"It is a good deal to ask me to do after I have been turned out of office," she said, "but I am not one to harbor resentment. Yes, I'll take the school till Miss Smith is able. How does she look? I hear she is very young."

"Well, she's some younger than you, I guess, and looks like a child as she sits down," Mr. Bills replied. "Why, you are big as two of her,—yes, three,—and could throw her over the house."

Ruby's face clouded, and Mr. Bills went on: "She is handsome as blazes, with a mouth which keeps kind of quivering, as if she wanted to cry, or something, and eyes—well, you've got to see 'em to know what they are like. They are just eyes which make an old man like me feel,—I don't know how."

Ruby laughed, but felt a little hurt as she thought of her own small, light-blue eyes and lighter eyebrows, which had never yet made any man, young or old, feel "he didn't know how." She knew she was neither young nor handsome nor attractive, but she had good common sense, and after Mr. Bills was gone she sat down to review the situation, and resolved to accept it gracefully and to call upon Eloise. It would be certainly en regle and Christian-like to do so, she thought, and the next afternoon she presented herself at Mrs. Biggs's door and asked if Miss Smith were able to see any one.

Mrs. Biggs belonged to the radical party which favored a change of teachers. Five years was long enough for one person to teach in the same place, she said, and they wanted somebody modern and younger. She laid a great deal of stress upon that, and on one occasion, when giving her opinion over her gate to a neighbor, had added "smaller and better-looking." Ruby was not a favorite with Mrs. Biggs, whom she had called an inveterate gossip, hunting up everbody's history and age, and making them out two or three years older than they were. She had lived at home and kept Mrs. Biggs out of a boarder five years. She had called Tim a lout, and kept him after school several times when his mother needed him. Consequently Mrs. Biggs's sympathies were all with Eloise, who was young and small and good-looking, and she flouted the idea of having Ruby hired even for a few days.

"It's just a wedge to git her in again," she had said to Tim, with whom she had discussed the matter. "I know Ruby Ann, and she'll jump at the chance, and keep it, too. She can wind Mr. Bills round her fingers. I'd rather have Miss Smith with one laig than Ruby Ann with three. Tom Walker ain't goin' to raise Ned with such a slip of a girl."

"I ruther guess not, when I'm there," Tim said, squaring himself up as if ready to fight a dozen Tom Walkers, when, in fact, he was afraid of one, and usually kept out of his way.

Mrs. Biggs had not expected Ruby Ann to call, and her face wore a vinegary expression when she opened the door to her.

"Yes, I s'pose you can see her, but too much company ain't good for sprained ankles," she replied in response to Ruby's inquiry if she could see Miss Smith. "You'll find her in the parlor, but don't stay long. Talkin' 'll create a fever in her laig."

Ruby was accustomed to Mrs. Biggs's vagaries, and did not mind them.

"I'll be very discreet," she said, as she passed on to the parlor, curious to see the girl who had been preferred to herself.

She had heard from Mr. Bills that Eloise "was handsome as blazes," but she was not prepared for the face which looked up at her as she entered the room. Something in the eyes appealed to her as it had to Mr. Bills, and any prejudice she might have had melted away at once, and she began talking to Eloise as familiarly as if she had known her all her life. At first Eloise drew back from the powerfully built woman, who stood up so tall before her, and whose voice was so strong and masculine, and whose eyes travelled over her so rapidly, taking in every detail of her dress and every feature of her face. Mrs. Biggs's disfiguring cotton gown had been discarded for a loose white jacket, which, with its knots of pink ribbon, was very becoming, and Ruby found herself studying it closely, and wondering if she could make one like it, and how she would look in it. Then she noticed the hands, so small and so white, and felt an irresistible desire to take one of them in her broad palm.

"I do believe I could hold three like them in one of mine," she thought, and sitting down by Eloise's side, she laid her hand on the one resting on the arm of the chair.

There was something so friendly and warm and so sympathetic in the touch that Eloise wanted to cry. With a great effort she kept her tears back, but could not prevent one or two from standing on her long lashes, and making her eyes very bright as she answered Ruby's rapid questions with regard to the accident.

"And I hear Mr. Howard Crompton brought you here himself. That was something of an honor, as he seldom goes out of his way for any one," she said, with a keen look of curiosity in her eyes.

"I never thought of the honor," Eloise replied. "I could think of nothing but the pain, which was terrible, and now everything is so dreary and so different from what I hoped. Do you think it will be long before I can walk?"

"No; oh no," Ruby answered cheerily. "Let me see your foot. It is swollen badly," she said, as she replaced the old shawl Mrs. Biggs had thrown across it. "What have you on it? Wormwood and vinegar, I know by the odor. You should have a rubber band, and nothing else. It is cleaner and saves trouble. That's what I used, and was well in no time."

"Have you had a sprained ankle, too?" Eloise asked, and Ruby Ann replied, "Certainly. Nearly every one has at some time in his life. It is as common as the measles."

"I believe it," Eloise rejoined with a laugh. "So many have called to see me, and almost every one had had a sprain,—some as many as three; and each one proposed a different remedy."

"Naturally; but you try the rubber band. I'll bring you one, and massage your ankle, and have you well very soon."

These were the first hopeful words Eloise had heard, and her heart warmed towards this great blond woman, who was proving herself a friend, and who began to tell her of the school and her own experience as teacher in District No. 5, which, she said, was the largest and most important district in town, with the oldest scholars both summer and winter. "There are some unruly boys, especially Tom Walker, but I am so big and strong that I conquered him by brute force, and had no trouble after one battle. You will conquer some other way. Tom is very susceptible to good looks,—calls me a hayseed, and a chestnut, and a muff. It will be different with you," and Ruby pressed the hand she was holding. Then she spoke of Col. Crompton, who used to examine the teachers, and before whom she had been five times; usually answering the same questions, especially those contained in the "Formula," and to which Eloise would not be subjected.

"What is the Formula?" Eloise asked, and Ruby told her, while Eloise listened bewildered, and glad that she was to escape an ordeal she could never pass with credit.

It was easy to be confiding with Ruby, and Eloise soon found herself talking freely of her life and school days in Mayville, and the necessity there was for her to teach, and the bitter disappointment it would be to lose the school on which so much depended.

"My father is dead," she said, "and my mother is—" she hesitated, while a deep flush came to her cheeks, "she is an invalid, and there is no one to care for her now but me. She is in California, and I may have to go for her, and must have the money."

Just for a moment, when Mr. Bills asked her to take Eloise's place, there had been in Ruby's mind a half-formed hope that she might be wholly reinstated in her old place as a teacher. But it was gone now, and Jack Harcourt himself was not more kindly disposed to the helpless girl than she was.

"You shall not lose the school, nor the time either," she said impulsively. "I am to take it till you are able, and then I shall step out. In the mean time, I shall do all I can for you,—shall enlist Tom Walker on your side, and you will have no trouble."

She arose to go, then sat down again and said, "I hope you will be able to attend our Rummage Sale."

"Rummage Sale!" Eloise repeated, remembering to have heard the word in connection with the slippers Miss Amy had sent her. "I don't think I quite understand."

"Don't you know what a Rummage Sale is?" Ruby Ann asked, explaining what it was, and saying they were to have one in a vacant house not far from Mrs. Biggs's, the proceeds to go for a free library for District No. 5. "I am one of the solicitors," she continued, "but as you are a stranger you may not have anything to contribute."

As Rummage Sales were just beginning to dawn on the public horizon Eloise had never heard of them, but she became interested at once, because Ruby Ann was so enthusiastic, and said, "I have two or three white aprons I made myself. You can have one of them if you think anybody will buy it."

"Buy it!" Ruby repeated, rubbing her hands in ecstasy. "It will bring a big price when they know it was yours and you made it. I'll see that it has a conspicuous place. And now I must go and see Mrs. Biggs again about the sale. Good-by, and keep up your courage."

She stooped and kissed Eloise, who heard her next in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Biggs, first of rubber bands and massage, and then of the Rummage Sale. When she was gone Mrs. Biggs came in and sat down and began to give her opinion of the Rummage Sale, and massage and rubber bands, and first the Rummage. A good way to get rid of truck, and Ruby Ann said they took everything. She had a lot of old chairs and a warming pan and foot-stove, and she s'posed she might give the spotted brown and white calico wrapper which Eloise had worn. It was faded and out of style. Yes, on the whole, she'd give the wrapper. She never liked it very well, she said; and then she spoke of the rubber band Ruby Ann had recommended instead of wormwood and vinegar, and of which she did not approve. What did Ruby Ann know? though, to be sure, she was old enough. How old did Eloise think she was? Eloise had not given her age a thought, but, pressed for an answer, ventured the reply that she might be verging on to thirty.

"Verging on to thirty! More likely verging on to forty," Mrs. Biggs said, with a savage click of the needles with which she was knitting Tim a sock. "I know her age, if she does try to look young and wear a sailor hat, and ride a wheel in a short gown! I'd laugh to see me ridin' a wheel, and there ain't so much difference between us neither. I know, for we went to school together. She was a little girl, to be sure, and sat on the low seat and learnt her a-b-c's. I was four or five years older, and sat on a higher seat with Amy Crompton, till the Colonel took her from the district school and kep' her at home with a governess."

Mrs. Biggs was very proud of the acquaintance she had had with Amy Crompton, when the two played together under the trees which shaded the school-house the Colonel had built as expiatory years before, and she continued: "Amy, you know, is the half-cracked lady at the Crompton House who sent the hat and slippers. She's been married twice,—run away the first time. My land! what a stir there was about it, and what a high hoss the Colonel rode. Who her second was nobody knows,—some scamp by the name of Smith,—that's your name, and a good one, too, but about the commonest in the world, I reckon. There's four John Smiths in town, and Joel Smith, who brings my milk, and George Smith I buy aigs of, and forty odd more. They say the Colonel hates the name like pisen. Won't have anybody work for him by that name. Dismissed his milkman because he was a Smith, and between you and I, I b'lieve half his opposition to you was your name. Why, it's like a red rag to a bull."

"I didn't know he was opposed to me personally," Eloise said, and Mrs. Biggs replied, "Of course not; how could he be? He never seen you. It's the normal, and bein' put out of office—he and Ruby Ann. They've run things long enough. They say he did swear offel at the last school meetin' about normals and ingrates and all that,—meanin' they'd forgot all he'd done for 'em; but, my land, you can't b'lieve half you hear. I don't b'lieve nothin', and try to keep a close mouth 'bout what I do b'lieve. I ain't none o' your gossips, and won't have folks sayin' the Widder Biggs said so and so."

Here Mrs. Biggs stopped to take breath and answer a rap at the kitchen door, where George Smith was standing with a basket of eggs. Eloise could hear her badgering him because he charged too much and because his hens did not lay larger eggs, and threatening to withdraw her patronage if there was not a change. Then items of the latest news were exchanged, Mrs. Biggs doing her part well for one who never repeated anything and never believed anything. When George Smith was gone she returned to her seat by Eloise and resumed her conversation, which had been interrupted, and which was mostly reminiscent of people and incidents in Crompton, and especially of the Crompton House and its occupants, with a second fling at Ruby Ann.



CHAPTER VIII

MRS. BIGGS'S REMINISCENCES

"Maybe I was too hard on Ruby Ann," she said, measuring the heel of Tim's sock to see if it were time to begin to narrow. "She's a pretty clever woman, take her by and large, but I do hate to see a dog frisk like a puppy, and she's thirty-five if she's a day. You see, I know, 'cause, as I was tellin' you, there was her and me and Amy Crompton girls together. I am forty, Amy is thirty-eight or thirty-nine, and Ruby Ann is thirty-five."

Having settled Ruby's age and asked Eloise hers, and told her she looked young for nineteen, the good woman branched off upon the grandeur of the Crompton House, with its pictures and statuary and bric-a-brac, its flowers and fountains, and rustic arbors and seats scattered over the lawn. Eloise had heard something of the place from a school friend, but never had it been so graphically described as by Mrs. Biggs, and she listened with a feeling that in the chamber of her childhood's memory a picture of this place had been hung by somebody.

"Was it my father?" she asked herself, and answered decidedly, "No," as she recalled the little intercourse she had ever had with him. "Was it my mother?" she next asked herself, and involuntarily her tears started as she thought of her mother, and how unlikely it was that she had ever been in Crompton.

Turning her head aside to hide her tears from Mrs. Biggs, she said, "Tell me more of the place. It almost seems as if I had been there."

Thus encouraged, Mrs. Biggs began a description of the lawn party which she was too young to remember, although she was there with her mother, and had a faint recollection of music and candy and lights in the trees, and an attack of colic the night after as a result of overeating.

"But, my land!" she said, "that was nothin' to the blow-out on Amy's sixteenth birthday. The Colonel had kep' her pretty close after he took her from school. She had a governess and she had a maid, but I must say she didn't seem an atom set up, and was just as nice when she met us girls. 'Hello, Betsey,' she'd say to me. That's my name, Betsey, but I call myself 'Lisbeth. 'Hello, Betsey,' I can hear her now, as she cantered past on her pony, in her long blue ridin' habit. Sometimes she'd come to the school-house and set on the grass under the apple trees and chew gum with us girls. That was before her party, which beat anything that was ever seen in Crompton, or will be again. The avenue and yard and stables were full of carriages, and there were eighteen waiters besides the canterer from Boston."

"The what?" Eloise asked, and Mrs. Biggs replied, "The canterer, don't you know, the man who sees to things and brings the vittles and his waiters. They say he alone cost the Colonel five hundred dollars; but, my land! that's no more for him than five dollars is for me. He fairly swims in money. Such dresses you never seen as there was there that night, and such bare necks and arms, with a man at the door, a man at the head of the stairs to tell 'em where to go, and one in the gentlemen's room, and two girls in the ladies' rooms to button their gloves and put on their dancing pumps. The carousin' lasted till daylight, and a tireder, more worn-out lot of folks than we was you never seen. I was nearly dead."

"Were you there?' Eloise asked, with a feeling that there was some incongruity between the Crompton party and Mrs. Biggs, who did not care to say that she was one of the waitresses who buttoned gloves and put on the dancing pumps in the dressing-room.

"Why, yes, I was there," she said at last, "though I wasn't exactly in the doin's. I've never danced since I was dipped and jined the church. Do you dance, or be you a perfessor?"

Eloise had to admit that she did dance and was not a professor, although she hoped to be soon.

"What persuasion?" was Mrs. Biggs's next question, and Eloise replied, "I was baptized in the Episcopal Church in Rome."

"The one in York State, I s'pose, and not t'other one across the seas?" Mrs. Biggs suggested, and Eloise answered, "Yes, the one across the seas in Italy."

"For goodness' sake! How you talk! You don't mean you was born there?" Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, with a feeling of added respect for one who was actually born across the seas. "Do you remember it, and did you know the Pope and the King?"

Eloise said she did not remember being born, nor did she know the Pope or the King.

"I was a little girl when I left Italy, and do not remember much, except that I was happier there than I have ever been since."

"I want to know! I s'pose you've had trouble in your family?" was Mrs. Biggs's quick rejoinder, as she scented some private history which she meant to find out.

But beyond the fact that her father was dead and her mother in California, she could learn nothing from Eloise, and returned to the point from which they had drifted to the Episcopal Church in Rome.

"I kinder mistrusted you was a 'Piscopal. I do' know why, but I can most always tell 'em," she said. "The Cromptons is all that way of thinkin'. Old Colonel is a vestedman, I b'lieve they call 'em, but he swears offul. I don't call that religion; do you? But folks ain't alike. I don't s'pose the Church is to blame. There's now and then as good a 'Piscopal as you'll find anywhere. Ruby Ann has jined 'em, and goes it strong. B'lieves in candles and vestures; got Tim into the choir one Sunday, and now you can't keep him out of it. Wears a—a—I don't know what you call it,—something that looks like a short night-gown, and I have to wash it every other week. I don't mind that, and I do b'lieve Tim is more of a man than he was, and he sings beautiful. And hain't learnt nothin' bad there yet, but the minister does some things I don't approve; no, don't approve. What do you think he does right before folks, in plain sight, sittin' on the piazza?"

Eloise could not hazard a guess as to the terrible sin of which Mr. Mason, the rector of St. John's, was guilty, and said so.

"Well," and Mrs. Biggs's voice sank to a whisper as she leaned forward, "he smokes a cigar in broad daylight! What do you think of that for a minister of the gospel?"

She was so much in earnest, and her manner so dramatic, that Eloise laughed the first real, hearty laugh she had indulged in since she came to Crompton. Smoking might be objectionable, but it did not seem to her the most heinous crime in the world, and she had a very vivid remembrance of a coat in which there lurked the odor of many Havanas, and to which she had clung desperately in the darkness and rain on the night which seemed to her years ago. She did not, however, express any opinion with regard to the Rev. Arthur Mason's habits, or feel especially interested in him. But Mrs. Biggs was, and once launched on the subject, she told Eloise that he was from the South, and had not been long in the place; that he was unmarried, and all the girls were after him, Ruby Ann with the rest, and she at least half a dozen years older.

"But, land's sake! What does that count with an old maid when a young minister is in the market," she said, adding that, with the exception of smoking, she believed the new minister was a good man, though for some reason Col. Crompton did not like him, and had only been to church once since he came, and wouldn't let Miss Amy go either.

This brought her back to the Cromptons generally, and during the next half hour Eloise had a pretty graphic description of the Colonel and his eccentricities, of Amy, when she was a young girl, of the way she came to the Crompton House, and the mystery which still surrounded her birth.

"My Uncle Peter lived there when she came, and lives there now,—a kind of vally to the old Colonel," she said, "and he's told me of the mornin' the Colonel brung her home, a queer-looking little thing,—in her clothes, I mean,—and offul peppery, I judge, fightin' everybody who came near her, and rollin' on the floor, bumpin' and cryin' for a nigger who had took care of her somewhere, nobody knows where, for the Colonel never told, and if Uncle Peter knows, he holds his tongue. She was a terrible fighter at school, if things didn't suit her, but she's quiet enough now; seems 's if she'd been through the fire, poor thing, and they say she don't remember nothin', and begins to shake if she tries to remember. The Colonel is very kind to her; lets her have all the money she wants, and she gives away a sight. Sent you a hat and slips, almost new, and had never seen you. That's like Amy, and, my soul, there she is now, comin' down the road with the Colonel in the b'rouch. Hurry, and you can see her; I'll move you."

Utterly regardless of the lame foot, which dragged on the floor and hurt cruelly, Mrs. Biggs drew Eloise to the window in time to see a handsome open carriage drawn by two splendid bays passing the house. The Colonel was muffled up as closely as if it were midwinter, and only a part of his face and his long, white hair were visible, but he was sitting upright, with his head held high, and looked the embodiment of aristocratic pride and arrogance. The lady beside him was very slight, and sat in a drooping kind of posture, as if she were tired, or restless, or both. To see her face was impossible, for she was closely veiled, and neither she nor the Colonel glanced toward the house as they passed.

"I am so disappointed. I wanted to see her face," Eloise said, watching the carriage until it was hidden from view by a turn in the road. "You say she is lovely?" and she turned to Mrs. Biggs.

"Lovely don't express it. Seraphic comes nearer. Looks as if she had some great sorrow she was constantly thinking of, and trying to smile as she thought of it," Mrs. Biggs replied. Then, as Eloise looked quickly up, she exclaimed, "Well, if I ain't beat! It's come to me what I've been tryin' to think of ever sense I seen you. They ain't the same color; hers is darker, but there is a look in your eyes for all the world as hers used to be when she was a girl, and wan't wearin' her high-heeled shoes and ridin' over our heads. Them times she was as like the Colonel as one pea is like another, and her eyes fairly snapped. Other times they was soft and tender-like, and bright as stars, with a look in 'em which I know now was kinder,—well, kinder crazy-like, you know."

Eloise had heard many things said of her own eyes, but never before that they were crazy-like, and did not feel greatly complimented. She laughed, however, and said she would like to see the lady whose eyes hers were like.

Before Mrs. Biggs could reply there was a step outside, and, tiptoeing to the window, she exclaimed, in a whisper, "If I won't give it up, there's the 'Piscopal minister, Mr. Mason, come to call on you! Ruby Ann must of told him you belonged to 'em."

She dropped her knitting, and, hurrying to the door, admitted the Rev. Arthur Mason, and ushered him at once into the room where Eloise was sitting, saying as she introduced him, "I s'pose you have come to see her."

It was an awkward situation for the young man, whose call was not prompted by any thought of Eloise. His business was with Mrs. Biggs, who had the reputation of being the parish register and town encyclopaedia, from which information regarding everybody could be gleaned, and he had come to her for information which he had been told she could probably give him. He had been in Crompton but three months, and had come there from a small parish in Virginia. On the first Sunday when he officiated in St. John's he had noticed in the audience a tall, aristocratic-looking man, with long white hair and beard, who made the responses loud and in a tone which told the valuation he put upon himself. In the same pew was a lady whose face attracted his attention, it was so sweet and yet so sad, while the beautiful eyes, he was sure, were sometimes full of tears as she listened with rapt attention to what he was saying of our heavenly home, where those we have loved and lost will be restored to us. It scarcely seemed possible, and yet he thought there was a nod of assent, and was sure that a smile broke over her face when he spoke of the first meeting of friends in the next world, the mother looking for her child, and the child coming to the gates of Paradise to meet its mother. Who was she, he wondered, and who was the old man beside her, who held himself so proudly? He soon learned who they were, and hearing that the Colonel was very lame, and the lady an invalid, he took the initiative and called at the Crompton House. The Colonel received him very cordially, and made excuses for Amy's non-appearance, saying she was not quite herself and shy with strangers. He was very affable, and evidently charmed with his visitor, until, as the conversation flowed on, it came out that the rector was a Southerner by birth, although educated for the ministry at the North, and that his father, the Rev. Charles Mason, was at present filling a vacancy in a little country church in Enterprise, Florida, where he had been before the war. The Rev. Arthur Mason could not tell what it was that warned him of an instantaneous change in the Colonel's manner, it was so subtle and still so perceptible. There was a settling himself back in his chair, a tighter clasping of his gold-headed cane with which he walked, and which he always kept in his hand. He was less talkative, and finally was silent altogether, and when at last the rector arose to go, he was not asked to stay or call again. Peter was summoned to show him the door, the Colonel bowing very stiffly as he went out. How he had offended, if he had done so, the rector could not guess, and, hearing within a week or two that the Colonel was indisposed, he called again, but was not admitted. Col. Crompton was too nervous to see any one, he was told, and there the acquaintance had ended. The Crompton pew was not occupied until Howard came and was occasionally seen in it. Evidently the new rector was a persona non grata, and he puzzled his brain for a reason in vain, until a letter from his father threw some light upon the subject and induced him to call upon Mrs. Biggs.

As usual she was very loquacious, scarcely allowing him a word, and ringing changes on her own and Eloise's sprained ankle, until he began to fear he should have no chance to broach the object of his visit without seeming to drag it in. The chance came on the return of the Crompton carriage, with the Colonel sitting stiff and straight and Amy drooping under her veil beside him. Here was his opportunity, and the rector seized it, and soon learned nearly all Mrs. Biggs knew of Amy's arrival at Crompton House and the surmises concerning her antecedents.

"She's a Crompton if there ever was one, and why the Colonel should keep so close a mouth all these years beats me," was Mrs. Biggs's closing remark, as she bowed the rector out and went back to Eloise, who felt that she was getting very familiar with the Crompton history, so far as Mrs. Biggs knew it.



CHAPTER IX

LETTER FROM REV. CHARLES MASON

"Enterprise, Fla., Sept. —, 18—.

"My dear Arthur:

"I was glad to hear that you were so pleasantly situated and liked your parish work. I trust it is cooler there than here in Florida, where the thermometer has registered higher day after day than it has before in years. I rather like it, however, as I am something of a salamander, and this, you know, is not my first experience in Florida. I was here between thirty and forty years ago, before I was married. In fact, I met your mother here at the Brock House, which before the war was frequented by many Southerners, some of whom came in the summer as well as in the winter.

"It was while I was here that an incident occurred which made a strong impression upon my mind, and was recalled to it by your mention of Crompton as the town where you are living. On one of the hottest days of the season I attended a funeral, the saddest, and, in some respects, the most peculiar I ever attended. It was in a log-house some miles from the river, and was that of a young girl, who lay in her coffin with a pathetic look on her face, as if in death she were pleading for some wrong to be righted. I could scarcely keep back my tears when I looked at her, and after all these years my eyes grow moist when I recall that funeral in the palmetto clearing, with only Crackers and negroes in attendance, a demented old woman, a dark-eyed little girl, the only relatives, and a free negro, Jake, and Mandy Ann, a slave, belonging to Mrs. Harris, the only real mourners. Mandy Ann attended to the child and old woman, while Jake was master of ceremonies, and more intelligent than many white people I have met. Such a funeral as that was, with the cries and groans and singing of both whites and blacks! One old woman, called Judy, came near having the power, as they call a kind of fit of spiritual exaltation. But Jake shook her up, and told her to behave, as it was a 'Piscopal funeral and not a pra'r meetin'. Mandy Ann also shook up the old lady, Mrs. Harris, and screamed in her ear through a trumpet, while the little dark-eyed child joined in the refrain of the negroes' song,

"'Oh, it will be joyful When we meet to part no more.'

"It was ludicrous, but very sad, and Jake's efforts to keep order were pitiful. He called his young mistress Miss Dory, and was most anxious to screen her from the least suspicion of wrong. When I questioned him with regard to the parentage of the little girl, he wrung his hands and answered, 'I do' know for shu', but fo' God it's all right. She tole me so, fo' she died, an' Miss Dory never tole a lie. She said to find Elder Covil, who knew, but he's done gone off Norf, or somewhar.'

"I felt sure it was all right when I saw the girl's face. It must have been beautiful in life, and no taint of guilt had ever marred its innocence. There could have been no fault at her door, except concealment, and the reason for that was buried in her grave. I heard of a stranger who visited the clearing three or four years before the funeral. Jake was away, but Mandy Ann was there and full of the 'gemman,' who, I have no doubt, was the girl's husband and a great scamp. I left Florida within a week after that funeral, and have never been here since, until I came to take charge for a time of the church which has been erected here. I should never have known the place, it has changed so since the close of the war and the influx of visitors from the North. The hotel, which has been greatly improved and enlarged, is always full in the season, and it is one of the most popular winter resorts on the river.

"One of my first inquiries was for the negroes Jake and Mandy Ann. The latter is married and lives near the hotel, with as many children, I thought, as the old woman who lived in a shoe, the way they swarmed out when I called to see their mother. She had gone to Jacksonville to see 'ole Miss Perkinses, who was dyin', and had sent for her 'case she done live with her when she was a girl,' one of the pickaninnies said. When I asked for Jake I was told he was still in the palmetto clearing. No one could tell me anything about the little girl who must now, if living, be a woman of nearly forty. Indeed, no one seemed to remember her, so changed are the people since the war. Jake, I was sure, had not forgotten, and a few days ago I went to see him. He is an old man now, and if there is such a thing as an aristocratic negro, he is one; with his face black as ebony, his hair white as snow, and his eyes full of intelligence and fire, especially when he talks of Miss Dory and 'de good ole times fo' she went to Georgy and met de Northern cuss.' That is what he calls the man who came for the little girl after the old grandmother died.

"I will tell you the story of his coming as Jake told it to me in the little enclosure where Miss Dory is buried, and where there is a very pretty monument to her memory, with 'Eudora, aged 20,' upon it. He was working in the yard, which was a garden of bloom, and over the grave and around the monument a Marshal Niel had twined itself, its clusters of roses filling the air with perfume. Pushing them a little aside, so that I could see the lettering more distinctly, he said, 'That's what he tole me to put thar, jess "Eudora, aged 20." I've left room for another name when I'm perfectly shu'. I don't want to put no lie on a grave stun, if her name wan't Crompton.'

"'Crompton!' I repeated, thinking of your parish.

"'Yes, Mas'r Mason, fo' God I b'lieve it's Crompton shu'. He comed an' fetched lil chile Dory, the lil girl you seen at the funeral, what seems only yestiddy, one way and in another a big lifetime sense we buried her mother here.'

"'Who is Mr. Crompton, and how did he know about the child?' I asked, and Jake replied, 'He is somebody from the Norf, and he'd sent money to Mas'r Hardy in Palatka for Miss Dory, who put it away for de chile. After she died Mas'r Hardy was gwine to Europe, an' tole me 'twas Col. Crompton, Troutburg, Massachusetts, who sent the money, but he wouldn't say nothin' else, 'cept that Col. Crompton had gin him his confidence and he should keep it. I'm shoo that Miss Dory sent letters through Mas'r Hardy to de Colonel, an' he writ to her. Not very offen, though. She'd sen' one to Mas'r Hardy, an' he'd sen' it Norf, an' then she'd wait and wait for de answer, an' when it came you or'to seen her face light up like sun-up on de river in a May mornin'. An' her eyes,—she had wonnerful eyes,—would shine like de stars frosty nights in Virginny. Maybe 'twas mean, but sometimes I watched her readin' de letter, her han's flutterin' as she opened it like a little bird's wings when it's cotched. I think she was allus 'spectin' sumptin' what never comed. The letters was short, but it took her a mighty time to read 'em, 'case you see she wasn't good at readin' writin', an' I 'specs de Colonel's handwrite wasn't very plain. She used to spell out de long words, whisperin' 'em out sometimes, her face changin' till all de brightness was gone, an' it was more like a storm on de river than sun-up. Den she'd fold de letter, an' take up de lil chile an' kiss it, an' say, "I've got you. We'll never part." Den she'd burn de letter. I specs he tole her to, an' she was shoo to mind. Den she'd go at her readin' book agin, or writin', tryin' to larn, but 'twixt you an' I 'twan't in her, an', no direspec' nuther, de Harrises couldn't larn from books. Dey's quick to 'dapt theirselves to what they seen, an' she didn't see nothin'.

"'Once she said to me when de big words troubled her an' floor'd me, "I can never be a lady dis way. Ef he'd take me whar he is, an' 'mongst his people, I should larn thar ways, but what can I do here wid—" She didn't say "wid Jake an' Mandy Ann an' ole granny, an' de rest of 'em," but she meant it. If it hadn't been for the lil chile she could of gone to school. I tole her oncet I'd sen' her an' take care of de lil chile an' ole Miss,—me an' Mandy Ann. The tears come in her eyes as she ast whar I'd git de money, seein' we was layin' up what come from de Norf for de chile. I'd done thought that out lyin' awake nights an' plannin' how to make her a lady. I'se bawn free, you know, an' freedom was sweet to me an' slavery sour, but for Miss Dory I'd do it, an' I said, "I'll sell myself to Mas'r Hardy, or some gemman like him." Thar's plenty wants me, an' would give a big price, an' she should have it all for her schoolin'.

"'You orter have seen her face then. Every part of it movin' to oncet, an' her eyes so bright I could not look at 'em for the quarness thar was in 'em, an' I'll never forget her voice as she said, "That can't be; but, Jakey, you are de noblest man, black or white, I ever seen, an' my best frien', an' I loves you as if you was my brodder."

"'Dem's her very words, an' I would of sole myself for her if I could. But de lam gin up after a while. All de hope an' life went out of her, an' she died' an' you done 'tended her funeral,—you 'members it,—as fust class as I could make it. I tole you sumptin' den, but not all this. It wasn't a fittin' time, but seein' you brings it all back. Mandy Ann an' me said we'd keep lil chile a while, bein' ole Miss was alive, though she was no better than a broomstick dressed in her clothes. She didn't know nothin', not even that Miss Dory was dead, an' kep' askin' whose chile it was,—ef it was Mandy Ann's, an' why it was hyar. It kinder troubled her, I think, it was so active an' noisy, an' sung so much. Used to play at pra'r meetin' an' have de pow' powerful, as she had seen de blacks have it when Mandy Ann took her to thar meetin's. Seems ef she liked thar ways better than what I tried to teach her from de Pra'r Book, an' they is rather more livelier for a chile. All de neighbors was interested in her, an' ole Miss Thomas most of all. She's de one what stood out de longest agin Miss Dory, 'case she didn't tell squar what she'd promised not to. But she gin in at de funeral, an' was mighty nice to the lil chile. When ole Miss Lucy died she comed in her democrat wagon, as she did for Miss Dory, an' coaxed lil chile inter her lap, an' said she showed she had good blood, an' or'to be brung up a lady, an' it wasn't fittin' for her to stay whar she was, an' if I knew de fader I mus' write to him.

"'I knew dat as well as she did, an' after consultin' wid Mandy Ann an' prayin' for light, it come dat I must sen' on, an' I did, hopin' he wouldn' come, for to part wid de lil chile was like tearin' my vitals out, an' Mandy Ann's, too. He did come,—a big, gran' man, wid a look which made me glad Miss Dory was in heaven 'stead of livin' wid him. He'd been hyar oncet before. Mebby I tole you, at de funeral. My mind gets leaky, an' I can't 'member exactly, an' so repeats.'

"'I think not,' I said, 'and if you did, I have forgotten, and am willing to hear it again.'

"We were sitting now on a bench close by what Jake said had been the little girl's play-house, which she called her Shady, because it was under a palm tree.

"'Yes, he comed,' Jake said, 'two or three weeks after Miss Dory comed home from Georgy, whar she was visitin' her kin. Mandy Ann tole me 'bout him,—how he walked an' talked to Miss Dory, till when he went away her face was white as the gown she put on when she hearn he was comin'. You see, Mandy Ann was on de boat wid him, an' tole her. She was all of a twitter, like you've seen de little hungry birds in de nest when dar mudder is comin' wid a worm,—an' she was jess as cold an' slimpsy an' starved when he went away as dem little birds is when de mudder is shot on de wing an' never comes wid de worm. You know what I mean. She s'pected somethin' an' didn't get it.'

"Jake was very eloquent in his illustrations, and I looked admiringly at him as he went on: 'I was in Virginny vallyin' for Mas'r Kane, a fine gemman who gin me big wage, an' I was savin' it up to buy some things for de house, 'case I reckoned how Miss Dory seen somethin' different in Georgy. Her kin was very 'spectable folks, an' she might want some fixin's. Thar was nobody hyar but ole Miss Lucy, who'd had some kind of a spell an' lost most of her sense, an' didn't know more'n a chile. Mandy Ann got somebody to write me that Miss Dory had a beau,—a gran' man, an' I was that pleased that I ast the price of a second-han' pianny, thinkin' mebby she'd want to larn, 'case she sung so nice. Den I never hearn anoder word, 'cept from Miss Dory, till Mas'r Hardy writ Mas'r Kane to sen' me home, 'case I was needed. I s'posed ole Miss Lucy had had another fit, an' started thinkin' all de way up de river how I'd see Miss Dory standin' in de do' wid de smile on her face, an' de light in her eyes, an' her pleasant voice sayin' to me, "How d'ye, Jake, I'se mighty glad to see you." 'Stid o' that she wasn't thar, an' Mandy Ann come clatterin' down de stars, an' I hearn a baby cry. In my s'prise I said, "What's dat ar? Has ole Miss got a baby?"

"'Mandy Ann laughed till she cried, den cried without laughin', an' tole me wid her face to de wall, an' I was so shamed I could of hid in de san', an' Mandy Ann, they tole me, did run inter de woods at fust to hide herself. Den she smarted up an' fit for Miss Dory, who said nothin' 'cept, "Wait, it will all be right. I tole him I would wait. I'm a good girl," an' fo' Heaven, I b'lieved her, though some o' de white trash didn't at fust, but they all did at the last. Maybe I'm tirin' you?'

"'No,' I said, 'go on,' and he continued: 'I'se tole you most all dat happened after dat till she died an' you comed to de funeral.

"'When ole miss died, I writ to de Colonel, as I tole you, an' he comed, gran', an' proud, an' stiff, an' I tole him all 'bout Miss Dory same as I have you,—p'raps not quite so much,—p'raps mo'. I don't remember, 'case as I said my memory is ole an' leaky, and mebby I ain't tellin' it right in course as I tole him. Some was in de house, an' some out hyar, whar I said, "Dis is her grave. She's lyin' under de san', but I'll fix her up in time an' she shall sleep under de roses."

"'I tole him everything was done in order, an' how you preached about de Resurrection an' de Life, an' how sweet she look in her coffin, an' Mandy Ann's puttin' her ring on de weddin' finger, an' his mouf trembled like, up and down, an' I b'lieve ef thar had been a tear in his dried-up heart he'd of shed it.

"'Oncet, when he seemed kinder softened, I ast him squar," Ain't you her husband?"

"'Thar was such a quar look in his eyes,—a starin' at me a minit,—an' then he said, "I am nobody's husband, an' never shall be."

"'I b'lieve he lied, an' wanted to knock him down, but wouldn't right thar by her grave. He tole me I was to have all the money Miss Dory had been layin' up, an' he would send me mo' for the stun. I ast what I should put on it, an' he said, "What was on her coffin plate?"

"Eudora, aged 20," I tole him. "Put the same on the stun," he said. He tole me I was to stay on de place, an' have all I made. Then thar was Mandy Ann, who 'longed to de lil chile. She was to stay hyar, he said, an' he'd pay her wage which she could keep herself. He'd settle wid de lil chile when de time come, an' set Mandy Ann free. I think he meant it, but he was spar'd de trouble, for de wah corned like a big broom an' swep' slavery away, an' mos' everyting souf wid it, an' Mandy Ann was free any way widout de Colonel.

"'After de chile went away I got to broodin' over Miss Dory's wrongs, till I'se so worked up agin de Colonel, dat when de wah broke out I was minded to 'list, hopin' I'd meet him somewhar in battle an' shoot him. Den I cooled down an' staid home an' raised things an' worked for de poor folks hyar,—de women, whose husban's an' brudders had gone to de wah. Ted,—dat's de boy on de "Hatty" long ago,—went to de wah wid a great flourish, promisin' Mandy Ann he'd shoot the Colonel shu' ef he got a chance. An' what do you think? At de fust crack of de cannon in de fust battle he seen, he cut an' run, an' kep' on runnin' till he got hyar, beggin' me an' Mandy Ann to hide him, 'case he was a deserter. I held my tongue, an' let Mandy Ann do as she pleased, an' she hid him till de Federals come, when he jined them, an' did get hit, but 'twas on de back or shoulder, showin' which way he was runnin'.

"'Den Mandy Ann married him, an' has ten chillenses, an' washes an' scrubs for de Brock House an' everybody, while Ted struts roun' wid a cigar in his mouf, an' says he has neber seen a well day sense de wah,—dat his shoulder pains him powerful at times,—an' he is tryin' to get a pension, an' Mandy Ann is helpin' him. Beats all what women won't do for a man if they love him, no matter how big a skunk he is. Miss Dory died for one, an' Mandy Ann is slavin' herself to deff for one. I'se mighty glad I'se not a woman.'

"Here Jake stopped a moment, presumably to reflect on the waywardness of Miss Dory and Mandy Ann caring for two skunks,—one the Colonel and one Ted, whose last name I did not know till I asked Jake, who replied, 'Hamilton—a right smart name, I'm told, an' 'long'd to de quality. Ole man Hamilton come from de norf somewhar, an' bought Ted's mother, a likely mulatto. Who his fader was I doan know. He's more white dan black, an' is mighty proud of his name,—Hamilton,—'case somebody tole him thar was once a big man, Hamilton, an' when Mandy Ann had twin boys, she was tole to call 'em Alexander an' Aaron,—sumptin',—I doan justly remember what. It makes me think of a chestnut.'

"'Burr,' I suggested, and he replied, 'Yes, sar, dat's it,—Aaron Burr,—anoder big man,—an' dey calls de twins Alex and Aaron. Fine boys, too, wid Mandy Ann's get-up in 'em. Dar's two mo' twins,—little gals; beats all what a woman Mandy Ann is for twins,—an' she calls 'em Judy and Dory,—one for young Miss, an' t'other for de rag doll lil chile took norf wid her and called Judy, for an ole woman who has gone to de Canaan she used to sing about—"Oh, I'se boun' for de lan' of Canaan." She was powerful in pra'r, an' at de fust meetin' after de wah, an' she knew she was free, I b'lieve you could of hearn her across de lake to Sanford, she shout "Glory, bress de Lawd!" so loud. But for all she was free, she wouldn't leave ole Miss Thomas. "I likes my mistis, an' I ain't gwine to leave her wid somebody else to comb her har, an' make her corn bread," she said, when dey tried to persuade her to go to Palatky. She staid wid ole Miss, who buried her decent, an' has gone herself to jine her an' Miss Dory in de better land, which seems to me is not far away; an' offen, when I sees de sun go down in a glory of red an' purple an' yaller,—I'se mighty fond of yaller,—I says to myself, "It's dat way dey goes to de udder world, whar, please God, I'll go some day fore berry long,—for I tries to be good."

"There was a rapt look in Jake's face as he turned it to the west, and I would have given much to know that my future was as assured as his."

Here the first part of Mr. Mason's letter closed abruptly, as a friend came to call, but he added hastily, "To-morrow I'll finish, and tell you about the child who now occupies all Jake's thoughts, praying every day that he may see her again."



CHAPTER X

PART SECOND OF REV. MR. MASON'S LETTER

"I was interrupted yesterday, and hardly know where to begin again, or what I have written, as Jake was a little mixed and went forward and back at times, showing that his memory was, as he said, leaky, but when he struck the child he was bright as a guinea. 'Lil Chile' and 'Honey Bee' he calls her. He told me of her running into the house to meet the Colonel, with her soiled frock, and her face and hands besmeared with molasses; of her tussle with Mandy Ann, who wanted to wash her face and change her clothes, and of her fine appearance at the last in a white gown, her best, which he had bought and Mandy Ann made not long before, and which the Colonel would not take with him. So they kept it, and Mandy Ann washed and ironed it, and put it away with some sweet herbs, and aired it every year till she was married, when Jake cared for it till Mandy Ann's twins were born,—Alex and Aaron. Then Mandy Ann borrowed it for them to be christened in, one of them one Sunday and one the next, so that both had the honor of wearing it, while Jake was sponsor, 'For,' said he, 'Mandy Ann has gin up them hollerin' meetin's whar white folks done come to see de ole darkies have a kind of powow, as dey use to have befo' de wah. Clar for't if de folks from de Norf don't gin de blacks money to sing de ole-time songs an' rock an' weave back an' forth till dey have de pow'. I don't think much of dat ar, jess 'musin' theyselves wid our religion;' and Jake looked his disgust, and continued:

"'Mandy Ann like mighty well to jine 'em, but I hole her back, an' now she's 'Piscopal, ef she's anything,—an' when de girl twins come,—Dory an' Judy,—she borrowed lil chile's gown agin. Dat make fo' times, an' then I shet de gates, an' said, "No mo' gown, an' no mo' twins," an' thar hain't been no mo'.

"'But I'se got a good ways from lil chile, who wan't an atom shy of de Colonel, though he was of her, an' when he took her han' I could almost see him squirm like. I think he tried to be kind, an' he gin her a lil ivory book he had on his watch-chain, but you see he didn't feel it. He didn't care for children, and it seemed as if he wanted to get away from this one. But he couldn't. She was his'n; I'd bet my soul on dat. He had to come after her an' took her, though 'twas 'bout the wust job he ever did, I reckon. She fit like a tiger cat about gwine wid him, an' 's true's you bawn, I don't b'lieve she'd gone ef he hadn't took me wid him to Savannah. I can't tell you, Mas'r Mason, 'bout de partin' thar. 'Twas drefful, an' I kin see her now rollin' on de flo', wid her heels an' han's in de air, an' she a-sayin' she mus' stay wid Shaky. I bought her such a pretty red cloak, all lined wid white silk, an' wrapped her in it, an' took her on to de boat, an' left her thar, she thinkin' I was comin' back, an' the last I seen of her, as the boat moved off, she was jumpin' up an' down, an' stretchin' her arms to me, an' the Cunnel holdin' her tight, or I b'lieve she'd sprung overboard. He'd a good time gettin' her home, I reckon. She was the very old Harry when her dander was up,' and the old negro laughed as he thought of what the Colonel must have borne on that journey with his troublesome charge.

"There came a few lines to him, he said, telling of Col. Crompton's safe arrival home, and that the child was well. After a while the war broke out, and communication with the North was cut off. The friend in Palatka, who had returned from Europe and joined the Confederate Army, was killed, and the letter which Jake sent to Col. Crompton when peace was restored was not answered for a long time. At last the Colonel wrote that Eudora had married against his wishes and gone to Europe, and Jake was not to trouble him with any more letters concerning her.

"An' that's all I knows of her,' he said, 'whether she's dead or alive, or whar she is; but if I did know I b'lieve I'd walk afoot to de Norf to see her. She ain't my lil chile Dory no mo', but I allus thinks of her like dat, an' I keeps de cradle she was rocked in by my bed, an' sometimes, when I'se lonesome nights, an' can't sleep for thinkin' of her, I puts my han' out an' jogs it with a feelin' the lil one is thar, an' every day I prays she may come back to me, an' I b'lieve she will. Yes, sar, it comes to me that she will.'

"The tears were running down the old man's face when, on our going to the house, he showed me the cradle close to his bed, a rude, old-fashioned, high-topped thing, such as the poorest families used years ago. There was a pillow, or cushion, in it, and a little patchwork quilt, which, he said, Mandy Ann pieced and made. He showed me, too, a second or third school reader, soiled and worn and pencil marked, and showing that it had been much used.

"'This was Miss Dory's,' he said; 'the one she studied de most, tryin' to learn, an' gettin' terribly flustered wid de big words. I can see her now, bendin' over it airly an' late; sometimes wid de chile in her lap till she done tuckered out, an' laid it away with a sithe as if glad to be shet of it. She couldn't larn, an' de Lord took her whar dey don't ask what you knows,—only dis: does you lub de Lord? an' she did, de lamb.'

"Jake was still crying, and I was not far from it as I saw in fancy that poor young girl trying to learn, trying to master the big words and their meaning, in the vain hope of fitting herself for companionship with a man who had deserted her, and who probably never had for her more than a passing fancy, of which he was ashamed and would gladly ignore.

"'I showed him de book,' Jake said, 'an' tole him how she tried to larn, an' I tried to help her all I could, an' then he did have some feelin' an' his eyes got red, but he didn't drap a tear; no, sar, not a drap! He ast me could he have de book, an' I said, "No, sar, not for nothin'. It's mine," an' he said, proud-like, "As you please." He was mighty good to me an' Mandy Ann 'bout money, an' when I writ him she was married, he sent her two hundred dollars, which she 'vested in a house, or Ted would of spent it for fine close an' cigarettes. He must be gettin' ole, as I be, an' they call de town Crompton, after him, 'stid of Troutburg.'

"Remembering your parish, I told him I had a son settled in Crompton, Massachusetts. I hardly thought there were two towns of the same name in one State, and I'd inquire if Col. Crompton lived there. His face brightened at once, and when I left him, he grasped my hand and said, 'Bress de Lawd for de grain of comfort you done give me. If she is thar I'd walk all de road from Floridy to see her, if I couldn't git thar no other way. Thankee, Mas'r Mason, for comin' to see me. I'se pretty reg'lar at church, an' sets by de do', an' allus gives a nickel for myself an' one for Miss Dory dead an' for Miss Dory livin', an' I makes Mandy Ann 'tend all I can, though she'd rather go whar she says it's livelier. She is mighty good to me,—comes ebery week an' clars up an' scoles me for gittin' so dirty. She's great on a scrub, Mandy Ann is. Muss you go? Well, I'm glad you comed, an' I s'pec's I've tole you some things twiste, 'case of my memory. Good-by.'

"He accompanied me to the door, and shook hands with all the grace of a born gentleman. Then I left him, but have been haunted ever since by a picture of that old negro in his lonely cabin, jogging that empty cradle nights when he cannot sleep, and contrasting him with Col. Crompton, whoever and wherever he may be. Perhaps you can throw some light on the subject. The world is not so very wide that our sins are not pretty sure to find us out, and that some Col. Crompton has been guilty of a great wrong seems certain. Possibly he is one of your parishioners, and you may know something of the second Dory. I shall await your answer with some anxiety.

"Your father,

"CHARLES MASON."

This was the letter which had sent the Rev. Arthur to call on Mrs. Biggs, with no thought of Eloise in his mind. She was not yet an active factor in the drama which was to be played out so rapidly. Returning to his boarding place, the rector read his father's letter a second time, and then answered it. A part of what he wrote we give:

"I have just come from an interview with a woman who is credited with knowing the history of the place forty years back, and I have no doubt that Shaky's Col. Crompton is living here in Crompton Place, the richest man in town and largest contributor to the church. There is a lady living with him who people believe is his daughter, although he has never acknowledged her as such. Mrs. Biggs, the woman I interviewed, gave me a most graphic account of the manner of her arrival at Crompton Place, when she was a little girl like the one you describe. She has a lovely face, but is a little twisted in her brain. She did run away with her music teacher, and her name is Amy Eudora. There was no mention made of Harris. They call her Miss Amy. There can't be much doubt of her identity with Jaky's lil chile. Send him on, and Mandy Ann, too,—and the four twins, Alex and Aaron, Judy and Dory. I'll pay half their fare! There's enough of the old Adam in me to make me want to see them confront the proud Colonel, who ignores me for reasons I could not fathom, until I received your letter. Then I suspected that because I am your son he feared that some pages of his life, which he hoped were blotted out by time and the ravages of war, might be revealed. He is an old man, of course, but distinguished-looking still, though much broken with rheumatic gout, which keeps him mostly at home. My respects to Shaky, whom I hope before long to hear ringing the bell at Crompton Place. Is that wicked? I suppose so, but I cannot help it.

"ARTHUR."



CHAPTER XI

SUNDAY CALLS

The day following the rector's call on Mrs. Biggs was Sunday, and the morning was wet and misty, with a thick, white fog which crept up from the sea and hid from view objects at any distance away.

"This is nearly as bad as London," Howard said to Jack when, after breakfast, they stood looking out upon the sodden grass and drooping flowers in the park. "Have you a mind to go to church?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Not I; it's too damp. Are you going?"

Howard had not thought of doing so until that moment, when an idea came suddenly into his mind, and he answered, "I think so,—yes. Some one ought to represent the Crompton pew. It is out of the question for my uncle to go, and he would not if he could. He has taken a violent prejudice against the new rector, for no reason I can think of. He is a good fellow,—the rector, I mean,—and not too straight-laced to smoke a cigar, and he knows a fine horse when he sees one, and preaches splendid sermons. I think I shall go and encourage him."

He did not urge Jack to accompany him, nor would Jack have done so if he had. There was an idea in his mind, as well as in Howard's, which he intended to carry out, and half an hour after Howard started for church, he, too, left the house and walked slowly through the park in the direction of Mrs. Biggs's.

"I don't know as it is just the thing to call on Sunday," he thought, hesitating a little as he came in sight of the house, "but it seems an age since I saw her. I'll just step to the door and inquire how she is."

His knock was not answered at first, but when he repeated it he heard from the parlor what sounded like—"The key is under the mat," in a voice he knew did not belong to Mrs. Biggs. That good woman was in church. Tim had gone to the choir in St. John's, and Eloise was alone. Ruby Ann had been to see her the night before with her massage and rubber band, both of which had proved so successful that Eloise was feeling greatly encouraged, and the outlook was not quite so forlorn as when she first landed at Mrs. Biggs's, helpless and homesick and half crazed with pain. Her ankle was improving fast, although she could not walk; but she had hopes of taking her place in school within a week or ten days. Mrs. Biggs had wondered why the young men from Crompton Place did not call on Saturday, and Eloise had felt a little disappointed when the day had passed and she did not see them.

"'Tain't noways likely they'll come to-day. Folks know my principles, and that I don't b'lieve in Sunday visiting," she said as she tidied up the room before starting for church. "Nobody'll come, unless it is Ruby Ann with her massage, that's no more good than a cat's foot; so I'll just give the parlor a lick and a promise till to-morrow, and 'fise you I'd be comfortable in that wrapper."

But Eloise insisted upon the white dressing jacket with pink ribbons, in which Mrs. Biggs said she looked "like a picter," regretting that the young men could not see her.

"If it wasn't for desiccating the Sabbath I wish them high bucks would call," she added, as she gave a final whisk to the duster and went to prepare for church. "I'm goin' to lock the door and put the key under the mat, so nobody can get in if they want to. I might lose it if I carried it to meetin'. I did once, and had to clamber inter the butry winder," was her last remark as she left the house; and Eloise heard the click of the key and knew she was locked in and alone.

She was not afraid, but began to imagine what she could do in case of a fire, or if any one were to come knocking at the door. "Sit still and not answer," she was thinking when Jack came rapidly up the walk. She saw his shadow as he passed the window, and her heart gave a great bound, for she knew who was "desiccating" the Sabbath by calling upon her. The first knock she did not answer, but when the second came, louder and more imperative than the first, she called out, "The key is under the mat," regretting her temerity in an instant, and trembling as she thought, "What if I am doing something improper to admit him, and Mrs. Biggs should disapprove!"

The thought sent the blood to her cheeks, which were scarlet as Jack came in, eager and delighted to find her alone.

"Locked up like a prisoner," he said, as he took her hand, which he held longer than was at all necessary, while he looked into her eyes, where the gladness at seeing him again was showing so plainly.

When he last saw her she was arrayed in Mrs. Biggs's spotted calico, and he was quick to note the change. He had thought her lovely before; she was beautiful now, with the brightness in her eyes and the color coming and going so rapidly on her cheeks. Drawing a chair close to her, he sat down just where he could look at her as he talked, and could watch the varying expression on her face. Once he laid his hand on the arm of her chair, but withdrew it when he saw her troubled look, as if she feared he was getting too familiar. He asked her about her sprain, and was greatly interested, or seemed to be, in the massage and rubber band which were helping her so much. Then he spoke of Ruby Ann, the biggest woman he ever saw, he believed, and just the one for a school-teacher. He was past the school-house the day before, he said. It seemed they had half a day on Saturday and half a day on Wednesday. It was the boys' recess, and he never heard such a hullaballoo as they were making. A tall, lanky boy seemed to be the leader, whom the others followed.

"That must be Tom Walker, the one who makes all the trouble, and whom Mr. Bills and Mrs. Biggs think I can't manage," Eloise said, with a little gasp, such as she always felt when she thought of Tom, who, Tim had reported, was boasting of what he meant to do with the lame schoolmarm when she came.

Jack detected the trouble in her voice, and asked who Tom Walker was. It did not take long for Eloise to tell all she knew, while Jack listened thoughtfully, resolving to seek out Tom, and by thrashing, or threatening, or hiring, turn him from any plan he might have against this little girl, who seemed to him far too young and dainty to be thrown upon the mercy of the rabble he had seen by the school-house with Tom Walker at their head.

"Don't worry about Tom. Big bullies like him are always cowards. You'll get along all right," he said encouragingly, with a growing desire to take the helpless girl in his arms and carry her away from Tom Walker and Mr. Bills and Mrs. Biggs, and the whole of her surroundings, which she did not seem at all to fit.

He wanted to entertain her, and told her of an excursion on the water he had taken the previous day with Howard Crompton,—the last of the season, he said, and very enjoyable. He wished she had been there. Then he spoke of the Colonel, laughing at his peculiarities, and asking if she had ever heard of the Crompton "Formula." She said she had from Ruby Ann, and was glad she was not to be subjected to questioning on it, as she knew she should fail in everything except the four rights. She might manage them, but it was not necessary for her to be examined by anybody, since her normal school diploma was a license to teach anywhere in the State.

"Hanged if I think I could manage the rights!" Jack said. "Spelling is not my forte, and Howard, who is great at it, missed the last one."

"How is Mr. Howard?" Eloise asked, and Jack replied, "All right. Has gone to church like a good Christian. I ought to have gone, but I thought I'd come here, as you might be lonely here alone."

It flashed through Eloise's mind to wonder how he knew she was alone, but she made no comment, except to say that the rector, Mr. Arthur Mason, called upon her the day before.

"Did he?" Jack said. "I believe he is a fine fellow. Howard likes him, but for some reason the Colonel does not, and when Howard said he was going to church, and suggested bringing Mr. Mason home to lunch, he growled out something about not liking company on Sunday. He is a queer old cove, and does not seem to care for anybody but Miss Amy. He is devoted to her, and she is a lovely woman, and must once have been brilliant, but she puzzles me greatly. She seems to be rational on every subject except her life in California. If any allusion is made to that she looks dazed at once, and says, 'I can't talk about it. I don't remember.'"

"My father died in California, and my mother is there now," Eloise said sadly.

Jack had not supposed she had a mother. Mrs. Brown, who sat beside him at the commencement exercises in Mayville, had spoken of her as an orphan, and he replied, "I had somehow thought your mother dead."

"No; oh, no!" Eloise answered quickly. "She is not dead; she is—"

She stopped suddenly, and Jack knew by her voice that her mother was a painful subject, and he began at once to speak of something else. He was a good talker, and Eloise a good listener, and neither took any heed to the lapse of time, until there was the sound of wheels before the house. A carriage had stopped to let some one out; then it went on, and Howard Crompton came up the walk and knocked at the door just as Jack had done an hour before.

"Pull the bobbin and come in," Jack called out, and, a good deal astonished, Howard walked in, looking unutterable things when he saw Jack there before him, seemingly perfectly at home and perfectly happy, and in very close proximity to Eloise, who wondered what Mrs. Biggs would say if she came and found both the "high bucks" there.

"Hallo!" Jack said, while Howard responded, "Hallo! What brought you here?"

"A wish to see Miss Smith. What brought you?" was Jack's reply, and Howard responded, "A wish to see Miss Smith, of course. You didn't suppose I came to see Mrs. Biggs, did you? Where is the old lady?"

Eloise explained that she had gone to church, and Jack told of the key under the mat, and the talk flowed on; and Eloise could not forbear telling them of Mrs. Biggs's wish not to have the Sabbath "desiccated" by visitors.

"A regular Mrs. Malaprop," Jack said, while Howard suggested that they leave before she came home. "We can put the key under the mat, and she'll never know of the 'desiccation,'" he said.

Jack looked doubtfully at Eloise, who shook her head.

"No," she said, "I shall tell her you have been here. It would be a deception not to."

"As you like. And it's too late now, for here she comes!" Howard said, as Mrs. Biggs passed the window and stooped to find the key.

It was not there. Turning the mat upside down, she failed to discover it. The key was gone!

"For goodness' sake, what can have happened?" they heard her say, as she pushed the door open and entered the room, where the two young men stood, one on either side of Eloise, as if to protect her. "Well, if I ain't beat!" the widow exclaimed, dropping into a chair and beginning to untie her bonnet strings as if they choked her. "Yes, I am beat. Hain't you been to meetin'?" she asked rather severely, her eyes falling on Howard, who answered quickly, "Yes, I have, and on my way home called to inquire for Miss Smith, and found this rascal here before me. He had unlocked the door and taken possession. You ought to have him arrested as a burglar, breaking into your house on Sunday."

"I s'pose I or'ter," Mrs. Biggs said, "and I hope none of the neighbors seen you come in. Miss Brown acrost the way is a great gossip, and there hain't a speck of scandal ever been on my house in my life, and I a-boardin' schoolma'ams for fifteen years!"

Mrs. Biggs was inclined to be a little severe on the two young men invading her premises, but Jack was equal to the emergency. She was tugging at her bonnet strings, which were entangled in a knot, into which the cord of her eyeglasses had become twisted.

"I can swear that neither Mrs. Brown, nor any one else was looking from the window when I came in. She was probably at church," Jack said, offering to help her, and finally undoing the knot which had proved too much for her. "There you are," he said, removing the bonnet, and setting her false piece, which had become a little askew, more squarely on her head. "You are all right now, and can blow me up as much as you please. I deserve it," he added, beaming upon her a smile which would have disarmed her of a dozen prejudices.

Jack's ways were wonderful with women, both young and old, and Mrs. Biggs felt their influence and laughed, as she said, "I ain't goin' to blow, though I was took aback to see two men here, and I'd like to know how you knew where to find the key."

"I told him," Eloise answered rather shamefacedly.

Mrs. Biggs shot a quick glance at her, and then said, with a meaning nod, "I s'pose I'd of done the same thing when John and me was courtin', and young folks is all alike."

Eloise's face was scarlet, while Jack pretended suddenly to remember the lateness of the hour, and started to leave the room. As he did so his eyes fell upon a table on which a few books were lying.

"You must find these lively," he said, turning them over and reading their titles aloud. "'Pilgrim's Progress,' 'Foxe's Martyrs,' 'Doddridge's Rise and Fall,' 'Memoir of Payson,' all solid and good, but a little heavy, 'United States History,' improving, but tedious,—and,—upon my word, 'The Frozen Pirate'! That is jolly! Have you read it?"

Before Eloise could reply Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, "Of course she hasn't, and I don't know how under the sun it got in here, unless Tim put it here unbeknownst to me. I never read novels, and that is the wust I ever got hold of, and the biggest lie. I told Tim so."

She took it from the table and carried it from the room, followed by the young men, who laughed as they thought how the widow, who never read novels, betrayed the fact that she had read "The Frozen Pirate."



CHAPTER XII

THE MARCH OF EVENTS

"I say, Howard," Jack began, when they were out upon the road, "that girl ought to have something besides 'The Frozen Pirate' and 'Foxe's Martyrs' to brighten her up,—books and flowers, and other things. Do you think she'd take them?"

Howard's head was cooler than Jack's, and he replied, "She would resent gifts from us, but would take them from Amy. Anyhow, we can try that dodge."

"By Jove, you are right! We can send her a lot of things with Mrs. Amy's compliments," Jack exclaimed. "Flowers and books and candy, and—"

He did not finish what was in his mind, but the next morning, immediately after breakfast, he pretended that he had an errand in the village, and started off alone, preferring to walk, he said, when Howard suggested the carriage, and also declining Howard's company, which was rather faintly offered. Howard never cared to walk when he could drive, and then he had a plan which he could better carry out with Jack away than with him present. He was more interested in Eloise than he would like to confess to Jack or any one, and he found himself thinking of her constantly and wishing he could do something to make her more comfortable than he was sure she could be even in Mrs. Biggs's parlor. He was very fastidious in his tastes, and Mrs. Biggs's parlor was a horror to him, with its black hair-cloth furniture, and especially the rocker in which Eloise sat, and out of which she seemed in danger of slipping every time she bent forward. He had thought of his uncle's sea chair on the occasion of his first call, and now he resolved to send it in Amy's name. Something had warned him that in Eloise's make-up there was a pride equal to his own. She might receive favors from Amy, as she had the hat, and although a chair would seem a good deal perhaps, he would explain it on the ground of Amy's great desire to help some one when he saw her. He'd send it at once, he thought, and he wrote a note, saying, "Miss Smith: Please accept this sea chair with the compliments of Mrs. Amy, who thinks you will find it more comfortable than the hair-cloth rocker, of which I told her. As she seldom writes to any one, she has made me her amanuensis, and hopes you will excuse her. Yours, very truly, Howard Crompton, for Mrs. Amy."

It was a lie, Howard knew, but that did not trouble him, and calling Sam, he bade him take it with the chair and a bunch of hothouse roses to Miss Smith. Sam took the chair and the note and the roses, and started for Mrs. Biggs's, stopping in the avenue to look at the shrub where Brutus had received the gouge in his shoulder, and stopping again at a point where some bits of glass from the broken window of the carriage were lying. All this took time, so that it was after eleven when he at last reached Mrs. Biggs's gate, and met a drayman coming in an opposite direction with Jack Harcourt on the cart, seated in a very handsome wheel chair, and looking supremely happy.

Jack had been very busy all the morning visiting furniture stores and inquiring for wheel chairs, which he found were not very common. Indeed, there were only three in the town, and one of these had been sent from Boston for the approval of Col. Crompton when his rheumatic gout prevented him from walking. Something about it had not suited him, and it had remained with the furniture dealer, who, glad of a purchaser, had offered it to Jack for nearly half the original price. Jack did not care for the cost if the chair was what he wanted. It was upholstered with leather, both the seat and the back, and could be easily propelled from room to room by Eloise herself, while Jack thought it quite likely that he should himself some day take her out for an airing, possibly to the school-house, which he had passed on his way to the village. There was a shorter road through the meadows and woods than the one past the school-house, but Jack took the latter, hoping he might see Tom Walker again, in which case he meant to interview him. Nor was he disappointed, for sauntering in the same direction and chewing gum, with his cap on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets, was a tall, wiry fellow, whom Jack instantly spotted as Tom Walker, the bully, who was to terrorize Eloise.

"Now is my time," Jack thought, hastening his steps and soon overtaking the boy, who, never caring whether he was late or early at school, was taking his time, and stopping occasionally to throw a stone at some bird on the fence or a tree. "Hallo, Tom!" Jack said in his cheery way as he came up with the boy, whose ungracious answer was, "How do you know my name is Tom?"

At heart Tom was something of an anarchist, jealous of and disliking people higher in the social scale than he was, and this dislike extended particularly to the young gentlemen from the Crompton House, who had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. He did not like to be patronized, but there was something in Jack's voice which made him accompany his speech with a laugh, which robbed it of some of its rudeness.

"Oh, I know you, just as, I dare say, you know me, Jack Harcourt, from New York, visiting at present at the Crompton House," was Jack's reply, which mollified Tom at once.

If Jack had called himself Mr. Harcourt Tom would have resented it as airs. But he didn't; he said Jack, putting himself on a par with the boy, who took the gum from his mouth for a moment, looked at it, replaced it, and began to answer Jack's questions, which at first were very far from Eloise. But they struck her at last as they drew near the school-house.

"I'm late, as usual," Tom said, rolling his gum from side to side in his mouth. "I presume I'll catch thunder, but I don't care. I'm not afraid of any schoolmarm I've ever seen, and I mean to carry the new one out on a couple of chips if she tries to boss me."

There was a look on Tom's face which Jack did not like, but he said pleasantly, "No, you won't, when you see how helpless she is, and how she needs a young gentleman like you to stand by her."

"I ain't a gentleman," Tom answered, but his voice was a good deal softened. "I'm just Tom Walker, who they lay everything to, and who the boys expect to do all their dirty work for them."

"I see," Jack answered; "you pick off the hot chestnuts. I used to do that when a little shaver, till I got my fingers blistered so badly I decided to let some one else get burned in my place."

"Did you ever cut up at school?" Tom asked, with a growing interest in and respect for Jack, who replied, "Oh, yes, I was pretty bad sometimes, and am ashamed of it when I remember how I annoyed some of my teachers. I have asked pardon of one or two of the ladies when I have chanced to meet them, but I never could have annoyed Miss Smith, nor will you when you know her. You haven't seen her yet?"

"Nope!" Tom answered. "I hear she ain't bigger than my thumb, and awful pretty, Tim Biggs says, and he is threatening to thrash anybody who is mean to her. I'd laugh to see him tackle me!"

"He'll have no occasion to, for I predict you will be the warmest champion Miss Smith has. See if you are not," Jack said, offering his hand to Tom, as they had now reached the school-house.

"He is certainly a good deal of a ruffian," Jack said to himself as he went on his way, while Tom was not quite so sure of the two chips on which he was to carry Eloise out if she tried to boss him. He'd wait and see. That city chap from Crompton Place had certainly been very friendly, and had not treated him as if he was scum; and after taking his seat and telling Ruby Ann, with quite an air when she asked why he was so late, that he had been detained by Mr. Harcourt, who wanted to talk with him, he took from his desk his slate and rubbed out the caricature he had drawn the day before of a young girl on crutches trying to get up the steps of the school-house. He was intending to show it to Tim Biggs and make him angry, and to the other scholars and make them laugh, and thus ferment a prejudice against Eloise, for no reason at all except the natural depravity of his nature.

The word "champion" kept sounding in his ears, and he wrote it two or three times on his slate, where the girl on crutches had been. "I always supposed champion belonged to prize-fighters, but Mr. Harcourt didn't mean that kind. He meant I was to stand up for her and behave myself. Well, I'll see what kind of craft she is," he thought.

With this decision Tom took up his lessons, and had never been more studious and well behaved than he was that day.

Meanwhile Jack had gone on his way to the village and bought his chair, with some misgivings as to how Eloise would receive it, even from Mrs. Amy. "I guess I'd better go with it, and make it right somehow," he thought, getting into the chair and riding along in state, while the people he met looked curiously at him. It was recess again when they reached the school-house, where, as usual, Tom Walker was leading the play. At sight of the dray he stopped suddenly, and then went swiftly forward to the cart, and said to Jack, "Goin' to take her out in that?"

Jack reddened a little, but answered pleasantly, "Perhaps."

"Well, I guess she'll like it better than the chips I told you about. I've thrown 'em away."

A ring from Ruby Ann's bell told the boys their recess was over, and with a bow Tom hurried off, while Jack and his chair went on till they reached Mrs. Biggs's door, just as Sam came up with the sea chair. That good woman was washing in her back kitchen, but in response to the drayman's knock she came hurriedly, wiping the soap-suds from her arms as she came, and holding up both hands as she saw the two chairs deposited at the door, while Sam held the note and roses, and Jack stood looking a little shamefaced, as if he hardly knew what to say.

"For the pity sakes and the old Harry, are you moving a furniture store, or what?" she asked.

Jack began to explain that Mrs. Amy thought, or he thought—He could not quite bring himself to lie as glibly as Howard would have done, had he been there, and he stammered on, that he thought Miss Smith would soon be able to get round in a wheel chair, which he hoped she would accept with the compliments of—He didn't say Mrs. Amy, but Mrs. Biggs understood, and nodded that she did, helping him out by saying it was just like Mrs. Amy, and adding that it looked a good deal like the chair the Colonel had for a spell and then returned to Lowell & Brothers, where she saw it a few days ago in the window.

Jack made no reply, and Mrs. Biggs continued, "I s'pose t'other chair is Mrs. Amy's compliments, too. I'm sure I'm greatly obliged to her, and Miss Smith will be. She is quite peart this morning. Come in and see her."

Jack did not think he would. He'd rather have Mrs. Biggs present his chair, feeling sure that her conscience was of the elastic kind, which would not stop at means if a good end was attained.

"Thanks," he replied. "Later in the day I may come in. Good-morning."

He walked away, leaving Mrs. Biggs alone with Sam, who was told to take the chairs into Eloise's room.

"Something from the Crompton House. From Mrs. Amy, they say. It is like her to be sending things where she takes a notion as she has to you," Mrs. Biggs said, while Eloise looked on in astonishment.

She read Howard's note, and her surprise increased as she said, "I ought not to keep them. Col. Crompton would not like it if he knew."

"Yes, you ought. Mrs. Amy does what she likes without consulting the Colonel," Mrs. Biggs rejoined. "It would not do to send them back and upset her, and isn't there a verse somewhere in the Bible about taking what the gods give ye?"

Eloise knew what she meant, and replied, "'Take the good the gods provide,' and they are certainly providing for me bountifully, but I must at least write a note of thanks to Mrs. Amy for her thoughtfulness and kindness."

To this Mrs. Biggs, who felt that she was in league with the young men, also objected.

"Better not," she said. "Better wait till you can go and thank her in person. I'll have Tim wheel you up some day. He'd like nothing better."

To this Eloise finally assented, and at once exchanged the hair-cloth rocker for the sea chair, which she found a great improvement. When Tim came from school he was told of the addition to the furniture in the parlor by his mother, who added, "I smelt a rat at once, and thought it a pity to spoil the young men's fun. Mrs. Amy don't know nothin' about them chairs, no more than the man in the moon, and if Miss Smith had much worldly sense she'd know they never came from Mrs. Amy. But she hain't. She's nothin' but a child, and don't dream that both them young men is jest bewitched over her. I don't b'lieve Mr. Howard means earnest, but t'other one does. He's got the best face. I'd trust myself with him anywhere."

Tim laughed at the idea that his mother could not trust herself with anybody, but said nothing. He was Eloise's devoted slave, and offered to wheel her miles if she cared to go; but she was satisfied with a few turns up and down the road, which gave her fresh air and showed her something of the country. The wheel chair was a great success, as well as the sea chair, in which she was sitting when the young men came in the afternoon to call, bringing some books which Mrs. Amy thought would interest her, and a box of candy, which Jack presented in his own person. He could not face her with Mrs. Amy as Howard could, and he felt himself a great impostor as he received her thanks for Mrs. Amy, who, he was sure, had entirely forgotten the girl.

No mention was ever made of her in Amy's presence or the Colonel's. He was not yet over his wrath at the accident to his carriage and horse, which, with strange perversity, he charged to the Normal. Brutus was getting well, but there would always be a scar on his shoulder, where the sharp-pointed shrub had entered the flesh. The carriage had been repaired, the stained cushions had been re-covered, and the Colonel had sworn at the amount of the bill, and said it never would have happened if the trustees had hired Ruby Ann in the first place, as they should have done. He knew she now had the school, and felt a kind of grim satisfaction that it was so. She was rooted and grounded, while the other one, as far as he could learn, was a little pink and white doll, with no fundamentals whatever. He had forgotten that Howard was to sound her, and did not dream how often that young man and his friend were at Mrs. Biggs's, not sounding Eloise as to her knowledge, but growing more and more intoxicated with her beauty and sweetness and entire absence of the self-consciousness and airs they were accustomed to find in most young ladies.

But for the non-arrival of the letter she was so anxious to get Eloise would have been comparatively happy, or at least content. Her ankle was gaining rapidly, and she hoped soon to take her place in school, Tim having offered to wheel her there every day and back, and assuring her that, mean as he was, Tom Walker was not mean enough to annoy her in her helpless condition. For some reason Eloise had not now much dread of Tom Walker, and expressed a desire to see him.

"Tell him to call," she said to Tim, who delivered her message rather awkwardly, as if expecting a rebuff.

"Oh, get out," was Tom's reply, "I ain't one of your callin' kind, with cards and things, and she'll see enough of me bimeby."

The words sounded more ungracious than Tom intended. He said he was not the calling kind, but the fact that he had been asked to do so pleased him, and two or three times he walked past Mrs. Biggs's in hopes to see the little lady in whom he was beginning to feel a good deal of interest. He met Jack occasionally, and always received a bow of recognition and a cheery "How are you, Tom?" until he began to believe himself something more than a loafer and a bully whom every hand was against. He was rather anxious for the little Normal to begin her duties, and she was anxious, too, for funds were low and growing less all the time.

"Wait till the Rummage is over. That is coming next week. You will want to go to that and see the people you have not seen, and your scholars, too. They are sure to be there," Ruby Ann said to her.

Ruby Ann was greatly interested in the Rummage Sale, as she was in anything with which she had to do, and all her spare time from her school duties was given to soliciting articles for it, and arranging for their disposition in the building where the sale was to be held. Eloise was interested because those around her were, and she offered her white apron a second time as the only thing she had to give.

"I guess I'll do it up and flute the ruffles," Mrs. Biggs said. "'Tain't mussy, but a little rinse and starch won't harm it."

She had given it a rinse and starch, and was ironing it when Jack came in, rather unceremoniously, as was his habit now that he came so often. This time he went to the kitchen door, as the other was locked, and found Mrs. Biggs giving the final touches to the apron, which she held up for his inspection.

"Rummage," she said. "Miss Smith's contribution. Ain't it a beauty?"

Jack was not much of a judge of aprons, but something in this dainty little affair interested him, and he wished at once that he knew of some one for whom he could buy it. His sister Bell never wore aprons to his knowledge, neither did Mrs. Amy. It was too small for Ruby Ann, and it would never do to give it back to Eloise. But he did not want any money but his own spent for it, and he believed he'd speak to Ruby Ann and have it put aside for him. He could tell her he had a sister, and she could draw her own inference.

"I swan, if I was a little younger, I'd buy it myself," Mrs. Biggs said, holding it up and slipping the straps over her shoulders and her hands into its pockets.