"

"Never mind talkin' with Mr. Thornton. This is my affair and not connected with the estate, as he calls it. It ain't none of his business, and you know what he'd say. I don't tell him more'n I have to till it's done, then he can't do nothin' and he's learnt he's wastin' his breath talkin'. You see he talks slow and I talk fast, and he don't git much chance."

The doctor laughed.

"I'm glad I don't have to talk this over with him, as he isn't what you might call sympathetic."

"Yes; he's cold. Sometimes I look to see him drip like an icicle brought into a warm room, but I guess he's not so bad as he acts sometimes. But who's the little Jew girl?"

"She is that little Jew kid's mother."

"The baby with the black eyes and the big nose? Well, he ain't pretty, but he's clever."

"The girl couldn't make but five dollars a week and she couldn't pay any one to keep the baby, and she had no people, so she gave it to you. But she's a nice little thing, and willing to work and be with her boy."

"That makes four nurses, and perhaps there'll be more answer. Now you figger what I ought to pay 'em. I want to be just, but I ain't goin' to be extravagant. And send them up to-morrow. And, Doctor, I been a thinkin'. These mothers ought to be learnt somethin' so's they can make a livin' when they leave here. They can't live here forever, perhaps. Mis' Fearn was over here the other day and said somethin' about tryin' to get a good sewin' woman—some one who could make dresses in the house for the children and make over her old ones, and do odds and ends that she can't get the big dressmakers to do. She says she pays three dollars a day but that it's hard to get good ones. Why can't we get some one to teach our mothers to be dressmakers—real good ones—then they can always make a livin'."

"That's an idea, Miss Doane, and a good one. We'll think it over."

"Well, you figger it out; but we got enough to think about jest now. We've got a good start—twelve babies and four mothers. I think I'll stop with that. Twelve is a good number."

Just then James came to the door with a disgusted look on his face. He glanced from one to the other in perplexity. Drusilla looked up.

"What is it, James?"

James was plainly embarrassed.

"I'd—I'd—like to speak to Dr. Eaton. I think I'd better speak to him first."

"What do you want to say to him you can't say to me? Has some one sent for him?"

"No—no—"

"Well, is it private? What you so nervous about, James? You look foolish."

"Well—well—"

"Say it! What is it?"

"Well, ma'am—there's another baby come."

"What!" cried Drusilla, sitting erect in her chair.

"What!" exclaimed Dr. Eaton. "Where's the watchman?"

"I don't know, sir. The baby was found at the laundry door, and no one was in sight, though we all searched the grounds and the roads."

"Well, I swan! I thought we'd stopped. What'll we do with it?"

James said impressively: "We'd better send this one to the police station."

"James," said Drusilla severely, "I've told you I won't send a baby to the police station. Bring it up and let me see it!"

"But, ma'am, this is different—"

Drusilla sniffed.

"It can't be much different. A baby is a baby—"

"But, ma'am—Dr. Eaton—I—"

"James, I said bring it up. Now bring it up at once, I say!"

James turned desperately and left the room. Soon he returned with a clothes-basket and put it on the library table. Drusilla, Dr. Eaton and John rose and went to the table and looked down in silence at the basket's contents, with consternation plainly written on their faces. There was a moment's silence, then Dr. Eaton burst into a roar of laughter. He put back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his face, and soon he was joined by John; but Drusilla was too amazed to laugh. She looked down at the baby in the big clothes-basket, at the round, black, wondering eyes that stared up at her from the coal-black face of a negro baby. There it lay, the little woolly head on a clean white pillow, a white blanket covering its little body. The baby looked at the laughing faces above it, as if wondering why the sight of him should cause such merriment; then, as if seeing the joke, opened his little mouth, showing the tip of a red tongue and dazzling baby teeth. It was too much for Drusilla. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"Well, I swan—I swan! A nigger baby!"

Drusilla went again to the basket, from which the squirming infant was evidently trying to get out. She looked at him for a moment and then turned to Dr. Eaton.

"Take him out. I ain't never seen a colored baby close."

The baby was found to be a boy about a year and a half old. He was not at all frightened, and stood up on his sturdy legs and tried to make friends in his baby fashion, showing his white teeth and rolling his round black eyes in a way that started Dr. Eaton and John off into another paroxysm of laughter.

Drusilla looked at the baby; then at the two men. Then, as she did not know what to do, she became exasperated.

"What's the matter with you two? Ain't you never seen a nigger baby before? What you laughing at?"

The baby was trying to toddle across the floor. His toes struck a rug and he fell, showing above his white socks a pair of little fat legs that seemed to be made in ebony, so clearly were they in contrast to his white clothing. Even Drusilla sat back and joined the men in their merriment. The baby looked at them solemnly; then put his chubby fist into his mouth and his face puckered up and great tears came to his eyes. Drusilla was all kindness in an instant.

"You poor little mite! They shan't laugh at you—no, they shan't! Come right here to Grandma—No, I can't be Grandma to a colored baby, can I? Well, never mind, come here to me."

She held out her arms to the weeping baby, and he came toddling to her. She lifted him to her lap and cuddled him down against her breast.

"There, there!" she soothed. "Now you're all right. Well," turning to the men, "he feels just like any other baby, black or white."

Dr. Eaton looked at the white head bent over the black one and again he started to laugh, but Drusilla looked up with a slight flush on her face and a sparkle in her eyes that plainly said that she had had enough of laughter, and he stopped.

"What are you going to do with this one? Now we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."

Drusilla looked at him severely.

"Don't you be a fool, Dr. Eaton. I don't want Mr. Thornton to know nothin' about this one. I'd never hear the last of it."

"Well, then you'd better let me take him to the police station."

"Yes—" hesitatingly; "I suppose so. But—" and she looked down at the baby who was contentedly playing with the trimming on her dress—

"I jest hate to send a baby there."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Dr. Eaton. "There's a big colored orphan asylum out on the Elpham Road. Let's telephone up there, and I'll take it over myself."

Drusilla hesitated again.

"Another 'home.' I hate to—"

"It's the only thing to do, Miss Doane. You can't mix the colors."

"Well, perhaps you'd better."

Dr. Eaton left the room, and returned after a few moments with a shake of his head.

"No good! They say they're full. They can't take in another child. I telephoned another one downtown that they told me of, and they say the same thing. It seems there is a superfluity of colored babies just now. I guess it'll have to be the police station."

"What'll they do with him? If we can't find a place to-night, they can't."

"No; perhaps not. But they'll keep him until they do find a place."

"Well, if they can keep him, so can I. I'll keep him until we find a place for him. Ring for James and Fanny and we'll put him to bed."

James came and the little girl mother, and the baby was placed in James's outraged arms.

"Now, James, don't drop him—he won't bite you. Take him to the children's room; and you, Fanny, see that he has something to eat and a bath. Now you be jest as nice to him as to the other babies. Give him your baby's bed and take your baby in with you to-night."

As James left the room with the baby in his arms, which were stretched out as far from his body as he could carry them, and with his head held disdainfully in the air, Drusilla sat back in her chair and chuckled.

"Ain't James havin' new experiences? His back says, 'This didn't never happen to me when I was in the Duke's house'!"

Dr. Eaton rose to go.

"I'll find some place to put him to-morrow, Miss Doane. It's good of you to take him tonight."

Drusilla went with him to the door.

"Good night, Doctor. Things do seem to be kind of comin' my way. I've got Swedes and Dutch and Irish and Jews, and now a nigger baby. It's a mighty good thing for me that the heathen Chinee is barred. Good night."



CHAPTER IX

Drusilla waited several days for the return of the money that she had loaned her visitor from Adams, and when it did not come she was prevailed upon to write to the son of her old friend, Dr. Friedman, asking him regarding the man. The doctor answered that there was no man by the name of John Gleason in Adams; that the Spring Valley Stock Farm was owned by a man named Gleason who had no brother; and that this particular man had never lived in the small village, where every one was known. Drusilla was thoroughly aroused. It was her first experience with a confidence man. It hurt her pride, as she had said; but it hurt her worse to know that people did such things.

"It jest destroys my belief in human natur', and I'll never trust no one again," she said to John.

It was only about a week after the receipt of the letter from the doctor, when she was still smarting from her wounded feelings, that she was told a clergyman wanted to see her personally. She found a quiet little man, dressed in black.

"Miss Doane," he said with a smile, "I am the Presbyterian clergyman from Adams, your old home, and as I was in town I thought I would come to see you."

Suspicion jumped into Drusilla's old eyes.

"Won't you set down?" she said, rather coldly for her.

The stranger sat down.

"Did you take the place of old Dr. Smith?" Drusilla asked.

"Yes; he's had another call, to a higher land"—motioning upward— "and I have his charge."

The man chatted very intelligently regarding the people in Adams, and Drusilla began to thaw. She forgot her other visitor in her enjoyment of hearing the names of the people in her old church.

"Miss Doane," the clergyman said finally, "we are in a little trouble in our church, and I thought that you might help us."

Drusilla stiffened at once.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"We are trying to start a little fund to take care of some poor children of our parish, and as it is very hard to raise money in our little village, I thought you might be willing to head our subscription. I thought it better to come and see you personally instead of writing you."

Drusilla looked at him a moment and then rose.

"Will you excuse me a minute?" she said politely, and left the room.

She went directly to the butler.

"James, telephone for the police. There's another man in there from Adams and I want him arrested."

She left the astonished James to carry out her orders, and returned to the room.

"You say you have some children in Adams without homes?"

"Not exactly without homes, but they are dependent upon the town for support. An Irish family moved in and the father died and the mother is ill, and we want part of the fund to help the family until the mother is able to support her little family of six. We want to keep them together—instead of putting them in asylums and separating them. And there are two children who have lost both parents—at least the mother is dead and the father cannot be found—and we must take care of them. They are too small to work and we thought we could get some one to take them by paying a small sum per week and—"

He quite likely would have enumerated the rest of the charges of his parish if there had not been a discreet knock at the door, immediately followed by James, announcing:

"The men you asked for, ma'am."

Drusilla rose as the two police officers entered the room. She said, pointing to the astonished clergyman, "I want you to arrest this man. He is a confidence man."

"What—what—" sputtered the clergyman.

"I want you to take him to the police station," said Drusilla firmly.

"Do you make a charge, ma'am?" asked one of the officers.

"Yes. I don't know what it is, but I make it. Take him to jail."

"But—but—" said the bewildered clergyman, "this is an outrage!"

"I don't care what it is, you go to jail. I promised the doctor I'd arrest the next man who tried to git money from me by saying he was from Adams. I don't believe you're a preacher; you don't look like one."

The officers went up to the man, who was evidently struggling with emotion, trying to find some suitable words to express his surprise and anger.

"Come along with me," said the officer gruffly. "Don't make no fuss; it won't go."

They put their hands on his arms and he struggled.

"Take your hands off of me! What do you mean? I tell you, I'm the Reverend Algernon Thompson, of Adams."

"Don't you believe nothin' he says," insisted Drusilla. "Whoever heard of a name Algernon! He looks much worse'n the other man that was here. Just you take him along."

Drusilla looked scornfully at the man, who was struggling with the officers. They led him to the door, where he again refused to go, and the policemen took him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him into the hall. He struggled wildly, and his face became convulsed as he turned to Drusilla.

"I tell you I'm the Reverend Algernon Thompson; and this is an outrage—an outrage—"

The officers shook him roughly.

"Oh, can the hot air. We're used to your kind. Come along."

And the last Drusilla could hear was the wail of the clergyman: "I tell you I am the Reverend Algernon Thompson—"

After the noise had subsided and Drusilla knew the man was gone she went slowly upstairs to find John. He looked up from the book he was reading and said quickly as he saw her flushed face:

"What is it, Drusilla. Has something upset you?"

Drusilla sat down wearily in a chair.

"Oh, John, it was another man from Adams. He said he was a preacher this time, and I had him arrested. It's upset me awful. Ring for William; I believe I'll take a glass of wine. I don't believe in spirits, but St. Paul says there's a time for everything, and this is the time."

Drusilla was silent as she sipped the wine; then finally she looked up at John wistfully:

"John, do you think I'd ought to 'a' done it?"

"Certainly, Drusilla. The doctor told you to have any one arrested who asked you for money, claiming to be from your old home. He said you mustn't get the reputation of being easy, or you'd be bothered to death."

"Yes, I know; but then—"

"You did just right, Drusilla; so don't worry."

Drusilla sighed.

"I hate to do it, but I suppose I must. He didn't look a bit like a preacher, and he said his name was Algernon. He'd ought to be arrested for the name if for nothin' else, hadn't he?"

John laughed.

"Well, it's all right. Now let's talk of something else. Let me read you something."

Drusilla sat back in her chair.

"All right, John; read to me. I don't know nothin' that'll make me quiet and sleepy so quick as being read to. I can sleep as easy when you're readin' that poetry stuff to me as I can in my bed. Go on; it'll caam my nerves."

John read to her for half an hour, his voice having the desired effect. Drusilla almost dozed; but when John raised his eyes and, seeing hers closed, stopped reading, Drusilla opened her eyes quickly.

"I ain't all asleep, John, just half," she said; and John laughed and went on.

They were interrupted by James.

"Miss Doane, some one wishes to speak to you on the telephone."

"But, James, let 'em talk to you. You know I don't never talk on the telephone."

"It is some one from the police station, ma'am, and they say they must speak to you particular."

"From the police station? Laws-a-massey! Well, then turn it on here."

She went over to the telephone table and sat down. Soon John heard:

"What's that you say?"

"Laws-a-massey, he's real!"

A murmur was heard from the telephone. Then Drusilla, excitedly:

"He has letters and cards that prove that he is the Reverend Algernon Thompson, from Adams, and has given names in New York and you found out he is real."

Again the murmur.

"Wait a minute," said Drusilla; and turned to John.

"John, I've done it! That man's a preacher, after all, and he says he's goin' to sue me, and—and—John, what'll I do?"

John looked perplexed and ran his hand through his white hair.

"I'm sure I don't know, Drusilla—I'm sure—"

"What'll I do! What'll I do!" wailed Drusilla. "Just think of putting a preacher in jail. What'll ever become of me!"

Here John had an inspiration.

"Drusilla, send for Mr. Thornton; he is a lawyer and he'll know what to do."

Drusilla drew a breath of relief.

"John, that's the first glimmer of sense you ever showed, and it's the first time I ever wanted to see that lawyer." Turning to the telephone she said: "I'll send for my lawyer at once and he'll know what to do. Where's the man?"

After a moment: "I'll send a car down and get him. Have him come here at once if he'll come."

She left the telephone and turned a very scared face to John.

"John, I'm just a plain old fool. Send the car to the police station, and tell Joseph to get that man if he has to tie him up! And you go telephone Mr. Thornton to come here at once. Now he'll have a chance to talk and I can't say a word."

It was a very frightened and meek Drusilla that greeted Mr. Thornton and Daphne when they came into the room.

"I came along, Miss Doane," Daphne explained, "because Mr. Brierly said you were in some trouble, and I thought perhaps I might help you."

Drusilla laughed rather shakily.

"I'm afraid, Daphne, this is a case for your father. I've arrested the wrong man."

"What do you mean?" said Mr. Thornton quickly.

"I've got a preacher in jail—or he was there unless Joseph can git him to come with him."

Then she told the whole story. Mr. Thornton could not keep a twinkle from his eyes as he listened. But he did not laugh; he saw that Drusilla was too frightened and upset.

"Now what am I goin' to do?" Drusilla finished. "You must get me out of this."

The lawyer thought a moment.

"The man wanted some money for some children, or the poor of his parish. Perhaps we can arrange it. Money is a balm that'll soothe most outraged feelings."

"Give him anything, anything!" Drusilla hegged. "I never thought I'd arrest a preacher, and at my time of life. Poor man, and his name was Algernon, too!"

A very angry man was brought into the room, and was met by a courteous lawyer; but Drusilla brushed him aside and went up to the man and, laying her hand on his arm looked up into his face appealingly.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am! I don't know what to say or what to do! I won't never forgive myself, even if you forgive me, which I don't expect."

The man looked down at her and the angry flush left his face.

"I don't know what to say myself, Miss Doane," he replied. "It's rather a new experience for me, a police station—"

"Well, I'm so ashamed and so sorry I can't talk. Just set down and let lawyer Thornton tell you all about it."

The lawyer explained to him the circumstances of Mr. Gleason's visit, and that Drusilla had received instructions to arrest the next man who claimed to come from her former home.

"It was unfortunate for me that I happened to be the next man," the clergyman said with a laugh. "But I understand, and it is all right."

Drusilla looked at him gratefully.

"You're a good man, if your name is Algernon, and if five hundred dollars will help them children Mr. Thornton will give it to you tomorrow. And now you'll stay here and visit me until you finish your business in New York."

The clergyman flushed, this time with pleasure.

"You are more than kind, Miss Doane. I believe I'd be willing to go to the police station every day if I could help the poor of our little town so easily."

"It is all right then," said Drusilla, "and jest you let me know when you want things and you can always count on me, 'cause I'm so relieved. But I know you're hungry. I'll have some supper brought up here and you can talk with John. Are you goin', Mr. Thornton?" as the lawyer rose. "Let Daphne stay a while with me. I want her to come to my room and talk a while. I'm real upset and tired and I can listen to Daphne without having to think."

"That sounds as if I talked nothing but nonsense!" Daphne pouted.

Drusilla put her arm around the young girl.

"Never you mind, dear; I like your chatter, so come with me."

And they went to Drusilla's room.

They drew up two easy chairs before the fire and as Drusilla settled into the luxurious depths of hers she chuckled to herself.

"Five hundred dollars! I always knowed preachers was a luxury—but— Well, talk to me, Daphne. What you been doin'?"

"I'm so glad to get a chance to talk with you, Miss Doane. I've been intending to come over for a week, but I've been too busy. You know, Miss Doane, I have a real love affair on my hands, and it's giving me no end of trouble."

Drusilla looked at her quickly.

"Not your own love affair, Daphne?"

Daphne flushed under the sharp gaze.

"No," she said hastily; "Uncle Jim's."

"I didn't know you had an Uncle Jim."

"Oh, yes; Papa's younger brother."

Drusilla laughed.

"Well, if he is like your father I should think he could manage his own love affairs."

"He is and he can't. He's just like father, only worse. He's so sort of stiff and cold that he freezes people; but he can't help it. He's been engaged to the nicest girl—Mary Deane. You know she lives in the big house on the Denham road. She's the dearest girl, and I adore her, although she's much older than I am. Oh, she's very old—she must be thirty. Uncle Jim and she were to be married, and then all at once she broke the engagement and went to Egypt. Uncle Jim would never say why it was, and I didn't know until she came back last week, when I found out all about it. She cried when she told me. She said he wasn't human; that she couldn't pass her life with him, he's always so cold and correct. She says he never unbends, sort of stands up straight even when he kisses her. Yet I know she loves him; and Uncle Jim hasn't been the same man at all since the engagement was broken."

"What are you going to do about it? You can't make him over."

"I know it; but if they'd only meet he might be different. She won't come to our house for fear she'll meet him, and he is too proud to go and see her. And I know they are just breaking their hearts for each other."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I wish I could find some way to have them meet accidentally.

"Let's make a scheme, Daphne. Your father is going to Chicago next week, and he told me that his brother—I guess he means this Jim— would take his place with me. Now, why can't I get in some kind of trouble—that's always easy for me—and I'll telephone him to come over right away, and then you come in by chance with this young lady. Tell her that I'm a feeble old lady that needs some one to cheer her up. Tell her anything that'll git her here."

"She'll come. I've told her about you and she said she wanted to come to see you."

"It's easy then, and we'll trust to something turnin' up right."

Daphne rose to go.

"You're a—a—brick, Miss Doane."

Drusilla shook her finger at the girl.

"Young lady," she said severely, "I know where you got that. Dr. Eaton."

Daphne's pretty face flushed and she put her cheek against the faded one.

"We must not talk of—of Dr. Eaton. Father doesn't allow it, and— and Dr. Eaton thinks I'm only a flighty little girl, who is never serious, if he ever thinks of me at all—which I am afraid is not often—" She was quiet a moment, her hand resting against the soft white hair. "But—well, good night. I'll let you know when Mary will come, and then you can get into trouble right away."

Drusilla laughed.

"You trust me for carrying out that part of it. Good night, dear."



CHAPTER X

The following Wednesday Miss Doane received a message to the effect that Daphne and Mary Deane were going in to the matinee that day and would stop to see her on their return. She passed the day wondering how she could legitimately get Mr. James Thornton to stop on his way home from the office; then Providence came to her aid, as it always did. James brought her word that the chef wished to speak to her.

"What does he want of me, James?"

James coughed discreetly.

"I think you had better see him, Miss Doane."

Drusilla looked at him sharply a moment.

"Well, send him here," she said.

The chef came into the room. She looked at the fat, mustached Frenchman for a moment before she spoke.

"What do you want to see me about, cook?"

The chef drew himself up.

"I wish to pay my compliments to Madame and say I can no longer serve her."

"You mean you want to quit?"

The Frenchman bowed.

"Madame comprehends."

"Speak English, cook. What did you say?"

"I said that Madame understands perfectly."

"Why do you want to leave?"

The Frenchman drew himself up tragically. "I can no longer serve Madame: it is not convenable to my dignity."

"What's hurtin' your dignity?"

"It is not for me to cook for a lot of babies, and—and—a nigger baby."

Drusilla looked at him silently for a moment.

"Um-um—I see," she said. "You don't think you ought to cook for babies. There ain't much cookin'; they're mostly milk fed now."

"There is the porridge in the morning, and the soft-boiled eggs, and —and—"

"Oh, you object to cookin' eggs and porridge. It ain't hard."

"It is not the deefeeculty; it is the disgrace. I am a great artist— a chef—it hurts the soul of the artist to—"

"I don't want an artist in the kitchen. I want a cook. Artists paint picters; they don't boil potatoes. What do you mean?"

"You do not understand, Madame. I am an artist; I have cooked in the best houses."

"Ain't this a good house?"

"It was, Madame; and I was proud to serve you until the house was turned into an orphan asylum, a—a—home for children of the street, and—"

Drusilla flushed suddenly.

"That'll do, cook. I've heard all I want. Perhaps you're a great cook, but when you cook for me you'll cook for whoever is under my roof. And I want you to understand that this is not an orphan asylum. These children are my visitors; and so long as they're in my house, they'll eat, and if you don't want to cook for them, well—you can cook for some one else. You can go, cook. Mr. Thornton'll give you your money."

And Drusilla sat down a very angry and ruffled Drusilla.

"Orphan asylum, indeed! He'll be callin' it a home next. What does anybody want with a man in the kitchen—especially a man who's got more hair under his nose than on his head!"

She was quiet for a while; then she laughed softly to herself.

"The Lord takes care of his own. Now I been wondering all day how to get that man here, and here's my chance. Jane, tell some one to telephone Mr. Thornton's brother to stop here on his way from the office. I want to speak to him particularly."

It was nearly six o'clock before the lawyer's motor stopped before Drusilla's door. When the lawyer came in Drusilla said to herself, "I don't blame his girl none. He's worse'n his brother;" but she turned smilingly to him.

"I'm afraid that I've called you in on business that'll seem mighty little to a man," she said; "but it's big to a woman. I'm changin' cooks."

Mr. Thornton smiled.

"I don't see where you require my services—"

"Oh, yes, I do. You know the expenses of this house are kept up by the estate, and you pay all the servants. Now I don't like to send a cook away unless I tell you. But this cook's goin' and he's goin' sudden."

"Isn't he a good cook?"

"Yes, I suppose he is; but, between you and me and the gatepost, I won't be sorry to see the last of him. I guess he's a fine cook for fancy cookin', but I been used to plain things all my life and I'm tired of things with French names. When I have a stew I like to have a stew, and I'd like real American vittles once in a while. Some good pork and beans and cabbage that ain't all covered up with flummadiddles so that I don't know I'm eatin' cabbage; an' I like vegetables that ain't all cut up in fancy picters, and green corn on a cob without a silver stick in the end of it. I liked his things real well at first; but he can't make pie and his cakes is too fancy— and, well—he got sassy and said he wouldn't cook for a lot of babies, and he's goin'. You just be sure of that, Mr. Thornton; he's goin'."

Mr. Thornton said dryly: "I presume it is a little lowering to the dignity of a French chef to cook for a lot of waifs—"

"Now you be careful, Mr. Thornton, or you'll go trottin' along with the cook. I'm a little bit techy about them babies—"

The man flushed and rose to go.

"I did not mean to offend you, Miss Doane. We are at your service. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to get me a woman cook—by the way, what did you pay that cook?"

"I think, if I remember rightly, he receives a hundred and fifty dollars."

Drusilla sat back in her chair aghast.

"One hundred and fifty dollars a month for a cook! Elias Doane must 'a' been out of his head!"

"I think that is not an exorbitant price for a cook with the reputation of this one. He was for many years with Mr. Doane."

"To think of it costin' one hundred and fifty dollars a month before you got anything to eat, and all give to that fat, lazy Frenchman! If I'd 'a' knowed it, his things would 'a' choked me. And your brother talked to me about the expense of keepin' my children! Why, you git me a fat Irish woman, who likes real vittles, and who ain't above cookin' oatmeal, and pay her about fifty dollars a month, and she'll suit me and we'll be savin' enough to pay for the babies."

She was quiet a moment.

"You talked kind of mean about my babies, and I know you was thinkin' about my colored baby." Then, looking at him suddenly: "Did you ever see a colored baby when he's nothin' on but a little white shirt?"

The lawyer shook his head stiffly.

"I'm afraid my duties have not called me in the neighborhood of colored babies dressed only in white shirts."

"Well," said Drusilla, "you've missed a lot. But I'm goin' to begin your education right away. It's just bedtime. You come with me."

And before the astonished lawyer could voice his protest he was being hurried down the hall and up the wide stairs to the big nursery, Drusilla pattering along at his side, talking all the time.

"You know every one wonders why I keep this little Rastus—the doctor give him that name—but I keep him just to make me laugh. Some of the other babies make me want to cry, they're so sickly and puny, but you can't cry at Rastus. He's goin' away next week to some people who'll take him till he's old enough to go to that big colored school that's run by Mr. Washington, where I'm goin' to see that he's made a man of, and show people what's in a little black boy. But just look at him—here he is!"

She led the way down the long room, lined with beds on each side, to where a girl was preparing a very happy black baby for bed. As Drusilla said, he was clothed only in a little white shirt; and as his plump body lay over the nurse's lap he exposed to view a very fat little back and a pair of dimpled legs that were kicking in evident enjoyment of the rubbing his back was receiving at the hands of the nurse.

The lawyer stopped at the nurse's side and watched the baby for a moment. Then he broke into a jolly laugh.

"You're right, Miss Doane. You can't help it." And before he was really aware of what he did, he bent over the squirming baby and gave it a little spank.

The baby twisted an astonished face around the nurse's knee. Seeing the man looking down at him, he puckered up his little face and the big eyes filled with tears.

Mr. Thornton stooped quickly.

"You poor little tad!" he said. "Did I scare you? Here"—as the wails became louder—"come here." He took the baby into his arms and tossed him high over his head. "It's all right, baby; I didn't mean it."

As he was holding the baby above him, laughing into the now laughing face, a voice from the doorway said, "Jim."

Mr. Thornton nearly dropped the baby in his astonishment. He looked at the vision of the pretty woman standing in the doorway, and then hastily deposited the baby in the nurse's lap.

"Mary!" he said. "Mary!"

She came to him, seeing nothing in the room but the man.

"Oh, Jim, you are human after all. You are, you are!"

The astonished nurse saw a woman folded in a man's arms and a woman crying happily on a man's shoulders.

Drusilla watched them for a moment and then went to the door, where Daphne was waiting. The girl took Drusilla's hand excitedly.

"It worked, didn't it, Miss Doane; it worked!"

They waited in Drusilla's room for quite a while before two shamefaced but happy looking people appeared, hand in hand. Mr. Thornton went up to Drusilla and took her hand in both his own.

"Miss Doane," he said enthusiastically, "start all the asylums—red, black, or yellow—that you want. Take the whole African race if you want to, and I'll see that you get cooks enough for them."

Mary Deane laughed—the laugh of a happy woman who has come into her own.

"And, Miss Doane," she added, "we'll do better than that. Rastus isn't your colored baby any more. He's Jim's and mine. We're going to see to his education, for if it hadn't been for Rastus—well—perhaps there'd never have been a happy Mary."

"Or," said Mr. Thornton with a glad laugh, "or a Sunny Jim."



CHAPTER XI

A light tap was heard on the door of John's sitting-room.

"John, are you still up? Can I come in?"

Before John could answer, Drusilla was in the room.

"John, I'm ashamed of you! Has this been goin' on all the time, and I didn't know it. It's past twelve."

John said apologetically: "It isn't late, is it, Drusilla? I didn't think of the time."

"Late! It's past twelve, I tell you, and you had ought to be in bed gettin' your beauty sleep. Nights was made for sleepin', John Brierly." John shook his head.

"Oh, no, Drusilla; nights were made for reading. There is no joy like a long quiet evening and Carlyle, for example, for company."

"He couldn't be company for me at this time o' night. But you don't ask me nothin' about my dinner party, my first dinner party, and my dance."

John looked longingly at his book, then carefully placed a marker in it and closed it.

"Now don't sigh, John. I'm goin' to tell you about it whether you want to hear it or not. I know you'd rather read, but I been in society and I must talk."

"I'm only anxious to hear all about it, Drusilla."

Drusilla pulled off her gloves and sat down in an easy chair before the fire.

"John, there's no more guile in you than in a stick of molasses candy, but you're like a sermon, comfortin', if sort of uninteresting, and I can talk at you if I can't talk with you. Ask me all about it, git me started somehow. I'm as full of conversation as an egg is of meat, but I don't know where to begin."

"Did you enjoy the dinner?"

"Did I enjoy the dinner! That's like a man to think about the vittles first. I never thought of them. They was numerous and plenty, one thing after another and too many forks. I couldn't help wonderin' how they ever washed all the dishes."

"Where was it, Drusilla? I don't remember if you spoke of it to me."

"John Brierly, you'll be the death of me yet. You don't think you heard me speak of it, and I didn't talk of nothin' else for three days, tryin' to make up my mind whether I'd go or not, only Mrs. Thornton was so particular about me comin'."

"Yes, I do remember hearing you speak of it. It was at the Thorntons'."

"Well, it's about time you remember. Yes, it was a dinner dance— whatever that is. There was about forty people to dinner and a lot of young people come in afterwards to dance. I wish you could 'a' seen it, John.

"A butler about like James met us in the hall and we took off our wraps in a room and went into the parlor. 'Tisn't as big as our'n and I was a little late and they was all there, standin' around, and Mis' Thornton introduced me to a lot of people, and then a man handed around somethin' in glasses—cocktails I think she said; anyway it tasted like hair oil—and little pieces of toast with spoiled fish eggs on 'em; arid we et 'em standin' up. I thought I'd gag, but I said, 'Drusilla Doane, be a sport and do everything that other people do.' And I done it, although to-morrow I'll quite likely have to stay in bed. Finally everybody give their arm to some one else, at least the men did, and an old man come to me and I took his arm and we went into the dining-room. There was five small tables and they was pretty with candles and flowers and I had a little card at my place to tell me where to set. The old man was so feeble he couldn't hardly push my chair in.

"John, I'm glad you ain't doddering. Let's never git doddering and brag about our diseases. It seems that that's all some men have to brag about when they git old, how much rheumatiz they can hold, as if it's a thing to be proud of.

"I listened to that chronic grunter tell me his troubles for a while, then I turned to the young man on the other side, who was one of them shrewd-eyed business men; and I hadn't been settin' there five minutes before I knowed that he had asked to set by me and that he had schemes. Tried to git me interested in some business venture where they would be able to pay about eight hundred per cent. I told him I hadn't heard of nothin' paying eight hundred per cent, except guinea pigs or rabbits, and I didn't want to invest in them, and after a while he saw it wasn't worth while to try to git me interested in mines in Alaska or coal fields in Ohio, so he kind of laughed and we got to be good friends. He ain't bad, as he laughed when he saw it wasn't no use, and it's a great strain on a person's religion to laugh when he knows he's beat. Then lie told me who the people was and a lot about 'em, and then they all got to talkin' and a woman was there who believed in women votin' and being self-supportin' and not dependin' on their husbands, and I said I thought a self-supportin' wife was as much use as a self-rockin' cradle. They talked and argued but this woman was set in her ideas, and you might as well try to argue a dog out of a bone as a woman like that out of an idee once she's got it fixed in her head. I don't like a woman with one idee; it's like a goose settin' on one egg. They use up lots of time and git skinny and don't git much result after all.

"Then another man at the table who had a head three sizes too big for him talked a lot of stuff I couldn't foller, and the man next me said he was the brainiest man in New York. He looked as if he had indigestion and he didn't eat nothin', and I couldn't help thinkin' that a good reliable set of insides would be more use to him than any quantity of brains, but I didn't say it."

"I'm surprised you didn't, Drusilla."

"What's that? Well, I guess I would if I'd a thought of it in time, but I was interested in the talk about the 'new woman'—I guess that's what they called her. I said I didn't believe too much in the over-education of females. That I'd rather be looked down to in lovin' tenderness than up to in silent awe, and that men can't love and wonder at the same time. I don't think men want to set women so high up that they're all the time wonderin' how she got there an' if they dare to bring her down to their level. I said that it seemed to me that love exchanged for learnin' was a mighty poor bargain for the woman if she wanted happiness; and one of the women that set at the table—the kind of woman that can't hold a baby without its clothes comin' apart—said I represented the old school. That things was changed now; that marriage was not the ultimate objective—es, that's what she said, the ultimate objective of women. I asked her what was the ultimate objective, and she said, 'the cultivation of her own individuality, the freeing of her soul.' I asked, couldn't she do it just as well with a man? and she said, no, that man impeded woman's progress. I said that I guessed that most women who said that hadn't never had no chance to git close enough to a man to have him git in her way. I said I'd seen lots of women who said they hated men, but they generally hadn't had a chance to find out whether they could love 'em. I guess I was like a blind mule then, kicking out in space and hittin' something accidental, 'cause she got red and then I was sorry and I sort of tried to make it up. I said, 'Of course there's lots of marriages that's mistakes, 'cause a lot of people git married like they learn a job, take about three weeks to it, and that's the reason there's so many poor workmen and poor marriage jobs, but marriage must be a pretty good thing after all, 'cause I never saw a widow who wasn't ready to try it again.'

"They all laughed after that and they got real talkative and human. One little woman was awful pretty, and, John, she had on the littlest amount of clothes above her waist that I ever saw on a person outside a bedroom. She said she envied me my motors and my money, and I laughed and asked her if she envied me my seventy years too. She said, 'No, but—' and I said to her, 'I know what you feel; I've wanted things too; and it's just as much misery to want a motorcar as it is to want a shirt.' One man there, who looked like a dried up herrin', laughed and laughed and said that he hadn't laughed so much for years. I said that it was good for him, and if he'd come and see me every mornin' I'd agree to make him laugh once a day, 'cause if you don't laugh before you die, you'll go out of the world without laughing, and you don't know whether there'll be anything to laugh at in the next. He said he was comin' to see me. Why don't you look jealous, John? Wait till I tell you who he is. That big John Craydon, who owns all of America as far as I heard. They say he's the hardest man in New York, and that when he come within an inch of dyin' last year no one would 'a' cared if he had 'a' come within an inch of bein' born, as he ain't done nothin' but make money. I'm goin' to show him my babies, especially Rastus, and I know he ain't hard. Any man that can laugh as hearty as he did, if he only does it once a year, ain't got an iron heart.

"The old man on the other side of me didn't like Mr. Craydon. He mumbled to me, 'What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul'; and I said it was accordin' to the size of the soul, and then he quoted that old thing about it being easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—you know the thing people who ain't got money is always quoting about people who has. I said that, according to Scripter, Heaven might look like a circus parade, it'd be so full of camels; but I didn't have a chance to explain what I meant and the women got up and went into the parlor, where we had coffee. Pretty soon the men come in and we all went into the dancin'-room.

"And, John, I've had a revelation. St. John's was nothin' compared to mine. A lot of young men come in, men with no chins and high collars, and young girls that had ought to have had gimps put in their dresses; and the way they slithered around that room hugging each other—well, for once in my life, I couldn't talk. I just looked. It wasn't only the young men with soft heads and loud laughs that danced. By the way, they was some of them the descendants of the big men we read about in the papers, and, between you and me, John, great descent was what most of 'em was sufferin' with. But old men and women danced—old men especially that had ought to been at home rubbin' their backs with goose grease. I just thought as I saw them old men foolin' around, 'It's hard for an old dog to learn new tricks, but an old man hasn't got sense enough not to try.' And what do you think, one of them young nin-com-poops come and asked me if I wouldn't like to turkey trot. That's what he said, turkey trot. When I got my breath, I said, 'Young man, there's two things in life I ain't never prepared for. One's twins, the other's to turkey trot —whatever that is—so you run along to the chicken yard; you've mistook the place.'

"Then I moved over to a corner by some paam trees, as I was afraid one of them old men'd come and ask me to bunny hug next, and I always been respectable. As I was a settin' there, some one come and set down, and I couldn't help hearin' what they said. He wanted to go home and she didn't want to go, and he said he was tired and had to git up early and that he'd been out four nights this week, and she said he was selfish and didn't want her to enjoy herself, and they talked a lot and then he got up in a huff and went away. I heard a little sniffle and I looked around the paams and there set that pretty girl that got married about three months ago and lives in the Red House. I smiled at her and she stopped cryin' and tried to pretend she hadn't been, and then I got up and went and set down by her and took her hand an' kind of patted it, and let her dry her eyes. When she seemed better I said, 'Every wise woman buildeth her own home, but the foolish one plucketh it down with her own hands.' Isn't that what you are doin', my dear?

"She sniffed again and I thought she was going to begin all over, but she didn't. She said, 'Bert used to love to be at dances with me, but now he always says he's tired and wants to go home.'

"'Well, dear,' I said, 'you're his wife now, and it's different. He can see you at home, and have you to himself. You're not just the girl he dances with. The things a man wants in his wife ain't the things he wants in the girl he just dances with, any more than the vittles he wants for breakfast is like them he wants for dinner. It's all different when you're married.'

"'But Bert is selfish; he isn't trying to make me happy.'

"'Does this give you happiness?' I asked.

"'Why, of course; it's so gay,' she said.

"'But is it happiness?' I asked again. 'Happiness and bein' gay is different, and you don't need to go to things like this for happiness. You find it at home if you stop huntin' for it outside. It's like my specs that I go lookin' all over the house for and find up on my forehead where they was all the time. Now, dear, don't make a mistake and go fishing for happiness with a red rag instead of a real live worm, and then think there ain't no fish 'cause they won't bite. You got the right kind of bait in your pretty self, in your nice home, and in that great big husband, who, a person can see as plain as a wart on a white neck, is all over in love with you, and the sea'll be just full of fish for you."

"I patted her hand again, as I was afraid she'd think I was interferin', but she didn't. She set quiet a while, then she squeezed my hand, and I said, 'Now I'm goin' home. Git on your bunnet and find your Bert and I'll drop you both at your house; and when you git home git him something fillin' to eat and something he likes to drink, and light his seegar for him and set down by the fire and tell him that real hugs is better'n all the bunny hugs in the world, and you'll find you won't be lonesome.'

"And she did, John; at least I took 'em home, and they held hands all the way there, though they didn't know I saw 'em."

"Well, Drusilla, you did have a nice time after all. I suppose you'll be going out every night now."

"John, you got more hair then sense. I'm glad I haven't died before I seen this dinner dancin'; but it's like them spoiled fish sandwiches—one taste's enough."



CHAPTER XII

One afternoon Drusilla was working in her corner of the greenhouse transplanting lily bulbs. She did not notice the entrance of Daphne until she heard the fresh young voice at her side.

"Good morning, Miss Doane. I have come on business. I am an agent to enlist your services."

Drusilla pushed her near-seeing glasses up on her forehead so that she could the better regard the pretty face before her.

"Well, now, what company is hirin' you? They have a good agent. Is it a book or a washin' machine?"

Daphne laughed.

"Neither, Miss Doane. How shocking! I am working in a great cause— the cause of the poor."

"So—" said Drusilla. "What do you know about the poor?"

"Oh, I know a lot, Miss Doane. I am one of the volunteer workers in a Settlement house in the slums."

"What's that? I seem to disremember what I have read about such things, if I have ever read about them."

"A Settlement is a lot of nice people who go down to live among the poor, and they have clubs where the boys and girls can come evenings, and they have sometimes a kindergarten or a day nursery where the mothers who go out to work by the day can leave their children while they are away, and they give free baths and have a medical clinic. Dr. Eaton gives his services to one twice a week, and there is a district nurse, and—Oh lots of things are done for the poor in the neighborhood of the Settlement house."

Drusilla put down her trowel and looked interested.

"Do tell! How nice of 'em. Are they paid to do it?"

"Yes; the workers who live in the Settlement get a salary. But girls like myself give a day a week, or every once in a while go there and help."

"What do you do?" asked Drusilla.

"I—I—teach sewing. I have a class."

Drusilla looked at her a moment in astonishment.

"You teach sewing? You have a sewing class? I didn't know you sewed."

"I—don't—much, but I can do enough for a class like I have. They're just making gymnasium suits, and we buy the pattern and I get along some way."

Drusilla laughed.

"Well, for a girl who has all her clothes made and keeps a maid to sew on her buttons, I think it is very nice of you to learn girls how to sew. You must be a great help in that work."

Daphne flushed.

"Now you're laughing at me, Miss Doane."

"No, I'm not laughin'; but it seems to me—how many girls you got in your class?"

"I have ten."

"How old are they?"

"About twelve to fourteen years."

"When do you learn 'em?"

"Saturday afternoon."

"Well—well! You must let me go down with you some day and see you learn girls to make their dresses. I'd surely enjoy the sight."

"That's why I came to you to-day. Our Settlement wants me to bring you down."

Drusilla looked up inquiringly and a little suspiciously.

"Why do they want you to bring me down?"

Daphne said rather hesitatingly: "Well—they would like to interest you in their mother's summer home."

"What's that?"

"They have a home in the country where they send some of the poor mothers who live in the tenements and can't get away for the summer."

"I s'picioned it was a subscription they want; but it sounds like a good thing, and I'd like to know about it."

"Won't you come with me to-day? We'll talk with Mrs. Harris, the head worker, and she'll tell you all about it."

"Well—I don't know—" looking at her plants. "I'd ought—"

"Oh, please come, Miss Doane. You haven't anything to do, have you?"

"I don't know as I have anything particular, though sence I got these babies, my days is as full as a wine cup. But if you want me—"

"That's right; I knew you would! Come right away—I must get to my class."

Drusilla wiped her hands on her apron and went into the house. Soon she was ready and they were being whirled swiftly toward the East Side, a part of New York that Drusilla had never visited. She was interested in the women as they sat upon the tenement steps, and in the many, many children playing in the streets. Spring was in the air, although it could hardly be recognized here except by the people loitering in the streets in order to get away from the crowded homes.

"What a lot of people!" said Drusilla. "Where do they all come from— and the children! I never saw so many children in my life."

"Oh, but you should see it in July and August," Daphne laughed. "Then it is crowded, and the people sleep on the fire-escapes and even on the sidewalks in some of the smaller streets. It is so hot in their stuffy rooms."

Soon they drew up before the door of the Settlement, and were received in the parlor by the head worker. Daphne left Drusilla, to go to her sewing-class, and Mrs. Harris conducted Drusilla over the Settlement. She was shown the kindergarten, the club rooms where the boys and girls of the neighborhood danced in the evening, the clinic, the public baths, and the play yard. Then she asked to be taken to see Daphne with her sewing-class, as she could not get over the idea that it was a joke of some kind for Daphne to teach sewing, knowing that the girl knew nothing about the work. They found Daphne absorbed in cutting out very full trousers and middy blouses by the aid of a paper pattern, while eight girls were basting and stitching them. Drusilla watched them for a while.

"Is this all the sewing-class you have?" she asked.

"It is all we have at present," Mrs. Harris answered.

"Do the girls in the neighborhood, the grown girls, learn it?"

"No; they all work, and have only their evenings."

"Why don't you have an evening class?"

"We have thought of that, but it is hard to get a girl like Daphne to come down in the evening."

Drusilla watched Daphne frowning over the intricacies of the pattern.

"Now I think it is nice of Daphne," she said, "to want to come here and help them girls learn to sew; but it seems to me that she'd be doin' a good deal more good to the girls if she hired a woman, some one who needed the work and knowed dressmaking, to come and really learn the girls to make their dresses. Learn 'em from the start, from cuttin' out the cloth to sewin' up the seams and makin' the last buttonhole. Them girls don't want to learn how to make them big pants and that shirt; they want to make their clothes—something pretty they can wear. I think a lot of Daphne, but she'd be doin' more good if she hired some one who knowed her business instead of tryin' to do somethin' she don't know nothin' about. Quite likely it does her good, but so far as I can see it don't do the girls much good."

The head worker flushed, as did Daphne.

"We like to interest the girls from homes like Miss Thornton's to come down and help the people less fortunate than themselves."

"Yes, that's good too; interest them. I saw Daphne pay five dollars for a box of candy the other day, and it's bad for her complexion. Instead of buying them things let her hire some one, I say. She can come just the same, but let a dressmaker or a sewing woman learn 'em to sew; not a girl who ain't even sewed a button on her own clothes or made a pocket handkerchief. And then she'd be helpin' the dressmaker too, who might need the money. If you had some sensible sewing learnt you might git some of the girls who work days to come in evenings and learn, but no girl is goin' to waste her time fiddlin' around with things like that, that they ain't goin' to use, or don't have no need of."

"But they do need them. They are gymnasium suits."

"What's gymnasium suits?"

"Suits to take exercise in, physical exercise."

"Do they need special clothes to take exercise in? What's the matter with the clothes they got on?"

"They restrict the movements."

"You mean they can't move their arms and legs. Fudge and fiddlesticks! Put them girls out to play and they'd move their arms and legs quick enough without fancy clothin'. If they can't move 'em with the exercises you give 'em, give 'em other kinds. It seems to me that if these people are as poor as you tell me, exercise ain't what they want. They want to learn things to help 'em pay the rent at home, or save a little money once in a while by makin' their things."

Mrs. Harris was a little angry.

"I am sorry, Miss Doane," she said stiffly, "that you don't approve of our sewing-class."

"No, I don't approve of it. With a teacher like Daphne it's about as much use as squirtin' rose-water on a garbage tin. If the rest of your work is like this, I guess I'll go home—"

She started to leave the room, but at the door she stopped.

"What's that Daphne was tellin' me about a home for mothers in the country?"

The head worker's face brightened. Here she had something that would appeal to the old lady, who was reputed to be very fond of children.

"I am so glad you came to-day. I can show you some of the mothers we were hoping to take to the country. We want to enlarge our house, we can only accommodate twelve mothers with their children, and we should have a place for at least twenty-five, as we have so many applications."

"How long do you keep 'em?"

"We try to give each mother a two weeks' vacation; and she brings with her the small children she cannot leave at home."

"I like the idee. I like children and I like mothers, and from what I've seen it seems to me that it'd be heaven for these people to git away from the noise for a while. It most drives me crazy to hear it for an hour, and it must be awful to live with."

"They get used to it; but they do need a change. Some of the poor mothers are completely worn out and break down in the hot weather. If they could get into the country, even for a short time, it would save many a life."

"Pshaw, is it so bad as that?" said sympathetic Drusilla.

"Yes; this year is especially bad. We had hoped to have the money to build an additional wing to the house and take all our people; but we have not been able to get the money, so we have to tell a great many whom we have promised that they cannot go this year, and—I am afraid it will be a great disappointment."

Here an inspiration came to Mrs. Harris.

"By the way, Miss Doane, I was going this afternoon to tell one of the mothers that she cannot go this year. Would you like to come with me, then you can see for yourself how very much the place is needed."

Drusilla brightened.

"I'd like to go," she said.

The worker hesitated.

"You are not afraid of contagion?"

"There ain't nothin' catchin' in the house, is there? I don't want to git the smallpox at my time of life, or the mumps—"

Mrs. Harris laughed.

"No, nothing as bad as that; but the tenements are not overly clean, you know."

"Pshaw, I don't care about that. If they can live in 'em all the year, I guess it won't hurt me to visit 'em for ten minutes."

They entered the motor, surrounded by a crowd of noisy children who clung to the footboard and hung on the back and made themselves into a noisy escort until the tenement was reached. There Drusilla and Mrs. Harris climbed three flights of stairs. In answer to the knock, a soft voice said, Entre lei, and they stepped into a room that was evidently the kitchen, living- and dining-room.

Near the only window in the room was a kitchen table. Around it sat the father, the mother, a little boy of nine, two younger girls, and a little round-faced boy of four, while two other children, mere babies, were playing on the floor. The people at the table were sticking marguerites onto wreaths, about ten flowers to a wreath. The flowers were in bundles stuck together, and the little boy took them apart and handed them to the other children, who took yellow stems from other bundles, dipped them into paste, then into the center of the marguerite and handed the finished flower to the father or mother, who placed it in position on the wreath. They worked quickly, showing long practice.

The mother gave chairs to her guests; then went back to her work.

"I have come, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, "to tell you about the country."

"Si," and the dark Italian face brightened. "I ready go any day."

"I am sorry, awfully sorry, but we have no place for you this year."

The Italian woman looked at the speaker uncomprehendingly.

"Si?"

"I am sorry," Mrs. Harris began again, speaking slowly, "that we cannot take you. We have not been able to enlarge the house, and there were so many applications ahead of you."

The woman looked at her blankly for a moment, then Drusilla saw that she understood. Her mouth drooped and quivered, her hands faltered in their work, but only for a moment. Mechanically she put the flower into the paste, then placed it on the wreath. She worked quietly for several moments.

"I hope next year, Mrs. Tolenti—"

But Mrs. Harris was interrupted.

"I no wanta next year. I wanta dis year, I wanta now! I tired. I wanta see da country. I wanta see da flower, not dese tings—I hata dem." She gave the flowers in front of her a push. "I hata dem! I wanta see da rosa on da bush, I wanta see da leaves on da tree. I wanta put ma face in da grass lak when I young girl in Capri. I wanta look at da sky, I wanta smell da field. I wanta lie at night wi ma bambini and hear da rain. I no can wait one year, I wanta go now!"

"But, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, secretly a little elated at the storm she had raised, which she could see was impressing Miss Doane, "I had no idea you felt it so strongly—"

"Yes," the low voice continued, "I feel it here," pointing to her breast. She was quiet for a while, then went on in the low, monotonous voice of the desperate poor. "This winter ver had. My man no work. Sometime go wood yard, but only fifty cents one day. He walk, walk, walk, looka for work. We must eat, we must pay rent. We all work maka da flower, but no can maka da mon. Fi' cent a gross for da wreath. It taka long time to maka one dozen wreath, and only git fi' cent. No can live. I canno' live every day, every day da same. Nine year I stay here maka da flower, always maka da flower. Nine year I no go away from dis street. But dis year I tink I go to da country. When I set here maka da flower I say three mont more, two mont more, one mont more, den I see da grass, I hear da bird, I shuta ma eyes, I tink I again in my Capri—Oh, Dio mio!" She turned suddenly and let her face fall upon her arms, stretched out on the pile of flowers before her. "Der ain't no God for poor man, der ain't no God!"

Mrs. Harris looked at her sadly and said nothing; but the tears were streaming down the face of Drusilla and she impulsively rose from her seat and coming to the mother, put her arms round the shaking shoulders, and said quietly:

"You certainly shall go to the country with your babies. You certainly shall go. Don't think a moment again about it."

The woman did not raise her face nor seem to understand; dry sobs shaking her worn and wasted body. She seemed utterly broken and disheartened.

Drusilla turned to Mrs. Harris.

"Will you make her understand?"

The worker said something to the father, and he nodded his head and they went from the room. Drusilla stopped at the door to take a last look around the room, at the wondering faces of the children who watched her with great black eyes, but who did not stop their fingers from separating and placing the flowers together again. She saw the babies on the floor playing quietly, as if they too were oppressed by the tragedy that was always before them, and then she looked at the blank wall outside the window, and it seemed to her that the lives of these hopeless poor were like that window, only a blank wall to face.

They arrived at the Settlement house and Mrs. Harris ordered tea to be brought to her sitting-room. She was delighted at the effect of her visit, and her imagination ran riot in the thought of the additions that might be made to the summer home for mothers.

Drusilla was quiet during tea, but when it was carried away she spoke.

"Now tell me about your home. You say you want to make an addition, add an ell or something."

"Yes; we think by adding a wing we can double our capacity. But I have the plans of the new work, and a picture and plans of the present house."

She brought a book of views with an architect's drawings of the new hoped-for wing, and the pictures and plans of the present house. Drusilla drew her glasses from her bag and bent over the new plans; then she turned her attention to the house now in use.