"Well, Cleena, I've seen you work hard before, but you did as much as ten Cleenas in one to-day."

The good woman sighed, then laughed outright. "It's been a hard row for that wicked body to hoe."

"Who, Cleena?"

"That sweet, decent kinsman o' your own. Was many an odd bit o' stuff went into the van 't he never meant should go there. The face of him when I went trampin' up the libr'y stairs, an' caught him watchin' Master Hallam packing the paint trash that he'd allowed the master might have. 'Take anything you want here, my boy,' says he. So, seein' Master Hal was working dainty an' slow, I just sweeps me arm over the whole business; an' I'm thinkin' there'll be 'tubes' a plenty for all the pictures master'll ever paint. In a fine heap, though, an' that must be your job, Master Hal, come to-morrow, to put them all tidy, as 'tis himself likes."

"I'll be glad to do it, Cleena; but in which of these old rooms am I to sleep?"

Cleena had taken a rapid survey of the dusty, musty bedchambers, and her cleanly soul revolted against her "childer" using any of them in their present condition. So for Amy she had put Mrs. Kaye's own mattress on the floor of what might be a parlor, and spread it with clean sheets; for Hallam there was in another place his father's easy lounge; and for herself and Fayette, who insisted upon staying for the night, there were "shakedowns" of old, warm "comforts."

"And it's time we were all off to Noddle's Island. It's up in the mornin' early we must be. So scatter yourselves, all of ye, an' to sleep right away. Not forgettin' your prayers, as good Christians shouldn't."

"Of course not," answered Amy, drowsily; but Fayette looked as if he did not understand.

"Sure, you'll have to be taught then, my fine sir, an' I'll tackle that job with the rest of to-morrow's."

But when daylight broke and roused the active Cleena to begin her formidable task of scrubbing away the accumulated dirt of years there was no Fayette to be found. Dreamily, she recalled the sound of musical instruments, the shouts of voices, and the squealing of the rats that had hitherto been the tenants of "Spite House"; but which of these, if any, was answerable for the lad's absence, she could not guess.

"Well, I was mindin' to keep him busy, had he stayed; but since he's gone, there's one mouth less to feed."

It did not take the observant woman long to discover that the outlook for the comfort of "her folks" was even less by daylight than it had seemed the night before. Her heart sank, though she lost no time in useless regrets, and she did most cordially thank that "guardian angel" to whom she so constantly referred for having prevented her spending the last twenty-five dollars she possessed. This would long ago have wasted away had it not been placed in the care of that true friend of the family, Adam Burns, with whom her master and mistress had now taken refuge.

"Alanna, that's luck! I was for usin' it long syne, but the old man wouldn't leave me do it. 'No, Cleena, thee's not so young as thee was, an' thee might be wantin' it for doctor's stuff,' says he. Twenty-five dollars! That'd pay the rent an' buy flour an' tea, an' what not;" and with cheerful visions of the unlimited power of her small capital, the old servant stooped to fill her apron with the stray chips and branches the bare place afforded.

At that moment there fell upon her ears the familiar sound of Pepita and Balaam braying in concert for their breakfast.

"Now what's to feed them is more nor I know; yet never a doubt I doubt it would clean break the colleen's heart must she part with her neat little beast."

The braying roused Hallam and Amy, also, from a night of dreamless sleep; and as they passed out from the musty house into the crisp air of a frosty morning, they felt more cheerful than they considered was quite the proper thing, under the circumstances. Then Amy looked at her brother and laughed.

"Isn't it splendid after the rain? and isn't it funny to be here? Yesterday it seemed as if the world had come to an end, and now it seems as if it had just been made new."

"'Every morn is a fresh beginning,'" quoted Hallam, who loved books better than his sister did.

"Let's go down to the gate, or place where a gate should be, and take a good look at our—home."

"All right. Though we've seen it at a distance, I suppose it will appear differently to us at near hand."

"And uglier. Oh, but it's horrid! horrid!" and with a sudden revulsion of feeling Amy buried her face in her hands and began to cry. "I hate it. I won't stay here. I will not. I'd rather go home and live in the old stable than here."

"That wouldn't have been a bad idea, only we shouldn't have been allowed."

"Who could have hindered that? Who'd want an empty stable?"

"Our cousin Archibald!" answered Hallam, with scornful emphasis. "I believe he feels as if he had a mortgage on our very souls. Indeed, he said I might sometime be able to earn enough to buy the place back, as well as pay all other debts. He said he couldn't live forever, and it was but fair he should have a few years' possession of 'his own.' He—Well, there's no use talking. I wish—I wish I were—"

"No, no! you don't! No, you don't either, Hallam Kaye! I know what you began to say, and you shall not finish. You shall not die. You shall get well and strong and do all those things he said. I'm ashamed of myself that I cried. I felt last night as if my old life were all a beautiful dream, and that I had just waked up into a real world where I had to do things for myself and for others; not have others do for me any longer."

"That was about the state of the case, I fancy."

"Well, that isn't so bad. It shouldn't be, that is; for I have such health and strength and everything. Nothing matters so much as long as we are all together."

"Nobody knows how long we shall be. I don't like these 'attacks' of father's, Amy. I'm afraid of them. It will kill him to live here."

It needed but the possibility of giving comfort to somebody to arouse all Amy's natural hopefulness, and she commanded with a shake of her forefinger:—

"Hallam Kaye, you stop it! I won't have it! If you keep it up, I shall have to—to cuff you."

"Try it!" cried the brother, already laughing at her fierce show of spirit; yet to tempt her audacity he thrust his fingers through her short curls and wagged her head playfully.

She did not resent it; she could resent nothing Hallam ever did save that morbid talk of his. She had been fighting with this spirit ever since she could remember, and their brief "tussle" over, she crept closer to him along the old stone wall and begged:—

"Cleena has tied the burros out to graze in the weeds, and that will be their breakfast, and while we're waiting for ours, I wish you'd tell me all you know about 'Spite House.' I've heard it, of course, but it's all mixed up in my mind, and I don't see just where that cousin Archibald comes in."

"Oh, he comes in easily enough. He's a descendant of old Jacob Ingraham as well as of the house of Kaye. I believe it was in this way: our great-grandfather Thomas Kaye and Jacob were brothers-in-law, and there was some trouble about money matters."

"Seems to me all the mean, hateful troubles are about money. I don't see why it was ever made."

"Well, they had such trouble anyway. Great-grandfather had just built Fairacres, and had spent a great deal to beautify the grounds. He was a pretty rich man, I fancy, and loved to live in a great whirl of society and entertain lots of people and all that. He was especially fond of the view from the front of the house and had cut away some of the trees for 'vistas' and 'outlooks' and 'views.' There were no mills on the Ardsley then. They came in our own grandfather's time. It was just a beautiful, shimmering river—"

"Hal, you're a poet!"

"Never," said the boy, with a blush.

"But you are. You tell things so I can just see them. I can see that shimmering river this instant, in my mind, with my eyes shut. I can see boats full of people sailing on it, and hear music and laughter and everything lovely."

"Who's the poet now?"

"I'm not. But go on."

"It seems that old Mr. Ingraham thought he had been cheated by great-grandfather—"

"Likely enough he had. Else I don't see where he got all that money to do things."

"But, missy, he was our relative. He was a Kaye."

"There might be good Kayes and bad Kayes, mightn't there?"

"Amy, you're too honest for comfort. You may think a spade's a spade, but you needn't always mention it."

"Go on with the story. In a few minutes Cleena will call us to our 'frugal repast,' like the poor children in stories, and I want to hear all about this 'ruined castle' I've come to live in, I mean 'dwell,' for story-book girls—'maidens'—never do anything so commonplace as just 'live.' Hally, boy, there's a lot of humbug in this world."

"How did you find that out, Miss Experience?"

"I didn't trouble to find it, I just read it. I thought it sounded sort of nice and old, so I said it."

"Humph! Well, do you want to hear, or will you keep interrupting?"

"I do want to hear, and I probably shall interrupt. I am not blind to my own besetting sins."

"Listen. Just as great-grandfather had everything fixed to his taste and was enjoying life to the utmost, old Jacob came here to this knoll that faces Fairacres—Oh, you needn't turn around to see. The trees have grown again, and the view is hidden. On this knoll, if there was anything tall, it would spoil the Fairacres' view. So Jacob built this 'Spite House.' He made it as ugly as he could, and he did everything outrageous to make great-grandfather disgusted. He named this rocky barren 'Bareacre,' and that little gully yonder he called 'Glenpolly,' because his enemy had named the beautiful ravine we know as 'Glenellen.' Polly and Ellen were the wives' names, and I've heard they grieved greatly over the quarrel. Mr. Ingraham painted huge signs with the names on them, and hung up scarecrows on poles, because he wouldn't let a tree grow here, even if it could. There are a few now, though. Look like old plum trees. My, what a home for our mother!"

Amy's face sobered again, as she regarded the ugly stone structure which still looked strong enough to defy all time, but which no lapse of years had done much to beautify. Nothing had ever thrived at Bareacre, which was, in fact, a hill of apparently solid stone, sparsely covered by the poorest of soil. The house was big, for the Ingraham family had been numerous, but it was as square and austere as the builders could make it. The roof ended exactly at the walls, which made it look, as Amy said, "like a girl with her eyelashes cut off." There were no blinds or shutters of any sort, and nothing to break the bleak winds which swept down between the hills of Ardsley, and which nipped the life of any brave green thing that tried to make a hold there. A few mullein stalks were all that flourished, and the stunted fruit trees which Hallam had noticed seemed but a pitiful parody upon the rich verdure of the elsewhere favored region.

"Has nobody ever lived here since that wicked old man?"

"Oh, yes. I think so. But nobody for long, nor could anybody make it a home."

"It looks as if it had been blue, up there by the roof."

"I believe it was. I've heard that every color possible was used in painting it, so as to make it the more annoying to a person of good taste, such as great-grandfather was."

"Heigho! Well, we've got to live here."

"Or die. It's hopeless. I can't see a ray of light in the whole situation."

"You dear old bat, you should wear specs. I can see several rays. I'll count them off. Ray one: the ugly all-sorts-of-paint has been washed away by the weather. Ray two: the air up here is as pure as it's sharp, and there's nothing to obstruct or keep it from blowing your 'hypo' away. Ray three: there are our own darling burros already helping to 'settle' by mowing the weeds with their mouths. What a blessing is hunger, rightly utilized! And, finally, there's that worth-her-weight-in-gold Goodsoul waving her pudding-stick, which in this new, unique life of ours must mean 'breakfast.' Come along. Heigho! Who's that? Our esteemed political friend, 'Rep-Dem-Prob.' I'd forgotten him. Now, by the lofty bearing with which he ascends to our castle of discontent, I believe he's been out 'marching.'"

It was, indeed, Fayette whom they saw climbing over the rocks. He wore his oilcloth blouse and his gay helmet, and soon they could hear his rude voice singing and see the waving of his broom.

"He? Coming back again? Why, we can't keep him. We can't even 'keep' ourselves."

"Yet never a doubt I doubt he means to tarry," quoted Amy, laughing at her brother's rueful countenance.



CHAPTER VIII.

NEEDS AND HELPERS.

"Sure, I thought ye had lost yourself or been ate by the rats!" cried Cleena, as Fayette rather timidly peered in at the open kitchen door. "But all rogues is fond o' good atin', so I suppose you've come for your breakfast, eh?"

"No. I've et."

"Must ha' been up with the lark then. No, hold on. Don't go in there. They're master Hallam an' Miss Amy still, an' always will be. They eats by themselves, as the gentry should. If there's ought left when they're done, time enough for you an' me."

"I've had my breakfast, I told you."

"Didn't seem to set well on your stummick either, by the way your temper troubles ye. Are ye as ready to work as ye was yesterday?"

"Yes. What I come back for."

Cleena paused and studied the ill-shaped, vacant, though not vicious, face of the unfortunate waif. Something drew her sympathy toward him, and she pitied him for the mother whom he had never known. In the adjoining room she could hear the voices of her own "childer," with their cultured inflection and language, which was theirs by inheritance and as unconsciously as were "Bony's" harsh tones and rude speech his own.

"Arrah musha! but it's a queer world, I d'know. There's them an' there's him, an' the Lord made 'em both. Hear me, me gineral. Take a hold o' that broom o' yours, an' show me what it's made for. If you're as clean as you're homebly, I might stand your good friend. What for no?"

Fayette had returned Cleena's cool stare with another as steady. He liked her far better and more promptly than she liked him, yet in that moment of scrutiny each had measured the other and formed a tacit partnership. "For the family," was Cleena's watchword, and it had already become the half-wit's.

Cleena went to the well, tied her clothesline to the leaky old bucket and lowered it. On the night before she had obtained a pail of spring water from the cottage at the foot of the knoll, from the same friendly neighbor who had sold her the milk. But their own well must be fixed. To her dismay she found that it was very deep, and that the bit of water which remained in the bucket when it was drawn up was quite unfit even for cleaning purposes.

This worried her. A scarcity of water was one of the few trials which she had been spared, and she could hardly have met a heavier. As she turned toward the house she saw that Fayette had carefully set out of doors the old chairs and the other movable furniture which the kitchen had contained, and that, before sweeping, he was using his broom to brush the cobwebs from the ceiling. The sight filled her with joy and amazement.

"Saints bless us! That's the first man body I ever met that had sense like that!" and she lifted up her voice in a glad summons:—

"You, Napoleon Gineral Bonyparty, come by!"

"Before I finish here?"

"Before the wag o' dog's tail. Hurry up!"

"The wind'll blow it all over again."

"Leave it blow. Come by. Here's more trouble even nor cobwebs, avick! First need is first served."

This summoned Hallam and Amy out to see what was going on, and after learning the difficulty and peering into the depths of the old pit they offered their suggestions. Said Amy:—

"We might draw it up, bucket by bucket, and throw it away. Then I suppose it would fill with clean water, wouldn't it?"

"If we did, 'twould break all our backs an' there's more to do than empty old wells. Master Hal, what's your say?"

"Hmm, we might rig up some sort of machinery and stir it all up, and with chemicals we could clear it and—"

"Troth we could, if we'd a month o' Sundays to do it in an' slathers o' time an' money spoilin' to be spent."

Hallam was disgusted. Already he had blamed himself for his haughty refusal of Mr. Wingate's offer, on the previous day, to send a practical man to look over the premises and "set them going," as any landlord would.

But the lad had replied, as one in authority to decide for his absent parents: "We won't trouble you, sir. What happens to us, after we leave Fairacres, is our own affair. If you get your rent, that should be sufficient for you."

After that the offer was not renewed; for Mr. Wingate was not the man to waste either money or service, and the lad's tone angered him.

Regrets were now, as always, useless, and Cleena's open disdain of Hallam's suggestion sent him limping angrily away; though Amy laughed over her own "valuable contribution to the solution of the dilemma," and by her intentional use of the longest words at hand caused Fayette to regard her with a wonderment that was ludicrous in itself.

"Well, Goodsoul, we've helped a lot. Ask our 'Rep-Dem-Prob' what his 'boys' would do."

"What for no? Sure, he's more sense nor the whole of us. Say, me gineral, what's the way out?"

Fayette colored with pride. He had an inordinate vanity, and, like most of his sort, he possessed an almost startling keenness of intelligence in some respects, as contrasted with his foolishness in others. Moreover, he had been disciplined by poverty, and had always lived among working people and, for a long time, about the carpet mills.

"Well, the 'Supe's' force-pump."

"Hmm, I know, I know. But what's the 'Supe' an' his pump? Is he fish, flesh, or fowl, eh?"

"He's the 'Supe' to the mill. Ain't ye any sense?"

"No. None left after botherin' with you. What's it, Miss Amy?"

"I know. You mean Mr. Metcalf, don't you?"

"Yes."

"What would he do? How could he help us?"

"Lend me the donkey. I'll ride and tell him. All them houses—see them mill cottages, down yonder?"

"Certainly. They look very pretty from here, with all the trees about them."

"They've got wells. Once in six months the wells has to be cleared out. That's orders. Me an' another fellow goes down 'em, after the pump's drawed out all it can. We bail 'em out. I clean cisterns, too. Ain't another fellow in the village as good at a cistern as me. See, I'm slim. I can get down a man-hole 't nobody else can. Shall I go?"

"I'll ask Hallam."

Who, upon consultation, replied:—

"I suppose it's the only thing we can do, but it does go against my inclination to ask favors of anybody."

"Hal, that's silly. We must send Fayette to Mr. Metcalf, and will you write the note, or shall I?"

"You, since you've seen him, personally."

"Which is the only way I could see him," laughed the girl, and ran into the house to find a sheet of paper. Then the mill boy was given his choice of the burros, to ride as messenger; and having selected Balaam, departed down the slope in high glee. When he reached the mill, and Mr. Metcalf was at liberty to see him, he began a voluble description of all that had occurred since his chance meeting with Amy in the wood; but the superintendent cut the story short.

"Now, see here, 'Bony.' This is the chance of your life. Understand? They are, I should think, the very nicest folks you ever saw. Well, treat them square. None of your monkey shines nor nonsense. Do everything you can to help them. Of course you can have the pump, though you can't carry it up to 'Hardscrabble' donkey-back. That fellow is as black as his brother, or sister, is white. They're the prettiest donkeys I ever saw. How my youngsters would like such. Well, go round to John. There's no teaming to be done this morning, and he shall take the pump there in the wagon. He'll help you too, no doubt, for a small payment."

"Say, 'Supe.'"

"Well?"

"I don't believe they've got any money. Don't look so they had a cent. Ain't it queer? With all them purty things an' the way they act an' talk. Ain't like nobody I ever saw before. Ain't never saw anybody liked each other so much. I'm goin' to stay."

"Have they asked you?"

"No."

"Well, run along and get hold of John before he goes home for a nap, as he might, with nothing needed here."

Then, when Fayette had left him, Mr. Metcalf took up Amy's note and reread it.

The second perusal pleased the gentleman even more than the first. He thought that the little letter was very characteristic of the girl he had met, and he specially liked her statement that his former kindness presupposed a later one. So he stopped John, the teamster, as he was driving out of the mill yard, with the request:—

"You stay up there all day, if you can be of any use. Got your dinner with you? and the horses'? Good enough. I've heard about that family being turned out from their old home, and whether it was justly done or not doesn't alter the fact of its hardness. Lend them a hand, as if it were for me, John, and I'll make it all right with you."

"It's all right already, sir. I saw that girl, when she was down here that day; saw her take her fine little handkerchief out of her pocket and wipe that idiot's, or next door to idiot, wipe his lips as nice as if he was her own brother. Ain't one of the mill girls'd do that. They'd be too dainty. She wasn't, because she was quality. It always tells. Pity though that such folks have so little common sense. Now—"

But Mr. Metcalf warded off any further talk of the good John, who had lived at Ardsley all his life and knew the history of the Kaye household almost better than they knew it themselves.

"I'll ask you to tell me about them another time. Just now I guess you'd better hurry to get them a decent drink of water. Hold on, 'Bony.' Ride over to the office door. I'll send a note back to Miss Kaye, and want you to carry her a little basket."

So this was the note which answered Amy's, and that proved its writer to be a gentleman, even though he had begun life a humble ash-boy in just such a mill as he now managed so ably:—

"MY DEAR MISS AMY: The kindness is wholly on your side in allowing me to serve you, and I hope you will command me in any further matter wherein I can be of use.

"I am sending the pump by John Young, our teamster, with instructions to remain under your orders for the rest of the day. You will find that 'Bony' thoroughly understands the business of well-cleaning, but you will have to restrain him from venturing into any great hazard, because, poor lad, he has not the caution to balance his daring.

"I am offering, also, a little basket of fruit which came my way this morning, and which looks, I fancy, as if it wanted to be eaten by just such a girl as you.

"FAITHFULLY YOURS, "WILLIAM METCALF."

When Amy read this note aloud to Hallam and Cleena, she did so in a proud and happy voice.

"Well, I've written letters for mother, and father, too, sometimes, but I've not had many of my own. This is. I'm going to keep it always. The very first one that has come here. Isn't he just the dearest man? Oh! I am so happy I must just sing. It's such a beautiful world, after all, and maybe we've had all our old things taken away just to teach us that folks are better than things. I feel as if I'd come out of a musty room into the open air."

"Amy Kaye! You should be ashamed of yourself. Have you no heart at all? As for musty rooms, if you can find any to beat these at 'Spite House,' you'll do well."

"I know. I'm 'bad,' of course, but come on. I'll fetch you all father's tubes and brushes that are in such a muddle, and you can sort them right near the well, and watch John fix it, and take care of Fayette; I'm going in and help Cleena, in any way I can."

Amy's cheerfulness was certainly infectious. It was also helpful to Hallam's gloomy mood that just then there should be the well and cistern cleaning, Mr. Young having discovered a cistern beneath a pile of decayed boards, at a little distance from the house. But the water in both being unfit for use, Amy bravely picked up a couple of pails and started down hill to their new neighbor's cottage.

"Wait, Amy, I'll rig up something," called the cripple; and by the aid of a rope, a barrel stave, and some wire he managed to hang the pails on either side Pepita's saddle. "So all you'll have to do will be walk up and down and make her behave," referring to Pepita's uncertain temper.

"If I had a barrel I'd better that job," said John the teamster. "I'd drive down once and get all you needed for the day."

"But there isn't any barrel that will hold water," answered the girl. "So I'll play 'Jack and Jill' with Pepita, as long as Cleena wishes. Besides, the cottage children think she's beautiful, and they are so kind they help me fill the pails each trip, as well as give us the water in them."

John wiped his brow and looked admiringly upon her. "Keep that spirit, lass, and it'll make small difference to you whether your purse is empty or full. But 'give' you the water? I should say yes. The Lord gave it to them in the first place, free as the air of heaven. Well, there'll be water to spare up here, too, soon, for we've got the pump about ready for work."

It was a long time, though, before any impression was made upon the accumulation of water in the deep well. After a while, however, less came with each draft, and it was thicker and fouler. Finally, the pump ceased to be of any use, and was drawn up and laid beside the broken curb. Then came the interesting part of the task, as well as the perilous.

Keeping an eye upon all of Fayette's movements, John had allowed him "to boss the job," partly because the lad did fully understand his business, and partly to give him pleasure. But now was need for utmost caution.

"Will you fetch me a candle?" the teamster asked Cleena; and when she had done so he fastened it to the end of the clothesline and slowly lowered it into the shaft. The flame was instantly extinguished.

"Hmm, have to wait a spell, I reckon. Might as well tackle the cistern."

"What made the candle go out? Was there a wind?" asked Amy.

"Carbonic acid gas," answered her brother.

"Huh," said Fayette, contemptuously, "'twa'n't neither. Just choke damp an' fixed air. Soon's the candle'll stay lighted, I'll go down. Cistern's the same, only wider. Got a powder here'll fix it, if it don't clear soon."

After the cistern was cleaned, and this was a much easier task than the well, Fayette returned to the curb, again lighted the candle, and lowered it. The foul and poisonous gases had mostly passed away, and the flame continued to burn as far down as the clothesline would reach.

"That's all right; I'll tackle it now."

"No, you'll not. None o' your foolhardiness here."

"Who made you boss o' me, John Young?"

"I did. I'll prevent you, if I have to hold on to you. Best leave it open till to-morrow, or longer even," said John. "I'm going to eat my dinner now. Come and have some."

"Bime-by. I'm goin' to take off my shoes. Work best when I'm barefoot."

The answer gave John no concern, for he knew this peculiarity of Fayette's; so he walked quietly away toward the old shed where he had tied his horses, to give them their food and secure his own. Before he reached them, however, he heard a loud shout, and, turning, saw the foolish boy capering about on the beam which had been laid across the top of the well, and from which the rope and bucket were still suspended.

"'Bony,' you fool, get off that! A misstep and you're gone!"

"All right, I'll get off!"

There was a wild waving of arms, a burst of derisive laughter, and "Bony" had disappeared.



CHAPTER IX.

THE WATERLOO OF BONAPARTE LAFAYETTE.

The teamster's cry of horror brought everybody to the scene. Cleena was the first to reach it and to find John standing by the mouth of the well, whitefaced and trembling.

"What's it? What's down there? What mean ye yellin' that gait? Speak, man, if ye can."

He could only point downward, while he strained his ears to catch any sound that might come from below.

Then Cleena shook him fiercely. "Speak, I tell ye! Where's the boy?"

The other still pointed down into the shaft, but he made out to say:—

"I heard him laugh, then shout, and he must have gone stark crazy."

"He down there? That poor, senseless gossoon? Where was you that you'd leave him do it?"

"I was walking—wait! I hear something."

Four white, terror-stricken faces now bent above the old well, while Cleena's arms clasped her "childer" tightly, fearing they, too, might be snatched away from her.

"Saints save us, it's bewitched! Oh, the day, the day!"

"Shut up, woman! Keep still. I hear something."

Again they stooped and listened, and Amy's keen ears reported, joyfully:—

"It's Fayette! It is, it is! It sounds as if he were speaking from the far end of a long, long tube. But he's alive, he's alive!"

"He might as well be dead. His bones must be broken, and he can't live long in such an air as that," said Hallam.

"I don't know. That he's alive at all proves that the air isn't as bad as I thought. Besides, he may not have broken any bones. He's had fearful falls, before this, and he always came out about sound. But the rope doesn't reach much more than two-thirds down. I've heard they dug this well a hundred and fifty feet deep. They had to, to reach water from top this rock."

"A hundred and fifty feet! How can we possibly reach him?"

"Not by standin' talkin'. Whisk to the cottage, Amy, an' beg the length of all the rope they have. To save a lad's life—be nimble!"

The girl was away long before Cleena finished speaking, while the latter herself darted into the house, caught off the sheets and blankets from the beds, and tore them into strips. Never wasting one motion of her strong hands, and praying ceaselessly, she tied each fresh length and tested it with all her force.

Meanwhile Amy almost flew over the space between "Spite House" and the cottage, arriving there nigh breathless; but gasping out her errand, she rushed straight to the line in the drying yard and began to tear it from its fastenings on the poles.

"You're wanting my rope, miss? Somebody in the well? Heaven help him! But wait! If it's cleaning the well he is, why of course he'd be down there. Who is it?"

"Fayette. Maybe you know him as 'Bony.'"

"The half-wit? Pshaw, Miss. Don't look that frightened. He's all safe, never fear. Nothing hurts him. The Lord looks after him. I'm afraid this rope won't hold, it's so old. Wait, I'll go, too. Never mind the children, they'll have to take care of themselves."

All the while she was talking the kindly woman had been rolling the line, retying it where their haste broke its worn strands, and following Amy up over the slope. Now she paused for one second to remonstrate:—

"You, Victoria, go back! There's William Gladstone trying to creep after us. Beatrice, Belinda, go home. You mustn't follow mother every time she turns her back! Go home, I tell you. Go—right—straight—back—home. My! but this is steep!"

A shriek, shrill and piercing as only infant lungs could utter, made even Amy stop, eager though she was to reach the well where poor "Bony" might already have breathed his last. The one backward glance she cast showed the numerous children of the house of Jones toiling industriously skyward, in their mother's footsteps. Victoria, who was "eight and should have known better," had left William Gladstone to take care of himself, with the result that, being less than two years old and rather unsteady on his legs, he had toddled up to the biggest stone in the path, tried to step over it, lost his balance, and fallen. The hill was so steep that once the fat little fellow began to roll downwards he could not stop, and the terrified outcry first showed the mother his danger.

"He'll bump his head against a rock and—"

Mrs. Jones did not finish her sentence, but faced about and ran frantically down the slope, catching up her baby and smothering it with kisses, although she had assured the little fellow, at least a dozen times that day, that "he was the very plague of her life." She had dropped the rope, and Amy caught it, then turned and ran as fast upward as her neighbor was going in the other direction. Behind Amy still followed Victoria, Beatrice, and Belinda.

"You should go back. Your little brother's hurt," shouted she.

"Yes'm. He is often," coolly replied Victoria, who could have the minor excitement of examining the baby's bruises any day, but who did not intend to lose the greater one of "a man down the well" for any commonplace home matter.

Just before she came to the crest of the knoll Amy hesitated, and stood still. It seemed to her she could not go on and face the possible, even probable, tragedy at the top, and into the midst of her awestruck waiting there was hurled this startling question:—

"Say, miss, where do you s'pose you'll have the funeral? May I come?"

"Ugh! Oh, you horrid little thing!"

Victoria appeared so amazed at the effect of her inquiry that she stared back into Amy's face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Wh-h—why!"

"I shouldn't have said that. But you go right straight back home. Your mother wants you. I don't. Oh, dear! How could you say it?"

"Why, 'cause I like to go to funerals. I go to every one Ma does. She's got a real nice 'funeral dress,' an' so have I."

Amy fled. She had never seen anything like little Victoria, and she was so indignant that she almost forgot her dread of what might lie before her. She reached the group about the well, who were now utterly silent, and seemed to be watching with more astonishment than terror something happening within it.

Amy, also, stretched her neck to see, though she shut her eyes, and this naturally prevented; nor did she open them till she felt Cleena clutch the skirt of her frock and heard her exclaim:—

"Faith, but he's the biggest monkey out o' the Zoo! Arrah musha! I'll teach him scaring folks out o' their wits, an' wastin' good bedclothes on such havers! Huh!"

For this was the marvel that now presented. Poor, silly Fayette, looking more foolish and grotesque than ever, climbing upwards into the daylight, blinking and sputtering, his back against the stones of one side the shaft, his feet against the other, his hands clutching, pulling; both feet and hands almost prehensile, like the creature's to which Cleena had likened him, yet safe, unbruised, and only mud-splashed and laughing.

With a final, agile movement he reached the top, threw his arms about the beam, and leaped to the ground beside them. Then he laughed again, hilariously, uproariously, and not for long.

In Cleena Keegan's indignant soul a plan had been rapidly forming.

"So you'd be givin' us all the terrors, would ye, avick? Sure, a taste o' the same medicine's good for the doctor as his patient. I'll just give ye a try of it, an' see what ye say. Hmm, them sheets might ha' lasted for years, so they might; an' them blankets, my heart!"

Before anybody, least of all the astonished "Bony," could comprehend what she would be about, Cleena had tripped and thrown the lad to the ground. She was more powerful than even his boasted muscle, and he quite unprepared for what she meant to do. The life-line made from her cherished bedclothing was twisted about his wet shoulders like a flash. Yet there seemed nothing violent nor vindictive as she rolled him over and over, wisely winding and binding first his hands and feet. After that the punishment she administered was but a question of endurance on her part, and the length of the line.

"There, you blatherskite! What's your guardian angel thinkin' of ye the now, you poor, ignorant, heathen gossoon? Well for ye that old Cleena has met up with ye to beat some bits o' sense into your idle pate. Tight, is it? Well, not so tight as the bands o' me heart when I looked to see ye brought up to me dead. 'Twon't hurt. Lie there an' rest."

Cleena finished her harangue and her task together. After that she stood up straight and strong, and regarded the teamster with a questioning eye.

"Is it true, what he says, that he's nor kith nor kin, hereabouts?"

"I guess it's true," answered John, laughing at the ludicrous appearance of Fayette upon the ground. "He was born in the poorhouse, an' I've heard his mother died. His father had before then, I know. I used—"

Cleena was in no mood for long stories, and she foresaw that one was imminent. She interrupted without ceremony—

"So, if I take him in hand to train him a bit, what for no? There'll be no one botherin' an' interferin', is it?"

"I guess there won't anybody worry about 'Bony.' He's right handy around the mill, an' he does odd jobs for a many people; but if you want him, I 'low you can have him 'for a song.'"

"I'll have no song singin', not I, nor from him. But if I don't make a smart, decent lad where there lies a fool, my name isn't Cleena Keegan, the day. Now what's about the well?"

"That's what I want to know, Cleena," cried Amy. "How did he, could he, fall into it and climb out of it alive?"

"Easier than you think, miss. He slid down the rope as far as it went, I suppose, then caught his feet in the stones of the sides, then his hands, and went down just as he came up. He didn't go into the water in the bottom, of course; but he's proved that the well is safe enough, and to-morrow morning he ought to be made to go down, properly fixed, with a rope around his waist and the tackle for bailing it out. It'll be a job, then, even after to-day's beginning. But I'll tell the boss about it, and I don't doubt he'll send the other man that helps 'Bony' in the mill village, and get things right this time. What say, boy? Think you'll take matters a little soberer to-morrow, if I come back to help?"

Fayette lay with closed eyes and made no answer, but Cleena spoke for him, and as one in authority:—

"Faith an' he will. An' I'm thankin' ye, sir, for all ye've done the day. Sure, by this hour to-morrow, we should begin to see daylight 'twixt the dirt."

"I 'low you will. You're a master scrubber, and no mistake. Well, good-by. Anything I can do for you village way?"

"I'm beholden to you, sir, an' so are my folks, but there's not. I'm for sending the childer down on their donkeys to see how fares the mistress an' master; an' they'll fetch back what's lackin' o' food an' so on, when they come. It's hungerin' sore will the sweet lady be for a sight of her own."

"Oh, Cleena, is that so? May we go? But—that will leave you quite alone," said Amy.

Hallam smiled. "She'll not be so very much alone, after all, dear," and he nodded significantly toward the still apparently sleeping Fayette.

Then they went away to saddle the burros, and after having received a mysterious message which they were to deliver to Adam Burn, to the effect that "he'll know what to send o' them things in his box."

"And it's as clear as the sunshine just what you are asking, dear old Goodsoul. That Friend Adam shall give us your dollars out of his box. You transparent old pretender! Well, never mind, Scrubbub. Some day our ships will come home, and then—you shall live in lavender," said Amy, hugging the faithful woman, and smiling, though tears of gratitude were in her dark eyes.

Which eyes, happening to look downward, saw Fayette's own half open, and watching this little affectionate by-play with deep interest. No sooner, however, did he perceive that Amy had discovered this fact than his lids went down with a snap.

"Ah, ha, Fayette! I saw you. I'm sorry for you, but just you tell Goodsoul, here, that you'll remember not to shame your 'guardian angel' any more, and she'll let you up. I know her. Her heart's made of honey and sugar, and everything soft and sticky. I believe she's caught you in it, now, bad as you are, and if she has, you'll never get quite clear of her love and too demonstrative kindness."

Then she cried to Hallam, who was limping toward the tethered burros: "Now for a race. These dear little beasties would trot a good pace if they realized they were on the road to mother and father and Friend Adam Burn's big oat-bin!"

As they passed through the gateless entrance to "Bareacre," Hallam turned, and with something of Amy's cheerfulness waved his hand to Cleena.

"We'll be back before dark, Goodsoul. Don't keep that lad tied any longer. Don't."

"Arrah musha! Can't I do what I will with me own? There's somewhat to pass 'twixt him an' me afore he gets free o' them bonds."

Evidently, there was; nor was she sorry to see all go and leave her alone with Fayette. Of what occurred during their brief absence at the Clove, nobody ever heard; but when the brother and sister rode up the slope, just as the evening fell, Fayette appeared to meet them and take their burros for them. His manner was subdued and gentle, and on his homely face was a look of exceeding peace.

Amy nudged Hallam mischievously. "Another lull before another storm, isn't it?"

Hallam regarded the half-wit critically. "No. But I think he's 'met his Waterloo.'"

"Oh, is that what we are to call her in future? She's already as many names as a Spanish princess." Then she lifted her voice to summon Cleena.

"Heigho, 'Waterloo'! Father and mother are doing finely, and send love, and dear old Adam sent something much more substantial, but not what you asked for. Just plain beefsteak and potatoes, and a jolly chicken pie that's in a basket on Hallam's crutch. Those crutches are the handiest things!"

"Faith, so they be. An' there's a fire out of some wood the cottage woman sent, an' the steak'll broil while the taties roast, like the whisk of a squirrel in the tree."

So "Waterloo" became another of good Cleena's "love names." For it's ever the tone and not the words that makes a sweet sound in one's ears, and the woman's heart thrilled, and her weary shoulders lifted because of the love which sang through Amy's innocent jest.



CHAPTER X.

HOME-MAKING.

For one whole week the artist and his wife remained at the Clove. During that time "Spite House" had undergone the most thorough cleaning and overhauling of its existence. The walls had been scraped of the ancient and discolored whitewash that covered them, and a fresh coat of sweet-smelling lime applied.

"It's like a new-mown field, I think," said Amy, on the day that this whitewashing had taken place, to Fayette who was artisan in chief—always under Cleena's orders.

"An' I must be the daisy that grows in it," he returned, catching a glimpse of his lime-splashed face in the tiny pocket mirror he always carried.

"A whole bunch of daisies, indeed. But isn't it jolly? I never did so much hard work in my life; my hands are all blistered and sore, my feet ache—whew! And I never, never was so happy."

Fayette paused midway to the shed, which he had repaired with bits of boards, begged or offered in various sources. The whitewash brush over his shoulder dripped a milky fluid upon his bared head, and occasionally a drop trickled as far as the corner of his capacious mouth.

But he minded nothing so trivial as this, and he stared at Amy in the same wonderment with which he had regarded her from the beginning of their acquaintance. She also paused and returned his gaze with an amused scrutiny.

"Fayette, that stare of yours is getting chronic. I wish you'd give it up. Everything I do or say seems to astonish you. What's the matter with me? Am I not like other girls? You must know many down at the mill."

"No, you ain't."

"How different? I'd really like to know."

"Ain't seen you cry once,—or not more 'n once," he corrected truthfully. "An' you left all them things up there, an' the trees, an' the posies, an' everything like that way."

For one moment Amy's breast heaved and her voice choked. Then she jerked her head in a fashion she had when she wished to throw aside unpleasant things and replied:—

"What would be the use of crying? If it would bring them all back, I'd cry a bath-tub full. But it won't. Thinking about it only makes it worse. It had to be, and in some ways I'm thankful it did. It was all unreal and dreamlike up there. I knew nothing about the sorrows and hardships in the real world. But how I am talking! I wonder, do you understand at all what I have said?"

"I couldn't help cryin' when the bluebird's nest fell an' smashed all the eggs," remarked Fayette, whimpering at the recollection. His words were "like a bit of blue sky, showing through a cloud," as the girl often expressed it, when the untaught lad revealed something of his intense love of nature, so strongly in contrast to his otherwise limited intelligence.

"Well, we must forget what's past and go to work. I'll tether the burros out of the roadside while you clean up their shed; and when they come back to find it all sweet and white, like Pepita herself, they'll be as pleased as Punch. Wonder we never thought of having the old stable at Fairacres whitewashed."

"Didn't have me, then," answered the lad.

"Fayette, you're as vain as a peacock. You always say 'ME' as if it were spelled with the biggest kind of capital letters."

"Do I? Hmm," responded Fayette, with a vacant smile.

Then Amy went into the house where Hallam and Cleena were arguing about what rooms should be arranged for the personal use of master and mistress, because Hallam thought his father's likes and habits should take precedence of all others.

During this time of separation from him, the son had grown to think of his parent as a whimsical invalid, only. Oddly enough, with his own physical infirmity, he had come to look upon any bodily weakness of other lads or men as something almost degrading. He had always felt himself disgraced by his own lameness. It was this which had given him so bitter and distorted an outlook upon life, and involuntarily there had crept into his love for his father a feeling of contempt as well.

Something of this showed in his talk with his sister, over this selection of rooms, and shocked her. Then, with loyal indignation she proceeded to enlighten him as to her own view of the subject.

"Now, see here, Hallam Kaye. I don't believe, I can't believe, and I never will believe that from being a brilliant scholar and a wonderfully talented artist my darling father has suddenly become a—a—the sickly, selfish man you seem to imagine."

"Amy! I never said that. I never thought it. I only remember that he has always had the best of everything, and I supposed he always should."

The tears of excited protest rushed into her eyes, but she dashed them away. "Queer, I never cry, hardly ever, unless I'm mad. I am mad at you, Hal Kaye, right straight clear through. You wait and see how father is, after this trouble. All his life he has been petted by mother, who adores him; and that not too agreeable cousin Archibald said the truth about his having had so easy a path all his life. I tell you it isn't for his children to sit here in judgment upon him, nor criticise anything he does; but one thing I believe, he's had a good hard waking up. He hasn't realized the truth. How should he? Mother has always smiled and smiled and seen to everything. He was a genius. He was never to be disturbed. He never has been. Not till now. Now he has been tumbled off his cushions whack! and presently he'll get up—all right."

"Whe-e-ew! You don't mince matters in speaking of your relatives, do you, sweet sister?"

"Not a bit. Just you wait. All the histories we've ever read, all the tales we've ever heard, of gentlemen and gentlewomen, 'aristocrats,' who have had to suffer anything dreadful, show that they have borne the troubles as no meaner person could. The good there is in being of 'family,' it seems to me, is the self-respect that holds us upright, no matter what blows are dealt."

Again Hallam blew a long note. But he looked at his excited little sister with a new admiration.

"Upon my word, Amy, my dear, you are positively eloquent. Who knows but you may one day take to the 'stump,' become a public orator, and lecture, to fill the coffers of that 'family' of which you are so proud."

"No, thank you. I don't need to go abroad to lecture. I find enough subjects right in my own household. Between you and 'Bony' and Miss Scrubbub my life's a burden to me. Now hear me, both of you; for in the language of 'Bonaparty Gineral Lafayette,' 'there ain't none o' ye got no sense 'cept me,' and 'me' says: Fix up the north chamber for a studio. Put all father's things in there. Fix the middle room, which faces east and the sunrise, for a bedroom; and this warm southwestern one for a private sitting room, for mother darling, where she can retreat to think upon her husband's greatness and her children's folly; and where the sweet blessed thing will never be alone one single minute, unless every other member of the family is sound asleep. So that's for the 'retreating' of Friend Salome Kaye. Oh, that she were here this minute! that I could hug the heart right out of her! Fly around, Amy, 'an' set the house to one side,' a la Friend Adam's old housekeeper."

It was wonderful what four pairs of arms could accomplish when love actuated them. "Spite House" had seemed hopelessly bare and dirty when the little household first entered it, but it was far from that by the end of a week's stay. Bare and bleak and unadorned it was still, and the surroundings seemed to forbid that it would ever be any better. But there was not an inch of its surface, outside or in, that had not been cleaned and polished, by scrubbing or whitewash brush. Even the moss-grown roof had been swept by Fayette, standing barefooted and unsupported on the sloping shingles, while he vigorously attacked them. To Hallam this seemed a desecration. The moss had been the one redeeming feature of the roof's ugliness.

"Saints save us! If we leave go that muck up yon, it'll be like me dressin' for mass an' no rackin' down me hair, so it would. No, Master Hal, if riches we can't have, cleanness we can. An' that's aye more pleasin' to God."

The plain, strong furniture which had been in the house had been placed to best advantage; and in the parents' rooms above, as well as the one family living room below, were gathered all that had been brought from dear Fairacres.

A load of wood and another of coal, which Cleena supposed had been sent by Friend Adam and paid for with her money, gave a comfortable look to the woodshed, and in the storeroom was a bag of flour, a side of bacon, a fair supply of vegetables, and a barrel of apples. These the village grocer's lad had brought in his delivery wagon, and it was useless to ask him by whose order. Since they were needed, however, it was well to take them in and to consider them as belonging with the wood and coal.

Finally, the Saturday afternoon arrived on which Hallam and Amy were to go to the Clove, to pass First Day with Adam Burn and their parents, returning before nightfall with the latter, to begin their reunited family life.

Dressed in their freshest clothes, upon Balaam and Pepita, groomed by the willing hands of Fayette, they journeyed gayly down the slope over the familiar road, eager for their visit and the warm welcome awaiting them.

"Do you know, Amy, it's queer that we've never been about alone much, even on these country roads, till now? Losing our home seems to have broken down ever so many restrictions."

"Well, don't you like it? Doesn't it make you feel freer and healthier?"

"Maybe. I'm not enthusiastic over our poverty. I'd be glad enough to go back to Fairacres."

"So would I, if we could live there honestly. I wouldn't go, not for one day, if I could help it, to live in debt as we did."

"Aren't we living in debt just the same now, and much more uncomfortably?"

"I suppose so; though it's different. This time it isn't going to last, and we haven't shut our eyes to it."

"Why isn't it going to last? How can we stop it? I see nothing ahead except starvation."

"Hallam Kaye, the very first thing you ought to learn is to be cheerful. You don't want to be a dead weight on anybody, do you? Well, you will be if you can't look ahead at all to anything bright. You and I are going to work and mend the family fortunes. Then we're going back to Fairacres and do all the good we can with the money we've earned."

"If I were sound—"

"And sensible, you'd race me again to the gate of the Clove."

Burnside-in-the-Clove was a bonny place. The "burn," from which the farm took its name almost as much as from the family which had dwelt there for generations, ran through the velvet lawn and was spanned by a rustic bridge where the well kept driveway curved toward the roomy house.

"Oh! it's so lovely here. The many, many windows, each more cheery and inviting than its neighbor; the old-fashioned door, opened almost all the time; the hammocks, the benches, the flowers, the cool, sweet dairy—this is a home. I guess I'll make ours here instead of at Fairacres, after all," laughed Amy, as they paced sedately over the gravel, the better to enjoy the scene, and now that they had arrived, in no such haste for the meeting with their people.

"I like to go slowly now, don't you, Hal? Because that makes the pleasure 'long-drawn out' and all the sweeter. In a minute mother's face will be in the doorway, with father looking over her shoulder. Friend Adam, blessed man, will hobble after, if he is not too lame; and then we shall jump off and the 'man' will take the burros, and we will go in and hug everybody all round, and eat the biggest kind of a supper—living on dry bread and milk two meals a day can give an appetite! And then one of dear old Adam's 'Spirit' talks; and bed and sleep, and breakfast and meeting, and—"

"'Spite House'!"

"No, Hallam, truly not. Our mother couldn't live in such a place. To-morrow a new life will begin on the barren knoll. 'Charity House' she will have it, and wherever our mother goes, softness and kindness and loveliness are sure to follow."

"Yes, that is so," answered the cripple, thoughtfully. "Well, hear me, Amy. I guess I have been about as much of a wet blanket as I could be, but I'm going to try my very hardest to make things easy for father and mother. Just now, as we rode down the valley into all this peace and quiet, I seemed to see myself exactly as I am. Heigho! but look how green the grass is still, late in the year as it is, and how beautiful the vines on the stone walls. The maples are like a golden glory. My father must have been wonderfully soothed by so much loveliness about him, though he's going to feel it all the—"

"Take care, Sir Optimist, that is to be. You're taking the wrong turn, comrade. Come away from the down to 'has been,' and climb to 'will be,' short metre."

It was all as they said. The mother's gentle face in the doorway, looking rested and less faded for the week passed in the society of a simple, noble man; the father's gay and debonair, as Amy remembered it—how long ago, was it? And last of all Friend Adam, in gray attire, his broadbrim crowning his snowy hair, his expression one of childlike happiness and freedom from care.

He welcomed them both with all heartiness, but Amy was dearest. She had always been, perhaps because she bore the name of his long dead wife, and had always seemed to stand as a child to his childless life.

So after the fine supper was over, while before a blazing fire in another room Mr. and Mrs. Kaye discussed with Hallam all the events of the past week, Amy and the old man who had lived for more than eighty years a blameless, helpful life sat by a window in another place and looked out into the moonlight saying little, but enjoying all.

"Dear father Adam, shall I tell thee"—for with him she always drifted into the sweet speech which was hers by birthright and his for all his life—"shall I tell thee how it seems to me, as if thee had learned every single lesson life and God has had to teach. Thee has had poverty and sorrow, and endured the wrong that others have done thee. Thee has seen thy kindred go away and leave thee alone. It is just like a good soldier who has been in a thick fight and a sailor who has swam in deep waters, but has come out safe on the other side. Thee is so calm and happy, like Mrs. Jones's little Belinda, who sits in the sun and sings and croons to herself, with never a plaything or anything good about her except her own serene happiness. Isn't it?"

"Maybe, child. It may be. It should be, certainly. There should be no care in either extreme of life. Both ends are so close to the Father's house.

"Thee is right though, about the middle of life, little Amy. It is a time of struggle and rebuff."

"But to-night it seems as if it could never have been so with thee. Tell me, father Adam, how thee has kept thyself so simple and good."

"Nay, little one, not that. Simple, indeed, but not good. There is none good but One. Yet there are certain things that help. I'll tell thee what has helped me most, that is, in my daily life in the world, from which we can never escape while the heart beats."

The dear old man rose, limped toward an ancient secretary, and took from it a small book. Just an ordinary account book, ruled for the keeping of small affairs, but arranged with every page inscribed by the trembling fingers of this all-thoughtful friend.

"I have been thinking what a muddle it would be to thee, Amy, and I fixed this for thee. On one side is the debt and the other side the credit. Thee will have to keep the reckonings for thy family, I foresee; for thee is practical. Look. Is the light sufficient?"

Amy held the little volume so that the rays of the harvest moon fell clearly over them, and the old, quaint script was as legible as copperplate. She questioned, and he explained just how the book should be kept, and she found his "system" exceeding plain and direct, as was everything about him. But there were two legends inscribed upon the covers which had little in common with the figuring to be done between them,—or so Amy thought; and when she asked him what they meant, he quietly explained:—

"They have been my rules of life, Amy, and I think it would be well for thee if thee also adopted them. They are short and easy to remember, but they cover all. 'Simplicity, Sincerity, Sympathy,' on the front page; and on the last, when the first rule seems sometimes to fail and the heart needs cheer, there is this other: 'Love is all powerful.'"

"Thank thee, dear Adam, so much. Not only for the book and the help it will be, but for the 'Rules' and—for thyself. I will make them mine, and thee shall tell me if I am succeeding. Now, I know thee is sitting up beyond thy time. I'll help thee to the living room and then to thy own."

Nor was Amy ever to forget that peaceful hour with this ripe old Christian; and she never again sat in the rays of the harvest moon without recalling the lessons she learned that night.



CHAPTER XI.

THE YOUNG OLD MAN AND THE OLD YOUNG GIRL.

It seemed to Amy that she had never remembered so lovely a First Day as that one at Burnside Farm. Things happened just as she had foretold. Mrs. Kaye and Adam went to meeting in the little phaeton into which it was so easy for him to climb, and Hallam and she rode beside it; for "Old Shingleside," as the meeting-house was called, was at some distance from the Clove. It crowned a wooded hill-top, and behind it lay the peaceful burying-ground, with its rows of modest tombstones and wider rows of grass-covered, unmarked mounds.

The windows of the meeting-house were all open, and the mild air came in and warmed them; for as yet the plain box stoves held no blazing logs within, and the rows of old-time foot-stoves reposed securely upon their tops. Later, when the weather turned, these little wood-rimmed, perforated tin boxes would be filled with coals from the fire and placed beneath the feet of the elderly folk who came to worship.

The girl looked into her mother's face and found it beaming with the still delight of one whose heart was deeply moved. She had always been a member of this simple congregation, but of late years Salome Kaye had been obliged to forego the pleasure of gathering with it. The distance from Fairacres was too great for her to walk, and it was long since the horses and carriages that had once filled Fairacres stables had disappeared.

Hallam, also, from his place on the men's side, saw the joy in the face he loved, and thought:—

"I wish mother would consent to ride one of the burros to meeting, then she could come as often as she wished. But she doesn't think it decorous. Well, I'm glad she's having the comfort to-day; but what is Friend Adam saying? It sounds like a farewell."

He shot a startled glance across to Amy, among the women, and she responded. Then both regarded Adam anxiously. He stood in the speaker's place, where he was always found in meeting time. His body swayed gently back and forth, though his hands rested upon his cane as if he needed its support. His voice fell into the rhythmic measure to which they were accustomed whenever he became the mouthpiece of the Spirit, but his words were as of one who departs for a distant country and wishes many things to be remembered.

His message was brief, yet delivered with all the fire and eloquence of youth; but when he had finished and cast his eyes about him, something like a sob burst from his withered lips:—

"It's so queer. He looks so happy and yet so sad. Well, he's giving the hand of greeting to his neighbor, and so meeting's over."

There was no trace of sadness now. In the friendly hand-shaking that became general was, as Amy had seen, the signal for the closing of the meeting, whereupon old neighbors and friends fell promptly to giving and receiving news of mutual welfare or trouble, as the case might be; and after a while there was a driving away of vehicles, the nods and signals of gray bonnets and broad brims, until the while party from the Clove were the very last left lingering on the grass before the steps.

"Well, it's been a good day, Salome. And now the Word comes: 'For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.'"

The old man's eyes fixed themselves earnestly upon the weather-beaten structure; then with a bright smile he turned away and climbed into the phaeton which Amy had brought.

Old Fanny mare trotted homeward at an almost giddy pace, and the burros did their utmost to keep up with her, though their chronic laziness overcame them at times, and they fell behind. After which Hallam and Amy would prod their indolent beasts till they had "made a spurt and caught up."

"No use, children," laughed Adam Burn. "Fanny is a well-trained 'Quaker.' She knows meeting days as well as I do, and she never fails to go there as slowly as she returns swiftly. She thinks, if horses think, and I think they think—doesn't thee think so, Amy? She thinks she has done her duty, and her conscience is as clear as her stomach is empty. On meeting days she has always an extra feed. That's why she spins along like this."

He was very jolly, and as full of fun as Amy herself. They found Mr. Kaye pacing the driveway, waiting for them, and as eager for his dinner as Fanny for hers.

They were soon gathered about the table, and again old Adam's jest was the readiest, his cheerfulness the most contagious, and his suggestions the most practical.

"I advise thee, Cuthbert, to have a lot of good soil drawn up and spread over the top of Bareacre knoll. Thee can have the use of the team here till—for some time. There is plenty of muck in the hollow, and I'd be glad to have it cleared out. Then thee must sow grass, or grain and grass mixed, and Salome can have as many roots and cuttings of the green things here as she wishes. Get them all in this autumn. By another spring they will begin to grow, and a little greenery will transform the place."

Mrs. Kaye thanked him, but Amy looked up from her dish of rice pudding and smiled.

"Thee isn't helping us to keep the rule of 'don't run in debt' that thee told me was so good."

"Cuthbert and I will settle that. Eat thy pudding, child." But he shook his head at her so merrily she did not mind the rebuff.

After dinner came the big carryall, with its back part loaded so that the springs touched, and with the "man" upon the front seat, ready to drive the Kayes to their new home.

"Why, Adam, dear old friend, this is too much; it really is. I cannot let thee do it," protested Mrs. Kaye, astonished at the sight. For there were vegetables of every sort that grew at Burnside, with hams and bacon, some very lively chickens, and baskets heaped with the grapes and pears for which the Clove was famous.

"Too much, Salome? I think not. Not judging by the samples of appetites I've seen this noon. Say nothing. Thee knows how gladly I give it, and would give much more. Here, Amy, is a little letter for thee. I wish thee to keep it without reading until—" he hesitated, looked at her gravely, and finished his sentence—"until thy own heart tells thee that the right time is come. For Hallam, too, there is a bit of writing, and that he may read at any time he chooses."

"That's right now, then," laughed the lad, and eagerly tore the sealed envelope.

Adam Burn winced a little at the ragged edge this made on the paper, for he was a careful person and hated slovenliness. But he could not refrain a smile as he saw the expression of disappointment growing upon Hallam's face, where he sat upon black Balaam, his crutches crossed before him, looking down at the open sheet he had found. The envelope dropped to the ground, and Amy picked it up; but her brother did not show her the message he had received, and she was puzzled to hear their old friend say:—

"The truth which I have written there is better for thee than a fortune, Hallam."

"It may be, but, under the circumstances, I'd rather have the fortune."

"Thee'll find it, lad, never fear. Thee'll find it."

Amy thrust the envelope into her pocket, along with the letter Adam had given her, and a moment later they all passed out of the yard, and turned toward the knoll of Bareacre. The last glimpse they had of their friend showed him standing in the sunshine, leaning upon his cane, and gazing after them as they vanished from his sight.

"There is something different about that blessed old man to-day," said Amy to Hallam, riding with him beside the carryall.

"Well, I suppose it makes him feel badly to know we are not going back to Fairacres. He always does feel other people's troubles more than his own."

"What was in your letter, Hal?"

"Humph! It couldn't be called a letter. From anybody else I would have thought it insulting."

"Not from him, dear. He couldn't insult anybody. He'd not have the heart to do it. Do you mind telling?"

"Not a bit. I dare say you could take example by it too. For it was a sort of sermon in few words,—'The perfection of a man is the stature of his soul.' That's all."

"I don't see yet just what it means, but I think it is that you shouldn't mind being lame. That you should let your soul grow so big you would forget your poor legs, and other folks would forget them too."

Nothing more was said, and even Amy felt that they had had enough of "sermons" for one day, and it was a relief to the thoughtfulness upon them all to reach Bareacre, and to see Cleena, with Fayette beside her, waiting to welcome them.

"Hal, isn't it odd? The poorer we are the more folks we have. Fayette means to live there with us, and so, it seems, do all the little Joneses. My! Who is that?"

"A scarecrow, I should think. Nobody I ever saw before."

Seated upon a rocking-chair which she had herself brought out from the house was a young girl of about Amy's age, though from her dress and manner she might have been at least several years older. Amy caught a vision of something very gay and brilliant, rivalling the forests upon the hillsides in variety of tint, but never in their harmony.

"Whew! Whoever she is she makes my eyes ache; and what a picture for father to see, the first at his new threshold!"

Yet apparently without noticing anything unpleasing, Mr. Kaye assisted his wife from the carryall and walked with her to where the stranger still sat and rocked. She did not rise at their approach, and returned the courteous greeting of the master and mistress of the house with the barest of nods.

"How do? I come to pay a call."

But not upon them. For the first time in their lives the artist and his lovely wife were relegated by this self-possessed young person to the land of "old folks," in whom she felt no interest.

With a twinkle in his eye that met an answering one in hers, the gentleman handed Mrs. Kaye on toward the eager Cleena, and turned to his children:—

"My dears, a visitor for you, I think."

So Amy and Hallam rode up and dismounted, while the former went forward slowly, smiling a welcome, yet feeling oddly disconcerted before this unknown girl.

"I'm Gwendolyn Jones. Ma said it wasn't no more 'n friendly to come an' call. I don't have no time 'cept Sunday an' Saturday-half. Then I generally go to Wallburg to do my shopping. It's such a trouble, shopping is, ain't it?"

"I don't know. I never did any," answered Amy, simply. She was amused by Gwendolyn, but regretful that the visit had been timed just then. She had counted upon showing the interior of the new home to her parents, with all the best features accented, and now she must leave them to see things for themselves. Besides, she was conscious that she had herself been noticed only in the slightest degree by this maiden whose big brown eyes were fixed upon Hallam with a steady gaze that annoyed him exceedingly. He was always more conscious of his lameness in the presence of a stranger, and the people he had met, heretofore, had been so well bred that beyond the first involuntary surprise at his condition they had ignored it entirely.

To his amazement Gwendolyn exclaimed:—

"So you're the lame fellow, are you? Well now, you don't look it, not above your waist. You look real likely in your face, and your shoulders is broader than Lionel Percival's. He's considered well growed, too."

"Is he?" asked poor Hallam, understanding that some sort of reply was expected.

"Yes; 'Bony' feels real sot up, don't he, taking care of them donkeys? Oh, I tell you, 'Bony' is a case."

"Is he?" again feebly ejaculated Hallam. He looked helplessly toward Amy, but she was disappearing indoors, too eager to be with her parents to loiter with this unprepossessing guest.

"Yes, he's telling all over the mill, and village too, how that he belongs to your folks now. He's going to live here, ain't he?"

"He may be. It will be just as Cleena wishes, I fancy. She is the one who has taken him in charge."

"That's the work girl, ain't it?"

To the young Kayes and their parents their faithful servant had never been anything save just "Cleena." Her position in their family was as assured as their own, and that she might be thought a "work girl" by others, was a novel idea to the lad. It gave him something natural to think about; and he stood leaning on his crutches, with a smile upon his face, looking down upon the girl in the rocking-chair, chewing gum and swaying so composedly.

"Why, yes; I suppose she is. She certainly works, and all the time. But I should hardly call her a 'girl.'"

"Say, you must be tired, standing so long. Take this chair. I'll step in and get another."

Again Hallam smiled. The girl, in her ignorant kindness of heart, had broken a minor law of that courtesy in which he had been educated. She had offered him the chair in which she had herself been sitting, instead of the fresh one she meant to get. But he declined both, saying:—

"Please don't trouble. I can easily bring one for myself."

Because she was curious to see how he would do this, she watched him and sat still. Now he was quite able to wait upon himself in most ways, and handled his crutches so deftly that they often seemed to Amy, as to him, "but an extra pair" of feet or hands, as the case might be.

So he swung himself into the house and out again, once more looking for his sister, and hearing her voice above stairs explaining, exhibiting, and regretting:—

"Isn't it too bad, mother, that this young lady should have come just now? Hal has worked so hard and done so much. Anyway, father, you must not, indeed you must not, go into your studio till he can take you there. It would be such a disappointment, for he's arranged and rearranged till I'm sure even your fine taste will be pleased."

He lingered a moment to catch the answer, and it filled his foreboding soul with great content.

"It is all very excellent thus far, dear, and we'll surely leave the studio for him to show. I had no idea you could so transform this barn of a place. From the outside it was ugliness itself, but you have all done wonders. We shall be very happy here."

"Can that really be father speaking? and we feared he would be utterly crushed. Amy was right. Blood tells. And there's something better even than blood to help him now. That's love. Dear old Adam was right, too: so long as we have each other we can be happy."

Then he caught up a light chair under his arm and swung himself back to play knight-errant to this unknown damsel.

She found him very agreeable, for he was a gentleman and could not fail in courtesy toward any woman, old or young. So agreeable, indeed, that she remained rocking, chewing, and talking, till the shadows of the autumn evening crept round them, and Cleena, watchful for her "child," and indignant at the intrusion of this stranger, appeared.

"Arrah musha, Master Hallam, will you be sittin' here catchin' your death? Come in by, immediate. The supper is on, an' the master waitin'. Sure, that's bad luck, for the first meal we're all together in the new home. Come by."

Hallam rose. It was impossible for him to avoid asking Gwendolyn to remain, and she, utterly ignoring the sniffs and scowls of Cleena, promptly accepted.

Of that meal it is not worth while to write. The girl did have the grace to keep reasonably quiet, though occasionally she would feel that this silence was not doing herself justice, and would break into the cheerful conversation of the others with a boldness and self-assertion that made Amy stare.

Finally she departed, and Mr. Kaye sighed his relief.

"Well, Friend Adam is the youngest old person, and Gwendolyn Jones is the oldest young person I ever saw," remarked Hallam, as he lighted his mother's bedroom candle and bade her good night.



CHAPTER XII.

BAD NEWS FROM BURNSIDE.

"Yes, it is to be 'Charity House' now," said Salome Kaye, with that quiet decision of hers which, as Amy described it, "Never makes any fuss, and never wobbles."

"That's the best and the worst about mother. She never says 'yes' when she means 'no,' and she never says either till it's all settled. I remember how, when I was little, I used to ask, 'Is it decided?' and when she answered, 'Yes, it's decided,' I gave up teasing. Mountains might crush, but never move her."

"So it's 'Charity House' forever and a day. The trouble with you, mother, is that all you say—or the little you say—always means something. 'Charity House' is, I suppose, just as full of meaning as everything else. Isn't it? Let me guess. It's 'Charity' because cousin Archibald lets us live here for what he calls a 'starvation rent.' That's the meanest kind of 'Charity,' and it's a lie, too."

"Hallam!"

"But, mother, it is. I've heard these people talk, and they all say that the old curmudgeon—"

"Hallam, thee is proving that a 'Charity House' is the very sort of home thee needed."

"Well, motherkin, it's true. He is curmudgeon-y. He's tried for years to get a tenant for this property, and not even the mill folks would touch it. He took advantage of us and made us think we were getting a great deal for nothing."

"Are we not? Look about thee."

"Of course, it's big enough."

"What a curious place it is," said Amy; "like a box that eggs come in. See, this is it," and she rapidly sketched upon a paper the diagram. "Two partitions run this way, north and south, and two run at right angles. That's three rooms deep on each floor, look at it from any point of view. Each room is as like its neighbor as its twin. Hmm, I didn't realize it, but there are eighteen rooms if we count the halls and the 'black hole.'"

"Almost as large as 'Fairacres,' thee sees."

"It's not so bad, if it weren't so fearfully bare," remarked Hallam, examining Amy's sketch. "But it's queer."

The entrance hall was the middle front room of the old building. From this a flight of stairs ran up and ended in "the middle room" above, with a narrow flight behind into the attic. The upper middle room was therefore an open space, from the sides of which a narrow gallery had been reserved to surround the well-like opening of the stairway. Next the stairs the gallery was furnished with a strong plain railing, to prevent the accident of falling into the "well," and all the bedrooms had doors opening upon it.

This upper space was dark, save when the bedroom doors were open and gave it light. So, also, was the room below; and beneath this, still, was the "black hole," the extension of a cellar under the kitchen.

Whatever the original purpose of this "hole," which received no light nor ventilation except through the kitchen cellar, it was now the terror and despair of Cleena's cleanly soul. She had wasted many good candles in trying, by their light, to sweeten and make wholesome this damp, miserable place. But despite all it remained almost as she found it.

"The pit of original sin," Hallam named it, advising her to give over the task of purification. "You've sprinkled pounds of chloride, splashed whitewash galore, swept and scrubbed and worn yourself out, and it's hopeless. Well, I never heard that any of the Ingrahams died of pestilence bred down there, so I fancy it won't hurt us."

"Faith, it shan't that. I'll keep the front cellar door open into it incessant, an' I'll—"

"Waste your substance in lime. Don't, Goodsoul. But it's on my mind as it is on yours. If I were as strong as I wish, I'd turn rabbit and burrow galleries out from the middle vault under the middle rooms each side of the house. That would give light and air and keep everything dry."

Neither Cleena nor Hallam noticed that Fayette had been a close listener to this conversation, nor heard the muttered exclamation:—

"I'll do it! Huckleberries! I'll s'prise 'em!"

This had been some days before Amy drew the diagram of the house, which she now tossed into the waste-basket. From that it was rescued by the half-wit and treasured carefully; for to the purpose formed in his mind it would prove a great help.

"But go on, mother dear. What's the other sort of charity you mean?"

"That by all the advantages which we have had over these new neighbors we should be helpful to them. We possess nothing of our own, absolutely, not even our better training and—"

"Arrah musha! Sure the pullet was bad enough, but this baby'll be me death! An' me steppin' me great foot—There, there, darlin'. Cry no more, cry no more!"

The interruption was Cleena, and the cause "Sir" William Gladstone.

"Again, Goodsoul," jeered Amy.

"Again is it? An' me goin' down that hill betimes this mornin' to remind me neighbor as how it wasn't necessary to send all the childer up here to wonst. Not all!"

One of the first things which Cleena had made Fayette do was cut and smooth a path from the door of "Charity House" to that of the cottage below. She foresaw that there would be frequent errands to and fro, and the loose stones, with the tangle of running blackberry vines, were dangerous to life and limb. Then, because Hallam's lameness was also in her mind, she had persuaded the mill boy to add a row of driven stakes with rope strung along their tops.

"But never at all has Master Hal, for whom it was made, gone down or up by that same. Me fathers, what's a body to do!"

"We're living in 'Charity,' Goodsoul. And I've observed that, look out of window when I will, there's always a yellow headed Jones-let ascending to us by the easy road you've fixed. Belinda, the small, is apt to lead the way. She likes it up here. She likes it very much."

"Hmm, that's what the mother be's sayin'. But is that any reason at all, avick, why they should be let?"

"Mrs. Jones thinks it is. She feels that we are flattered by the preference her offspring show for our society; but between ourselves, Cleena, I think it's more raisin-bread than affection. You made a dire mistake in beginning to feed them."

"An' isn't it I that knows it? Now, this baby—"

"Yes, that baby. What's happened to him? He's spotted white and black, like a coach-dog. What's he licking from his fingers?"

"It's spoilin' the bakin' o' bread is he the day. Takin' the coals from the bucket, each by each, an' pressin' them deep in that beautiful dough. Will I wash his face, eh? Never a wash I wash, but home to his mother he goes the same as he is. If the sight does not shame her, I'd know."

"I'll take him, Cleena, and I'll bring back the milk for the day."

So with her pail in one hand and the other guiding the still uncertain steps of William Gladstone, Amy started.

"It's a pity, Sir William, it really is a pity that you ever learned how to climb. You've progressed so alarmingly. First time you tried it you could only stumble and fall backward. Now—you hitch along famously. Heigho! here's Victoria. All the high personages of Merrie England are honoring us 'the day.' Well, Victoria Regina, what's the errand now?"

"Nothing, only thought I'd tell you about that old Quaker man you like."

"Everybody likes. What about him?"

"He's gone away. Ma says he won't never live to come back again."

"Victoria—Jones, what are you saying?"

"That Mr. Quaker Burn, up Clove way, had been took to Ne' York."

"I guess you're mistaken. We would have heard about it if it were so. Now, if you please, though, I should like Master Gladstone to be 'took' home. If you'll hold his other hand we'll get him there the quicker."

"I guess I'll go up and set a spell; you take him," remarked Victoria, and turned to ascend the slope.

Amy sighed: "Something must be done to stop this!" Then she lifted her eyes and scanned the white dusty road which circled Bareacre knoll, and across which lay the Jones's cottage. A wagon was driving leisurely along this highway, and it had a most familiar appearance. A moment's watching showed it to belong to the Clove Farm, and it was Adam Burn's "hired man" who was driving in it. Her heart sank. What if Victoria had spoken the truth?

So she hurried her young charge to his home, and waiting only to have her pail filled with the milk, ran back to intercept the approaching vehicle.

"Good morning, Israel. How's dear old Adam?"

"Only the Lord knows. Sarah Jane's got him."

"She hasn't! Don't tell me!"

"But she has, though."

"Where?"

"York."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Same old story. If she hadn't gone to Europe, she'd had him last year. I knew how 'twould be when she come home this summer an' begun to send him the letters. She's the powerfulest hand to do her duty that ever was. Everything else has to give way."

Amy's hand trembled so that her milk began to trickle over the sides of her pail.

"That's what it meant, then, that dear, precious old fellow. He knew he was going to leave us, that First Day we spent at the farm. That was why his words in the meeting-house were so like a farewell. It is too bad! It must have broken his heart."

"No, it didn't. He didn't want to go, not a mite; but there wasn't no heart-break, not in sight. If there was, he kept it hid. But he went all round the place, into every shed and building, pointing out things that should be done, and being most particular about the flowers and garden. He told me to take care of everything just as if he was coming back to-morrow. But he'll never. He'll never."

"Israel, you shall not say that! He must come back!"

"Oh, he'll come, of course, one way: that's feet foremost. He's a sight feebler 'n he ever let on, an' this riotous livin' at York, what with balls and parties and wine suppers, he won't last long. They'll kill him out of hand amongst 'em."

"Oh, Israel, the idea of Adam Burn at 'balls and parties and wine suppers,' when he's so simple and sweet and abstemious. I don't believe he ever tasted wine during all his pure, beautiful life. I'm not worrying about that. It's the leaving the things he loved will hurt him so. Why couldn't Sarah Jane have left him in peace? O dear! O dear! This will be a fresh sorrow for mother."

"So I suppose. For all of us, too. It's going to be lonesome for me, I reckon. Though Mis' Boggs won't have so much to do. She wants to give up the job, an' go live with our son, Jim. But Sarah Jane told us to stay, an' so we'll have to."

"Is this dreadful woman who's spirited Adam away any kin to you?"

"Course not. But you needn't laugh. You don't know that lady. She's masterful, and she's rich—'rich as Croesus,'—and don't know what to do with her money. When the old man was lookin' around an' chargin' me 'bout things, she broke in with: 'Oh, don't worry, father-in-law. The trumpery stuff isn't worth so much thought. I'm not a relic hunter, and let it go,' says she. Then he reminds her that he wanted it kept right for—Whew! I near let the secret out, didn't I? He told me he wrote you a letter. He gave it to you, didn't he? Well, if you'll carry the message for me, I won't climb 'Spite' hill this morning. There's a few things to fetch up in the open wagon, and I'll see your folks about hauling that muck. Good-by. The spirit's taken clean out of me. Twenty-five years me and him has lived together, and to part sudden like this. Twenty-five years by the clock, and a better man than him never trod the footstool."

With that Israel brought the mare around, and giving a mournful nod of his head drove dejectedly away.

Amy flew up the hill. She paid little heed now to the spilling of the milk, for she began to realize in all its force the calamity which had befallen them; and she burst into her mother's sitting room flushed and indignant, demanding:—

"What right had Sarah Jane to take him away?"

Mrs. Kaye's heart sank. She understood what this hysterical question implied. It had been a contingency long foreboded by her, though against its justice she could find nothing to say.

"Every right, dear. She is his son's widow. She is acting, no doubt, as she thinks her husband would wish."

"But he didn't want to go."

"She probably felt he was too old to live alone, without relatives. Indeed, I know that she would have taken him long ago, if she had been living in this country herself. As soon as she came home she has attended to her—her duty, as she sees it. As I suppose, anybody would see it, who was indifferent whether he went or stayed. I hope, though, that she'll bring him back to Burnside in the spring."

"Do you know her, mother?"

"Not well. When we were both younger I used to see her sometimes. She was never very fond of Burnside, however. It was too quiet for her. She is a wealthy woman, who likes to do a great deal of good. She is at the head of many charitable associations, and she has always had wonderful executive ability."

"Does that mean being what Israel called 'masterful'?"

"About the same thing."

"Will she be good to our dear Adam?"

"Certainly. She will see that he has every comfort possible. He will, doubtless, have a servant especially appointed to wait upon and care for him, and he will be made to share in all the enjoyments of the house. She believes that it is the duty of all to live actively in the world and do good aggressively, so to speak. But Adam is so old and feeble, he has passed his days in such simplicity, I can feel what a change for him it will be. Still, if he were to fall seriously ill, he would be better off at his daughter-in-law's than here. Ah, yes. I suppose it is for the best—for him. For us—well, it will be hard to think of Burnside without his gracious presence. He was my parents' oldest, closest friend, as he has been mine."

Mrs. Kaye rose, folded up her mending, and left the room. "I must tell Cuthbert," she remarked, as if to herself, and her face was very sad.

When Amy found her brother and told him the news his comment was:—

"That's a bad business for us, girlie."

"Of course. Don't you suppose I feel it?"

"As long as Adam Burn was near, mother would never have been allowed to really suffer for anything. I mean that he would have managed to keep an eye upon her and have helped us out, till we could help ourselves. Do you know where that letter is he gave you? Have you read it? I should think this might be that 'right time' of which he spoke."

"The letter? In my other dress pocket. I'll get it."

But when she had searched not only in her pockets but in every other possible place, the letter could not be found; and though Mrs. Kaye assured them that there was probably very little of importance in it, her children could not help imagining something quite to the contrary; and to learn the unread message became the great desire of their hearts.

"Well, in any case, we have what he said to you, Hal, about soul growth and that."

"Humph! Such talk is all well enough, but how is it going to help when we reach our last dollar? Did you ever think, Amy, seriously think how we are going to live? Just where our actual bread and butter is to come from?"

"No. Why, no, not really."

"Then it's high time you did."



CHAPTER XIII.

AMY PAYS A BUSINESS CALL.

At about the same moment, on a "Saturday-half" in November, Amy Kaye and Gwendolyn Jones left each her own home to visit that of the other. They met on the slope of "Bareacre" and paused for mutual greetings.

"How do? I was just going up to your house," said Gwendolyn, turning her back to the wind that just then blew strongly.

"Good afternoon. Were you? And I was going to yours."

"My! How cold it is. Winter'll be here before we know it. Makes a body think about her clothes. That's why I was coming. I thought, maybe, you'd like to go shopping with me."

"You're forgetting, I fancy, that I told you I never did that. I shouldn't know how to shop, nor scarcely what it means," laughed Amy.

"That's what me and ma was saying. You seem such a little girl, yet 'Bony' says you're 'most as old as I am."

"But I don't feel old, do you? I wish I might never grow a day older, except that if I do I may be more useful to my people."

"Won't you go, then?"

"Maybe, if you will do something for me, too. I'm not on the road to buy anything, but to sell. I thought that you might know of somebody who would like a burro. Do you?"

"I'd like one myself, first-rate, only I'm saving for a wheel. I'm buying it on the instalment plan. I pay a dollar a week, and after I get my winter things I'll pay more. Do you ride?"

"Nothing so fine as a bicycle; just either Pepita or Balaam."

"It's awful hard to have to walk everywhere, and the good thing about a wheel is that it don't have to eat."

"And the bad thing about a burro is that it does."

"Are you in earnest? Do you want to sell it?"

"No; I don't want to at all, but I'm going to if I can. Do you know anybody who really might buy Pepit?"

"Guess I do. Guess the 'Supe' would."

"The 'Supe'—Mr. Metcalf?"

"Yes; I heard him say he'd like to get such a pair of mules or donkeys, or whatever they are, for his children. He's got a slew of them, and he gets 'em every conceivable thing. I wouldn't wonder if he did, if you was to ask him."

"Will he be at the mill to-day?"

"No; he's at his house, I guess. The mill's shut up, only the watchman there. The 'Supe' don't hang around there himself so much since the new 'boss' came."

"Maybe his house would be out of your way. If you'll tell me how to find it, I can go by myself. I wouldn't like to give you trouble."

"Oh, 'twouldn't be a mite. I'd like it. There'd be time enough afterward for Mis' Hackett's. She keeps open till near midnight, Saturdays. She gets lots of the mill trade, and she'd like to have it all. But Wallburg's far nicer. Don't you love Wallburg?"