"You say this is where they are at present? Which is the rooms you use for the mothers?"

The worker pointed them out.

"We have six beds in this room, and four beds in this, and five beds in this room. In this long room we can put about twelve cots for the children that do not have to be with their mothers during the night. This is the dining-room; this the living-room."

Drusilla caught sight of some rooms upstairs.

"What's these three rooms. Who're they for?"

"Those are for the workers who go out for the week-end."

"What do you mean by the week-end?"

"From Saturday to Monday."

"You mean the women who work here like yourself go out there and spend Saturday and Sunday?"

"Yes."

"But why do you need three rooms?"

"Well, you see there are a great many workers here, and they take turns, and often three or four of them go out."

"They each have a room to themselves?"

"Yes, you see they are in the noise here all the week, and they must have a place where they can rest and have quiet."

Drusilla looked at her sharply.

"What do you do with the rooms the rest of the time?"

"They are vacant."

"You don't put none of the mothers in 'em?"

"Certainly not. We could not use them if they had been occupied by the class of people we send out."

"Why don't you double up when you go out, and not take so much room? You could put four beds in that room and all be together and use them other rooms for mothers."

"That would be hard on our workers. They like their privacy. And then we would not like the mothers and their children so close to us. They would disturb us and we could not get the rest we need."

Drusilla was quiet for a moment, drumming lightly on the table with her fingers.

"I don't see how you can rest or sleep at night with a cry in your ears like that I jest heard from that mother. I'd sleep on a board by the side of the fence to let her get a chance to 'put her face in the grass' as she says. How can you talk about privacy and quiet when you see such misery and unhappiness as that I jest saw? No, don't stop me—" as she saw Mrs. Harris raise her flushed face and open her lips as if to speak—"I'm all wrought up. I'll hear that mother's cry and see her poor body bent over that table, and those babies settin' there workin' when they ought to be out playin' as long as I live. And you see them and hear them every day and yet can talk about havin' to have quiet and privacy! And you take the three best rooms in a house that's supported by people who think they are giving some poor Italian family an outin' in the country! You could all go in one room and that would mean that five or six more mothers could go; the woman we left up there could go—instead of keeping the rooms for women who have a nice place like your'n here." She looked with scorn around the cozily furnished room. "And you keep them for only one or two days a week! I can't talk, I'm all wrought up."

Drusilla sat back in her chair and fanned herself with the book of views.

The worker was aghast. She had not thought of any possible outcome except the one for which she had been planning.

"But you see, Miss Doane, when we have a wing—"

"I'd 'a' give you a wing, or two wings, or a whole batch of wings, if I hadn't seen them three rooms. How'd I know that you wouldn't take the best rooms for the rest of your workers; or perhaps your cook might need rest or privacy for a part of the week. No—" shaking her old head vigorously—"I'll build my own wings where I can watch 'em."

She rose then.

"I must be goin'. Will you send for Daphne? I want to think about what I can do for that family. I'll give her my own room if I have to, but she's goin' to the country!"

Daphne came in soon, and looked quickly at Drusilla's flushed, excited face.

"Did you have a nice time, Miss Doane? Isn't it a wonderful work?"

"Yes, I had a lovely time, and I learnt a lot. Thank you so much for your tea, Mis' Harris. I'm real glad I come."

And before the chagrined hostess could find words in which to try to rectify her mistake, Drusilla was in the motor.

Daphne looked at the angry old lady curiously.

"Weren't you interested, Miss Doane? Aren't you going to help the Settlement? They need money so badly for their summer home—"

"Now, Daphne, don't talk to me about the summer home! You know we got a big lot of things and people that always is asking me for money. I git a heap of letters every morning from preachers, and charity workers and beggars and poor people, and people who are trying to make a fool of me, and git my money. I guess there ain't a person in New York or an institution that's got a want, but they feel that it won't do no harm for to try me."

"Why, I didn't know you were bothered. Why don't you have them all sent to Father?"

"Humph—mighty little attention they'd git. No, I go over 'em all myself, with Dr. Eaton. You didn't know he was my private advisor, did you? He's a fine young man and he's got a head on his shoulders; and him and me go over all the letters and them that he thinks that is honest, he sees, and then he tells me what he thinks we had better do. He's got sense and don't let me git foolish, because sometimes the letters or the cases is so pitiful that I can't help cryin', and generally them's the ones he finds is no good. I been visitin' institutions with him, orphan asylums, and rescue homes. We got a lot of new babies and their mothers comin' to the house next week; we got them from the hospitals. He's workin' out a plan for me, and now I want to talk to him about them mothers and the country. We are going by his office, as I can't wait until he comes out to-night."

Daphne flushed.

"We might take him out with us."

"That's a good idea, Daphne. You go up to his office and tell him to come down an we'll take him home. I want to talk and he can stay to dinner."

"Can't I stay too—" shyly said Daphne, slipping her hand into Drusilla's.

Drusilla looked down at her and laughed.

"No, you can't. Your father wouldn't like it, and besides if you are there the doctor won't talk sense. He'll jest set and look at you."

Daphne laughed happily.

"I wish I thought he liked to look at me, but—"

"But what?"

"Well—he doesn't ever seem very anxious to see me. He's invited to lots of places where he knows I will be, and he doesn't come."

"You mean dances and things like that. Laws sakes, Daphne, ain't he got nothin' better than to go to dances and daddle around the room with a fool girl—"

"But I'm not a fool girl."

"No one would know it by your actions sometimes."

"I guess you are right, Miss Doane. I do act as if nothing were worth while but having a good time."

"Yes; I seen a lot of your friends and I often think that a young man's takin' a lot of risk by marryin' one of you unless he's got nothin' to do in the world but to go to parties and to make money to buy you clothes and motorcars. But never mind—here we are. You go upstairs and get the doctor. Tell him I want to talk to him particular."

Daphne was gone longer than was actually needed to go to an office and fetch a man to the motor car, but Drusilla only smiled when they came down.

"Did we keep you waiting? I am so sorry," murmured Daphne.

Drusilla laughed.

"Yes, you look worried to death; but I won't scold you. You don't git much chance to talk alone together, and I suppose you wanted to discuss the latest improvements in medicine. It's a big subject and would take time."

"Oh, no, we didn't talk at all—the doctor—was busy—"

The doctor laughed.

"What is it you want to see me about, Miss Doane?"

"I want to talk to you about mothers and their babies. I'll tell you all about it after dinner. Daphne's goin' home and you and me and John'll set down and talk it all over. John ain't no good; he ain't what you call sensible, but he's comfortable. And I got some new things on my mind.

"Yes," broke in Daphne. "Miss Doane has been visiting our Settlement."

The doctor smiled.

"What do you think of it?"

Before Drusilla could reply, Daphne said: "What do you think Dr. Eaton calls them, Miss Doane? It's dreadful. He calls them the 'decayed gentle ladies' refuge.'"

The doctor flushed.

"Daphne—"

"Do you?" queried Drusilla, interestedly. "Why?"

"Well—" the doctor said rather apologetically, "perhaps I shouldn't; but most of the settlements that I know are filled with workers who are charming women, too good to be stenographers or clerks or housekeepers. They come to the settlements, where they receive a good salary and keep their social position, which they feel they could not do if they worked. You see it's rather a fad to be a social settlement worker, and most of the women couldn't make their living to save their soul at work that really took trained brains or executive ability."

"Do tell!" said Drusilla. "I kind of thought something like that when I saw Mrs. Harris, but she seemed to be real pert."

"Oh, I am only generalizing. Some of them, the heads especially, are competent women, but the great average—" and he spread his hands out expressively.

"Well, anyway, Dr. Eaton—you remember that big blue pencil that we use to draw across the names that ain't no good?—I got a new name to-day to add to that list—settlements—and I want to git home and sharpen the pencil."



CHAPTER XIII

Drusilla had one neighbor whom, to use her own words, she "couldn't abide." Miss Sarah Lee lived across the road from her, in a small house left her by her father. This old man had also left her money enough to live in a modest way, and an unkind Providence had left her high and dry on the matrimonial shores, and she was embittered. She had been born and reared in Brookvale and had seen the other girls married and settled in their homes, with their children growing up around them. She had tried for years to get a husband, but finally, at the age of thirty-eight, had given up the fight; and instead of sharing in the happiness of her lifelong neighbors, she had drifted into being the neighborhood gossip, picking flaws in everything and searching with microscopic eye to find the failures in the lives of those around her, trying to find satisfaction in her unmarried state by seeing only the darker side of the matrimonial adventures around her. If a man came home late after dining well but not wisely with his companions, be sure Sarah Lee heard of it. She would take her sewing and go to some neighbor and say in her softly purring voice, "Isn't it too bad that Mr. Smith neglects his wife so dreadfully, and it is shocking the way he drinks. Now the other night, etc., etc.," until her garrulous tongue would make a great crime of perhaps only a small indiscretion. Drusilla had been a joy to her, as she was new in the neighborhood, and she regaled her with all the gossip, much to Drusilla's disgust and discomfiture; but she was too kindly to be rude to the bitter-tongued woman, who was the only one of her neighbors who "ran in" or who brought their sewing and sat down for a "real visit."

One morning Drusilla was sitting in the sun parlor, looking at a great box of baby clothing that had been sent her from the city, when Miss Lee came in. She had her tatting with her and Drusilla saw that she was in for a visitation. She tried to interest her guest in the wonders of the baby frocks, but Miss Lee only shook her head and would not notice them.

"I don't care for children nor their clothing, Miss Doane, and I can never see how you care to burden yourself with all those waifs at your time of life. Now I, if I had your money, would enjoy myself."

"But I am enjoying myself," said Drusilla. "Why I take more comfort in them babies than I've ever had in all my seventy years."

"But they are such a care, such a bother."

"Bother, my aunt!" said Drusilla emphatically. "They ain't no bother. They give me something to think about. Now, look at these clothes. I been all mornin' lookin' at 'em and sortin' 'em out. Look at that petticoat. See how soft and warm it is. I wish I'd made it myself. I can sit here and imagine how some mother'd feel makin' a petticoat like that fer her baby. I'm goin' to buy a lot of cloth and git some patterns and let the mothers make 'em themselves. When it's a little warmer they can set under the trees and sew while the babies is playin' around them."

"But the mothers you have here—will—do you think that class—those kind of mothers will care to sew?"

Drusilla flushed and an angry gleam came into her kindly eyes.

"Sew? Why shouldn't they sew, and what do you mean by that class? All the mothers I got here seem jest like any other mothers."

"We must admit," went on the refined, querulous voice, "that they are not the usual mothers—with husbands—"

Drusilla's eyes distinctly darkened, and the flush deepened.

"Never mind about their husbands. We don't need 'em to sew—and a mother's a mother, and she likes to make things fer her baby."

Miss Lee noted the flush and changed the subject.

"I hear you are going to take some Italians and their children here for the summer."

Drusilla's eyes lighted up, and the angry gleam fled instantly.

"Now, how did you hear that?"

"It's all over the neighborhood. And—"

"Is it? Then I suppose I might as well let the neighbors git it direct. Yes, I been visitin' places where I've traipsed up and down stairs till I'm most knee sprung, but I've learnt a lot of things, and sense I've seen how some of 'em live, I couldn't sleep nights unless I done somethin' fer 'em; and givin' a mother and her babies two weeks in the country is the least I kin do. Why, I look at all this grass, jest made fer babies to roll on, and I see the trees that ain't doin' what a tree should do unless it has some one under it, and I lay awake nights to plan things; and Dr. Eaton don't git no time to see his patients, I keep him so busy. Him and me's been goin' over the house and there's twelve spare bedrooms goin' to waste besides the settin'-rooms that's jined to 'em. And we was talkin' about the big armor room, that place with the tin men and horses. Now, I don't care much fer tin men, although John moons over 'em a lot, but there's a lot of people who like to look at 'em, and don't git a chance' cause they're shut up here doin' no good to no one. Dr. Eaton says that the Metropolitan Museum in the city'd be glad to have 'em as a loan, and then everybody who likes such things could go and see 'em, and I can make the room into a big playroom or day nursery, as folks call it."

Miss Lee looked up, horrified.

"Do you mean to say that you are goin' to spoil this beautiful house and these beautiful grounds?"

"Spoil 'em? How'll it spoil 'em? They're goin' to waste as it is."

"Why, having that class of women in your house, and the children on the lawns, will certainly take away from their artistic beauty."

"Will it? Then it'll have to be not so artistic and more useful. Nothin' ain't beauty unless it's doin' something fer somebody, and God didn't intend no sixty acres of His land to be lyin' here jest fer me and a lot of rich people to admire, when women and children are pantin' fer air in hot tenements. And as fer the house, land knows it's big enough, and I feel like a lone pea in a tin can shakin' around loose in it, and I won't never need to see no one unless I want to. But I want to see 'em, I want to see life around me, and life that's bein' made a little happier because of Drusilla Doane. What do you suppose God give me all this big place fer, and all the money, if it wasn't to use fer His people?"

"What shockin' ideas you have, Miss Doane, to bring God into the subject! You are most sacrilegious, dear Miss Doane."

"Yes, I guess I am; most people seem to be afraid to mention Him."

"But the neighbors are feeling very indignant that you are turning the show place of the country into an orphan asylum and a mother's home."

Drusilla looked up quickly, as word had come to her of her neighbors' disapproval.

"I don't see that it's none of their concern," she said.

"But, you see, it lowers the value of their property."

"Let 'em move away."

"Oh, but they can't."

"Well, let 'em stay."

"But it's very annoying to see a lot of dirty children."

"They won't be dirty children, and the neighbors don't need to look over the hedge if they don't want to. It's high enough."

"I am just telling you what they say, Miss Doane. There was a meeting the other day of the people of Brookvale, and they decided to appoint a committee to wait upon you and express their disapproval of your actions, and request you to change your plans in some way."

Drusilla looked over her glasses.

"You don't tell me!" she ejaculated. "When be they comin'?"

"Mr. Carrington, the chairman of the Committee, is coming to see you to-night, I am told."

"Who's he?"

"He lives in the big gray house near the river, and he feels very strongly on the subject."

Drusilla said with asperity: "Well, he'll feel stronger when he leaves."

Miss Lee felt that she had gone far enough on that subject, so she changed it.

"Poor Mrs. Carrington! They feel very bad about children since they lost their little boy about a year ago."

"How did they lose him?"

"He died, and they have never recovered from the shock."

"If they lost their child, I should think they'd want to see other children happy, then. They must he queer people."

"It has changed them a great deal, as sorrow often does."

"It hasn't changed them the right way, as true sorrow does. What've they done?"

"Mrs. Carrington—she was Elsie Young before she married Robert Carrington—is a very beautiful woman, and she was wrapped up in her boy. But since his death she has given herself wholly to society, and they say—now of course I don't know how true it is, but they say—that she and her husband have grown apart since the child is gone. He kept them together, and now—well, she simply lives for amusement. And—now, of course I don't say it is true—but I do know that she is going to Europe in the summer and they say—that is the ladies who know her well—that it means a separation. She is going to get a divorce in Paris."

Drusilla put down the dress in her hand.

"You don't tell me! Just because she lost her baby! Why don't she have more? Lots of people have lost babies, but it ain't cause for divorce. It'd ought to bring 'em closer together."

"Yes," sighed Miss Lee; "but it hasn't in this case. They've just grown apart. They are never together. She goes her way and he goes his, and their paths never seem to meet. It is very sad, because she was such an exceedingly fine girl. So many marriages end unhappily."

Drusilla sniffed.

"I guess if they was poor people and had to work or if she had to git the dinner for her man and wonder if he liked chicken with dumplings better'n with saleratus biscuit, she wouldn't find time to want to go to Paris. The trouble with the rich women around here is that they are thinkin' too much of how to pass the time, instead of doin' somethin' for their men."

"But what can they do? They all have servants to do the work for them. You can't expect women like Mrs. Carrington to cook." And Miss Lee plainly showed what she thought of a woman who cooked.

"No, I suppose they can't cook; but a man's a man, and he likes to feel that his woman is thinkin' about him and what he'll eat, and not leave it all to a servant. A man's like a baby: he wants a lot of attention, especially about his vittles. Now I know John don't like some things and he does like others, and I see he gits 'em; and I know he likes to smoke just as soon as he's done eatin', and I see that his pipe and tobacco is put where he can reach it when he's havin' his coffee. It ain't much, but it tells him I'm thinkin' about his comfort, and men like their comfort in their own way."

Miss Lee was quiet a few moments.

"You—you are speaking of—of—this old gentleman who is living here?"

Drusilla looked up suddenly.

"John ain't so old. He's only two years older'n me, and I don't call myself old yet—unless it's to git me out of doin' somethin' that I don't like to do, like makin' calls."

"Is—is Mr. Brierly a relation of yours?"

"No, John ain't no relation; he's just a friend."

"Is he—is he making you a long visit?"

"I hope so. He's goin' to live here always with me if I can make him."

Again Miss Lee tatted industriously. Then she looked up with what she tried to make a most friendly smile.

"Now you know, Miss Doane, I never gossip, but I am a friend of yours and I think you ought to be told. The neighbors think it queer that you have this man live here, who is no relative of yours."

"How's it queer?"

"Well, it's unconventional, to say the least."

"What do you mean by unconventional?"

"I don't know how I can say it so that you will understand. Not quite proper, you know."

Drusilla sat back in her chair. A bright spot appeared on her faded cheek and there was an ominous light in her eyes.

"So my neighbors think I'm improper! Well, that's news and I'm glad to hear it. I've always wanted to do something unconventional, as you call it, but I ain't never had no chance. I always had to do what was expected of me. I had to live a life just about as broad as a needle, just because I had to make my livin' and couldn't afford to do nothin' that'd be different from what other folks done. But now I got a chance, and I'm glad I ain't too old yet to shock my neighbors. I'd keep John now if I had to tie him in his chair."

Miss Lee saw the light in the eyes, and hastened to say:

"Now, please, dear Miss Doane, don't think that I am blaming you. I understand perfectly—perfectly. I just feel that you ought to know what is being said."

"You're real kind, Miss Lee. People won't miss what's bein' said about 'em if you don't git paralyzed in your tongue."

Miss Lee flushed and gathered her threads together.

"Well, my intentions are always of the best, I assure you. I must be going. I see my maid talking to one of your gardeners. It must be stopped."

"Yes, I'd stop it if I was you. She might be enjoyin' herself. Good-by. And when you stop at your next place, tell 'em that I'm waitin' for that Committee, and that I'm enjoyin' John Brierly's visit, and that he's goin' to live here, and so's my babies, and that they don't need to know what's goin' on in my grounds if they don't stretch their necks to see over the walls when they ride by. Good-by."

Drusilla watched the woman as she went down the road and as she disappeared she heaved a sigh.

"Well, the Lord sendeth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed—I guess I'll go see John."

She went up to the small library where she knew she would find him poring over a book.

John looked up as she entered the room, and Drusilla sat down in a chair and looked into the fire, as if seeing pictures there. John went on with his reading, but finally, seeing Drusilla looking at him intently, he spoke.

"What is it, Drusilla?"

Drusilla said softly: "John, do you remember when we used to walk down Willow Lane in the moonlight, and one night some of the neighbors saw your arm around me and they went to mother and said we was carryin' on and it ought to be put a stop to? Well, the neighbors say we are carryin' on again."

John closed the book in his hand.

"What do you mean, Drusilla?"

"The neighbors say we are carryin' on. They think that because you ain't a relation that's it's unconventional, them's her words, unconventional that you stay here."

A pained look came into kindly John's eyes.

"Why, Drusilla, I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps I'd better go."

Drusilla reached over and patted his hand.

"Just you set right still, John Brierly, and don't get excited. I ain't felt so young sence mother scolded me for walkin' out with you." She laughed a little happy laugh. "Why, it takes me back fifty years!"

"Oh, Drusilla," murmured John. "If it makes you talked about—"

"Makes me talked about! Why, who'd 'a' thought when Mis' Fisher come to mother when we was young and said that our carryin's on was disgraceful, that in fifty years another Mis' Fisher-kind would say the same thing. Oh, John, why don't you laugh?"

"I don't see anything to laugh about, Drusilla."

"You never had a sense of humor, John; but you was born without it. But, I tell you, it makes me young again. Why, it makes a woman old to feel she can do just as she pleases and not git talked about; and I feel I ain't got one foot in the grave to know that I can still be carryin' on—Oh, I guess, I'll go and put on my new dress that's just come home. I ain't seventy—I'm still a girl!"

And, chuckling to herself, she went out of the room, followed by John's wondering eyes. He sat quietly a moment, then went back to his book, feeling that woman's reasoning was far beyond his ken.

That night, as she and John were sitting down to their seven o'clock dinner, a frightened nurse came running in.

"Oh, Miss Doane," she said, "one of the babies is very sick. He don't seem able to breathe."

Drusilla put down her napkin and started immediately for the nursery, where she found one of the younger babies struggling for its breath, evidently in the earlier stages of pneumonia. She looked at it a moment, then said:

"Now you git one of the babies' bathtubs filled with hot water and I'll be back in a minute. Have some one telephone for Dr. Eaton."

She hurried to her rooms and put on a big white apron, then to the linen closet and got a piece of white flannel, and was just starting for the nursery again, when a card was brought her. She read on it: James Carrington.

"He's part of the Committee," she said; and as she passed through the hall she went up to him.

"You're Mr. Carrington," she began abruptly.

"I'm real glad to see you. I know what you come for, but I ain't got time to talk now. You come with me and we'll talk afterwards."

And before the chairman of the Committee could say a word he was hurried upstairs and into a small room, where a couple of frightened nurses were looking at a baby whose flushed face and labored breathing showed that he was very ill. Drusilla went to the small bathtub that was placed on the floor.

"Come here, Mr. Carrington," she said; "you're stronger than I am. Lift this up on them two chairs. So—that's right. Now put this thermometer in the water and see if it's 100 degrees. I can't see to read it. Is it right? Now—we'll take the baby—take off your coat and hat—yes, you'd better take off that coat too"—seeing that the man was in evening dress—"and turn up your sleeves—you'll git your cuffs wet. Now take off the baby's clothes, Mary. So—poor little thing!—take 'em all off, shirt and all, and we'll put him in this piece of flannel. Now you hold him like this, Mr. Carrington. Hold him in the hot water. There—jest so's his face is out—don't let him slip! So—now he's breathin' better already. Don't let the water git cold, Mary. Put a little more hot water in—there—that's right. Yes, he's gittin' red, Mr. Carrington, but he wants to git red. See, he's breathin' better. Does your arm ache? Hold him a little longer; I'm goin' to git some goose grease that I brought along with me from the home. I'll be back in a minute. Don't let the water git cool."

She returned in a few moments with a bottle in her hand, and handed it to one of the nurses.

"Warm it, put it in hot water till it runs. Now—"

Just then the door opened and a woman stood in the doorway, an angry look on her pretty, petulant face. She was covered with a big white evening wrap, and was most impatient. She looked at the scene before her without comprehending it, and her voice said angrily:

"Robert, we will be late for the opera! What do you mean by—"

Drusilla looked from the baby to the woman in the doorway.

"Come right in, Mis' Carrington. I'm glad you come. Take off your coat. Yes, we need you. Lay it over there on the bed."

And before the astonished woman knew what she was doing her wrap was laid upon a small white bed and she was standing in her elaborate evening gown looking down at a very red baby being held in a hot bath by the hands of her husband.

"Now, Mis' Carrington, lay that other piece of flannel on the bed, and we'll put the baby in it. I think he's boiled most of his cold out. So—that's right, roll him out—and we'll rub him with the grease. You do it, Mis' Carrington; your hands is younger and not so stiff as mine. Put lots on his chest and around his throat. And turn him over on his back, Mr. Carrington. Put a lot on his back. So— that's right. Rub it in well. And now we'll put him in the bed. There, poor little mite, he breathes better now, don't he?" They stood around the bed, looking down at the child, whose regular breathing showed that he had stopped fighting for his breath and the battle was won. Soon his eyes, which had been staring so pitifully closed, and with a little sigh the baby slept.

Drusilla turned to say something, to speak a few words of thanks for their help; but she stopped at the sight of the two people standing on opposite sides of the little bed. The man with his coat off, his white waistcoat and shirt gleaming in the light, the woman opposite him clothed in her decolette' gown, with jewels glistening in her hair and on her neck. But she did not notice the dress, when she saw the light in the woman's eyes as they rested on the man. They looked into each other's faces for a full moment; then the woman reached over her hand, and in a low, broken voice said, "Robert, is it too late? Shall we try again?" The man's quivering lips could say nothing, but the hand that clasped the one that came to him so timidly was answer enough.

The doctor entered at that moment and the baby was turned over to him, while Drusilla's guests put on their wraps and followed her downstairs. At the door of her sitting-room Drusilla turned to them.

"Won't you come in? You wished to see me about—"

Mr. Carrington said hastily:

"No; we will let the matter wait. We are on our way to the opera—"

"No, Miss Doane," the wife interrupted; "we were on our way to the opera, but now—we're going home, Robert." Turning to the man beside her she repeated: "We're going home, Robert. Do you understand, we're going home!"

Drusilla stood in the hall until the motor started.

"The Bible says a lot of things that's true," she murmured to herself, "and one of 'em is, 'A little child shall lead 'em.'"



CHAPTER XIV

The next morning Drusilla was at breakfast when she heard the chug-chug of a motor. Mrs. Carrington's card was brought in; but before she could say to William that she would see her visitor, the happy laughing face of Mrs. Carrington looked in at the door.

"May I come in? I am sure you will see me."

Drusilla rose with a smile on her sweet old face, and extended her hand.

"Yes, do. You're just in time to have a cup of good coffee with me."

"Am I so early? I motored down with Robert this morning and felt that I must stop and see you on the way home."

"No, you're not early at all; but I'm gettin' lazy in my old age. I git up early in the mornin' and have some coffee and then go and see all my babies. I like to see 'em git their bath, and then I help dress 'em. Then I come back and have my real breakfast. Now, you set right there, so's the sun'll shine on you, and William'll git another cup and plate."

"But I have had my breakfast."

"Pshaw, one can always drink coffee in the mornin'. And you've been clear down town."

Mrs. Carrington settled herself comfortably in her chair, threw back her coat, and smiled across at Drusilla.

"Yes, I've taken Robert down town the first time for more than a year. Oh, it seemed just like old times to take him to his office again."

Drusilla looked at her smilingly.

"Well, it seems to have made you pert-lookin' this mornin'. Your face is a-shinin'. Do you take one lump or two? Cream? Is that the right color? I'm particular about the color of my coffee."

"Yes, that's just right. It smells delicious," said Mrs. Carrington, taking the cup. "No, I won't have anything to eat. Well—I don't know whether I can resist those hot rolls. Just a half of one, then. Is that honey? I ought not to eat sweets—I know my fate if I do; but I can't resist hot rolls and honey."

She was quiet for a few moments. Then she looked up at Drusilla and said, half hesitatingly, "I presume you are wondering why I have come to make this early morning visit, Miss Doane?"

"No; I ain't wonderin' at all. I'm just glad you come."

"Well," and Mrs. Carrington laughed happily, "I'm so happy I just had to talk to some one. You know I have not been to see you before, because I expected to go to France next month for—for a—for rather an extended trip. And I thought there was no use in calling when I was going away so soon."

"Yes; I heard you was goin' away," Drusilla said.

Mrs. Carrington looked up quickly.

"Oh, did you? I didn't know that people knew it. Who told you?"

"The circulatin' family story-paper," laughed Drusilla, "Miss Lee."

Mrs. Carrington frowned for a moment; then she laughed.

"Oh, well, if Sarah knows it, it is no secret in Brookvale. But I am not going away, so her story will have to be revised. What else did she say, Miss Doane?"

"Well—I jest can't remember all she said—but—you said jest now you was happy. Miss Lee'll lose all interest in you now. There's nothin' so uninteresting to old maids as their married friends when they're happy."

"I might just as well tell you myself, and it's all past now and I can talk without breaking my heart. Did Sarah tell you that we lost our little boy about a year ago?"

"Yes; she told me, and I'm sorry for you. It must be a sad thing to lose a baby."

"It nearly killed me, and—and—I began to think about myself too much—I can see that now. I began to feel that Robert did not understand me, that he did not miss our boy nor care as much as I did —that he was hard and occupied himself too much with business and neglected me—and—and—"

"I understand," said Drusilla. "You didn't know that to a man work is the whole dinner, and love the pie that he has to finish it off and make the dinner perfect for him. Perhaps you didn't understand him no more than he did you?"

"Perhaps that's so, but he didn't seem to share my trouble—"

"Now, my dear," said Drusilla, reaching over and softly touching the pretty hand that was lying on the arm of the chair, "it ain't so much the troubles and sorrows they share, but the bridge parties and dances that they don't share that makes most of the troubles between husbands and wives."

"Yes; perhaps that's so. I did get to caring too much for dancing and society, and went out too much without Robert. I was bored—"

"That's the kind of tired feelin' women git who ain't got nothin' to do."

"Oh, but I have had a great deal to do. I belong to a great many clubs and take an active interest in charities, and go to so many committee meetings—they can't say that I have had nothing to do."

"But that ain't the right kind of doin'. Let people like Sarah Lee sew shirts for the heathen and go to the clubs; and as for charity, I seen a lot of charity done by women who go to church and then turn their hired girls out of doors if they git in trouble. That ain't what you want, women with husbands and babies—"

"But I have no baby—"

"But you got a husband. Have babies, just swathes of 'em. You can afford 'em. It's women like you that ought to have big families. Don't your husband like babies?"

"Yes, he adores them, but—"

"Of course he does! Ain't he a man? Men just love babies when they're their own. It feeds their vanity to show the world how they're improvin' the human race. Now look here, Mis' Carrington, let an old woman talk. I'm old and I got wrinkles in my face but there ain't none in my heart, and the only way to keep 'em out of your heart is just to fill it to bustin' with love. Keep the skin tight; don't let it git slack. Why, you'll find you been goin' without love and it's like eatin' without an appetite. It's fillin' your life with somethin' that don't satisfy. Even if you feel you ain't got the best man in the world, make the best of the one you got, and, just 'cause he's yourn, you'll believe after a while you drew the only sweet orange in the grove and all the rest was sour. We all know that marriage is like the weather, mighty uncertain, but that ain't no reason for you to live in the cyclone cellar expecting the tornado to come. Set in the sun parlor and you'll git more enjoyment."

"But—"

"Now, let me talk. I like to talk, and when I git on the subject of love, though I ain't had much of it in my life except what I give myself, I know what it is, and I learnt that you mustn't pick it to pieces, any mor'n you'd pick that rose beside you to pieces and expect to have it keep its color and its smell. If you do that there ain't nothin' left in your hands but dead leaves. And, dear, don't look at it through a microscope; it'll make the little things look too big. Quarrel once in a while if you must, but don't criticize his kind of love. A person's love is his own kind, same as his nose—"

"Oh, we never quarrel. Robert is a perfect gentleman."

"Now that's too bad. Perhaps if he wasn't such a gentleman, instead of goin' to his club when he was mad, he'd turn in and you'd have a real old-fashioned row, just like common people, and when the storm was passed you'd have a chance to kiss and make up. Don't be too much of a lady, just be human and act like people, and things'll come out better. It's these awful polite people who grate on one, especially when you're mad!"

"I know I am not a good wife—I wish I were better—but my temperament—"

"Don't say it! I can't abide that word. It's only rich women who have temperament; in poor women it's just a nasty disposition. But, my dear, you are good enough. Don't try to be an angel—you'd bore your Robert to death. He'd rather see you with a pretty hat than a halo any day; and I know your kind, Mis' Carrington. You'll go into fits and have to be put to bed if your dress don't fit, but if your Robert lost his money, you'd give him your diamonds to sell so's to start him again—and I'm sure he knows it too."

Mrs. Carrington was quiet for a few moments. Then she looked up with the tears glistening on her pretty lashes.

"Oh, Miss Doane, you do make me feel that we are going to be happy. I am going to understand Robert better and he will understand me—"

"Don't worry about him understanding you. Don't think about your inside feelin's; just talk it all out with him. If he don't understand what you're thinkin', shake him and tell him he is stupid, and he'll laugh and you'll laugh—and then you'll kiss each other— and then, where are you?"

Mrs. Carrington again was quiet. Drusilla watched her for a moment; then she rose and came over to her chair and, bending down, put her arms around the young shoulders.

"Dear, jest do this—so fill your heart with sweetness that there won't be room for the memory of any wrong."

Mrs. Carrington reached up her hands and drew the kindly old face to hers and kissed the lips; and the tears that had been in her eyes rolled unheeded down her cheeks.

"Oh, Miss Doane, you are so good! I love you. We are going to begin all over again."

"That's right, dear. Go to lookin' for the lost heart's desire and if you look in the right place you'll find it."

As Drusilla was standing by the chair James entered, and, seeing Mrs. Carrington, started to leave the room. Drusilla turned.

"What is it, James?"

"It's no moment now, Miss Doane, the matter can wait."

"Well, but what is it? Does some one want to see me?"

"Yes; the laundry man. I took the liberty of telling him that you might see him—"

"Is he in trouble, James?"

"Yes," hesitatingly; "and as I have known him for a great many years and know he is pretty straight and honest, I—as I said, ma'am—took the liberty of telling him you might see him, as you are so kind to so many that come here for help."

"Ssh—ssh—James; you mustn't talk about it. Tell him to come up."

Mrs. Carrington rose to go.

"No, don't go," begged Drusilla. "You know," looking around the room, "I'm just like a girl that's afraid of gettin' found out. I see a lot of people that I don't let Mr. Thornton know about. He tried to keep me from seein' any one who comes here in trouble, but I get around him. I see every one who comes. James has his orders from Mr. Thornton to keep 'em out, and he has his orders from me to let 'em in, and he's more afeered of me than he is of Mr. Thornton."

"But, my dear Miss Doane, I should think you would be worried to death."

"No, it keeps me alive. I got a chance to hear people's troubles and understand what they're fighting against, and I'm seein' life and gettin' a chance to help people in my own way."

"But don't they impose upon you? Aren't lots of the people dishonest?"

"Well, I don't do nothin' sudden. I hear 'em talk and then I git Dr. Eaton to find out if it's true; and he's a clever young man, Mis' Carrington—they're pretty sharp to git around him. We call it the Doane Eaton Associated Charities. But"—laughing—"I'm awful selfish in it. I like people, and I like to be in their lives, and if I done what Mr. Thornton wanted me to do, I'd set here and die of dry rot."

James entered then, followed by a little man who bowed awkwardly to Miss Doane.

"This is Mr. Henderson, Miss Doane," James said.

Drusilla looked at him critically.

"Set down, Mr. Henderson. James tells me that you are in trouble."

"Yes, Miss Doane. I hardly know which way to turn. Mr. Hawkins told me you might be good enough to help me."

"What is it you want? You are the laundry man, ain't you?"

"Yes; I have done the outside work for the place here for twelve years, and"—turning to Mrs. Carrington—"I think Mrs. Carrington will remember me. I work for her and worked for her mother before her."

"Certainly I know you, Mr. Henderson," said Mrs. Carrington. "I remember I used to coax you for a ride in your wagon when I was a little girl."

The man smiled.

"Yes, I've given all the children in Brookvale a ride some time or other."

"Now that we know who you are," said Drusilla, "jest tell me what the trouble is."

"It's this way, Miss Doane. The last year business has been bad and I have had to buy new machinery, and I put a mortgage on the place to pay for the machines, and then my wife was sick for most eight months and the doctor's bills and the nurses eat up all my ready money, and I find I'm in a corner and can't pay the interest on the mortgage, and can't get good help, because I can't pay the wages. I'm afraid I will lose my business."

"Is it a good business?"

"Yes. It's always been able to give me a good livin', nothin' more, but it's all I got, and I don't know nothin' else to do. If I lose it I'll have to go into some one else's laundry, and it's hard after fifteen years—" He looked down with a catch in his voice.

"How much will it take to put you on your feet?"

"If I could get eight hundred dollars it would pay up the debts that's pressin' me and would give me a start."

"Can't you borrow at the bank?"

"No, because I've no security. The place is mortgaged all it can stand."

"Well, now you give your name and address to James, and I'll talk it over with Dr. Eaton, and we'll see what can be done. You understand we ain't givin' you the money, even if we find out you're all right. We'll lend to you, and Dr. Eaton asks interest the same as at the bank, but we take your word for security. You understand, we're a lending on your reputation, and what you stand for in your community."

"I understand, ma'am, and I'm willin' to stand on my reputation in the neighborhood."

"Well," as he rose to go, "Dr. Eaton'll come and talk it over with you, and we'll see. How's your wife now?"

"She is much better."

"Is she in bed?"

"Yes; she only sets up a couple of hours a day."

"Pshaw, that's too bad! Wait till I see James."

She rang the bell and James appeared.

"James, fix a basket of things to eat and send it home with Mr. Henderson. Perhaps a change of cookin'll make her eat better. A sick person gits awful tired of the same kind of vittles."

When the man left with a new look of hope on his face Drusilla turned to Mrs. Carrington.

"Now, Mis' Carrington, them's the kind of people that need help. You ain't no idee how many men in this city have got little businesses that's jest makin' them a livin' but nothin' over for a rainy day, and when the day comes they've nothin' to fall back on. And if they could tide themselves over the bad times, whether it's sickness or bad business, they'd be all right. That's just like the truck gardener down on the Fulham Lane. Ain't you seen his place? The hail broke all his glass cases, and he couldn't buy new and he most lost his little place, and if he hadn't 'a' been helped he'd 'a' had to git out."

"Did you help him?"

Drusilla looked rather shamefaced.

"Now, don't you whisper it to a soul. I'm so feered that Mr. Thornton'll find it out that I'm scared to hear a door slam for fear he's heard somethin' and comin' to talk to me. I didn't do nothin' for him as he knows on, but Dr. Eaton went his security at the bank so's he could borrow, and he'll be able to pay back in a couple of years."

Mrs. Carrington laughed.

"Oh, you are a dear!" she exclaimed.

"No, that's jest what I can't make Dr. Eaton see either, that I'm selfish in it all. I like to talk to people, I like to know about 'em. I've always set outside the fence before and peeked into the ball game, now I kin set in the front row and sometimes catch a ball that comes my way. You know, Mis' Carrington, I set up nights wonderin' how I kin leave my million dollars so's it'll do some good and not be fooled away. I pester Dr. Eaton to death to find a way, and he thinks he's got some kind of a poor man's bank figgered out. He's brought up some men and we've talked ourselves hoarse trying to figger out a charity that ain't a charity. By the way, what is your husband?"

"He is a banker."

"Now, that's jest the thing. Bring him over some night and we'll git 'em all together and have a real talk about it all. Tell him what I'm tryin' to do. No—I'll send Dr. Eaton to talk with him. I like your husband, Mis' Carrington. A man that can hold a sick baby so tender in a pan of hot water has got heart; and what we want in this is heart as well as brains and money."

Mrs. Carrington rose to go.

"I'm glad I came to you this morning, and I'm glad you like my husband, because, Miss Doane—let me whisper it to you—I believe I do too!"



CHAPTER XV

Drusilla was called to the 'phone and a nervous, trembly-voiced Daphne spoke to her.

"May I come over, Miss Doane? I—I—want to get away from the house and talk to some one—May I come over?"

Drusilla answered quickly: "Come right along, and come to spend the day. I got to go to the home, and I'll take you with me."

Soon Daphne came up the driveway and stopped to look at two big baskets being put into the motor car, and before she could ring the bell Drusilla dressed for driving came to the door.

"Git right in, Daphne," Drusilla said, putting on her gloves. "Push that basket more to the front—there, that's right. Have you got that bundle, Joseph? Don't lose it out. Now go just as fast as you can, but don't git arrested." As she sat down by the side of Daphne she added: "I'm always in mortal fear of being arrested, 'cause I like to go fast. I don't care about the arrested part, but it'd git my name in the papers again and then your father'd make me one of his 'severity' visits, and I don't seem never to git used to them. When James tells me your father is waitin' for me it makes me feel jest like I used to when I done somethin' wrong and was called into the parlor, where I always got my scoldings, 'cause mother knew the kitchen wouldn't awe me. But"—and she chuckled—"I'm gittin' kind of used even to him, and I'm gittin' so independent there ain't no livin' with me. I even show it the way I walk. When I was ordered around by everybody, I used to sort of tiptoe around so's not to call attention to myself. Now I come down so hard on my heels I have to wear rubber ones so's not to jar my spine. But"—she looked keenly at the pale face beside her and the eyes that showed signs of recent tears—"what's the matter, dear? Have you been cryin'?"

"Oh, I'm in such trouble, Miss Doane," Daphne said with a choke in her voice.

Drusilla patted her hand.

"It can't be great trouble, Daphne."

"Yes, it is, Miss Doane. No one has such trouble as I have, I'm sure."

"Hush, dear, hush! Wait a minute. Let me show you a letter I got last night from Barbara, and then you'll know what real trouble means."

She drew from her bag a folded piece of paper and handed it to Daphne.

"Read that," she said; and Daphne read a badly spelled, badly written scrawl, in the writing of an old woman unused to holding a pen:

DEAR DRUSILLA:

I wish you'd come and see us. Mis Abbott has took poison that she got out of the medcin closet, cause she's lost her money and can't pay her board no more and she says she'd ruther die than be charity, cause she's always looked down on charity, and bin so stuck up about her family. They got it out of her with a stumak pump and she won't die this time but she says she'll do it again cause she can't live and be charity. Won't you come and see her and perhaps you can do something with her, we can't.

BARBARA.

Daphne handed the note back to Drusilla, who put it carefully into her bag before she spoke.

"Now, do you see what real trouble is? Do you remember me tellin' you about Mis' Abbott, whose father was a general and whose husband was some sort of official down South? Well, they're all dead and her only daughter died when she was a little girl and she hadn't nothin' left but memories and just enough money to keep her in the home. It was in some railroad stock and now I guess it's gone too. She was awful proud, and I can see how she feels. She always looked down on me 'cause I was charity, but I don't hold it agin her. She's had her arms full of sorrow and now they're too old to carry more."

"Poor woman!" said Daphne softly. "What are you going to do?"

"I ain't got it all figgered out yet. I talked it over with John till late last night, and then afterward it come to me. I guess I can do somethin'. The main thing is to make her want to live, make her think some one wants her. You know, Daphne, that's the great sorrow of the old; to feel that they ain't needed no more; that every one can git along just as well if not a little better without 'em than with 'em. When they see that, they want to die."

"Oh, I'm sorry I said anything about my troubles—they are so little! Yet they seemed so big last night—and this morning—this morning—"

"Well, what happened this mornin'? Tell me, dear; it'll make you feel better and then you'll see they ain't so very bad after all."

"This morning Mother talked to me, and Father was nasty to me at the breakfast table and—" and again the pretty eyes filled with tears.

"Who is it about this time?"

"There's no this time; it's always the same. It's—it's—Dr. Eaton."

Drusilla laughed.

"I knowed it! I seen it a-comin' a long time. What you and Dr. Eaton been doin'?"

"We haven't been doing anything. Only I walked home with him from your house last night, and we walked a while and—and—Mother and Father talked to me, and—"

"Yes, your father's held some forth to me about Dr. Eaton, but I only laugh at him. I like that young man."

Daphne snuggled her hand into Drusilla's.

"That's the reason I can talk to you; you will understand—because—"

Drusilla laughed again.

"Because—because—you like him too." Daphne's pretty face colored.

"Well, why shouldn't you?" said Drusilla.

"Mother says that he's only a poor doctor, that he's not the kind that'll ever make money."

"Money—money! Why, he'll always make enough for you to live on, and more money'd only be used to buy amusements to keep you from thinkin'; but the way you and him could live together, you'd like to think. So what's the use of money?"

"But Mother says—"

"Now, Daphne, I don't want to say nothin' about your mother. She's been real neighborly to me so far as she knows how, but she's too society for me, and we ain't got one thing that we can talk to each other about. She thinks more about the polish of a person's fingernails or the set of her dress than she does about the color of a soul or the heart that looks out from the eyes, but—I shouldn't say that—your mother is your mother and she means well by you, and you must respect her judgments."

Daphne looked up with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Her judgment in regard to Dr. Eaton, too?"

"Well," said Drusilla, "I wouldn't go so far as that; but—what else did she say besides that you wouldn't have enough to eat?"

"Oh, of course she didn't say that, but she said that he could never afford to give me a motor car or—"

"Well, if you don't have but one car you'll have to ride around with him in his'n, and that won't be no hardship. Just think what a nice time you could have ridin' around these roads in that noisy, smelly little car of his, and waitin' at the gate when he went in to see the Smith baby. Why—why—I'd like to do it myself!"

"Yes, I'd like it too; but Mother is always saying that it's a pity that he is a general practitioner instead of a specialist. It's only the specialists that make money and get on."

"Pshaw, you tell her that Dr. Eaton is a general practitioner in his business, but a specialist in his love affairs, and that's all that you need worry about."

"Then, you don't think it would be hard to economize?"

"Daphne, you won't have to economize on love, and with lots of that you won't miss the other things. Now, Daphne, I suppose I shouldn't meddle in this, it ain't none of my business, but I like Dr. Eaton, and I more'n like you, and I don't want you to make a mistake. Dr. Eaton won't promise you a life of roses and leave you to pull out all the thorns. I know him. And I jest want you two young things to share the very best things in life when you're young, and when you grow old together you won't see the bald spot on his head gittin' bigger, and he won't see your gray hairs a-comin', 'cause you won't ever be lookin' above each other's eyes. You know, Daphne, I'm seventy years old and I've looked on lots of things with my old eyes, and it ain't always the rich that have found the most precious jewel; it's the poor couple who've got just enough to live on—and each other."

Daphne smiled up at Drusilla.

"Oh, Miss Doane, you make it seem so heavenly!"

"Yes, it is Heaven, and love is the bridge that you cross on, and when you git across you can't always be singin' the weddin'-march —but afterwards—well, you can hum a lullaby.

"Now we're comin' to the house"—as they turned into the drive— "and I jest want to say this, dear—" She took Daphne's face in her two hands and looked into her eyes. "Life is a wonderful garden, dear, a garden where the air is filled with perfume, a garden filled with flowers, with heart's-ease and forget-me-nots, and if you wander down its moonlit pathway with your loved one's hand in yours, you're bound to find the enchanted palace where love's dream comes true—So dream, my dear, jest dream.

"Now, there's Miss Smith," as the motor stopped. "How do you do, Mis' Smith? How do you do, Barbara? You was lookin' for me? Yes, I come jest as soon as I could. How is Mis' Abbott? Take them baskets on the porch, and that bundle goes upstairs. Can I go up and see Mis' Abbott?"

"Yes, come right up. I told her you were coming, but she says she won't see you. But I think she will," said Mrs. Smith.

"Of course she will. I'm comin' right along. Daphne, you go out on the porch there with the ladies and open them baskets. I worked half the night and kept the cook up the other half to get the things ready. The names is on the things. You give 'em to the ladies, and jest stay and let 'em look at you. It'll be a treat as good as the things in the baskets."

She followed Barbara up the long stairs. At the door she turned.

"Don't come in, Barbara; I'll go in alone." And she went into the "best" room of the home, because Mrs. Abbott had been able to pay a little more than that paid by the other guests.

Drusilla found the little woman in bed, with her face turned to the wall. She did not move until Drusilla put her hand on her shoulder.

"I've come to see you, Mis' Abbott."

The woman looked up at Drusilla a moment, then put her faded old hands over her face.

"I don't want to see you, Drusilla, I don't want to see you."

"Pshaw, now," answered Drusilla, "yes, you do, Mis' Abbott. I come jest a purpose to see you."

"Oh, but I don't want to see you," wailed the feeble old voice. "I always called you 'charity' and now I'm charity myself. I wish I could die, I wish I could die!"

"No, you don't," said Drusilla softly. "You want to live and you're glad to see me."

"I ain't! I tell you, I ain't! I called you charity!"

"Yes, but I didn't mind, and if I hadn't been charity, Elias Doane wouldn't 'a' found me, and I wouldn't be here goin' to take you home with me."

"What!" said the old lady, looking up. "What'd you say, Drusilla?"

"I said I'm goin' to take you home with me."

"You are—you are—going to take me away from here—here where all the ladies'll laugh at me because I'm charity? But—but—Oh, I'll have to come back again even if you do take me, I'll have to come back again and be—Oh, I want to die—I'd rather die!"

Drusilla took the hands from the wrinkled face and held them in her own.

"Now let me set here on the edge of the bed, and you listen to me, Mis' Abbott. When I got Barbara's letter last night, I jest set for hours thinkin' it all over, and it all come to me of a sudden. Why, I need you so bad, Mis' Abbott, I wonder how I got along without you all this time. You know I got a lot of young people at my house, and no one with sense but myself to watch over them, and we need some one like yourself bad, and if you won't come I'll have to look around for some one else, and it'll put me to a lot of trouble."

The old lady looked up wonderingly.

"But what can I do, Drusilla?"

"Oh, there's lots of things you kin do, but one thing special. When I went into the nursery last night and saw Mary Allen settin' there alone by the window, I said to myself, 'Mary needs a mother. She don't ever remember havin' a mother, and then I remembered you lost your little girl most forty years ago, and if she'd 'a' growed up she might 'a' had a little girl like Mary, and I want you to come and be a mother to my Mary and a grandmother to her baby."

"Oh, is she grown up and married?"

"Never mind, she's only a little child, a lovin' little child with a baby—and a sorrow. But you'll come and see your Mary in her eyes, and she'll have a mother and you a daughter again, and you'll both find happiness in each other. She needs you, Mis' Abbott, and you need her—Say you'll come."

The old lady looked for a moment into Drusilla's eyes; then she broke into the hysterical sobbing of the old and helpless.

"I didn't think no one needed me—no one wanted me. I thought I jest cumbered up the earth. Drusilla, do you think she really needs me, that any one really needs me, that I don't have to be a burden the rest of my days? Oh, if I thought some one wanted me—Perhaps it's my Mary come back to me—my Mary—my little girl—my little girl—"

Drusilla let her cry, patting her hand softly from time to time. Then, when the storm had spent itself, she said:

"Yes, it's your Mary come back to you. Don't you remember that you said your Mary had brown eyes—"

"Yes,—yes—" and eager fingers were tugging at an old-fashioned locket hanging to a slender chain around her neck. "See—here she is —her eyes are brown and her hair all curled around her face, and her lips was just like a rose—and her face—oh, her pretty face—"

Drusilla studied the picture carefully.

"Yes, it's jest like this other Mary. Her hair is all in little curls around her face and her brown eyes jest like a child's, a wonderin' child's whose waitin' for her mother."

The old lady rose from the bed.

"Can I go now, Drusilla? Can I go now?"

"Are you well enough? Can you stand the trip?"

Mrs. Abbott laughed.

"Only sorrow makes one feeble, sorrow and loneliness; but hope makes one strong, and I got hope again—I want to live, Drusilla—I want to live!"



CHAPTER XVI

"John," Drusilla's hand carefully opened the door and Drusilla's head peered warily into the opening, "Are you alone? Has he gone?" She looked around the room. "Yes, he's gone. I'll come in." She closed the door behind her and came to her favorite seat before the fire.

"John, I didn't adopt the Reverend Algernon Thompson, did I?"

"Why, no, Drusilla; I don't think you adopted him. Why?"

"Well," breathing a sigh of relief, "I'm glad to hear you say it. I didn't know but that night when I was so relieved and so scared about puttin' him in jail, that I hadn't said more'n I meant. I know I asked him to come and stop here whenever he come to New York, but I didn't mean to live here. I don't see how his church gits along without him so much."

"What's the matter with the Reverend Algernon, Drusilla? I like him. His knowledge of chivalry is—"

"Yes, I know you two pore over them old books and study them tin men, and he seems to be a great comfort to you. But he ain't no comfort to me, John. I guess I'm gittin' old and finicky. I jest can't put my finger on the spot that riles me, but that man riles me. He's always so good and so sort of angelic, and I don't like people who are too good. A man without a few failin's is like underclothes without trimmin', useful but uninterestin', and—and—then, John, he's one of them fussy little men who's always puffin' around and never doin' nothin' worth while, just like a little engine in a switchyard that snorts and puffs and makes a lot of noise pullin' a dump-wagon. And—then, sometimes, I wonder about his religion, he's so narrer, he's got lots of religion but not so much Christianity. He kind of thinks that Heaven's goin' to be made up of him and a few Presbyterians, mainly from his congregation. He kind of seems to think that Heaven's going to be a special place for him where he'll strut around the only rooster and his flock'll foller after singin' praises to him instead of to the Almighty."

"Why, Drusilla, I thought you said when he was so interested in those children of his parish that he ought to be a very good man."

"So he ought to be a good man, and a man's legs ought to reach from his body to the ground but sometimes he has one short leg that don't quite tech. Now the Reverend wasn't interested so much in takin' care of them children as he was in showin' how he could raise money. I remember when I was in the Ladies' Aid of the Presbyterian Church and we made clothes for the heathen, we wasn't so much interested in clothing the heathen as we was that we had a bigger box at the end of the year than the Baptists had. Just as when some of these societies git to raisin' money for the poor or for some new buildin' or something, and they divide their 'raisers' up in bands, the people who ask you for subscriptions fergit what it is for in their hurry to show that they raised more'n some other band."

"I'm afraid, Drusilla, that Mr. Thompson has got on to your nerves."

"I ain't got no nerves, John. I leave that for women with husbands to work 'em off on. I don't know what it is with this preacher. He's a good man accordin' to his lights, but he makes me fidgety a rumblin' away about his work and his creeds and things like a volcano that don't never blow up. I wish he'd let off a little steam once in a while, or spit out a few rocks and stones jest to liven up things a bit."

"I'll admit he is a little bit self-centered."

"What's that? Oh, you mean he's got ingrowin' feelings. Yes, everythin' that he has to do with is big. Why, John, he's the kind of a man that'd entertain his wife by talkin' about his corns, and think it interestin' because they was his'n."

John laughed.

"Perhaps if he was married and had a wife to tell him a few things—"

"John—John!" Drusilla sat up very suddenly in her chair. "Why didn't I think of her before?"

"Think of whom, Drusilla? I thought we were talking about the Reverend Algernon, and he's a he."

"Sarah Lee."

"Sarah Lee? I don't follow you, Drusilla."

"John, some men are ugly, most men are conceited, and all men are thick-headed, and you're a man. Think of what a wife she'd make him!"

"Why, Drusilla!" John looked a little dazed. "I thought—I thought you didn't care especially for Sarah Lee. I heard you, if I remember rightly—"

"Never mind, John. Your memory's too long to be convenient. Never mind what I said—I take it all back. She's jest the wife for him. They jest fit together. They ain't neither one of 'em got a sense of humor. She's the kind of a woman who'd tell him a funny story when he's shavin', and he's the kind of a man that'd ask her where she put his clean shirt when she was doin' up her back hair with her mouth full of pins. It'd be too bad to spile two good families with 'em."

"But, Drusilla, they're neither one of them thinking about getting married. Perhaps they don't want to."

"Shows how little you know about human natur', John, especially woman human natur'. Sarah Lee'd jump at the chance. She'd been settin' in the station for a long time waitin' for the express to pick her up; now she'd be willin' to take a slow freight."

"Well, she might do worse. He's likely and healthy—"

"Humph—so's an onion. But he's a good man, John, and I trust Sarah to make him over into anything she wants. She's a managin' woman."

"But—but, Drusilla, I don't think he wants to get married, even if she does."

"Of course he don't. No man does; they have to be led up to it."

"Well, I don't know about this. He might not want Sarah. He looks to me like a man who knows his own mind."

"He ain't got a wide acquaintance if it's all he knows. But I mustn't be mean. 'Cause I couldn't live with him ain't no reason that a lot of women couldn't stand him. He's been a batch too long and always had his own way, and he's been a preacher where he could talk to people and they dassent talk back, but Sarah'd change all that, and make him real human before a year was past. I'm glad you thought of it, John."

John looked up, surprised.

"Me? Drusilla! It never entered my head."

"Didn't it? Well, you ought to 'a' thought of it before, and it'd all be done now. Here we've wasted all these months, and I've been pestered to death with 'em both. She's done more tattin' settin' in my sun parlor than'd trim all the petticoats in Brookvale. But, John, her heart is good and is kind of thawin' about the babies. I seen her a-givin' yards o' that stuff to Mary Allen the other day to trim her baby's dresses; and when little Isaac got most run over she got as white as a sheet and we both cried over him together, which kind of brought us closer. And if she marries Algernon, they'll have babies and she'll jest blossom right out."

"You seem to be planning rather far ahead, aren't you?"

"No one has to be a prophet to say a preacher'll have babies. That's ginerally about all they do have."

"It's your business, Drusilla; but I can't understand why you want these two very worthy people to marry—"

"Can't you see through a fence-post, John? If Sarah marries the Reverend Algernon, she'll have to move to Adams, and she'll keep him hoppin' around so fast that he won't git time to come visitin' me so often."

"Oh, you are killing two birds with one stone!"

"Say it any way you want to, but they was made for each other, and I want to see Sarah married with a growin' family on her hands and then she won't have so much time to think and talk about her neighbors. She does it jest because she ain't got nothin' else to do; but if she has to watch Johnny through the measles, and Lizzie through the mumps, and see that Willie's stockings is patched, she won't have time to tatt or tattle, and it'll make her a real woman, instead of jest an old maid. Is he comin' back tonight?"

"No; he has gone to his room."

"Well, I didn't know I'd ever be sorry not to see Algernon, but I'd like to begin on him tonight when it's fresh in my mind, and I could put spirit in my work. What you goin' to do with him to-morrow?"

"We are goin' to go over again those last books on chivalry that I bought—"

"Now, you leave them old books go, and when you git him alongside of one of them iron men, that must 'a' had a derrick to heave him on his horse, come down to earth and talk about women. Point out that that man must 'a' had a wife to buckle all his straps, or somethin' like that, and then tell him how all men ought to be married. Show how you're a shinin' example of how a man looks that ain't had a wife to see that he don't spill egg on his shirt bosom or make him change his underclothes Saturday night. Flatter him. Tell him he is a big, strong man—all little men like that—but tell him that no matter how strong a man is he ain't strong enough to put the studs in his own shirt—and so lead up to Sarah. You can do it, John, if you go about it right. Git him interested, and I'll take care of Sarah."

"But it's a great risk, Drusilla. They might be so happy that they'd always be grateful and both want to come and visit you."

Drusilla raised her hands and then dropped them in despair.

"The Lord forbid, John."

"Don't you want them to be happy, Drusilla? If you don't think they would be, you hadn't better meddle in it."

"Certainly, they'll be happy. Sarah's a good woman. Her milk of human kindness is a leetle bit curdled now and sets hard on her stomach, but marriage'll be the soda that'll clear it all up. And her husband won't have to put a tin mask on her face to keep from bein' jealous, and she won't need to fear his gettin' in temptation, 'cause she won't let him come to the city alone long enough to git real busy huntin' it up. Sarah's jest the wife for a parsonage. She's turnin' more and more to religion and preachers as she gits older, like a lot of women do when they find they're not excitin' enough to interest the other kind. Now, John, be careful what you say. A man is like a kitten—try to catch him and he'll run. Don't fling Sarah at his head —it'd be like flingin' a bone at a cat; jest chase him away instead of drawin' him to her. Now I'm goin' to telephone her and ask her to come over to-morrow, and I'll prepare the way. And you, John," and Drusilla rose and shook her finger at him, "now you be careful what you say, but say it."

The plan worked even better than Drusilla had hoped. Under Miss Lee's very evident admiration, the Reverend Algernon seemed to grow at least three inches in height, and his rather prosy compliments did not fall upon too critical nor blase' ears. Sarah blushed and fluttered and stammered as would any young girl with her first sweetheart. She even grew pretty; took to arranging her hair in a more becoming style and was particular about her dress. One morning she came over with a fluffy little gown that certainly took ten years from her age, and Drusilla looked at her in amazement. She confided to John: "I've heard that women had an Indian Summer but Sarah's surely having her early spring. And, John, I always thought that courtin' was like cookin'—you had to learn by experience; but them two seem to take to it natural. It's makin' Sarah over, I tell you. Why, I even heard her say that she thought Bessie Grey was pretty, and she used to say about any girl that was so pretty that a blind man'd have to admit it, 'Yes, she's pretty, but it is the kind that'll fade early.' Why, she ain't shot a poison arrow at nobody's good luck sense they met."

"You seem to give them chance enough to see each other."

"Yes; I want them to find out each other's beauties. I set up nights tryin' to find errands to send 'em together down town in the motor. Take a man and a woman and put 'em close together, in a rich, soft motor car, with nice cushions to lean against and a chauffeur who can't hear 'em, and something is hound to happen if they're human beings. And I git her to serve tea under the trees and let him see what a nice housewife she'd make, and how she'd show off to his women in the church. Do you notice she don't talk so much? jest sets quiet and smiles, which is wise of her, as she looks best that way. Why, she used to be like an electric fan buzzing away all day and fannin' up nothin' but hot air. John, I feel I'm doin' some good in the world. If I keep on, it'll be a temptation to die just to read the epigraphs my friends'll write of me. But I ain't goin' to die fer a while; I'm goin' to set right down and go over them invitations we sent for the people who's comin' next week for my birthday. Dr. Eaton and me went over the house; it's all ready, and the children and the mothers'll move in on Monday."

Drusilla was silent for a few moments. Then she reached over and took John's hand in her own.

"John, Wednesday I am seventy-two years old. And it's more'n fifty years sense you and me went walkin' down the lane together first. And you're here now beside me. You can always find some one to share your money and your joys, but you can't ask everybody to share your sorrows and your troubles; and it makes me feel a sort of peace and quiet to know that you'll always be near me, and if things that I've planned don't come out right, that I kin come to you and talk it over and you'll understand. Lots of people when they hear what I'm goin' to do will say that I'm an old fool, that I'm impractical, and lots of things that'd maybe hurt, if I didn't have some one to go to and talk it over with who I know won't be critical but will see down beneath it all what I'm try in' to do, and who'll understand. That's what love is, John, for people who grow old—just a great, great friendship, and—an understandin'."



CHAPTER XVII

"Come right on to the stoop, Dr. Eaton, and let's set down and cool off. I'm real het up."

Drusilla settled down in a big porch rocker and fanned herself with the paper in her hand.

"Now let's talk, and you tell me all about it. What did you say that last club was we was to? You been a-takin' me to so many places lately that I fergit their names."

"That was the big Socialists Club."

"Socialists—yes, that's what you called it. Ain't them got something to do with dynamite bombs and blowin' up people and things?"

Dr. Eaton laughed.

"No; you are thinking of Nihilists or Anarchists. These people are very mild; they only have ideas how to run the old world in a new way, and they are especially interested in the question of labor and capital."

"Well, they've idees enough, if that's all they need. But it seems to me, Dr. Eaton, that these people are all going at it wrong-end-to. Instid of workin' with people in bunches, they want to take 'em man by man and git a little of the old-fashioned religion into each one singly. There's two commandments give us to live by. One is, we should love God; the other is to love our neighbor as ourself. Now, if each one got that second command planted deep in his heart, the hired man'd do his work as it ought to be done, and the man who hires him'd pay him right—so there wouldn't be no need of Socialists or Unions or dynamite bombs. No, you can't make people do the right thing by laws, and you can't put love in their hearts by meetings and committees and talk. Each man must git it for himself and then he'll do the square thing because he wants to, not 'cause he's forced to. You can make laws against thievin' and build prisons to put men in who steal, but if you don't change a man's heart, if he wants to be a thief he'll find some way o' doin' it—prisons or no prisons."

She was silent a few moments; then she chuckled softly to herself.

"I wanted to laugh when you introduced me as a woman who wanted to give away a million dollars. Why, I thought fer a minute I'd be run down, if one was to judge by their eyes. But they kind of caamed down when they learnt I wanted to find a way to leave it in my will so's it'd do the most good, instead of givin' it away right there in five-dollar bills. By the looks of a lot of 'em they could 'a' used it right then in gettin' a hair cut and a good meal of vittles."

"Yes; some of them do look rather lank and hungry; but there are some very clever men among them."

"They certainly talked a lot. Who was that young man who talked so much and then got me into a corner. He was kind o' wild-eyed."

"That's Swinesky, a Russian Jew."

"A Roosian! I always heerd tell that them Roosians know what to do with other people's money—and a Jew too! Well—well—and I got away without spending nothin'. He told me a lot of ways to spend my money, but most of 'em sounded like—like—what is it you call it—"

"Hot air."

"That's jest the word—hot air. They all was perfectly willin' to tell me what to do with it, as it wasn't there'n, but what I want is to find a man with an idee that he'd think good enough to carry out if the money was his'n. We've talked with a lot of people about the best way to dispose of my money where it'd do the most good, and most of their plans wouldn't hold water. But it's good of you, Dr. Eaton, to take me round, and I git a little idee here and another there, and some day maybe I'll find the right one.

"I see the newspapers is takin' up now what I'm askin' everybody. 'What will she do with her Million Dollars?' They'll git a lot of answers, 'cause every one's got an idee what they'd do if they had that money.

"But let's not talk of it no more—my head buzzes. I dream of it at nights and see it all hangin' round the bedposts, and a lot of people takin' it that I don't want to, and me not bein' able to git up and chase 'em away. Tell me about that loan you asked me about last night, and I didn't have time to talk."

Dr. Eaton sat up, interested in a moment.

"Do you remember my telling you about the man who has the button factory in Yonkers?"

"He is the man who wants two thousand dollars, isn't he?" asked Drusilla.

"Yes," said Dr. Eaton. "And I have been to see him and I think it is a poor loan unless his business is looked into more closely. Now, Miss Doane, I have an idea. My friend, Frank Stillman, has just started into business as an efficiency engineer."

"What's that?" asked Drusilla, interested at once in anything new.

"He makes it his business to study firms that are going to the wall and locate their trouble and puts them on their feet again, if possible. I took him with me to Mr. Panoff, and I believe he could go there a while and find out what the difficulty is. It used to be a good business when Panoff bought it, but he seems to have lost his grip some way, and he can't see far enough ahead because he is so crowded by the daily troubles. An outsider will be able to see with a better perspective."

"Are we goin' to let this Mr. Panoff have the money?"

"No; not at present. Here is my scheme. I want you to put Frank in there for a time and let him find out if there are any possibilities of getting the business back on its feet. If Frank succeeds, we will let Panoff have the money on his personal note, if he agrees to follow out the suggestions of Frank.

"I have another idea that I have been thinking about. There are a lot of small business ventures that are running to seed, where the owner is getting discouraged, and lacks the broad outlook that would keep him going, and needs some one who is a professional setter-up like Frank, to put him wise, and to readjust his business. I suggest that we hire Frank, for at least a part of his time—he won't be expensive, as he is just starting—to look into the affairs of the men who come to us for money. The owner must agree to allow Frank to readjust things for him, and then when his affairs are prospering again, he will pay a certain sum for Frank's services, taking the expense away from us. It is also a better guarantee for our loan, because Frank is a pretty level-headed business man and if there are any possibilities in the run down business, he will find them, and if there are not he will report to us. What do you think of it?"

"I think it is a good thing; but is there enough things like that to keep him busy?"

"Well, we need take only a part of his time; but I can think of half a dozen little manufacturers who would welcome the chance to find out what is wrong. That publishing house I was telling you about. The manager is impractical, is paying too much out in salaries, hasn't any method in his establishment, and has a dozen leaks that he can't find, but which could easily be located by a professional leak finder. There are a lot of men in business who are honest and willing to work, but who are in a rut and can't see the new things coming, and who could be put on their feet by an injection of a little outside ginger and a readjustment of their business on more modern methods. They are the ones who need help and who will be good for their loans; and that's one thing we are going to try to make sure of, because we aren't going to give any money away if we know it. It's going to be a real service too, Miss Doane. I don't think there is anything more pitiful than a man, who has been in business for himself, to have to give up and say he is a failure. It hurts to be compelled to go into some one's shop as a clerk or mechanic when you've once been your own master. It'll put jasm into a lot of men that have lost their nerve and only need some one to set them straight. You won't lose by it, Miss Doane; I am sure of that."

"I ain't thinkin' about that. Yet I ain't makin' a charity; it's a business, and I don't want a lot of salaried people to eat up everything. That's too much like most of them charities we looked into. I want this a business that'll sound sensible and that'll be sensible, and I don't want a lot of failures to think they can work us. I want 'em to find that they got the wrong pig by the ear if they try to do the Doane fund.

"Bring that young man Frank to me and let me look him over. I ain't very worldly, but I like to look a man in the eye if he's going to do something for me. I want the men who's goin' to be with us, ambitious, upright young men that's willin' to work. I hate a lazy man—I can tell one a mile off. A lazy man's worse'n a dead one, 'cause a dead one's put away and can't do no harm while a lazy one's always around, spoilin' the ambitious one's work.

"Now, we won't talk business no more. Let's go into the yard. Daphne is there with some of the babies. Let's go out to her."

Dr. Eaton hesitated.

"I think I had better be going on to the hospital. I—I—"

Drusilla looked up at him quickly.

"Dr. Eaton, what's the matter with you? I don't understand young men of to-day nohow. Here I been for more'n a year tryin' to have you and Daphne see somethin' of each other, riskin' her father takin' my head off, and now you shy off as if you thought she would bite you. Don't you like my little girl?"

Dr. Eaton flushed under the clear brown of his tan.

"It isn't that, Miss Doane. You must know what I think of Daphne."

"Well, what is it, then? You're clear beyond me."

"Well—well—" and the doctor hesitated.

"Well, go on. Tell me all about it."

"It's this way, Miss Doane. I'm only a poor doctor without much of a practise, and it'll take me several years to work into a good one. And Daphne—you know how she has been brought up—and the kind of things she is used to having—and the crowd she goes with—"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I—you must see, Miss Doane—that I can't give Daphne the things she is used to and that she'd quite likely expect as a matter of course—not that she is any more mercenary than any of the rest of the girls of her set, but she doesn't understand not being rich—she has never known anything else—"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense! I know Daphne."

"Yes, but her people; her father—and, O Lord, Miss Doane—her mother—"

"I confess she is some pill to take; but there's one consolation— you don't have to live with your mother-in-law in these times, and you ain't marryin' the hull family. Is that all?"

"No—but, then—"

"But then what? There is somethin' else?"

"Yes, there is, Miss Doane. I guess—I—I am old-fashioned, but I want a home-wife—a woman who'll love babies, and have them and not feel that they are an impediment to her career. I—I'm—a little dippy on children—I guess—"

He laughed a little shamefacedly. "I want babies in my home—babies that'll climb around me when I come from work—boys and girls that I can love and do for and see grow up into men and women, that'll make me feel that I have really done something for the world—and—and the way Daphne's been brought up—well, her set don't believe in babies— and—rather think motherhood is degrading—and—"

They had came to a corner of the veranda overlooking the part of the lawn where a merry group of little children were playing ring-a-round-a-rosy, and a tall, laughing girl was standing in the middle of the ring, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, as the clear young voice sang the simple play song. The doctor's face softened and he forgot what he was saying. They stood there a while, watching the happy group. Then, the children becoming tired of the game, Daphne sat down in a rocking-chair under a tree, and they grouped themselves around her feet. She took one of the tiniest into her lap and, cuddling it against her breast, began to rock slowly backward and forward. The words of the old lullaby came softly:

"Rock-a-bye, baby, On the tree-top, When the wind blows The cradle will rock—"

Drusilla looked up at Dr. Eaton and her face broke into tiny little love wrinkles as she saw the look on his face. She put her faded old hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes for a long moment; then she said softly:

"Go on, my boy; and God bless you!"

And the doctor went.



CHAPTER XVIII

At three o'clock on July 16th, there met in the Doane library Mr. Carrington, Mr. Raydon—the multi-millionaire and great friend of Drusilla's—Mr. Thornton, Dr. Eaton, and half a dozen of the residents of Brookvale.

"Gentlemen," Drusilla began when the men were seated, "I suppose you wonder why you are all here. I'm goin' to tell you, because you are all my neighbors and I have heard that you are worryin' about what I am goin' to do. We've all got a right to expect happiness in Heaven, but I believe we git what we give, and I want to give as much happiness here as I kin, so's I'll be sure to have somethin' to my account on the other side. I been lookin' around fer two years, tryin' to find a way to leave my million dollars so's to give as much happiness and joy to them that hasn't their share, or so's to benefit the most people in the most lastin' way, and I haven't found it yet. But I have found a way to invest my income, and a little of the money that's come in through the good business head and investments of Mr. Thornton.