Jack felt relieved when she took it off, gave it another smooth with her iron, and folded it ready for the sale.

"I am going to put it in a box," she said, "with a card on it saying it is Miss Smith's contribution, and that she made every stitch herself."

Jack was now resolved that it should be his at any cost. As to its real value he had no idea, and when Mrs. Biggs said it "or'to bring a good price, and probably will seein' whose 'tis," he replied, "I should say so,—four or five dollars at least."

"For the Lord's sake," Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, dropping her flatiron in her surprise. "Four or five dollars! Are you crazy?"

"Do you think it ought to bring more?" Jack asked, and Mrs. Biggs replied, "Was you born yesterday, or when? If it brings a dollar it'll do well. Rummages ain't high priced. Four or five dollars! Well, if I won't give up!"

Jack did not reply, but he was beginning to feel a good deal of interest in the Rummage Sale, and his interest increased when he went in to see Eloise, and heard from her that she was going down in the evening, as Ruby Ann said it would be more lively then, with more people present and possibly an auction.

"Tim is to wheel me," she said, "and has promised not to run into any one, or tip me over. I feel half afraid of him, as he does stumble some."

Jack looked at her a moment as she leaned back in her chair, her blue dressing sacque open at the throat showing her white neck.

"Miss Smith," he said, "I shan't stumble. I'll take you. I'd like to. I'll make it right with Tim."

Eloise could not mistake the eagerness in his voice, and her cheeks flushed as she replied, "It is very kind in you and kind in Tim, who perhaps will be glad to be rid of the trouble."

"Of course he will," Jack said quickly. "Day after to-morrow, isn't it? I'll see you again and arrange just when to call for you, and now I must go. I'd forgotten that I was to drive with Howard this morning. Good-by."

He went whistling down the walk, thinking that a Rummage Sale was more interesting than anything which could possibly happen in the country, and that he'd telegraph to his sister to send something for it. As he started on his drive with Howard, he said, "Let's go first to the telegraph office, I want to wire to Bell."

They drove to the office, and in a few minutes there flashed across the wires to New York, "We are going to have a Rummage Sale for the poor. Send a lot of things, old and new, it does not matter which;—only send at once."

"I believe I made a mistake about the object of the sale. I said 'For the poor,' and it's for a public library, isn't it?" he said to Howard, who replied, "Seems to me you are getting daft on the Rummage. I don't care for it much. It will be like a Jews' or pawnbroker's bazaar, with mostly old clothes to sell."

"No, sir," Jack answered quickly. "It will not be at all like a pawnbroker's shop. Bell will send a pile of things. I know her, and Miss Smith is to be there in the evening, and it's going to be a great success."

"I see," and Howard laughed immoderately. "It is going to be a great success because Miss Smith is to be there. Is she for sale, and how is she going? Are we to take her in a hand chair, as we carried her that night in the rain?"

"No, sir!" Jack answered, "I am to wheel her and have heaps of fun, while you mope at home."

Howard thought it very doubtful whether he should mope at home. It would be worth something to see Jack wheeling Eloise, and worth a good deal more to see her, as he knew she would look flushed and timid and beautiful, with all the strangers around her. He had not felt much interest in the Rummage. Old clothes were not to his fancy, but he had promised a pair of half-worn boots to Ruby Ann, who had cornered him on the street, and wrung from him not only his boots, but half a dozen or more of the fifty neckties she heard he had strung on a wire around his room, so as to have them handy when he wanted to choose one to wear. Neckties were his weakness, and he never saw one which pleased him without buying it, and his tailor had orders to notify him of the last fashion as it came out. It was quite a wrench to part with any of them, but as some were passee he promised them to Ruby, but told her he hardly thought he should attend the sale. Now, however, he changed his mind. Eloise's presence would make a vast difference, and he should go; and he thought of a second pair of boots, and possibly a vest and a few more neckties he might add to the pile which he had heard from Peter was to be sent the next day from the Crompton House to the Rummage.



CHAPTER XIII

GETTING READY FOR THE RUMMAGE SALE

Never had District No. 5 been so stirred on the subject of any public entertainment as on the Rummage Sale. It was something entirely new and unique, and the whole neighborhood entered into it with great enthusiasm. Between the little village by the sea, which numbered about two thousand, and the radius known as District No. 5, which could not boast half that number, there was a kind of rivalry, the district claiming that it excelled the village in the quality of its inhabitants, if not in quantity. Its people were mostly well educated and intelligent, and they had Col. Crompton, with his fine house and grounds. He was gouty and rheumatic and past his prime it was true, but he was still a power among them, and they were proud of him and proud of themselves, and delighted that they had been the first to carry out the idea of a Rummage Sale, which had been brought to them by a visitor from western New York, who explained its workings, and gave almost fabulous accounts of the money made by such sales. The village had intended to have one, but District No. 5 was ahead, with the result that many of the villagers joined in, glad to be rid of articles which had been stowed away as useless.

At first it seemed incredible that any one would buy clothing which for years had hung in closets, or been packed in trunks away from moths and carpet bugs. But what had been done in other places could be done in District No. 5, and never was a more heterogeneous mass of goods of every description gathered together than was sent to the Rummage rooms the day before the sale, and dumped upon tables and chairs and boxes, until they nearly reached the rather low ceiling. There were old bonnets and hats, and boots and shoes and dresses, and coats and trousers and vests, and draperies and dishes, and stoves and chairs and tables and bedsteads, with books and old magazines and toys.

There was Mrs. Biggs's foot-stove and warming-pan, which had been her mother's, and a brass kettle, which had belonged to her grandmother, and which Mrs. Parker, the lady from western New York, said was the most valuable of all the articles sent. Antiques were sure to sell to relic hunters, and a big price must be put upon them, she told the committee who looked in dismay at the piles of goods as they came pouring in, wondering how they were ever to bring anything like order out of the confusion. They could not have done it without Mrs. Parker and Ruby Ann, the latter of whom had obtained permission to dismiss school for two days, and worked early and late. She had laid siege to the Crompton House, from which most of the others shrank. The Colonel was a rather formidable old fellow to meet, if he was in a mood with twinges in his foot, while Mrs. Amy was scarcely well enough known to the people generally to make them care to interview her.

On the strength of having been to school with her and known her since "she was knee high," Mrs. Biggs offered to call upon her, but declined seeing the Colonel, who, she heard, didn't believe in the Rummage. Ruby Ann, however, was selected as the fittest person to see both, and had undertaken the task with her usual assurance and energy. She found Amy a fine subject. The idea of giving always appealed to her, and she began at once to think of what she would send. The dresses she had worn as a concert singer were hateful to her, and she brought them from a closet and spread them upon chairs and tables, while Ruby looked on admiringly and wonderingly, too, as fans and gloves and sashes and ribbons were laid with the dresses, and Amy grew more excited and eager every moment.

"We'll go to the attic now," she said; "my doll house is there."

They climbed the stairs and found the house packed away as it had been for years.

"It may as well be sold and make some child happy," Amy said as she took off its wrappings.

In it was Mandy Ann, the doll the Colonel had bought in Savannah, and Judy, lying on her face in a pile of dust. Amy took her up tenderly, saying, "Do you think anybody will buy her?"

There was a little choke in her voice as she asked the question, for the sight of Judy had stirred memories which often flitted through her weak brain and puzzled her, they were so misty and yet so sweet, like the negro melodies she hummed to herself or sang to an imaginary baby.

"Buy her? I guess they would," Ruby Ann replied, all her blood astir at the thought of the doll house, with Judy and Mandy Ann.

She knew nothing of their antecedents, or how they were connected with Amy's childhood, but she felt intuitively that almost any price put upon them would be paid because they belonged to Mrs. Amy, and particularly because of the dilapidated appearance of Judy, which was sure to rouse the mirth of the spectators. She was very doubtful as to whether she ought to take the dresses without consulting some one besides Amy, to whom she said, "Are you sure you want to give these away? They are different from anything we shall have, and will seem out of place."

For a moment Amy looked at her with a strange glitter in her eyes, as she said, "I hate them! I have been going to burn them more than once. You don't know what they represent to me. I shall burn them, or tear them, if you don't take them."

She made a motion as if she were going to tear one of the lace flounces, when Ruby Ann stopped her by saying, "Don't, Mrs. Amy,—please don't. I'll take the dresses, of course. I only feared you might be giving too much, with the doll house and Mandy Ann and Judy. I want them, sure."

"Yes," Amy said, her mood changing. "Take them all; but don't try to improve them,—Mandy Ann and Judy, I mean."

There was another choke in her voice as she smoothed Judy's old brown dress, and brushed a bit of bran from her face. There was no danger that Ruby would try to change either Mandy Ann or Judy. They were perfect as they were, and telling Amy when the articles would be sent for, she left her and went to interview the Colonel, anticipating a different reception from what she had received from Mrs. Amy.

"Better not handle him to-day; he had some awful twinges this morning," Peter said, after she had "picked him clean," as he expressed it, "and scarcely left him a shoe to his foot or a coat to his back."

Ruby knew she could not come again, and in spite of Peter's advice, resolved to beard the lion at once. She found him, with his lame foot on a cushion, and a not very encouraging look on his face. He had liked Ruby ever since she first came to be examined as to her qualifications for a teacher, and he had found her rooted and grounded in the fundamentals, and he had taken sides stoutly for her when the question of normal graduates came up and Eloise had won the day. Ruby Ann's head was level, he always said, and when she was ushered into his room, he greeted her with as much of a smile as he could command, with his foot aching as it did. But the smile faded when she told him her errand, and said she was sure he would be glad to contribute either in money or clothing to so good a cause as the public library. The Colonel had not been consulted with regard to the library, except to be asked if he didn't think it would be a fine thing for the school and neighborhood generally. He was not very often consulted about anything now. Plans were made without him, and he was only asked to contribute, which he generally did.

Now, however, his back was up, Peter said to Ruby Ann, warning her of what she was to expect. He didn't believe in turning attics and cellars and barns inside out and scattering microbes by the millions. How did any one know what germs were lurking in old clothes? He knew a man who died of smallpox, and twenty-five years after his death a coat, which had hung in his closet, was given away, taking the disease with it to three or four people. No, he didn't believe in a Rummage. It was just a fad, got up by those who were always seeking for something new, and he wouldn't give a thing, not even an old stock such as he used to wear, and of which Ruby Ann knew he must have several.

"Who under heavens would buy an old stock, and why?" he asked, and Ruby Ann replied, "Just because it is an old stock and belonged to you."

The "belonged to you" mollified him a little, as it flattered his vanity, but the idea struck him as ridiculous, and he would not give in, and as Ruby Ann grew more and more persistent, telling of the antiques gathered up, and among them Mrs. Biggs's warming-pan and foot-stove and brass kettle,—old Mrs. Baker's quill wheel, and some other old lady's wedding bonnet, he grew furious and swore about the Rummage Sale, and might have sworn at Ruby Ann if she had not discreetly withdrawn and left him to himself and his twinges.

She was rather chagrined over her failure with the Colonel, from whom she had expected so much, but her success with Amy and the other members of the household made amends, and she left tolerably well satisfied with her work. She had not been gone long when Peter was summoned by a sharp ring to his master's room, and found him sitting very erect in his chair, listening intently to sounds overhead, where there was the scurrying of feet mingled with Amy's voice and that of her maid, as box after box was dragged across the floor.

"Peter!" the Colonel began, "shut the door!"

Peter had shut it and stood with his back against it, as the Colonel went on, "What in thunder is all that racket in the attic? Has the Rummage come up there? It commenced some time ago. Sounded as if they were pulling out trunks, then it stopped, and now they are at it again."

"That's just it. Mrs. Amy and Sarah were looking for something for the sale, and now, I suppose, they are pushing the boxes back. Mrs. Amy is greatly interested. I've never seen her so much like herself since she was a girl," was Peter's reply, whereupon the Colonel consigned the Rummage to perdition, with its old pots and kettles, and Mrs. Biggs's warming-pan and foot-stove and brass kettle, and Granny Baker's quill wheel and Mrs. Allen's wedding bonnet. Who was going to buy such truck? "And Peter," he said, in a lower tone of voice, "what do you think? Ruby Ann actually asked for my trousers! Yes, my trousers! And when I told her I hadn't any but what were shiny at the knees, she said it didn't matter; in fact, the shine would be all the better, showing they had been worn. They'd label 'em 'Col. Crompton's,' and hang them up with the valuables,—meaning Widow Biggs's warming-pan and foot-stove, and Widow Allen's bonnet, and that other old woman's quill wheel, I dare say. Think of it, Peter. My coat and trousers! She asked for a coat, too,—strung on a line with warming-pans and quill wheels and bonnets a hundred years old, and the Lord only knows what else, and labelled 'Col. Crompton.' If it had been anybody but Ruby Ann, I'd turned her from the room. I thought she had more sense,—upon my soul, I did! What did she get out of you?"

"Nothing much but some old clothes and shoes and a boot-jack; she thought a good deal of that," Peter said, and with a sniff of contempt the Colonel replied, "Old clothes and a boot-jack; and what is Mrs. Amy sending? Half the attic, I should think from the noise they make up there."

Hesitating a moment Peter said, "She is giving the fancy gowns she used to wear, with the tops of the waists and bottoms of the sleeves cut off. She says they are hateful to her."

The Colonel guessed what she meant, and replied, "Quite right; Rummage and rag-bags good places for them; but I say, Peter, I won't have them strung up with warming-pans and quill wheels and my trousers. You must stop it. Do you hear?"

"I didn't know your trousers were going," Peter suggested, and the Colonel answered curtly, "Who said they were, you blockhead? They are not going unless Ruby gets them in the night. Upon my soul, she is equal to it. I think I shall put them under my pillow. It is Mrs. Amy's dresses I mean. What else is she going to send?"

"You remember the doll house you bought her when she was a little girl?" Peter said.

"Good thunder, yes! Will she give that away?" the Colonel asked, with something in his tone which was more than surprise.

It hurt him that Amy should be willing to part with the doll house. She must be queerer than usual, and he thought of the Harris blood. Suddenly he remembered Mandy Ann and Judy, and asked if she was going to give them to the Rummage.

"She means to. Yes, sir. They go with the doll house, one as mistress, the other as maid. I heard her say so. They are downstairs now," was Peter's reply.

The Colonel's countenance fell, and there was an awful twinge in his foot, but he didn't mind it. His thoughts flew back to the palmetto clearing, where he first saw the little girl and Judy. Then they travelled on to Savannah and the store where he bought Mandy Ann, and so on through the different phases of Amy's childhood, and he was surprised to find how unwilling he was to part with what had been so intimately associated with years which, on the whole, had been happy, although at times a little stormy. And Amy was going to send them to a Rummage Sale!

"I may be a weak old fool, but I won't have them sold down there with quill wheels and warming-pans!" he thought.

But what could he do? They were Amy's, and if she had made up her mind to send them, it would take more than his opposition to prevent it. She was very gentle and yielding as a whole, but behind the gentleness and sweetness he knew there was a spirit he did not like to rouse. He must manage some other way. He had told Ruby he would neither give his clothes nor money to the farce, and he prided himself on never going back on his word. But he didn't tell her he wouldn't buy anything, and his face brightened as he said, very briskly, "Peter!"

"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply.

"Hold your tongue!"

"Yes, sir," was Peter's still more prompt reply, and his master continued, "I don't care a rap about those dresses, but I won't have Mandy Ann and the nigger baby and the doll house sold. I may be a hard old cur. I s'pose I am, but I have now and then a streak of,—I don't know what,—clinging to the years of Mrs. Amy's childhood. She turned the house upside down. She raised the very old Harry sometimes, but she got into our hearts somehow, didn't she?"

"Yes, a long ways," was Peter's reply, as he waited for what was next to come, and looked curiously at the Colonel, who sat with his eyes closed, clutching the arms of his chair tightly, as if suffering from a fearful twinge.

But if he were, he did not think of it. His mind was again in the palmetto clearing, and he was standing by Dory's grave in the sand, and a little child was holding his hand, and looking at him with eyes which had in them something of the same expression which had once quickened his pulse, and made his heart beat with a thrill he fancied was love, but which had died almost as soon as it was born. As a result of that episode he had Amy, whom he did love, and because he loved her so much, he clung to the mementoes of her babyhood, when she had been a torment and a terror, and still a diversion in his monotonous life.

"Peter!" he said again. "Hold your tongue, but get them somehow. Who is head of this tomfoolery?"

"Ruby Ann is about as big a head as there is, I guess. She and a woman from York State," Peter replied, and the Colonel continued, "Well, I s'pose those things will have to go to the sale, if Mrs. Amy says so, but I won't have them mixed with the quill wheels and boot-jacks and Widow Biggs's foot-stove and brass kettle, and I won't have a pack of idiots looking them over and buying them and saying they belonged to the Cromptons. Mandy Ann Crompton and Judy Crompton would sound fine,—both niggers! No, sir! You are to go quietly to Ruby Ann and buy 'em! Do you hear? Buy 'em! You knew Mrs. Amy when she played with 'em. You want 'em, and you'll pay the price, no matter what it is. Lord Harry! I'll bet they'll put a big one on 'em, but no matter. I paid thirty dollars for the doll house and five for Mandy Ann. I don't s'pose Judy cost anything, but the child liked it best, and I believe I'd rather have it than both the others, because—"

He did not say why, but he gripped the arms of his chair tightly, while drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He was in the clearing again with Dora living, instead of dead, and the moon was shining on her face as she stood in the turn of the road and gave him the promise she had kept so faithfully. Judy belonged to that far-off time, and he'd keep her at any cost. He called himself a sentimental old fool after Peter left him, and wondered why his eyes grew misty and there was a lump in his throat as his thoughts kept going back to the South he wished he had never seen.

"Poor little Dora!" he said to himself; "but for me she might have been alive and married to some respectable—No, by George!" he added suddenly, with a start which made his foot jump as he recalled the class into which Dora would probably have married if he had not crossed her path. "No, by George, I believe I'd rather she died in her youthful beauty, and was buried by Jake in the sand, than to see her the wife of some lout, and rubbing her gums with snuff."

He was roused from his reverie by wheels crunching on the gravel walk up to a side door, and he heard Sarah's voice and Cindy's, the cook's, and finally Amy's giving directions, and felt sure some one had come for whatever was to go from the Crompton Place to the sale. Ruby had not intended sending so soon when she left the house, but chancing to meet a drayman who had just deposited a load in the salesrooms, she bade him go for whatever was ready, thinking, "I'll strike while the iron is hot, and before Mrs. Amy has time to change her mind."

There was no danger of that, at least as far as the dresses were concerned. Like everything connected with her stage life, they had been to her a kind of nightmare whenever she thought of them, and she was glad to be rid of them. Mandy Ann and Judy did give her a few pangs, and especially the latter, and as she wrapped it in tissue paper she held it for a moment pressed close to her, and began a song she had heard from the negroes as they sat around their light-wood fire after their day's work was done. It was a weird melody which Homer Smith had caught up and revised and modernized, with a change of words in some places, and made her sing, knowing it would bring thunders of applause. She heard the roar now, and saw the audience and the flowers falling around her, and with an expression of disgust she put Judy into Sarah's hands, and said, "Take her away, and quick, too. She, or something, brings it back."

Sarah took poor, discarded Judy, tied her in her chair in the old doll house, which was placed on top of the two trunks containing Amy's concert dresses, and then the drayman started up his horse, and the Colonel heard the wheels a second time coming past his window. With a great effort he succeeded in getting upon his well foot, and, dragging the other after him, hobbled on his crutches to the window in time to see the cart as it turned into the avenue. As far as he could see it he watched it as the doll house swung from side to side, and the drayman held it to keep it from falling off.

"I don't see how Amy could have done it," the Colonel said to himself when the dray disappeared from view, and then becoming conscious of the pain in his foot, he dragged himself back to his chair, and ringing for Peter, said to him: "I think I'll lie down a spell,—and, bring me a hot-water bag, I'm pretty cold, and my foot just jumps; and, Peter, go to-day and buy those things as if they were for yourself. You mustn't lie, of course,—but get 'em somehow, and bring them here to this big closet. The chances are when Mrs. Amy comes to her senses she'll want 'em, and raise Ned, as she used to. I'd give a good deal to see her in a tantrum. I'd rather have her that way than passive, as she is now. Will nothing ever rouse her out of her apathy? Curse that Homer Smith!"

He was talking to himself rather than to Peter, who got him on to the lounge, adjusted the cushions, brought a hot-water bag, covered him up, and then left him, saying, "Don't fret, I'll go this afternoon and get Judy and Mandy Ann by fair means or foul."

"All right," the Colonel said drowsily. "Fair means or foul, but don't lie, and don't let them think they are for me. You want them, and must get them, fair means or foul. You know where my purse is. Hold your tongue, and go!"



CHAPTER XIV

THE FIRST SALE

Order was being brought out of chaos in the Rummage rooms, where twenty ladies were working industriously, sorting, pricing, and marking the multitudinous articles heaped upon the counters. Not only District No. 5, but the village had emptied itself, glad to be rid of the accumulations of years. Nearly every room was occupied, and the committees were showing great skill in assigning things to the different departments. The antiques had a niche by themselves; the quill wheel, the warming-pan, the foot-stove, the brass kettle with Peter's boot-jack, and many more articles of a similar character were placed together. Jack's sister had responded quickly, and a large box had arrived with articles curious and new, which elicited cries of delight from the ladies in charge, who marked them at a ridiculously low price, less even, in some instances, than had been paid for them, and labelled their corner "The New York Store."

Scarcely was this completed when the drayman arrived from Crompton Place with the doll house and the two trunks, the last of which were pounced upon first, as Ruby Ann had reported what was in them. Her description, however, had fallen far short of the reality, and the ladies held their breath, as one after another of the beautiful gowns was taken out for exhibition. Few had ever seen anything just like them. Homer Smith had prided himself upon being a connoisseur in ladies' costumes and had directed all of Amy's, taking care that there was no sham about them. Everything was real, from the fabric itself to the lace which trimmed it, and which alone had cost him hundreds of dollars. And now they were at a Rummage Sale, and the managers did not know what to do with them. It was scarcely possible that any one would buy them, and it would be greatly out of place to exhibit them in the dry-goods department with Mrs. Biggs's brown and white spotted gown which she had contributed rather unwillingly, insisting that it should not be sold for less than a dollar. Ruby Ann suggested that they be carefully folded in boxes and laid away by themselves for inspection by any one who had a thought of buying them. If they did not sell, and probably they would not, they were to be returned either to Amy or to the Colonel,—the latter most likely, as Amy had expressed so strong a desire to be rid of them. Her suggestion was acted upon, and the dresses laid aside, and the attention of the managers turned to the doll house and its occupants, Mandy Ann and Judy, the latter of whom was greeted with shrieks of laughter.

Here was something that would sell, but what price to put upon it was a puzzle. No one had any idea of the original cost. Mrs. Biggs, who had joined the working force and whose voice was loudest everywhere, suggested ten dollars, with the privilege of falling, but was at once talked down, as low prices were to be the rule for everything, and five was quite enough. There were few who would pay that for a mere plaything for their children, so the card upon it was marked five dollars, with the addition that it had once belonged to Mrs. Amy Crompton Smith. It was then placed conspicuously in a window before which a group of eager, excited children gathered, and to which early in the afternoon Peter came leisurely.

The Colonel had asked him several times why he didn't go, and had finally grown so petulant that Peter had started, wondering how much he'd have to pay and what excuse he was to make for wanting it himself. His instructions were not to lie, but get it somehow without using the Colonel's name. Finding Ruby Ann alone, he began, "I say, do you make any sales before the thing opens?"

"Why, yes, we can," Ruby answered. "Several antiques are promised, if not actually sold, your boot-jack with the rest. Could sell another if we had it. Any particular thing you want?"

"Yes, I want that house in the window and the two women in it,—Mandy Ann and Judy. It's marked five dollars. Here's your money," and he laid a crisp five-dollar bill in her hand.

"Why, Peter,—why, Peter," Ruby exclaimed in surprise, with a sense of regret that more had not been asked, and a feeling of wonder as to why Peter wanted it. "Are you buying it for yourself?" she asked, and Peter replied, "Who should I buy it for? I knew Mrs. Amy when she was a little girl and played with it and slept with that nigger baby Judy. I've bought it. It's mine, and I'll take it right away. There's a drayman now, bringing a worn-out cook-stove and an old lounge."

"Oh, but, Peter,—please leave it till the sale is over. It draws people to look at it, and then they'll come in," Ruby said, while others of the ladies joined their entreaties with hers.

But Peter was firm. He had bought the doll house and paid for it. It was his, and in spite of the protests of the entire committee which gathered round him like a swarm of bees he took it away, and an hour later it was safely deposited in the Colonel's room without Amy's knowledge. The Colonel was delighted.

"Bring it close up," he said, "but first take off that infernal card that it belonged to 'Mrs. Amy Crompton Smith.' That's the way they'd marked my trousers! Give me Mandy Ann and Judy. I haven't seen them in more than twenty years,—yes, nearer thirty. Upon my soul they wear well, especially the old lady. She was never very handsome, but Amy liked her best," he said, laughing a little as Peter put Judy in his lap.

He did not know that he had ever touched her before, and he held her between his thumb and finger, with something which felt like a swelling in his throat,—not for Judy, nor for Amy, but for poor Dory, thoughts of whom were haunting him these days with a persistency he could not shake off.

"What did you give?" he asked, and Peter replied. "Five dollars,—just what it was marked."

"Five dollars! Heavens and earth!" and Judy fell to the floor, while the Colonel grasped his knees with his hands and sat staring at Peter. "Five dollars! Are you an idiot, and have none of them common sense?" he asked, and Peter replied, "That was the price, and I didn't like to beat them down."

Ruby Ann isn't easy to tackle, and Mrs. Biggs was there with her gab, if she is my niece, and said I got it dirt cheap."

"Go to thunder with your Ruby Ann and Mrs. Biggs and dirt cheap!" the Colonel roared. "Who said I wanted you to beat 'em down? Why, man, I told you I gave thirty for the house and five for Mandy Ann, and here they have sold the whole caboodle, Judy and all, for five dollars! Five dollars! Do you hear? Five dollars, for what cost thirty-five! I consider they've insulted Mandy Ann and Judy both. Five dollars! I'll be—"

He didn't finish his sentence, for he heard Amy's voice in the hall. She might be coming, and he said hastily to Peter, "Put them in the closet. Don't let her see them, or there'll be the old Harry to pay."

Peter obeyed, but Amy did not come in, and after a moment the Colonel continued, "We will keep them here a while. I dare say she'll never think of them again. She doesn't think much. Do you believe she will ever be any better?"

The Colonel's voice shook as he asked the question, and Peter's shook a little as he replied, "Please God she may. A great shock of some kind might do it."

"Yes, but where is the shock to come from, hedged round as she is from every rough wind or care?" the Colonel said, little thinking with what strides the shock was hastening on, or through what channel it was to come.



CHAPTER XV

AT THE RUMMAGE

The rooms were ready at last, and twenty tired ladies went through them to see that every thing was in its proper place, and then went home with high anticipations of the morrow and what it would bring. It opened most propitiously and was one of those soft, balmy September days, more like early June than autumn. There were brisk sales and crowds of people all day, with the probability of greater crowds and brisker sales in the evening. Jack Harcourt was in and out, watching the sale of what his sister had sent, drinking cups of chocolate every time a pretty girl asked him to do so, and buying toys and picture books and candy, and distributing them among the children gathered around the door and windows. He thought he had looked at everything on sale, but had failed to find the white apron. Where was it? he wondered. He would not ask Ruby Ann or Mrs. Biggs, as that would be giving himself away. It would certainly be there in the evening when he was to bring Eloise in her chair. He had settled that with Tim, who gave up rather unwillingly, but was consoled by being hired as errand boy,—an office he could not have filled had he been hampered with a wheel chair.

The night was glorious, with a moon near its full, and a little before seven Jack presented himself at Mrs. Biggs's, finding Eloise ready and alone. Tim was at the rooms, running hither and thither at everybody's beck and call, and his mother was there, running the whole thing,—judging from her manner as she moved among the crowd filling the rooms nearly to suffocation. Eloise had more than once changed her mind about going, as she sat waiting for Jack. She was shy with strangers, and there would be so many there, and she would be so conspicuous in her chair, with Mr. Harcourt in attendance, that she began to doubt the propriety of going.

"If it were Tim who was to take me, I believe I should feel differently," she was thinking, when Jack came in, breezy and excited,—full of the Rummage and anxious to be off.

"You are ready, I see," he said. "That's right. We have no time to lose. And there's no end of fun. I've been there half the day, and drank chocolate, and eaten cake and candy till I never want to see any more. But you will."

He was adjusting her dress and getting the chair in motion as he talked, and Eloise had no time to suggest that she ought not to go, before she found herself out upon the piazza, and Jack, who had locked the door, was putting the key under the mat.

"You see I remember where I found it that time Howard and I desiccated the Sabbath by calling upon you," he said, with a laugh in which Eloise joined.

"Is Mr. Howard going?" she asked, and Jack replied, "He is a kind of lazy fellow, but he'll be there all right;" and the first one they saw distinctly as they drew near the house was Howard, struggling with the crowd.

Howard had gone down on purpose to see Eloise, and was wondering how with her chair she could ever be gotten through that mass of people, when she appeared at the door, and, with Howard, wondered how she was to get in. She might not have accomplished it if he had not come to the rescue with two boys,—one Tim Biggs, the other a tall, freckled-faced, light-haired fellow whom Jack greeted as Tom, saying, "Can you manage to find a good position for Miss Smith?"

"You bet," came simultaneously from both boys, and immediately four sharp elbows were being thrust into the sides of the people, who moved all they could and made a passage for Eloise and her chair near the middle of the room, and in a comparatively sheltered place where she could see everything without being jostled.

If she could see everything and everybody, so everybody could see her, and for a moment there was a hush in the large room where every eye was turned upon Eloise, who began to feel very uncomfortable, and wish she had not come. She had wondered what she ought to wear, and had decided upon black as always suitable. When she left California her mother had urged her to take a small velvet cape lined with ermine. It was the only expensive article of dress she had, and she was very choice of it, but to-night she wore it about her shoulders, as later the air was inclined to blow up cool and damp from the sea. Just as they reached the house Jack stooped to arrange it, throwing it back on either side so that more of the ermine would show.

"There! You look just like a queen! Ermine is very becoming to you," he said, and the people staring at her thought so, too.

Her head was uncovered, and her hair, which waved softly around her forehead, was wound in a flat knot low in her neck, making her look very young, as she sat shrinking from the fire of eyes directed towards her and saw, if she did not hear, the low whispers of the people, many of whom had never seen her before, and were surprised at her extreme youth and beauty. Ruby Ann was at a distance, trying to sell Mrs. Biggs's spotted brown and white wrapper to a scrub woman who was haggling over the price which Mrs. Biggs had insisted should be put upon it. That good woman was busy in the supper-room, or she would have made her way at once to Eloise, who, as she looked over the sea of faces confronting her, saw no one she knew except Howard Crompton, who had been very uncomfortable in the heat and air of the place until she came, and with her fresh, fair young face seemed at once to change the whole atmosphere. Jack, who was not used to much exertion and had found even Eloise's light weight a trifle heavy, especially up the hill near the Rummage house, was sweating at every pore, and fanning himself with a palm leaf he had bought at the entrance.

"By George!" he said to Howard, who was standing by them. "It's hotter than a furnace in here. I believe I'll have to go outside and cool off a minute, if you'll stay and keep guard over Miss Smith."

"Certainly;—with pleasure," Howard said, putting his hand on Eloise's chair and asking if there was anything he could do for her.

She was watching the brown and white spotted gown, and to Howard's question she shook her head, while he continued, "Jack says the chocolate is pretty fair. He ought to know—he has drank six cups. I am going to bring you some."

Before she could protest that she did not care for chocolate, he left her and his place was at once taken by the tall, lank, light-haired boy, whose elbows had done so good execution in forcing a passage for the chair. Tom had been watching her ever since she came in, and making up his mind. He had heard she was pretty, but that did not begin to express his opinion of her, as she sat with the ermine over her shoulders, the soft sheen on her hair, the bright color on her cheeks, and a look in her eyes which fascinated him, boy though he was, as it did many an older man, from Mr. Bills to Jack, and Howard Crompton. If his two chips had not been thrown away he would have thrown them now, and still the feeling in him which people called cussedness was so strong that he could not repress a desire "to see what stuff she was made off."

Taking Howard's vacant place he pushed himself forward until he was nearly in front of her, where he could look into her face. She recognized him as the boy Jack had called Tom, and guessed who he was,—her eyes drooping under his rather bold gaze, and her color coming and going. Tom was not sure what he was going to say to her, and could never understand why he said what he did. He had been told so often by Mr. Bills and others that he needed licking, and so many teachers had licked him, to say nothing of his drunken father, that the idea was in his mind, but as something wholly at variance with this dainty little girl, who at last looked at him fearlessly. She knew he was going to speak to her, but was not prepared for his question.

"You are the new schoolmarm, ain't you? Do you think you could lick me?"

Just for an instant Eloise was too much surprised to answer, while the hot blood surged into her face, then left it spotted here and there, making Tom think of pink rose petals with white flecks in them. But she didn't take her eyes from the boy, who was ashamed of himself before she said with a pleasant laugh, "I know I couldn't; and I don't believe I shall ever wish to try. I am the new school-teacher, and you are Mr. Thomas Walker!"

She did not know why she put on the Mr. It came inadvertently, but was the most fortunate thing she could have done. To be called Thomas was gratifying, but the Mr. was quite overpowering and made Tom her ally at once.

"I'm Thomas Walker,—yes," he said. "Miss Patrick has told you about me, I dare say,—and Mr. Bills, and Widder Biggs, and Tim. Oh, I know he's told you a lot what I was goin' to do,—but it's a lie. I have plagued Miss Patrick some, I guess, and she whaled me awful once, but I've reformed. I didn't s'pose you was so little. I could throw you over the house, but I shan't. Say, when are you going to begin? I'm tired of Miss Patrick's everlasting same ways of doing things, and want something new,—something modern, you know."

He was getting very familiar, and Eloise was chatting with him on the most friendly terms, when Howard came back with a cup of chocolate, a part of which was spilled before he reached her. Howard knew who the young blackguard was, and glowered at him disapprovingly, but Eloise said, "Mr. Crompton, this is Thomas Walker, one of my biggest scholars that is to be. Some difference in our height, isn't there? but we shall get on famously. I like big boys and taught a lot of them in Mayville."

She smiled up at Tom and gave him her empty cup to take away. He would have stood on his head if she had asked him to, and he hurried off with the cup, meeting Jack, who had cooled himself, bought a pound of candy at one table and some flowers at another, and was making his way back to Eloise. He had also looked round a little for the apron he was going to buy, but could not find it. He'd make another tour of inspection later, he thought, for he meant to have it, if it were still there. Taking his stand on one side of Eloise's chair while Howard stood on the other, the three made a striking tableau at which many looked admiringly, commenting upon the beauty of the young girl,—the kind, good-humored face of Jack, and the haughty bearing of Howard, who, an aristocrat to his finger tips, watched the proceedings with an undisguised look of contempt showing itself in his sarcastic smile and the expression of his eyes.

Eloise was greatly interested and so expressed herself. She had seen the scrub woman haggling with Ruby Ann over the brown and white spotted wrapper, and had seen it laid aside until another customer came, when the same haggling took place with the same result, for Mrs. Biggs, who darted in and out, still clung to the price put upon it and so retarded the sale. The last time Ruby Ann brought it out Howard and Jack both recognized it.

"By Jove! I've half a mind to buy it myself as a kind of souvenir," Jack said, but a look of disgust in Eloise's face and a frown on Howard's deterred him, and he kept very quiet for a while, wondering where that apron was and if by any possibility it could have been sold.

The box of articles which Jack's sister had sent from New York had been sold early in the day, and Amy's dresses had not been opened. Nearly everything of any value was gone. Two of Howard's neckties still remained conspicuously near the young men, who watched Tom Walker as he examined them very critically, and they heard the saleswoman say, "They belonged to Mr. Howard Crompton. They say he has dozens of them and all first-class. This suits you admirably,"—and she held up a white satin one with a faint tinge of blue.

Tom took it, disappeared for a few minutes, and when he came back to the chair he was resplendent in his new necktie which he had adjusted in the dressing-room, adding to it a Rhine-stone pin bought at the jewelry counter. Howard's vanity told him he was complimented, and that restrained the laugh which sprang to his lips at the incongruity between Tom's dress and the satin necktie bought for a grand occasion in Boston, which Howard had attended a few months before. On his way back to the group to which he felt he belonged Tom had stopped at the candy table and inquired the price of the fanciful boxes, his spirits sinking when told the pounds were fifty cents and the half-pounds twenty-five. Money was not very plenty with Tom, and what he had he earned himself. The necktie had made a heavy draft on him, and twenty cents was all he could find in either pocket.

"I say, Tim, lend me a nickel. I'll pay it back. I hope to die if I don't," he said to Tim, who was hurrying past him on some errand for his mother.

"I hain't no nickels to lend," was Tim's answer, as he disappeared in the crowd, leaving Tom hovering near the candy table and looking longingly at the only half-pound box left.

"I say," he began, edging up to the girl in charge, "can't you take out a piece or two and let me have it for twenty cents? All the money I have in the world! 'Strue's I live, and I want it awfully for the new schoolmarm over there in the chair with them swells standin' by her."

It was the last half-pound box and the girl was tired.

"Yes, take it," she said, and Tom departed, happier if possible with his candy than with his necktie.

"I bought it for you. It's chocolate. I hope you like it," he said, depositing his gift in Eloise's lap, where Jack's box was lying open and half empty, for Eloise's weakness was candy.

"Oh, thank you, Thomas," she said, beaming upon him a smile which more than repaid him for having spent all his money for her.

She was really very happy and thought a good deal of Rummage Sales. She had the best place in the hall;—a good many people had spoken to her. She had won Tom Walker, body and soul, and she knew that her escorts, Howard and Jack, added eclat to her position. She had scarcely thought of her foot, which at last began to ache a little. She was getting tired and wondered how much longer the sale would last. Jack wondered so, too; not that he was tired. He could have stood all night looking at Eloise and seeing the people admire her; but he was rather stout and apt to get very warm in a room where the atmosphere was close as it was here, and he wanted to be out in the fresh air again. He could take his time wheeling Eloise home, and if Mrs. Biggs staid at the rooms, as he heard her say she was going to do "till the last dog was hung," he could stay out in the porch and enjoy the moonlight with Eloise's eyes shining upon him. But where was that apron? Perhaps it hadn't come after all. He'd inquire. But of whom? Mrs. Biggs was in the supper-room. He did not care to go there again, for every time he appeared somebody was sure to get off on him a cup of chocolate or coffee, and he could not drink any more.

Ruby Ann was busy,—her face very red and her eyes very tired, as she tried to sell the most unsalable articles to old women who wanted something for nothing, and quarrelled with the quality and quarrelled with the price. His only recourse was Eloise, and he planned a long time how to approach the subject without mentioning her apron. At last a happy inspiration came to him, and when Howard's attention was diverted another way he bent over her and began.



CHAPTER XVI

THE AUCTION

"Astonishing, isn't it, where all the stuff comes from? Somebody must have given very freely. I never gave a thing except money. Bell sent a lot to be sure, and it's all sold. They had a pile from the Crompton House. They were good at begging. They didn't expect anything of you, a stranger, of course?"

"Oh, yes," Eloise replied. "I had an apron which Miss Patrick seemed to think might sell for something. It was rather pretty, and I made it myself. I haven't seen it, and think it may have been sold, or perhaps Mrs. Biggs, who had it in charge, forgot it. She has had a great deal on her mind."

Jack did not hear more than half Eloise was saying. One fact alone was clear. She had expected the apron to be there and he would look it up.

"Excuse me," he said, and going into the room where Mrs. Biggs was trying to make half a loaf of bread do duty as a whole loaf to a party just arrived, he said to her, "Pardon me, Mrs. Biggs, but did you send or bring Miss Smith's contribution to the sale? I believe it was an apron. She has not seen it."

The bread fell from Mrs. Biggs's hand to the table, and the knife followed it to the floor as she exclaimed, "Lord of heavens! I forgot it till this minute. Where's Tim?"

She darted from the room and found Tim bringing two pails of water, "the last gol darned thing he was going to do that night," he said, as he put them down. Seizing him by the collar his mother almost shrieked, "Run home for your life, Tim!"

"Why-er,—what-er! Is our house afire?" Tim asked, and his mother replied, "No, but Miss Smith's apron is there. I clean forgot it. You'll find it in a paper box on my bed, or in my bureau, or on the closet shelf, pushed away back, or somewhere. Now clip it."

Tim started without his hat, and the last thing he heard was his mother's voice shrill as a clarion, "If you don't find the key under the mat, climb inter the but'ry winder, but don't upset the mornin's milk!"

Business was beginning to slacken and sales were few. Some of the people had gone home and others were going, and still there were quantities of goods unsold. An auction was the only alternative and Mr. Bills, who, to his office of school commissioner, added that of auctioneer, was sent for. There was no one like him in Crompton for disposing of whatever was to be disposed of, from a tin can to a stove-pipe hat. He could judge accurately the nature and disposition of his audience,—knew just what to say and when to say it, and had the faculty of making people bid whether they wanted to or not. To hear him was as good as a circus, his friends said, and when it became known that he was to auction off the goods remaining from the sale, many who had left came back, filling the rooms again nearly as full as they were early in the evening.

Eloise's chair was moved a little more to the front,—a long counter was cleared, and on it Mr. Bills took his stand, smiling blandly upon the crowd around him and then bowing to Eloise and her escorts, Jack and Howard. He was bound to do his best before them and took up his work eagerly. He was happiest when selling clothes which he could try on, or pretend to, and after disposing of several bonnets amid roars of laughter he took up Mrs. Biggs's gown, which Ruby Ann had not been able to sell. Here was something to his mind and he held it out and up, and tried its length on himself and expatiated upon its beauty and its style and durability until he got a bid of twenty-five cents, and this from Howard, who said to Eloise, "It seems a pity not to start the old thing at something, and I suppose the Charitable Society will take it. I believe there is one in town."

Eloise did not answer. The spotted gown was an offence to her, and she shut her eyes while Mr. Bills, delighted that he had a bid at last and from such a source, began, "Thank you, sir. You know a good thing when you see it, but only twenty-five cents! A mere nothing. Somebody will give more, of course, for this fine tea gown to put on hot afternoons. Just the thing. Twenty-five cents! Twenty-five cents! Do I hear more? Twenty-five! Did you say thirty?" and he looked at Jack, who half nodded, and the bids, raised five cents at a time, rolled on between Jack and Howard and another young man, who cared nothing for the gown, but liked the fun. Fifty cents was reached at last, and there the bidding ceased and Mr. Bills was ringing the changes on half a dollar, half a dollar, for a robe de chambre;—he called it that sometimes, and sometimes a tea gown, and once a robe de nu-it, which brought peals of laughter from those who understood the term, as he certainly did not. In the dining-room Mrs. Biggs was busy washing dishes, but kept her ears open to the sounds in the next room, knowing Mr. Bills was there and anxious to get in and see the fun. When the last shouts reached her she dropped her dish towel, saying to her companion, "I can't stand it any longer. I've got to go and see what Bills is up to!"

Elbowing her way in she caught sight of her gown held aloft by Mr. Bills, and heard his voluble "Going, going, at fifty cents."

She had thought it low at a dollar, and here it was as good as gone for fifty cents,—to whom she did not know or care,—probably the scrub woman who had looked at it earlier in the evening and offered sixty. Her blood was up, and making her way to Mr. Bills she snatched at her gown, exclaiming, "It's mine, and shall never go for fifty cents, I tell you!"

Here was a diversion, and Mr. Bills met it beautifully.

"Jess so, Miss Biggs," he said, bowing low to her. "I admire your taste and judgment. I've told 'em time and time over it was worth more than fifty. The fact is they don't know what is what, but you and I do. Shall we double right up and shame 'em by sayin' a dollar? A dollar! A dollar! and going!"

Mrs. Biggs did not know that she assented, she was so excited, and afterwards declared she didn't: but the final Going was said, with "Gone! to Mrs. Biggs, for one dollar. Cheap at that!"

At this juncture, when the hilarity was at its height and Mrs. Biggs was marching off with her property, which she said she should never pay for, Tim appeared, hatless and coatless, but with the box in his hand. When Jack locked the door he pushed the key further under the mat than was usual, and failing to find it at once, and being in a hurry, Tim made his entrance into the house through the pantry window, upsetting the pan of milk and a bowl of something, he did not stop to see what, in his haste to find the box. It was not on the bed, nor on the bureau, nor pushed back on a shelf in the closet. It was on a chair near the door where his mother had put it and then forgotten it. As the key was outside Tim made his exit the way he came in, stopping a moment to look at the milk the cat was lapping with a great deal of satisfaction.

"Bobbs, you'll have a good supper, and I shall catch old hundred for giving it to you," he said, picking up the pan and springing through the window.

He was very warm, and taking off his coat he threw it across his arm and started rapidly for the sale, knowing before he reached it that Mr. Bills was there by the sounds he heard. He had no thought that the apron was not to be sold at auction. Probably that was why it was wanted, and pushing through the crowd to Mr. Bills he handed him the box, saying, "Here 'tis. I 'bout run my legs off to get it. Make 'em pay smart."

"Mr. Bills! Mr. Bills!" came excitedly from Ruby Ann, but Mr. Bills did not hear, the buzz of voices was so great.

He had opened the box and taken out the apron, which he handled far more carefully than he had the spotted gown.

"Now this is something like first-class business," he said, holding it up. "The prettiest thing you ever saw,—a girl's apron, all ruffled and prinked, and,—yes,—made by—"

He had glanced at the card, which said it was made by Miss Smith, and was about to announce that fact, feeling sure it would bring bidders, when he chanced to look at Eloise, whose face was nearly as white as the apron, and in whose eyes he saw an expression which checked the words. But he had no idea of relinquishing the article, and misunderstood the motion of Jack's hand to stop him.

"Now, give me an offer," he began,—"a first-rate one, too; none of your quarters, nor halves. Bid high and show you know something. 'Tain't every day you have a chance to buy as fine a thing as this. You who have wives, or daughters, or sisters, or sweethearts, or want it for yourselves, speak up! Walk up! Roll up! Tumble up! Any way to get up, only come up and bid!"

He was looking at Jack, whose face was as red as Eloise's was pale.

"If the thing must be sold at auction it shall bring a good price, and I'll get it, too," he thought.

Standing close to him was Tom Walker, who all the evening had hovered near Eloise.

"Tom," Jack said. "I have a sister, you know."

Tom didn't know, but he nodded, and Jack went on: "That apron is the only thing I've seen that I really want for her. I am not worth a cent to bid. Will you do it for me?"

Tom nodded again, and Jack continued, "Well, start pretty high. Keep your eyes on me, and when I look at you raise the bid if there is any against you. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, understanding more than Jack thought he did.

He guessed whose apron it was and did not believe much in the sister, but he had his instructions and waited for the signal. Howard had watched the sale of the spotted gown with a great deal of amusement, but was beginning to feel tired with standing so long, and was wondering when Jack proposed taking Eloise home. That he would go with them was a matter of course, and he was about to speak to Jack when Tim came in and the apron sale began. He had no idea whose it was until he saw the halt in Mr. Bills's manner, and looked at Eloise. Then he knew, and knew, too, that nothing could get Jack away till the apron was disposed of. That Jack would buy it he did not for a moment dream, for what could he do with it? "But yes, he is going to buy it," he thought, as he heard Jack's instructions to Tom, "and I mean to have some fun with him, and run that apron up."

Close to him was Tim, and the sight of him put an idea into Howard's mind. It would be jolly for Tom and Tim to bid against each other, while he and Jack backed them.

"Tim," he said, laying his hand on the boy's arm, "I am going to buy that apron for Mrs. Amy, and I want you to bid for me against Tom Walker and everybody. I have no idea what it is worth, but when I squeeze your arm so, bid higher!"

He gave Tim's arm a clutch so tight that the boy started away from him, saying, "Great Peter, don't pinch like that! You hurt! 'cause I'm in my shirt sleeves."

"All right. I'll be more careful," Howard said. "Now begin, before Tom has time to open the ball."

"Yes, but-er, what-er shall I bid?" Tim stammered.

"How do I know? It's Miss Smith's, and on that account valuable. Go in with a dollar."

All this time Mr. Bills had been talking himself hoarse over the merits of the apron, while his audience were watching Howard and Jack, with a feeling of certainty that they were intending to bid, but they were not prepared for Tim's one dollar, which startled every one and none more so than his mother, who, having rolled up her spotted gown "in a wopse," as she said, and put it with her dish pan and towels, had come back in time to hear Tim's astonishing bid. She could not see him for the crowd in front of her, but she could make him hear, and her voice was shrill and decided as she called out, "Timothy Biggs! Be you crazy? and where are you to get your dollar, I'd like to know!"

"Tell mother to mind her business! I know what I'm about!" Tim said to some one near him, while Mr. Bills rang the changes on that dollar with astonishing volubility, and Tom kept his eyes on Jack for a signal to raise.

Jack was taken by surprise, but readily understood that it was Howard against whom he had to contend and not Tim.

"All right, old chap," he whispered, then looked full at Tom, who, eager as a young race horse, shouted a dollar and a half!

"All right," Jack said again, and turned to Eloise on whose face there was now some color, as she began to share in the general excitement pervading the room and finding vent in laughter and cheers when Tom's bid was raised to two dollars by Tim, and two and a quarter was as quickly shrieked by Tom. Everybody now understood the contest and watched it breathlessly, a great roar going up when Tim lost his head and mistaking a slight movement of Howard's hand on his arm, raised his own bid from three dollars to three and a half!

"That's right," Mr. Bills said; "you know a thing or two. We are getting well under way. Never enjoyed myself so well in my life. Three and a half! three and a half! Who says four?"

"I do," Tom yelled, his yell nearly drowned by the cheers of the spectators, some of whom climbed on chairs and tables to look at Tom and Tim standing, one next to Howard and the other next to Jack, with Eloise the central figure, her ermine cape thrown back, and drops of sweat upon her forehead and around her mouth.

She almost felt as if it were herself Howard and Jack were contending for instead of her apron, which Mr. Bills was waving in the air like a flag, with a feeling that he had nearly exhausted his vocabulary and didn't know what next to say. Four dollars was a great deal for an apron, he knew, but he kept on ringing the changes on the four dollars,—a measly price for so fine an article, and for so good a cause as a Public Library. And while he talked and repeated his going, going, faster and faster, Tim stood like a hound on a leash fretting for a sign to raise.

"You ain't goin' to be beat by Tom Walker, be you?" he said, in a whisper to Howard, who gave him a little squeeze, with the words "Go easy," spoken so low that Tim did not hear them, and at once raised the four dollars to four and a half, while quick as lightning Tom responded with five dollars.

Jack hadn't really looked at him, but it did not matter. He was going to have the apron, and turning to Howard he said, "I don't know how long you mean to keep this thing up. I am prepared to go on all night."

Howard felt sure he was and decided to stop, and his hand dropped from Tim's shoulder quite to the disgust of that young man, who said, "You goin' to let 'em lick us?"

"I think I'll have to," Howard replied, while "Five dollars, and going!" filled the room until the final "Gone!" was spoken, and the people gave gasps of relief that it was over.

"Sold for five dollars to Thomas Walker, who will please walk up to the captain's office and pay," Mr. Bills said, handing the apron to Tom, who held it awkwardly, as if afraid of harming it.

"I guess it's yourn," he said, giving it to Jack, who knew as little what to do with it as Tom.

Ruby came to his aid and took it from him. She had watched the performance with a great deal of interest, comprehending it perfectly and feeling in a way sorry for Eloise, whose lips quivered a little when she went up to her, and bending over her said, "You should feel complimented, but I'm afraid you are very tired."

"Yes, very tired and warm. I want to get into the fresh air," Eloise said, shivering as if she were cold instead of warm.

Jack had gone to the cashier's desk to pay for the apron, and Tom undertook the task of getting the wheel chair through the crowd, running against the people promiscuously, if they impeded his progress, and caring little whom he hit if he got Eloise safely outside the door. The night was at its best, almost as light as day, as they emerged from the hot, close room, and Eloise drew long breaths of the cool air which blew up fom the sea, the sound of whose waves beating upon the shore could be heard even above the din of voices inside the building. The auction was still going on, and Mr. Bills was doing his best, but the interest flagged with the sale of the apron and the breaking up of the group which had attracted so much attention. Even Mrs. Biggs's grandmother's brass kettle, on which so many hopes were built, failed to create more than a ripple, as Mr. Bills rang changes upon it both with tongue and knuckles, and when his most eloquent appeals could not raise a higher bid than ten cents, it was withdrawn by the disgusted widow, who put it aside with her dish pan and towels and gown, and then went to find Tim to take them home.

Howard had been called by Ruby into the room where Amy's dresses were lying in the boxes just as they came, and asked what they were to do with them.

"We could not offer them for sale, and she does not want them back," she said.

"Send them to the Colonel. She'll never know it, and the chance is will never think of them again," Howard said, and then hurried outside to where Eloise was still waiting and talking to Tom.

"That apron went first rate," he said. "You must have felt glad they thought so much of you, 'cause 'twas you and not the apron, though that was pretty enough."

"Oh!" Eloise replied, drawing her ermine cape around her shoulders, "I don't know whether I was glad or not. I felt as if I were being sold to the highest bidder."

"That's so," Tom said. "It was something like it. Ain't you glad 'twas Mr. Harcourt bought you instead of t'other?"

Eloise laughed as she replied, "Why, Thomas, it was you who bought me! Have you forgotten?"

She seemed so much in earnest that for a moment Tom thought she was, and said, "You ain't so green as not to know that 'twas Mr. Harcourt eggin' me on,—winkin' to me when to raise, and tellin' me to go high! You are his'n, and I'm glad on't! I like him better than t'other; ain't so big feelin'. Here they come, both on 'em."

Howard had finished his business with Ruby Ann, and Jack had paid his five dollars and received the apron, slightly mussed, but looking fairly well in the box in which they put it. A good many people were leaving the rooms again, and among them Tim, laden with his mother's dish pan and towels, and dress and brass kettle, and one or two articles which she had bought.

"Hallo, Tim! You look some like a pack horse," Tom said, but Tim did not answer.

He was very tired, for with so many calling upon him through the day and evening; he had run miles and received only seventy cents for it. He was chagrined that he had raised his own bid, and wondered Tom did not chaff him. It would come in time, he knew, and he felt angry at Tom, and angry with the brass kettle and dish pan and dress which kept him from wheeling Eloise instead of Tom, who, when they finally started, took his place behind the chair as a matter of course, while Howard and Jack walked on either side. It was a splendid night, and when Mrs. Biggs's house was reached Howard and Jack would gladly have lingered outside talking to Eloise, if they could have disposed of the boys. But the boys were not inclined to be disposed of. Tom had become somebody in his own estimation, and intended to stay as long as the young men did, while Tim, having found the key, this time instead of entering by the pantry window, unlocked the door, deposited his goods, and then came back, saying to Eloise with a good deal of dignity for him, "Shall I take you in?"

"Yes, please. I think it's time," she said, and Howard and Jack knew they were dismissed. "Thank you all so much for everything," she continued, giving her hand to each of them in turn, and pressing Tom's a little in token of the good feeling she felt sure was established between them.

It was not long before Mrs. Biggs came home, rather crestfallen that her spotted gown and brass kettle had not been more popular, but jubilant over the sale, the proceeds of which, so far as known when she left, were over two hundred and fifty dollars.

"Never was anything like it before in Crompton," she said, as she helped Eloise to her bed lounge. "That apron sale beat all. Them young men didn't care for the apron, of course, except that it was yours, and what Mr. Harcourt will do with it I don't know. Said he was goin' to send it to his sister. Maybe he is. He paid enough for it. Five dollars! I was in hopes they'd run it up to ten! and I was sorry when 'twas over. Mr. Bills kinder wilted after you all went out, and the whole thing flatted. Well, good-night! You was the star! the synacure,—is that the word?—of all eyes, and looked awful pretty in that white cape. I see you've got Tom Walker, body and soul, but my land! you'd get anybody! Good-night, again."

She was gone at last, and Eloise was glad to lay her tired head upon her pillow, falling asleep nearly as soon as she touched it, but dreaming of the Rummage Sale and that she was being auctioned off instead of her apron. It was a kind of nightmare, and her heart beat fast as the bids came rapidly,—sometimes on Howard's side and sometimes on Jack's. She called him Jack in her dreams, and finally awoke with a start, saying aloud, "I am glad it was Jack who bought me!"



PART III



CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

The Rummage Sale was a great success and netted fully two hundred and fifty dollars, besides quantities of goods of different kinds which were left and given either to the poor or to the Charitable Society in Crompton. The trunks containing Amy's dresses had been sent home without Amy's knowledge, and deposited in the closet with Mandy Ann and Judy, the Colonel swearing at first that he would have nothing pertaining to Homer Smith so near him. The apron sale had been an absorbing topic of conversation, the people wondering what Mr. Harcourt was going to do with his purchase, and if he wouldn't give it back to Eloise. Nothing was further from his thought. He had bought it to keep, and he laid it away in the bottom of his trunk with the handkerchief Eloise had used when he first called upon her.

He was growing more and more in love with her and more unwilling to leave Crompton. He had already staid longer than he had at first intended, but it did not need Howard's urgent invitation for him to prolong his visit. Every day he went to Mrs. Biggs's, and sometimes twice a day, and took Eloise out in her arm-chair for an airing,—once as far as to the school-house where Ruby Ann still presided, and where Eloise hoped soon to take up her duties. She was very happy, or would have been if she could have heard from California. Every day she hoped for news, and every day was disappointed, until at last nearly a week after the Rummage a letter came forwarded by her grandmother from Mayville. It was from a physician to whom Eloise had twice written with regard to her mother, and this was his reply:

"Portland, Oregon, September —, 18—.

"My Dear Miss Smith:

"I left San Francisco several months ago and have been stopping in several places, and that is why your letters were so long in reaching me. They both came in the same mail, and I wrote to San Francisco to see what I could learn with regard to your mother. It seems that the private asylum of Dr. Haynes was broken up, as there were only three patients when Mrs. Smith left, and it did not pay. Soon after your father died in Santa Barbara, your mother was removed from the asylum by a gentleman whose name I have thus far been unable to learn. I thought it must have been some relative, but if you know nothing of it my theory is wrong. Dr. Haynes went at once with his family to Europe, and is travelling on the continent. His address is, Care of Munroe & Co., Bankers, 7 Rue Scribe. Paris. Write him again, as he must know who took your mother from his care. He may not be in Paris now, but your letter will reach him in time. If there is anything I can do to help you, I will gladly do it. If you were in San Francisco you might find some of the attendants in the asylum, who could give you the information you desire.

"Yours, very truly,

"J.P. ALLING, M.D."

It was Ruby who brought the letter one evening two or three days before Eloise expected to make her first appearance in school. Mrs. Biggs and Tim were out and Eloise was alone. Tearing open the envelope, she read it quickly, and then with the bitterest cry Ruby had ever heard, covered her face with her hands and sobbed: "My mother! Oh, my mother!"

"Is she dead?" Ruby asked, and Eloise replied, "Worse than that, perhaps. I don't know where she is. Read what it says."

She gave the letter to Ruby, who read it twice; then, sitting down by Eloise and passing her arm around her, she said, "I don't understand what it means. Was your mother in a lunatic asylum?"

"Oh, don't call it that!" Eloise answered. "It was a private asylum in San Francisco,—very private and select, father said, but I never quite believed her crazy. She was always quiet and sad and peculiar, and hated the business, and so did I."

"What was the business?" Ruby asked, and Eloise answered hesitatingly, as if it were something of which to be ashamed, "She sang in public with a troupe,—his troupe. He made her. She was the star and drew big houses, she was so beautiful and sang so sweetly, without any apparent effort. It was just like a bird, and when she sang the Southern melodies she seemed to be in a trance, seeing things we could not see. It made me cry to hear her. I know many good women are public singers, but mother shrank from it, and when they cheered like mad there used to be a frightened look in her eyes, as if she wondered why they were doing it and wanted to hide, and when she got to our rooms she'd tremble and be so cold and cry, while father sometimes scolded and sometimes laughed at her. He tried to make me sing once. I have a fair voice, but I rebelled and said I'd run away before I'd do it. He was very angry, and sent me North to my grandmother, saying I was too great an expense to keep with him unless I would help, and was a hindrance to my mother, who was always so anxious about me. It nearly killed her to part with me. I was all the comfort she had, she said, and she always called me Baby. Father was not kind to her, and it seemed as if he hated me, and was jealous of mother's love for me. When I heard he was dead, I could not feel badly, as I ought, and did not cry. He was a very handsome man, and very nice with people, who thought my mother a most fortunate woman to have so polished and courteous a husband. They should have seen him as I saw him at times, and heard him swear, as I have heard him, and call her names till she was white as a corpse and fainted. I never saw her turn upon him but once. I had asked her why she didn't leave him and go home, if she had any to go to. That was when I was a little girl.

"'I have no home or friends in all the wide world to go to' she said, and then, with a sneer which was maddening, it meant so much, my father said, 'Ask her who her father was and see if she can tell you.'

"I didn't know then what he meant to insinuate, but mother did, and there came a look into her eyes which frightened me, and her voice was not mother's at all, as she walked straight up to him and said, 'How dare you insult my mother!'

"She looked like an enraged animal, and my father must have been afraid she would attack him, for he tried to soothe her and succeeded at last in doing so. I think there was some mystery about her father and mother, as she would never talk of them. Once I asked her about them, and she said she hadn't any; and she looked so strange that I never asked her again. I knew she was born South, that her people were poor, and her name Harris, and that is all I know, except that no better or lovelier woman ever lived, and if she is really crazy father made her so, and I cannot feel any love for him, or respect. If I ever had any, and I suppose I must have had, he killed it long ago. The first thing I remember of him in Rome, where I was born, he was practising some music with mother,—playing for her while she sang, and I was standing by him, putting my hands on his arm and trying to hum the tune. With a jerk he said to my nurse, 'Take her away and keep her away.'

"I am wicked, I know, to talk as I am doing, but it seems as if there was a spell over me urging me to say things I never thought of saying. It's a comfort to talk to some one who I know is my friend, and you are so strong every way and have been so good to me."

She laid her head on Ruby's arm like a tired child, and continued, "I wrote to mother very often after I came to Mayville, and she replied, telling me how she missed me, and how she always fixed her eyes on some part of the house, fancying she saw me, and was singing to me, and I used to listen nights and think I heard her grand voice as it rose and fell, and the people cheering, and she so beautiful standing there for the crowd to gaze at, and wishing she could get away from it all.

"At last her letters ceased and father wrote that her mind had given way suddenly;—that she was a raving maniac,—dangerous, I think he said,—and I thought of the way she looked at him once when I was a child, and he told me to ask her about her father. He said she was in Dr. Haynes's private asylum, where she had the kindest of care. I think I died many deaths in one when I heard that. I wrote her again and again, and wanted to go to her, but my father forbade it. No one saw her, he said, except her attendant and the physician,—not even himself, as the sight of him threw her into paroxysms. I didn't wonder at that. He sent my letters back, telling me she would not sense them, and they would excite her if she did. Her only chance of recovery was in her being kept perfectly quiet, with nothing to remind her of the past.

"A few months ago he died suddenly in Santa Barbara. One of the troupe wrote to grandma, and, as I told you, I did not cry; I couldn't. I was too anxious about mother, and wrote at once to Dr. Haynes, but received no answer. I waited a while and wrote again, with the same result. Then I remembered Dr. Alling, who had attended me for some slight ailment, and wrote to him, with the result you know. Some one has taken my mother away. Who was it, and where is she? I feel as if I were going mad when I think of the possibilities."

She pressed her hands to her head and rocked to and fro, while Ruby tried to quiet and comfort her.

"I must go to San Francisco and find my mother. I would start to-morrow, lame as I am, only I haven't the money, and grandma hasn't it, either," she said. "Father made a great deal of money at times, but he spent it as freely. Always stopped at the best hotels; had a suite of rooms, with our meals served in them; drank the costliest wines, and smoked the most expensive cigars, and bought mother such beautiful dresses. I did not fare so well. Anything was good enough for me after I refused to sing in public, and that was an added source of trouble to my mother. I was always a bone of contention and it was, perhaps, as well in some respects that I was sent away, only mother missed me so. I was so glad to get this school, because it would give me something for my mother, whom I hoped to bring home before long. And now, I don't know where she is, but I must find her. Oh, what shall I do?"

It was not often that Eloise talked of herself and her affairs. At school in Mayville she had been very reticent with regard to her past, and had seldom mentioned either her father or her mother. With Mrs. Biggs she had been equally silent, and, try as she would, the good woman had never been able to learn anything beyond what Eloise had first told her,—that her father was dead and her mother in California;—in a sanitarium, Mrs. Biggs had finally decided, and let the matter drop, thinking she should some time know "if there was anything to know." Ruby Ann had from the first seemed to Eloise like one to be trusted, and she felt a relief in talking to her, and said more than she had at first intended to say.

For a moment Ruby was silent, while Eloise's head lay on her arm and Eloise's hand was holding hers. She was thinking of the piano she wanted to buy, the money for which was in the Crompton bank. There was a struggle in her mind, and then she said, "I can loan you the money. I know you will pay it back if you live, and if you don't, no matter. I will not call it a loss if it does you any good."

At first Eloise demurred, longing to accept the generous offer, and fearing that she ought not. But Ruby overcame her scruples.

"Naturally I shall keep your place in school, so I owe you something for the business, don't you see?" she said.

Eloise did not quite see, but she yielded at last, for her need was great.

"I don't think I'd tell Mrs. Biggs all the sad story, unless you want the whole town to know it. Tell her you have had bad news from your mother, and are going to her," Ruby suggested, when at last she said good-night and went out, just as Mrs. Biggs came in.

"Goin' away! Goin' to Californy! Your mother sick! What's the matter, and how under the sun are you goin' alone, limpin' as you do? I knew Ruby Ann would manage to keep the school if she once got it!" were some of Mrs. Biggs's exclamations when told Eloise was to leave her.

Eloise parried her questions very skilfully, saying nothing except that her mother needed her and she was going to her, and Mrs. Biggs left her more mystified than she had ever been in her life, but resolved "to get at the bottom if she lived."

That night Eloise, who was now sleeping in the chamber to which she had first been taken, sat a long time by her window, looking out upon the towers and chimneys of Crompton Place, which were visible above the trees in the park, and wondering at the feeling of unrest which possessed her, and her unwillingness to leave.

"If I could only see him once more before I go," she thought, the "him" being Jack, who, with Howard Crompton, was in Worcester, attending a musical festival.

Not to see him was the saddest part of leaving Crompton, and for a moment hot tears rolled down her cheeks,—tears which, if Jack could have seen and known their cause, would have brought him back from Worcester and the prima donna who that night was entrancing a crowded house with her song. Dashing her tears away, Eloise's thoughts reverted to Amy, who had been so kind to her.

"I hoped to thank her in person," she said, "but as that is impossible, I must write her a note for Tim to take in the morning, together with the chairs."

The note was written, and in it a regret expressed that Eloise could not have seen her.

"Maybe when she reads it she will call upon me to-morrow," she thought, as she directed the note, and that night she dreamed that Amy came to her, with a face and voice so like her mother's that she woke with a start and a feeling that she had really seen her mother, as she used to stand before the footlights, while the house rang with thunders of applause.



CHAPTER II

THE LITTLE RED CLOAK

Col. Crompton was in a bad way, both mentally and bodily. The pain in his gouty foot had extended to his knee, and was excruciating in the extreme; but he almost forgot it in the greater trouble in his mind. In the same mail which had brought Eloise's letter from California there had been one for him, which in the morning Peter had taken from the postman and examined carefully, until he made out its direction.

"Mister Kurnel Krompton, of Krompton Plais, Krompton, Massachusetts."

So much room had been taken up on one side of the envelope with the address, that half of "Massachusetts" was on the other side, and Peter's memory instantly went back to years before, when a letter looking like this and odorous with bad tobacco had come to the Colonel. He had a copy of the letter still, and could repeat it by heart, and knew that it was from Jake Harris,—presumably the "Shaky" for whom the little girl Eudora had cried so pitifully. This was undoubtedly from the same source. "What can he want now? and what will the Colonel say?" he thought, as he took the letter to his master's room.

"A letter for you, sir," he said, putting it down upon the table by the Colonel's chair, and then lingering on the pretence of adjusting a curtain and brushing up the hearth, but really waiting to see what effect the letter would have.

It was different from what he expected. With one glance at the superscription, the Colonel grew deathly pale, and his hands shook so that the letter dropped upon the floor. Peter picked it up and handed it to him, saying, "Can I help you, sir?"