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The Green Satin Gown by Laura E. Richards

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_Author of_ "Captain January," "Melody," "Three Margarets,"
"Peggy," "Queen Hildegarde," etc., etc.

Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry


Published May, 1903

The Friday Club of Gardiner, Maine

















Who ever wore such a queer-looking thing? I wore it myself, dear,
once upon a time; yes, I did! Perhaps you would like to hear about it,
while you mend that tear in your muslin. Sit down, then, and let us
be cosy.

I was making a visit in Hillton once, when I was seventeen years old,
just your age; staying with dear old Miss Persis Elderby, who is now
dead. I have told you about her, and it is strange that I have never
told you the story of the green satin gown; but, indeed, it is years
since I looked at it. We were great friends, Miss Persis and I; and
we never thought much about the difference in our ages, for she was
young for her years, and I was old for mine. In our daily walk
through the pretty, sleepy Hillton street--we always went for the
mail, together, for though Miss Persis seldom received letters, she
always liked to see mine, and it was quite the event of the day--my
good friend seldom failed to point out to me a stately mansion that
stood by itself on a little height, and to say in a tone of pride,
"The Le Baron place, my dear; the finest place in the county. Madam
Le Baron, who lives there alone now, is as great a lady as any in
Europe, though she wears no coronet to her name."

I never knew exactly what Miss Persis meant by this last remark, but
it sounded magnificent, and I always gazed respectfully at the gray
stone house which sheltered so grand a personage. Madam Le Baron, it
appeared, never left the house in winter, and this was January. Her
friends called on her at stated intervals, and, to judge from
Miss Persis, never failed to come away in a state of reverential
enthusiasm. I could not help picturing to myself the great lady as
about six feet tall, clad in purple velvet, and waving a
peacock-feather fan; but I never confided my imaginings even to the
sympathetic Miss Persis.

One day my friend returned from a visit to the stone house, quite
breathless, her pretty old face pink with excitement. She sat down
on the chair nearest the door, and gazed at me with, speechless

"Dear Miss Persis!" I cried. "What has happened? Have you had bad

Miss Persis shook her head. "Bad news? I should think not, indeed!
Child, Madam Le Baron wishes to see you. More I cannot say at present.
Not a word! Put on your best hat, and come with me. Madam Le Baron
waits for us!"

It was as if she had said, "The Sultan is on the front door-step." I
flew up-stairs, and made myself as smart as I could in such a hurry.
My cheeks were as pink as Miss Persis's own, and though I had not
the faintest idea what was the matter, I felt that it must be
something of vital import. On the way, I begged my companion to
explain matters to me, but she only shook her head and trotted on the
faster. "No time!" she panted. "Speech delays me, my dear! All will
be explained; only make haste."

We made such haste, that by the time we rang at the door of the
stone house neither of us could speak, and Miss Persis could only
make a mute gesture to the dignified maid who opened the door, and
who looked amazed, as well she might, at our burning cheeks and
disordered appearance. Fortunately, she knew Miss Persis well, and
lost no time in ushering us into a cool, dimly lighted parlor, hung
with family portraits. Here we sat, and fanned ourselves with our
pocket-handkerchiefs, while I tried to find breath for a question;
but there was not time! A door opened at the further end of the room;
there was a soft rustle, a smell of sandal-wood in the air. The next
moment Madam Le Baron stood before us. A slender figure, about my
own height, in a quaint, old-fashioned dress; snowy hair, arranged
in puff on puff, with exquisite nicety; the darkest, softest eyes I
ever saw, and a general air of having left her crown in the next room;
this was the great lady.

We rose, and I made my best courtesy,--we courtesied then, my dear,
instead of bowing like pump-handles,--and she spoke to us in a soft
old voice, that rustled like the silk she wore, though it had a clear
sound, too. "So this is the child!" she said. "I trust you are very
well, my dear! And has Miss Elderby told you of the small particular
in which you can oblige me?"

Miss Persis hastened to say that she wasted no time on explanations,
but had brought me as quickly as might be, thinking that the main
thing. Madam Le Baron nodded, and smiled a little; then she turned
to me; a few quiet words, and I knew all about it. She had received
that morning a note from her grandniece, "a young and giddy person,"
who lived in B----, some twenty miles away, announcing that she and
a party of friends were about to drive over to Hillton to see the
old house. She felt sure that her dear aunt would be enchanted to
see them, as it must be "quite too forlorn for her, all alone in
that great barn;" so she might expect them the next evening (that is,
the evening of this very day), in time for supper, and no doubt as
hungry as hunters. There would be about a dozen of them, probably,
but she knew there was plenty of room at Birchwood, and it would be
a good thing to fill up the empty rooms for once in a way; so,
looking forward to a pleasant meeting, the writer remained her
dearest aunt's "affectionate niece, Effie Gay."

"The child has no mother," said Madam Le Baron to Miss Persis; then
turning to me, she said: "I am alone, save for my two maids, who are
of middle age, and not accustomed to youthful visitors. Learning
from my good friend, Miss Elderby, that a young gentlewoman was
staying at her house, I conceived the idea of asking you to spend
the night with me, and such portion of the next day as my guests may
remain. If you are willing to do me this service, my dear, you may
put off your bonnet, and I will send for your evening dress and your
toilet necessaries."

I had been listening in a dream, hearing what was said, but thinking
it all like a fairy story, chiefly impressed by the fact that the
speaker was the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life.
The last sentence, however, brought me to my senses with a vengeance.
With scarlet cheeks I explained that I had brought no evening dress
with me; that I lived a very quiet life at home, and had expected
nothing different here; that, to be quite frank, I had not such a
thing as an evening dress in the world. Miss Persis turned pale with
distress and mortification; but Madam Le Baron looked at me quietly,
with her lovely smile.

"I will provide you with a suitable dress, my child," she said.
"I have something that will do very well for you. If you like to go
to your room now, my maid will attend you, and bring what is
necessary. We expect our guests in time for supper, at eight o'clock."

Decidedly, I had walked into a fairy tale, or else I was dreaming!
Here I sat in a room hung with flowered damask, in a wonderful chair,
by a wonderful fire; and a fairy, little and withered and brown,
dressed in what I knew must be black bombazine, though I knew it
only from descriptions, was bringing me tea, and plum-cake, on a
silver tray. She looked at me with kind, twinkling eyes, and said
she would bring the dress at once; then left me to my own wondering
fancies. I hardly knew what to be thinking of, so much was happening:
more, it seemed, in these few hours, than in all my life before. I
tried to fix my mind on the gay party that would soon fill the silent
house with life and tumult; I tried to fancy how Miss Effie Gay
would look, and what she would say to me; but my mind kept coming
back to the dress, the evening dress, that I was to be privileged to
wear. What would it be like? Would silk or muslin be prettier? If
only it were not pink! A red-haired girl in pink was a sad sight!

Looking up, I saw a portrait on the wall, of a beautiful girl, in a
curious, old-time costume. The soft dark eyes and regal turn of the
head told me that it was my hostess in her youth; and even as I
looked, I heard the rustle again, and smelt the faint odor of
sandalwood; and Madam Le Baron came softly in, followed by the fairy
maid, bearing a long parcel.

"Your gown, my dear," she said, "I thought you would like to be
preparing for the evening. Undo it, Jessop!"

Jessop lifted fold on fold of tissue-paper. I looked, expecting I
know not what fairy thing of lace and muslin: I saw--the green satin

We were wearing large sleeves then, something like yours at the
present day, and high collars; the fashion was at its height. This
gown had long, tight, wrinkled sleeves, coming down over the hand,
and finished with a ruffle of yellow lace; the neck, rounded and
half-low, had a similar ruffle almost deep enough to be called a ruff;
the waist, if it could be called a waist, was up under the arms:
briefly, a costume of my grandmother's time. Little green satin
slippers lay beside it, and a huge feather-fan hung by a green ribbon.
Was this a jest? was it--I looked up, with burning cheeks and eyes
suffused; I met a glance so kind, so beaming with good-will, that my
eyes fell, and I could only hope that my anguish had not been visible.

"Shall Jessop help you, my dear?" said Madam Le Baron. "You can do
it by yourself? Well, I like to see the young independent. I think
the gown will become you; it has been considered handsome." She
glanced fondly at the shining fabric, and left the room; the maid,
after one sharp glance at me, in which I thought I read an amused
compassion, followed; and I was left alone with the green satin gown.

Cry? No, I did not cry: I had been brought up not to cry; but I
suffered, my dear, as one does suffer at seventeen. I thought of
jumping out of the window and running away, back to Miss Persis; I
thought of going to bed, and saying I was ill. It was true, I said
to myself, with feverish violence: I _was_ ill, sick with shame and
mortification and disappointment. Appear before this gay party,
dressed like my own great-grandmother? I would rather die! A person
might easily die of such distress as this--and so on, and so on!

Suddenly, like a cool touch on my brow, came a thought, a word of my
Uncle John's, that had helped me many a time before.

"Endeavor, my dear, to maintain a sense of proportion!"

The words fell with weight on my distracted mind. I sat up straight
in the armchair into which I had flung myself, face downward. Was
there any proportion in this horror? I shook myself, then put the
two sides together, and looked at them. On one side, two lovely old
ladies, one of whom I could perhaps help a little, both of whom I
could gratify; on the other, my own--dear me! was it vanity? I
thought of the two sweet old faces, shining with kindness; I fancied
the distress, the disappointment, that might come into them, if I--

"Yes, dear uncle," I said aloud, "I have found the proportion!" I
shook myself again, and began to dress. And now a happy thought
struck me. Glancing at the portrait on the wall, I saw that the fair
girl was dressed in green. Was it? Yes, it must be--it was--the very
same dress! Quickly, and as neatly as I could, I arranged my hair in
two great puffs, with a butterfly knot on the top of my head, in the
style of the picture; if only I had the high comb! I slipped on the
gown, which fitted me well enough. I put on the slippers, and tied
the green ribbons round and round my ankles; then I lighted all the
candles, and looked at myself. A perfect guy? Well, perhaps--and

At this moment Jessop entered, bringing a pair of yellow gloves; she
looked me over critically, saying nothing; glanced at the portrait,
withdrew, and presently reappeared, with the high tortoise-shell
comb in her hand. She placed it carefully in my hair, surveyed me
again, and again looked at the picture. Yes, it was true, the
necklace was wanting; but of course--

Really, Jessop was behaving like a jack-in-the-box! She had
disappeared again, and now here she was for the third time; but this
time Madam Le Baron was with her. The old lady looked at me silently,
at my hair, then up at the picture. The sight of the pleasure in her
lovely face trampled under foot, put out of existence, the last
remnant of my foolish pride.

She turned to Jessop and nodded. "Yes, by all means!" she said. The
maid put into her hand a long morocco box; Madam kissed me, and with
soft, trembling fingers clasped the necklace round my neck.
"It is a graceful compliment you pay me, my child," she said,
glancing at the picture again, with eyes a little dimmed. "Oblige me
by wearing this, to complete the vision of my past youth."

Ten stars of chrysoprase, the purest and tenderest green in the world,
set in delicately wrought gold. I need not describe the necklace to
you. You think it the most beautiful jewel in the world, and so do I;
and I have promised that you shall wear it on your eighteenth

Madam Le Baron saw nothing singular in my appearance. She never
changed the fashion of her dress, being of the opinion, as she told
me afterward, that a gentlewoman's dress is her own affair, not her
mantua-maker's; and her gray and silver brocade went very well with
the green satin. We stood side by side for a moment, gazing into the
long, dim mirror; then she patted my shoulder and gave a little sigh.

"Your auburn hair looks well with the green," she said. "My hair was
dark, but otherwise--Shall we go down, my dear?"

I will not say much about the evening. It was painful, of course;
but Effie Gay had no mother, and much must be pardoned in such a case.
No doubt I made a quaint figure enough among the six or eight gay
girls, all dressed in the latest fashion; but the first moment was
the worst, and the first titter put a fire in my veins that kept me
warm all the evening. An occasional glance at Madam Le Baron's
placid face enabled me to preserve my sense of proportion, and I
remembered that two wise men, Solomon and my Uncle John, had
compared the laughter of fools to the crackling of thorns under a pot.
And--and there were some who did not laugh.

Pin it up, my dear! Your father has come, and will be wanting his tea.

I can tell you the rest of the story in a few words.

A year from that time Madam Le Baron died; and a few weeks after her
death, a parcel came for me from Hillton.

Opening it in great wonder, what did I find but the gown, the green
satin gown, with the slippers and fan, and the tortoise-shell comb
in a leather case! Lifting it reverently from the box, the dress felt
singularly heavy on my arm, and a moment's search revealed a strange
matter. The pocket was full of gold pieces, shining half-eagles,
which fell about me in a golden shower, and made me cry out with
amazement; but this was not all! The tears sprang to my eyes as I
opened the morocco box and took out the chrysoprase necklace: tears
partly of gratitude and pleasure, partly of sheer kindness and love
and sorrow for the sweet, stately lady who had thought of me in her
closing days, and had found (they told me afterward) one of her last
pleasures in planning this surprise for me.

There is something more that I might say, my dear. Your dear father
was one of that gay sleighing party; and he often speaks of the
first time he saw me--when I was coming down the stairs in the green
satin gown.



"I wouldn't, Lena!"

"Well, I guess I shall!"

"Don't, Lena! please don't! you will be sorry, I am sure, if you do
it. It cannot bring good, I know it cannot!"

"The idea! Mary Denison, you are too old-fashioned for anything. I'd
like to know what harm it can do."

The rag-room was nearly deserted. The whistle had blown, and most of
the girls had hurried away to their dinner. Two only lingered behind,
deep in conversation; Mary Denison and Lena Laxen.

Mary was sitting by her sorting-table, busily sorting rags as she
talked. She was a fair, slender girl, and looked wonderfully fresh
and trim in her gray print gown, with a cap of the same material
fitting close to her head, and hiding her pretty hair. The other
girl was dark and vivacious, with laughing black eyes and a careless
mouth. She was picturesque enough in her blue dress, with the
scarlet handkerchief tied loosely over her hair; but both kerchief
and dress showed the dust plainly, and the dark locks that escaped
here and there were dusty too, showing little of the care that may
keep one neat even in a rag-room.

"It's just as pretty as it can be!" Lena went on, half-coaxing,
half-defiant. "You ought to see it, Mame! A silk waist, every bit as
good as new, only of course it's mussed up, lying in the bag; and a
skirt, and lots of other things, all as nice as nice! I can't think
what the folks that had them meant, putting such things into the rags:
why, that waist hadn't much more than come out of the shop, you
might say. And do you think I'm going to let it go through the duster,
and then be thrown out, and somebody else get it? No, sir! and it's
no good for rags, you know it isn't, Mary Denison."

"I know that it is not yours, Lena, nor mine!" said Mary, steadily.
"But I'll tell you what you might do; go straight to Mr. Gordon, and
tell him about the pretty waist,--very likely it got in by mistake,
--tell him it is no good for rags, and ask if you may have it. Like
as not he'll let you have it; and if not, you will find out what his
reason is. I think we ought to suppose he has some reason for what
he does."

Lena laughed spitefully.

"Like as not he's going to take it home to his own girl!" she said.
"I saw her in the street the other day, and I wouldn't have been
seen dead with the hat she had on; not a flower, nor even a scrap of
a feather; just a plain band and a goose-quill stuck in it. Real
poorhouse, I thought it looked, and he as rich as a Jew. I guess I
sha'n't go to Mr. Gordon; he's just as hateful as he can be. He gave
out word that no one was to touch that bag, nor so much as go near it;
and he had it set off in a corner of the outer shed, close by the
chloride barrels, so that everything in it will smell like poison.
If that isn't mean, I don't know what is.

"Well, I can't stay here all day, Mame. Aren't you coming?"

"Pretty soon!" said Mary. "Don't wait for me, Lena! I want to finish
this stint, so as to have the afternoon off. Mother's poorly to-day,
and I want to cook something nice for her supper."

Lena nodded and went out, shutting the door with a defiant swing.
Mary looked after her doubtfully, as if hesitating whether she ought
not to follow and make some stronger plea; but the next moment she
bent over her work again.

"I must hurry!" she said. "I'll see Lena after dinner, and try to
make her promise not to touch that bag. I don't see what has got
into her."

Mary worked away steadily. The rags were piled in an iron sieve
before her; they were mostly the kind called "Blue Egyptians,"
cotton cloth dyed with indigo, which had come far across the sea from
Egypt. Musty and fusty enough they were, and Mary often turned her
head aside as she sorted them carefully, putting the good rags into
a huge basket that stood beside her on the floor, while the bits of
woollen cloth, of paper and string and other refuse, went into
different compartments of the sorting-table, which was something
like an old-fashioned box-desk.

Mary was a quick worker, and her basket was already nearly full of
rags. Fastened upright beside her seat was a great knife, not unlike
a scythe-blade, with which she cut off the buttons and hooks and eyes,
running the garment along the keen edge with a quick and practised
hand. Usually she amused herself by imagining stories about the
buttons and their former owners, for she was a fanciful girl, and
her child-life, without brothers or sisters, had bred in her the
habit of solitary play and "make-believe," which clung to her now
that she was a tall girl of sixteen. But to-day she was not thinking
of the Blue Egyptians. Her thoughts were following Lena on her
homeward way, and she was hoping devoutly that her own words might
have had some effect, and that Lena might pass by the forbidden bag
without lingering to be further tempted. It _was_ strange that this
one special bundle of rags, coming from a village at some distance,
should have been kept apart when the day's allowance was put into
the dusters. But--"Mother always says we ought to suppose there is a
reason for things!" she said to herself. And she shook her head
resolutely, and tried to make a "button-play."

She pulled from the heap before her a dark blue garment, and turned
it over, examining it carefully. It seemed to be a woman's jacket.
It was of finer material than most of the "Egyptians," and the
fashion was quaint and graceful. There were remnants of embroidery
here and there, and the heavy glass buttons were like nothing Mary
had ever seen before.

"I'll keep these," she said, "for little Jessie Brown; she will be
delighted with them. That child does make so much out of so little,
I'm fairly ashamed sometimes. These will be a fortune to Jessie.
I'll tell her that I think most likely they belonged to a princess
when they were new; they were up and down the front of a dress of
gold cloth trimmed with pearls, and she looked perfectly beautiful
when she had it on, and the Prince of the Fortunate Islands fell in
love with her."

Buttons were a regular perquisite of the rag-girls in the Cumquot
Mill; indeed, any trifle, coin, or seal, or medal, was considered
the property of the finder, this being an unwritten law of the

Mary cut the buttons off, and slipped them into her pocket; then she
ran her fingers round the edge of the jacket, in case there were any
hooks or other hard substance that had escaped her notice, and that
might blunt the knives of the cutter, into which it would next go.

In a corner of the lining, her fingers met something hard. Here was
some object that had slipped down between the stuff and the lining,
and must be cut out. Mary ran the jacket along the cutting-knife,
and something rolled into her lap. Not a button this time! she held
it up to the light, and examined it curiously. It was a brooch, of
glass, or clear stones, in a tarnished silver setting. Dim and dusty,
it still seemed full of light, and glanced in the sun as Mary held
it up.

"What a pretty thing!" she said. "I wonder if it is glass. I must
take this to Mr. Gordon, for I never found anything like it before.
Jessie cannot have this."

She laid it carefully aside, and went on with her sorting, working
so quickly that in a few moments the sieve was empty, and the basket
piled with good cotton rags, ready for the cutting-machine.

Taking her hat and shawl, Mary passed out, holding the brooch
carefully in her hand. There were few people in the mill, only the
machine-tenders, walking leisurely up and down beside their machines,
which whirred and droned on, regardless of dinnertime. The great
rollers went round and round, the broad white streams flowed on and
on over the screens, till the mysterious moment came when they
ceased to be wet pulp and became paper.

Mary hardly glanced at the wonderful machines; they were an old
story to her, though in every throb they were telling over and over
the marvellous works of man. The machine-tenders nodded kindly in
return to her modest greeting, and looked after her with approval,
and said, "Nice gal!" to each other; but Mary hurried on until she
came to the finishing-room. Here she hoped to find a friend whom she
could consult about her discovery; and, sure enough, old James
Gregory was sitting on his accustomed stool, tying bundles of paper
with the perfection that no one else could equal. His back was
turned to the door, and he was crooning a fragment of an old
paper-mill song, which might have been composed by the beating
engine itself, so rhythmic and monotonous it was.

"'Gene, 'Gene,
Made a machine;
Joe, Joe,
Made it go;
Frank, Frank,
Turned the crank,
His mother came out,
And gave him a spank,
And knocked him over
The garden bank."

At Mary's cheerful "Good morning, Mr. Gregory!" the old man turned
slowly, and looked at the young girl with friendly eyes.

"Good day, Mary! glad to see ye! goin' along home?"

"In just a minute! I want to show you something, Mr. Gregory, and to
ask your advice, please."

The old finisher turned completely round this time, and looked his
interest. Mary opened her hand, and displayed the brooch she had

James Gregory drew his lips into the form of a whistle, but made no
sound. He looked from the brooch to Mary, and back again.

"Well?" he said.

"I found it in the rags; blue Egyptians, you know, Mr. Gregory. It
was inside the lining of a jacket. Do you think--what do you think
about it? is it glass, or--something else?"

Gregory took the ornament from her, and held it up to the light,
screwing his eyes to little points of light; then he polished it on
his sleeve, and held it up again.


"Something else!" he said, briefly.

"Is it--do you think it might be worth something, Mr. Gregory?"
asked Mary, rather timidly.

"Yes!" roared Gregory, with a sudden explosion. "I do! I b'lieve
them's di'monds, sure as here I sit. Mary Denison, you've struck it
this time, or I'm a Dutchman."

He got off his stool in great excitement, and walked up and down the
room, still holding the brooch in his hand. Mary looked after him,
and her face was very pale. She said one word softly, "Mother!" that
was all.

Mary Denison and her mother were poor. Mrs. Denison was far from
strong, and they had no easy time of it, for there was little save
Mary's wages to feed and clothe the two women and pay their rent.
James Gregory knew all this; his pale old face was lighted with
emotion, and he stumped up and down the room at a rapid pace.

Suddenly he stopped, and faced the anxious girl, who was following
him with bewildered eyes.

"Findin's havin'!" he said, abruptly. "That's paper-mill law. Some
folks would tell ye to keep this to yourself, and sell it for what
you could get."

Mary's face flushed.

"But you do not tell me that!" she said, quietly.

"No!" roared the old man, with another explosion, stamping violently
on the floor. "No, I don't. You're poor as spring snakes, and your
mother's sickly, and you've hard work to get enough to keep the
flesh on your bones; but I don't tell ye to do that. I tell ye to
take it straight to the Old Man, and tell him where ye found it, and
all about it. I've knowed him ever since his mustash growed, and
before. You go straight to him! He's in the office now."

"I was going!" said Mary, simply. "I thought I'd come and see you
first, Mr. Gregory, you've always been so good to mother and me.
You--you couldn't manage to come with me, could you? I am afraid of
Mr. Gordon; I can't help it, though he is always pleasant to me."

"I'll go!" said old James, with alacrity. "You come right along with

In his eagerness he seized Mary by the arm, and kept his hold on her
as they passed out through the mill. The few "hands" who were at
work here and there gazed after them in amazement; for the old man
was dragging the girl along as if he had caught her in some offence,
and was going to deliver her up to justice.

The same impression was made in the office, when the pair appeared
there. The two clerks stared open-mouthed, and judged after their
nature; for one of them said, instantly, to himself, "It's a mistake!"
while the other said, "I always knew that Denison girl was too pious
to last!"

A tall man who sat at a desk in the corner looked up quietly.

"Ah, Gregory!" he said. "What is it? Mary Denison? Good morning, Mary!
Anything wrong in the rag-room?"

Gregory waved his hat excitedly.

"If you'd look here, sir!" he said. "If you would just cast your eye
over that article, and tell this gal what you think of it! Blue
Egyptians, sir! luckiest rags that ever come into this mill, I've
always said. Well, sir?"

Mr. Gordon was not easily stirred to excitement. It seemed an age to
the anxious girl and the impetuous old man, as he turned the brooch
over and over, holding it up in every light, polishing it, breathing
on it, then polishing it again. Gregory's hands twitched with
eagerness, and Mary felt almost faint with suspense.

"You found this in the rags?" he asked at length, turning to Mary.
He spoke in his ordinary even tone, and Mary's heart sank, she could
not have told why.

"Yes, sir!" she faltered. "I found it in a blue jacket. It was in
between the stuff and the lining. There were glass buttons on the

She drew them from her pocket and held them out; but Mr. Gordon,
after a glance, waved them back.

"Those are of no value!" he said. "About this brooch, I am not so
sure. The stones may be real stones--I incline to think they are;
but it is possible that they may be paste. The imitations are
sometimes very perfect; no one but a jeweller can tell positively. I
will take it to Boston with me to-morrow, and have it examined."

He dropped the brooch into a drawer at his side, turned the key and
put it in his pocket, all in his quiet, methodical way, as if he
were in the habit of examining diamond brooches every day; then he
nodded kindly to the pair, and bent over his papers again.

Mary went out silently, and Gregory followed her with a dazed look
on his strong features. He looked back at the door two or three times,
but said nothing till they were back in the finishing-room.

Then--"It's one of his days!" he said. "I've knowed him ever since
his mustash growed, and there's days when he's struck with a dumb
sperit, just like Scriptur'. Don't you fret, Mary! He'll see you
righted, or I'll give you my head."

Mary might have thought that Mr. Gregory's head would be of little
use to her without the rest of him. She felt sadly dashed and
disappointed. She hardly knew what she had expected, but it was
something very different from this calm, every-day reception, this
total disregard of her own and her companion's excitement.

"I guess he thinks they're nothing great!" she said, wearily.
"What was that he said about paste, Mr. Gregory? You never saw any
paste like that, did you?

"No!" said Gregory, "I've heered of Di'mond Glue, but 'twan't
nothin' like stones--nor glass neither. You may run me through the
calenders if I know what he's drivin' at. But I'll trust him!" he
added, vehemently. "I done right to tell you to go to him. He's in
one of his moods to-day, but you'll hear from him, if there's
anything to hear, now mark my words! And now I'd go home, if I was
you, and see your ma'am, and get your dinner. And--Mary--I dono as
I'd say anything about this, if I was you. Things get round so in a
mill, ye know."

Mary nodded assurance, and went home, trying to feel that nothing of
importance had happened. Do what she would, however, the golden
visions would come dancing before her eyes. Suppose--suppose the
stones should be real, after all! and suppose Mr. Gordon should give
her a part, at least, of the money they might bring in Boston. It
might--she knew diamonds were valuable--it might be thirty or forty
dollars. Oh! how rich she would be! The rent could be paid some time
in advance, and her mother could have the new shawl she needed so
badly: or would a cloak be better? cloaks were more in fashion, but
Mother said a good shawl was always good style.

Turning the corner by her mother's house, she met one of the clerks
who had been in the office when she went in there. He looked at her
with the smile she always disliked, she hardly knew why.

"You did the wrong thing that time, Miss Denison!" he said.

"What do you mean, Mr. Hitchcock?" asked Mary.

"You'll never see your diamonds again, nor the money for them!"
replied the man. "That's easy guessing. He'll come back and tell you
they're glass or paste, and that's the last you'll hear of them. And
the diamonds--for they are diamonds, right enough--will go into his
pocket, or on to his wife's neck. I know what's what! I wasn't born
down in these parts."

"You don't know Mr. Gordon!" said Mary, warmly. "That isn't the way
he is thought of by those who do know him."

The clerk was a newcomer from another State, and was not liked by
the mill-workers.

"I know his kind!" he said, with a sneer; "and they're no good to
your kind, Mary Denison, nor to mine. Mark my words, you'll hear no
more of that breastpin."

Mary turned away so decidedly that he said no more, but his eyes
followed her with a sinister look.

Next moment he was greeting Lena Laxen cordially, and she was
dimpling and smiling all over at his compliments. Lena thought
Mr. Hitchcock "just elegant!" and believed that Mary was jealous when
she said she did not like him. Something now prompted her to tell
him about the silk waist in the forbidden sack; he took her view at
once and zealously. The boss (for he did not use the kindly title of
"Old Man," by which the other mill-hands designated Mr. Gordon,
though he was barely forty) had his eye on the things, most likely,
as he had on the pin Mary Denison found. Hadn't Lena heard about that?
Well, it was a burning shame, he could tell her; he would see that
she, Lena, wasn't fooled that way. And Lena, listening eagerly,
heard a story very different from that which had been told to
Mr. Gordon.

In an hour the whole mill knew that Mary Denison had found a diamond
pin in the rags, and that Mr. Gordon had told her it was nothing but
hard glue, and had sold it himself in Boston for a thousand dollars,
and spent the money on a new horse.

Nor was this all! Late that evening Lena Laxen stole from her home
with a shawl over her head, and met the clerk by the corner of the
outer shed. A few minutes of whispering and giggling, and she stole
back, with a bundle under her shawl; while Hitchcock tied a bright
silk handkerchief round his neck, and strutted off with the air of a

Next morning, as Mary Denison was going to her work, Lena rapped on
the window, and called her attention by signs to the bodice she had
on. It was a gay striped silk, little worn, but still showing, in
spite of pressing, the marks of crumpling and tossing. The bright
colors suited Lena's dark skin well, and as she stood there with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, Mary thought she had never seen
her look prettier. At first she nodded and smiled in approval; but
the next moment a thought darted into her mind that made her clasp
her hands, and cry anxiously:

"Oh! Lena, you didn't do it! you never did it! it's not _that_ waist
you have on?"

Lena affected not to hear. She only nodded and laughed triumphantly,
and turned away, leaving Mary standing pale and distressed outside
the window.

Mary hesitated. Should she go in and reason further with the wilful
girl, and try to persuade her to restore the stolen garment?
Something told her it would be useless; but still she was on the
point of going in, when old James Gregory came by, and asked her to
walk on with him.

She complied, but not without an anxious look back at the window,
where no one was now to be seen.

"Well, May," said Gregory, "how're ye feelin' to-day? hearty? that's
clever! I hope you wasn't frettin' about that pin any. Most girls
would, but you ain't the fool kind."

"I don't know, Mr. Gregory!" said Mary, laughing. "I'm afraid I have
thought about it more or less, but I haven't been fretting. Where's
the use?"

"Jes' so! jes' so!" assented the old man, with alacrity.

"And I didn't say anything to Mother," Mary went on. "I didn't want
her to know about it unless something was really coming of it. Poor
Mother! she has enough to think about."

"She has so!" said Gregory. "A sight o' thinkin' your mother doos,
Mary, and good thoughts, every one of 'em, I'll bet my next pay.
She's a good woman, your mother; I guess likely you know it without
me sayin' so. I call Susan Denison the best woman I know, and I've
told my wife so, more times than she says she has any occasion for.
I don't say she's an angel, but she's a good woman, and that's as fur
as we're likely to get in this world.

"But that ain't what I wanted to say to you, May! Somehow or 'nother,
the story's got round about your findin' that pin yesterday. You
didn't say nothin'?"

"Not a word!" said Mary. "How could it--"

"'Twas that pison Hitchcock, I expect!" said Gregory. "I see him
lookin' up with his little eyes, as red as a ferret, and as ugly. I
bet he started the hull thing; and he's tacked on a passel of lies,
and the endurin' place is hummin' with it. Thought I'd tell ye
before ye went in, so's ye could fix up a little what to say."

Mary thanked him cordially, and passed on into the mill: the old man
looked after her with a very friendly glance in his keen blue eyes.

"She's good stuff, May is!" he murmured. "Good stuff, like her mother.

"Folks is like rags, however you look at 'em. Take a good linen rag,
no matter how black it is, and put it through the washers, and the
bleachers, and the cutters, and all the time it's gettin' whiter and
whiter, and sweeter and sweeter, the more you bang it round; till at
last you have bank-note paper, and write to the Queen of England on
it, if you're a mind to, and she won't have none better. And take
jute or shoddy, and the minute you touch to wash it, it cockles up,
or drops to pieces, and it ain't no good to mortal man. Jest like
folks, I tell ye! and May and her mother's pure linen clippin's, if
ever I see 'em."

Forewarned is forearmed, and Mary met quietly the buzz of inquiry
that greeted her when she entered the rag-room. The girls crowded
round her, the men were not far behind. To each and all Mary told the
simple truth, trying not to say a word too much. "The tongue is a
fire!" her mother's favorite text, was constantly in her mind, and
she was determined that no ill word should be spoken of Mr. Gordon,
if she could help it. Almost every one in the mill liked and
respected the "Old Man;" but the human mind loves a sensation, and
Lena and Hitchcock had told their story so vividly the day before
that Mary's account seemed tame and dull beside it; and some of the
hands preferred to think that "Mame Denison was a sly one, and
warn't goin' to let on, fear some one'd git ahead of her."

Lena, who came shortly, in her usual dress, fostered this feeling,
not from malice, but from sheer love of excitement and gossip. In
spite of Mary's efforts, the excitement increased, and when, late in
the afternoon, word came that Mary Denison was wanted in the office,
the rag-room was left fairly bubbling with wild surmise.

Mr. Gordon did not see Mary when she came in. He was standing at his
desk, with an open letter in his hand, and his face was disturbed as
he spoke to the senior clerk.

"Myers, it is as I feared about that bag of rags from Blankton. You
have kept it carefully tied up, and close by the chlorides, as I
told you?"

Myers, a clear-eyed, honest-browed man, looked troubled.

"I did, sir!" he said. "I have looked at the bag every time I passed
that way, and have cautioned every one in the mill not to go near it,
besides keeping the shed-gate locked; but this morning I found that
it had been tampered with, and evidently something taken out. I hope
there is nothing wrong, sir!"

George Gordon struck his hand heavily on the desk. "Wrong!" he
repeated. "There have been two fatal cases of smallpox in Blankton,
and that bag has been traced to the house where they were."

There was a moment of deathly silence. He went on:

"I suspected something wrong, the moment you told me of things that
looked new and good; but I did not want to raise a panic in the mill,
when there might be some other explanation. I thought I had taken
every precaution--what is that?"

He turned quickly, hearing a low cry behind him. Mary Denison was
standing with clasped hands, her face white with terror.

"Mary!" said Mr. Gordon, in amazement. "You--surely you have had
nothing to do with this?"

"No, sir!" cried Mary. "Oh, no, Mr. Gordon, indeed I have not. But I
fear--I fear I know who has. Oh, poor thing! poor Lena!"

Then, with an impulse she could not explain, she turned suddenly
upon Hitchcock.

"Who let Lena Laxen into the yard last night?" she cried. "She could
not have got in without help. You had a key--you were talking to her
after I left her yesterday. Oh! look at him, Mr. Gordon! Mr. Myers,
look at that man!"

But Hitchcock did not seem to hear or heed her. He sat crouched over
his desk, his face a greenish-gray color, his eyes staring, his
hands clutching the woodwork convulsively; an awful figure of terror,
that gasped and cowered before them. Then suddenly, with a cry that
rattled in his throat, he dashed from his seat and ran bareheaded
out of the door.

Myers started up to pursue him, but Mr. Gordon held up his hand.

"Let him go!" he said, sternly. "It may be that he carries his
punishment with him. In any case we shall see him no more."

Quickly and quietly he gave Myers his orders; to take Lena Laxen to
her home, notify the physician, and proclaim a strict quarantine; to
burn the infected rags without loss of time; to have every part of
the shed where the fatal bag had stood thoroughly disinfected. When
the man had hastened away, Mr. Gordon turned to Mary, and his stern
face lightened.

"Do not distress yourself, Mary," he said, kindly. "It may be that
Lena will escape the infection; it seems that she only had the
garment on a few minutes; and you did all you could, I am sure, to
dissuade her from this piece of fatal and dishonest folly."

"Oh! I might have said more!" cried Mary, in an agony of
self-reproach. "I meant to go into her house this morning, and try
to make her hear reason; it might not have been too late then."

"Thank Heaven you did not!" said Mr. Gordon, gravely. "The air of
the house was probably already infected. No one save the doctor must
go near that house till all danger of the disease developing is over."

He then told Mary briefly why he had sent for her. Finding that he
could not go to Boston himself at present, as he had planned, he had
sent the brooch by express to a jeweller whom he knew, and would be
able to tell her in a few days whether it was of real value or not.
Mary thanked him, but his words fell almost unheeded on her ears.
What were jewels or money, in the face of a danger so awful as that
which now threatened her friend, and, through her, the whole village?

Days of suspense followed. From the moment when the weeping,
agonized Lena was taken home and put, tenderly, pityingly, in her
mother's hands (it was Mr. Gordon himself who had done this, refusing
to let any other perform the duty), an invisible line was drawn
about the Laxen cottage, which few dared pass. The doctor came and
went, reporting all well to the eager questioners. Mr. Gordon called
daily to inquire, and every evening Mary Denison stole to the door
with a paper or magazine for Lena and her mother, or some home-made
delicacy that might please the imprisoned girl. Lena was usually at
the window, sometimes defiant and blustering, sometimes wild with
fright, sometimes again crying for sheer loneliness and vexation;
but always behind her was her mother's pale face of dread, and her
thin voice saying that Lena was "as well as common, thank ye," and
she and Mary would exchange glances, and Mary would go away drawing
breath, and thanking the Lord that another day was gone.

So on, for nine anxious days; but on the tenth, when Mary looked up
at the window, the mother stood there alone, crying; and the doctor,
coming out of the house at the moment, told Mary harshly to keep away
from him, and not to come so near the house.

In the dreadful days that followed, his people learned to know
George Gordon as they had never known him before. The grave, silent
man, who never spoke save when speech was necessary, was now among
them every day, going from room to room with cheerful greetings,
encouraging, heartening, raising the drooping spirits, and rebuking
sharply the croakers, who foretold with dismal unction a general
epidemic. While taking every possible precaution, he made light of
the actual danger, and by his presence and influence warded off the
panic which might have brought about the dreaded result.

As a matter of fact, there were no more cases in the mill; and Lena
herself had the terrible disease more lightly than any one had dared
to hope. The doctor, hurrying through back ways and alleys to change
his clothes and take his bath of disinfectants, was hailed from back
gates and windows at every step; and he never failed to return a
cheery "Doing well! out of it soon now! No, not much marked, only a
few spots here and there."

This was when he left the quarantined house; but when he sought it,
he might be seen to stop at one gate and another, picking up here a
jar, there a bowl, here again a paper bag; till by the time he
reached the Laxen gate he stood out all over with packages like a
summer Santa Claus.

"There ain't anybody goin' to starve round here, if they _have_ got
the smallpox!" was the general verdict, voiced by James Gregory, and
when he added, for the benefit of the mill-yard, that he had heard
Mr. Gordon order ice-cream, oranges, and oysters, all at once, for
Lena, a growl of pleasure went round, which deepened into a hearty
"What's the matter with the Old Man? _he's_ all right!"

At length, one happy day, Mary Denison met Mr. Gordon at the Laxens'
gate, and heard the good news that Lena was sitting up; that in a
day or two now the quarantine would be taken off, the house
disinfected, and Lena back in her place at the mill. The manager
looked with satisfaction at Mary's beaming face of happiness; then,
as she was turning away to spread the good tidings, he said:

"Wait a moment, Mary! I have some other news for you. Have you
forgotten the brooch that you found in the Blue Egyptians?"

The color rushed to Mary's face, and Mr. Gordon had his answer.

"Because," he added, "I have not forgotten, though you might well
think I had done so. All this sad business has delayed matters, but
now I have it all arranged. I am ready to-day, Mary, to give you
either the brooch itself, or--what I think will be better--five
hundred dollars, the sum I find it to be worth. Yes, my child, I am
speaking the truth! The stones are fine ones, and the Boston
jeweller offers you that sum for them. Well, Mary, have you nothing
to say? What, crying? this will never do!"

But Mary had nothing to say, and she was crying, because she could
not help it. Presently she managed to murmur something about
"Too much! too great kindness--not fair for her to have it all!" but
Mr. Gordon cut her short.

"Certainly you are to have it all, every penny of it! Finding's
having! that is paper-mill law; ask James Gregory if it is not!
There comes James this moment; go and tell him of your good fortune,
and let him bring you up to my house this evening to get the money.

"But, Mary,"--he glanced at a letter in his hand, and his face,
which had been bright with kindness and pleasure, grew very grave,--
"there is something else for you to tell James, and all the hands.
James Hitchcock died yesterday, of malignant smallpox!"

[Footnote 1: The main incidents in this story are founded on fact.]


"Then is little Benjamin their ruler."

"I THINK the kitty wants to come in," said Mother Golden. "I hear
him crying somewhere. Won't you go and let him in, Adam?"

Adam laid down his book and went out; the whole family looked up
cheerfully, expecting to see Aladdin, the great Maltese cat, enter
with his stately port. There was a pause; then Adam came back with a
white, scared face, and looked at his father without speaking.

"What is the matter, my son?" asked Father Golden.

"Is Kitty hurt?" asked Mother Golden, anxiously.

"Was it that dog of Jackson's?" cried Lemuel, Mary, Ruth, and Joseph.

"The cat isn't there!" said Adam. "It's--it's a basket, father."

"A basket? What does the boy mean?"

"A long basket, with something white inside; and--it's crying!"

The boy had left the door open, and at this moment a sound came
through it, a long, low, plaintive cry.

"My heart!" said Mother Golden; and she was out of the door in a

"See there now!" said Father Golden, reprovingly. "Your mother's
smarter than any of you to-day. Go and help her, some of you!"

The children tumbled headlong toward the door, but were met by
Mother Golden returning, bearing in her strong arms a long basket,
in which was indeed something white and fluffy that cried.


"A baby!" exclaimed Father Golden.

"A baby!" echoed Mary, Lemuel, Ruth, and Joseph.

"Well, I knew it was a baby," protested Adam; "but I didn't like to
say so."

Mother Golden lifted the child out and held it in a certain way; the
cries ceased, and the little creature nestled close against her and
looked up in her face.

"My heart!" said Mother Golden again. "Come here, girls!"

The girls pressed forward eagerly; the boys hung back, and glanced
at their father; these were women's matters.

"It's got hair!" cried Ruth, in rapture. "Mother! real hair, and it
curls; see it curl!"

"Look at its little hands!" murmured Mary. "They're like pink shells,
only soft. Oh! see it move them, Ruth!" She caught her sister's arm
in a sudden movement of delight.

"Oh, mother, mayn't we keep it?" cried both girls at once.

Mother Golden was examining the baby's clothes.

"Cambric slip, fine enough, but not so terrible fine. Flannel blanket,
machine-embroidered--stop! here's a note."

She opened a folded paper, and read a few words, written in a
carefully rough hand.

"His mother is dead, his father a waif. Ask the woman with the kind
eyes to take care of him, for Christ's sake."

"My heart!" said Mother Golden, again.

"It's a boy, then!" said Father Golden, brightening perceptibly. He
came forward, the boys edging forward too, encouraged by another
masculine presence.

"It's a boy, and a beauty!" said Mother Golden, wiping her eyes.
"I never see a prettier child. Poor mother, to have to go and leave
him. Father, what do you say?"

"It's for you to say, mother;" said Father Golden. "It's to you the
child was sent."

"Do you suppose 'twas me that was meant? They might have mistaken the

"Don't talk foolishness!" said Father Golden. "The question is, what
shall we do with it? There's places, a plenty, where foundlings have
the best of bringing up; and you've got care enough, as it is, mother,
without taking on any more."

"Oh! we could help!" cried Mary. "I could wash and dress it, I know
I could, and I'd just love to."

"So could I!" said twelve-year-old Ruth. "We'd take turns, Mary and I.
Do let's keep it, mother!"

"It's a great responsibility!" said Father Golden.

"Great Jemima!" said Mother Golden, with a sniff. "If I couldn't
take the responsibility of a baby, I'd give up."

Father Golden's mind moved slowly, and while he was meditating a
reply, his wife issued various commands, and went through some
intricate feminine manoeuvres, with the effect of increased
fluffiness on the baby's part. In five minutes she was feeding the
child with warm milk from a spoon, and proclaiming that he ate
"like a Major!"

The boys, gaining more and more confidence, were now close at her
knee, and watched the process with eager eyes.

"He's swallering like anything!" cried Lemuel. "I can see him do it
with his throat, same as anybody."

"See him grab the spoon!" said Joseph. "My! ain't he strong? Can he
talk, mother?"

"Joe, you chuckle-head!" said Adam, who was sixteen, and knew most
things. "How can he talk, when he hasn't got any teeth?"

"Uncle 'Rastus hasn't got any teeth," retorted Joseph, "and he talks
like a buzz-saw."

"Hush, Joseph!" said Mother Golden, reprovingly. "Your Uncle 'Rastus
is a man of years."

"Yes, mother!" said Joseph, meekly.

"Baby _has_ got a tooth, too, Adam!" Mother Golden continued,
triumphantly. "I feel it pricking through the gum this minute. And
he so good, and laughing like a sunflower! Did it hurt him, then, a
little precious man? he shall have a nice ring to-morrow day, to
bitey on, so he shall!"

"I suppose, then, he must be as much as a week old," hazarded Adam,
in an offhand tone. "They are never born with teeth, are they,
unless they are going to be Richard the Thirds, or something

"Perhaps he is!" said Ruth. "He looks wonderful enough for Richard
the Twentieth, or anything."

But--"A week old!" said Mother Golden. "It's time there was a baby in
this house, if you don't know better than that, Adam. About six
months old I call him, and as pretty a child as ever I saw, even my

She looked half-defiantly at Father Golden, who returned the look
with one of mild deprecation.

"I was only thinking of the care 'twould be to you, mother," he said.
"We're bound to make inquiries, and report the case, and so forth;
but if nothing comes of that, we might keep the child for a spell,
and see how things turn out."

"That's what I was thinking!" said Mother Golden, eagerly. "I was
thinking anyway, Joel, 'twould be best to keep him through his
teething and stomach troubles, and give him a good start in the way
of proper food and nursing. At them homes and nurseries, they mean
well, but the most of them's young, and they _don't_ understand a
child's stomach. It's experience they need, not good-will, I'm well
aware. Of course, when Baby begun to be a boy, things might be
different. You work hard enough as it is, father, and there's places,
no doubt, could do better for him, maybe, than what we could.
But--well, seeing whose name he come in, I _do_ feel to see him
through his teething."

"Children, what do you say?" asked Father Golden. "You're old enough
to have your opinion, even the youngest of you."

"Oh, keep him! keep him!" clamored the three younger children.

Adam and Lemuel exchanged a glance of grave inquiry.

"I guess he'd better stay, father!" said Adam.

"I think so, too!" said Lemuel; and both gave something like a sigh
of relief.

"Then that's settled," said Father Golden, "saying and supposing
that no objection turns up. Next thing is, what shall we call this

All eyes were fixed on the baby, who, now full of warm milk, sat
throned on Mother Golden's knee, blinking content.

It was a pretty picture: the rosy, dimpled creature, the yellow
floss ruffled all over his head, his absurd little mouth open in a
beaming smile; beaming above him, Mother Golden's placid face in its
frame of silver hair; fronting them, Father Golden in his big
leather chair, solid, comfortable, benevolent; and the five children,
their honest, sober faces lighted up with unusual excitement. A
pleasant, homelike picture. Nothing remarkable in the way of setting;
the room, with its stuffed chairs, its tidies, and cabinet organ, was
only unlike other such rooms from the fact that Mother Golden
habitually sat in it; she could keep even haircloth from being
commonplace. But now, all the light in the room seemed to centre on
the yellow flossy curls against her breast.

"A-goo!" said the baby, in a winning gurgle.

"He says his name's Goo!" announced Joseph.

"Don't be a chuckle-head, Joe!" said Adam. "What was the name on the
paper, mother?"

"It said 'his father is a Waif;' but I don't take that to be a
Christian name. Surname, more likely, shouldn't you say, father?"

"Not a Christian name, certainly," said Father Golden. "Not much of
a name anyhow, 'pears to me. We'd better give the child a suitable
name, mother, saying and supposing no objection turns up. Coming
into a Christian family, let him have Christian baptism, I say."

"Oh, call him Arthur!"




"Reginald!" cried the children in chorus.

"I do love a Bible name!" said Mother Golden, pensively. "It gives a
child a good start, so to say, and makes him think when he hears
himself named, or ought so to do. All our own children has Bible
names, father; don't let us cut the little stranger off from his

"But Bible names are so ugly!" objected Lemuel, who was sensitive,
and suffered under his own cognomen.

"Son," said Father Golden, "your mother chooses the names in this

"Yes, father!" said Lemuel.

"Lemuel, dear, you was named for a king!" said Mother Golden.
"He was a good boy to his mother, and so are you. Bring the Bible,
and let us see what it opens at. Joseph, you are the youngest, you
shall open it."

Joseph opened the great brown leather Bible, and closing his eyes,
laid his hand on the page; then looking down, he read:

"'There is little Benjamin their ruler, and the princes of Judah
their council: the princes of Zebulun and the princes of Nephtali.'"

"Zebulun and Nephtali are outlandish-sounding names," said Mother

"I never knew but one Nephtali, and he squinted. Benjamin shall be
this child's name. Little Benjamin: the Lord bless and keep him!"

"Amen!" said Father Golden.


"Father, may I come in, if you are not busy?"

It was Mary who spoke; Mary, the dear eldest daughter, now a woman
grown, grave and mild, trying hard to fill the place left empty
these two years, since Mother Golden went smiling out of life.

Father Golden looked up from his book; he was an old man now, but
his eyes were still young and kind.

"What is it, daughter Mary?"

"The same old story, father dear; Benny in mischief again. This time
he has rubbed soot on all the door-handles, and the whole house is
black with it. I hate to trouble you, father, but I expect you'll
have to speak to him. I do love the child so, I'm not strict
enough--I'm ashamed to say it, but they all think so, and I know
it's true--and Adam is too strict."

"Yes, Adam is too strict," said Father Golden. He looked at a
portrait that stood on his desk, a framed photograph of Mother Golden.

"I'll speak to the child, Mary," he said. "I'll see that this does
not happen again. What is it, Ruthie?"

"I was looking for Mary, father. I wanted--oh, Mary! what shall I do
with Benny? he has tied Rover and the cat together by their tails,
and they are rushing all about the garden almost crazy. I must
finish this work, so I can't attend to it. He says he is playing
Samson. I wish you would speak to him, father."

"I will do so, Ruth, I will do so. Don't be distressed, my daughter."

"But he is so naughty, father! he is so different from the other boys.
Joe never used to play such tricks when he was little."

"The spring vacation will be over soon now, Ruth," said Sister Mary.
"He is always better when he is at work, and there is so little for
a boy to do just at this time of year."

"I left Joe trying to catch the poor creatures," said Ruth.
"Here he comes now."

Joe, a tall lad of seventeen, entered with a face of tragedy.

"Any harm done, Joseph?" asked Father Golden, glancing at the
portrait on his desk.

"It's that kid again, father!" said Joe. "Poor old Rover--"

"Father knows about that, Joe!" said Mary, gently.

"Did you get them apart?" cried Ruth.

"Yes, I did, but not till they had smashed most of the glass in the
kitchen windows, and trampled all over Mary's geraniums. Something
has got to be done about that youngster, father. He's getting to be
a perfect nuisance."

"I am thinking of doing something about him, son Joseph," said Father
Golden. "Are your brothers in the house?"

"I think I heard them come in just now, sir. Do you want to see them?"

Apparently Adam and Lemuel wanted to see their father, for they
appeared in the doorway at this moment: quiet-looking men, with grave,
"set" faces; the hair already beginning to edge away from their

"You are back early from the office, boys!" said Father Golden.

"We came as soon as we got the message," said Adam. "I hope nothing
is wrong, father."

"What message, Adam?"

"Didn't you send for us? Benny came running in, all out of breath,
and said you wished to see us at once. If he has been playing tricks

Adam's grave face darkened into sternness. The trick was too evident.

"Something must be done about that boy, father!" he said. "He is the
torment of the whole family."

"No one can live a day in peace!" said Lemuel.

"No dumb creature's life is safe!" said Joe.

"He breaks everything he lays hands on," said Ruth, "and he won't
keep his hands off anything."

"You were all little once, boys!" said Mary.

"We never behaved in this kind of way!" said the brothers, sedate
from their cradles. "Something must be done!"

"You are right," said Father Golden. "Something must be done."

Glancing once more at the portrait of Mother Golden, he turned and
faced his children with grave looks.

"Sit down, sons and daughters!" said the old man. "I have something
to say to you."

The young people obeyed, wondering, but not questioning. Father
Golden was head of the house.

"You all come to me," said Father Golden, "with complaints of little
Benjamin. It is singular that you should come to-day, for I have
been waiting for this day to speak to you about the child myself."

He paused for a moment; then added, weighing his words slowly, as
was his wont when much in earnest, "Ten years ago to-day, that child
was left on our door-step."

The brothers and sisters uttered an exclamation, half surprised,
half acquiescent.

"It doesn't seem so long!" said Adam.

"It seems longer!" said Mary.

"I keep forgetting he came that way!" murmured Joe.

"I felt doubtful about taking him in," Father Golden went on.
"But your mother wished it; you all wished it. We decided to keep
him for a spell, and give him a good start in life, and we have kept
him till now."

"Of course we have kept him!" said Ruth.

"Naturally!" said Lemuel.

Adam and Mary said nothing, but looked earnestly at their father.

"Little Benjamin is now ten years old, more or less," said Father
Golden. "You are men and women grown; even Joseph is seventeen. Your
mother has entered into the rest that is reserved for the people of
God, and I am looking forward in the hope that, not through any
merit of mine, but the merciful grace of God, I may soon be called
to join her. Adam and Lemuel, you are settled in the business, and
looking forward to making homes of your own with worthy young women.
Joseph is going to college, which is a new thing in our family, but
one I approve, seeing his faculty appears to lie that way. Ruth will
make a first-rate dressmaker, I am told by those who know. Mary--"

His quiet voice faltered. Mary took his hand and kissed it
passionately; a sob broke from her, and she turned her face away
from the brothers and sister who loved but did not understand her.
They looked at her with grave compassion, but no one would have
thought of interrupting Father Golden.

"Mary, you are the home-maker," the old man went on. "I hope that
when I am gone this home will still be here, with you at the head of
it. You are your mother's own daughter; there is no more to say." He
was silent for a time, and then continued.

"There remains little Benjamin, a child of ten years. He is no kin
to us; an orphan, or as good as one; no person has ever claimed him,
or ever will. The time has come to decide what shall be done with
the child."

Again he paused, and looked around. The serious young faces were all
intent upon him; in some, the intentness seemed deepening into
trouble, but no one spoke or moved.

"We have done all that we undertook to do for him, that night we
took him in, and more. We have brought him--I should say your mother
brought him--through his sickly days; we 'most lost him, you remember,
when he was two years old, with the croup--and he is now a healthy,
hearty child, and will likely make a strong man. He has been well
treated, well fed and clothed, maybe better than he would have been
by his own parents if so't had been. He is turning out wild and
mischievous, though he has a good heart, none better; and you all,
except Mary, come to me with complaints of him.

"Now, this thing has gone far enough. One of two things: either this
boy is to be sent away to some institution, to take his place among
other orphans and foundlings, or--he must be one of you for now and
always, to share alike with you while I live, to be bore with and
helped by each and every one of you as if he was your own blood, and
to have his share of the property when I am gone. Sons and daughters,
this question is for you to decide. I shall say nothing. My life is
'most over, yours is just beginning. I have no great amount to leave
you, but 'twill be comfortable so far as it goes. Benjamin has
one-sixth of that, and becomes my own son, to be received and
treated by you as your own brother, or he goes."

Mary hid her face in her hands. Adam walked to the window and looked
out; but the other three broke out into a sudden, hurried clamor,
strangely at variance with their usual staid demeanor.

"Oh, father, we couldn't let him go!"

"Why, father, I can't think what you mean!"

"I'm sure, sir, we never thought of such a thing as sending him away.
Why, he's our Ben."

"Good enough little kid, only mischievous."

"Needs a little governing, that's all. Mary spoils him; no harm in
him, not a mite."

"And the lovingest little soul! the minute he found that Kitty's paw
was cut, he sat down and cried--"

"I guess if Benny went, I'd go after him pretty quick!" said Joseph,
who had been loudest in his complaint against the child.

Mary looked up and smiled through her tears. "Joe, your heart is in
the right place!" she said. "I finished your shirts this morning,
dear; I'm going to begin on your slippers to-night."

"Well, but, father--"

"Father dear, about little Benny--"

"Yes, sir--poor little Ben!"

"Go easy!" said Father Golden; and his face, as he looked from one
to the other, was as bright as his name.

"Why, children, you're real excited. I don't want excitement, nor
crying--Mary, daughter, I knew how you would feel, anyway. I want a
serious word, 'go,' or 'stay,' from each one of you; a word that
will last your lives long. I'll begin with the youngest, because
that was your mother's way. She always said the youngest was nearest
heaven. Joseph, what is your word about little Benjamin?"

"Stay, of course!" cried Joe. "Benny does tease me, but I should be
nowhere without him."

"Ruth! you seemed greatly tried just now. Think what you are going
to say."

"Oh, of course he must stay, father. Why, the child is the life of
the house. We are all so humdrum and mopy, I don't know what we
should do without Benny to keep us moving."

"Mary, daughter--not that I need your answer, my dear."

"He is the only child I shall ever have!" said Mary, simply.

There was silence for a moment, and all thought of the grave where
her young heart had laid its treasure.


"I've been hard on the child, Father!" said Lemuel. "He's so
different from the rest of us, and he does try me. But mother loved
him, and down at the bottom we all do, I guess. I say 'stay,' too,
and I'll try to be more of a brother to him from now on."

"Son Adam, I have left you the longest time to reflect," said Father
Golden. "You are the oldest, and when I am gone it will be on you
and Mary that the heft of the care will come. Take all the time you
want, and then give us your word!"

Adam turned round; his face was very grave, but he spoke cheerfully.

"I have had time enough, Father," he said. "I was the first that
heard that little voice, ten years ago, and the first, except mother,
that saw the child; 'twould be strange if I were the one to send him
away. He came in Christ's name, and in that name I bid him stay."

"Amen!" said Father Golden.

A silence followed; but it was broken soon by a lively whistle,
shrilling out a rollicking tune; the next moment a boy came running
into the room. Curly, rosy, dirty, ragged, laughing, panting, little
Benjamin stood still and looked round on all the earnest, serious

"What's the matter, all you folks?" he asked. "I should think you
was all in meeting, and sermon just beginning. Ruth, I tied up
Kitty's leg all right; and I'll dig greens to pay for the glass, Joe.
Say, Bro'rer-Adam-an'-Lem (Benny pronounced this as if it were one
word), did you forget it was April Fool's Day? Didn't I fool you good?
And--say! there's a fierce breeze and my new kite's a buster. Who'll
come out and fly her with me?"

"I will, Benny!" said Adam, Lemuel, Mary, Ruth, and Joseph.


"Don Alonzo! Don Alonzo Pitkin! Where be you?"

There was no answer.

"Don Alonzo! Deacon Bassett's here, and wishful to see you. Don
Alonzo Pit-_kin_!"

Mrs. Joe Pitkin stood at the door a moment, waiting; then she shook
her shoulders with a despairing gesture, and went back into the
sitting-room. "I don't know where he is, Deacon Bassett," she said.
"There! I'm sorry; but he's so bashful, Don Alonzo is, he'll creep
off and hide anywheres sooner than see folks. I do feel mortified,
but I can't seem to help it, no way in the world."

"No need to, Mis' Pitkin," said Deacon Bassett, rising slowly and
reaching for his hat. "No need to. I should have been pleased to see
Don 'Lonzo, and ask if he got benefit from those pills I left for him
last time I called; what he wants is to doctor reg'lar, and keep
straight on doctorin'. But I can call again; and I felt it a duty to
let you know what's goin' on at your own yard-gate, I may say. Mis'
Pegrum's house ain't but a stone's throw from yourn, is it? Well,
I'll be wishing you good day, and I hope Joseph will be home before
there's any trouble. I don't suppose you've noticed whether Don
Alonzo has growed any, sence he took those pills?"

"No, I haven't!" said Mrs. Pitkin, shortly. "Good day, Deacon Bassett."

"Yes, you can call again," she added, mentally, as she watched the
deacon making his way slowly down the garden walk, stopping the
while to inspect every plant that looked promising. "You can call
again, but you will not see him, if you come every day. It does beat
all, the way folks can't let that boy alone. Talk about his being
cranky! I'd be ten times as cranky as he is, if I was pestered by
every old podogger that's got stuff to sell."

She closed the door, and addressed the house, apparently empty and
still. "He's gone!" she said, speaking rather loudly, "Don 'Lonzo,
he's gone, and you can come out. I expect you're hid somewheres
about here, for I didn't hear you go out."

There was no sound. She opened the door of the ground-floor bedroom
and looked in. All was tidy and pleasant as usual. Every mat lay in
its place; the chairs were set against the wall as she loved to see
them; the rows of books, the shelves of chemicals, at which she
hardly dared to look, and which she never dared to touch for fear
something would "go off" and kill her instantly, the specimens in
their tall glass jars, the case of butterflies, all were in their
place; but there was no sign of life in the room, save the canary in
the window.

"Deacon Bassett's gone!" she said, speaking to the canary.

There was a scuffling sound from under the bed; the valance was
lifted, and a head emerged cautiously.

"I tell you he's gone!" repeated Mira Pitkin, rather impatiently.
"Come out, Don Alonzo! There! you are foolish, I must say!"

The head came out, followed by a figure. The figure was that of a
boy of twelve, but the head belonged to a youth of seventeen. The
rounded shoulders, the sharp features, the dark, sunken eyes, all
told a tale of suffering; Don Alonzo Pitkin was a hunchback.

His pretty, silly mother had given him the foolish name which seemed
a perpetual mockery of his feeble person. She had found it in an old
romance, and had only wavered between it and Senor Gonzalez,--which
she pronounced Seener Gon-zallies,--the other dark-eyed hero of the
book. Perhaps she pictured to herself her baby growing up into such
another lofty, black-plumed hidalgo as those whose magnificent
language and mustachios had so deeply impressed her. It was true
that she herself had pinkish eyes and white eyelashes, while her
husband was familiarly known as "Carrots,"--but what of that?

But he had a fall, this poor baby,--a cruel fall, from the
consequences of which no high-sounding name could save him; and then
presently the little mother died, and the father married again.

The boy's childhood had been a sad one, and all the happiness he had
known had been lately, since his elder brother married. Big,
good-natured Joe Pitkin, marrying the prettiest girl in the village,
had been sore at heart, even in his new-wedded happiness, at the
thought of leaving the deformed, sensitive boy alone with the
careless father and the shrewish stepmother. But his young wife had
been the first to say:

"Let Don Alonzo come and live with us, Joe! Where there is room for
two, there is room for three, and that boy wants to be made of!"

So the strong, cheerful, wholesome young woman took the sickly lad
into her house and heart, and "made of him," to use her own quaint
phrase; and she became mother and sister and sweetheart, all in one,
to Don Alonzo.

Now she stood looking at him, shaking her head, yet smiling.
"Don 'Lonzo, how can you behave so?" she asked. "This is the third
time Deacon Bassett has been here to see you, and he's coming again;
and what be I to say to him next time he comes? You can't go through
life without seeing folks, you know."

Don Alonzo shook his shoulders, and pretended to look for dust on
his coat. He would have been deeply mortified to find any, for he
took care of his own room, and prided himself, with reason, on its
neatness. Also, the space beneath his bedstead was cupboard as well
as hiding-place.

"He troubles me," he said, meekly. "Deacon Bassett troubles me more
than any of 'em. Did he ask if I'd grown any?"

"Well, he did," Mira admitted. "But I expect he didn't mean anything
by it."

"He's asked that ever since I can remember," said Don Alonzo;
"and I'm weary of it. There! And then he says that if I would only
take his Green Elixir three times a day for three months, I'd grow
like a sapling willow. He hopes to make his living out of me, yet!"

Mrs. Pitkin laughed, comfortably, and smoothed the lad's hair back
with a motherly touch. "All the same," she said, "you must quit
hiding under the bed when folks come to call, Don 'Lonzo. You don't
want 'em to think I treat you bad, and keep you out o' sight, so's
they'll not find it out." Then, seeing the boy's face flush with
distress, she added, hastily, "Besides, you're getting to be 'most a
man now; I want strangers should know there's men-folks about the
place, now Joe's away. There's burglars in town, Don 'Lonzo, and we
must look out and keep things shut up close, nights."

"Burglars!" repeated the youth.

"Yes; Deacon Bassett was telling me about 'em just now. I guess
likely half what he came for was to give me a good scare, knowing
Joe was away. Now, ain't I uncharitable! 'Twas just as likely to be
a friendly warning. Anyway, he was telling me they came through from
Tupham Corner day before yesterday, and they've been lurking and
spying round."

"Some boys saw them, coming through Green Gully, and were scared to
death at their looks; they said they were big, black-looking men,
strangers to these parts; and they swore at the boys and ordered 'em
off real ugly. Nobody else has seen them in honest daylight, but
they broke into Dan'l Brown's house last night. He's deaf, you know,
and didn't hear a sound. They came right into the room where he slept,
--Deacon Bassett was there the next day, and saw their tracks all
over the floor,--and took ten dollars out of his pants pocket. The
pants was hanging right beside the bed, and they turned them clean
inside out, and Dan'l never stirred."

"My, oh!" exclaimed Don Alonzo.

"Why, it's terrible!" Mira went on. "Then, last night, they got into
Mis' Pegrum's house, too. She's a lone woman, you know, same as
Dan'l is a man. Seems as if they had took note of every house where
there wasn't plenty of folks to be stirring and taking notice. They
got into the pantry window, and took every living thing she had to
eat. They might do that, and still go hungry, Deacon Bassett says;
you know there's always been a little feeling between him and Mis'
Pegrum; her cat and his hens--it's an old story. Well, and she did
hear a noise, and came out into the kitchen, and there sat two great,
black men, eating her best peach preserves, and the cake she'd made
for the Ladies' Aid, to-day. She was so scare't, she couldn't speak
a word; and they just laughed and told her to go back to bed, and
she went. Poor-spirited, it seems, but I don't know as I should have
done a bit better in her place. There! I wish Joe'd come back! I
feel real nervous, hearing about it all. Oh, and her gold watch, too,
they got, and three solid silver teaspoons that belonged to her
mother. She's sick abed, Deacon Bassett says, and I don't wonder. I
don't feel as if I should sleep a wink to-night!"

The color came into Don Alonzo's thin cheeks. "There sha'n't no one
do you any hurt while I'm round, Mira!" he said; and for a moment he
forgot his deformity, and straightened his poor shoulders, and held
up his head like a man.

There was no shade of amusement in Mira Pitkin's honest smile.
"I expect you'd be as brave as a lion, Don 'Lonzo," she said.
"I expect you'd shoo 'em right out of the yard, same as you did the
turkey gobbler when he run at my red shawl; don't you remember? But
all the same, I hope they will not come; and I shall be glad to see
Joe back again."

At that moment the lad caught sight of himself in the little
looking-glass that hung over his chest of drawers. Mira, watching him,
saw the sparkle go out of his eyes, saw his shoulders droop, and his
head sink forward; and she said, quickly:

"But there! we've said enough about the burglars, I should think!
How's the experiments, Don 'Lonzo? I heard an awful fizzing going on,
just before Deacon Bassett came in. I expect you've got great things
hidden under that bed; I expect there's other perils round besides
burglars! Joe may come back and find us both blown into kindlin'-wood,
after all!"

This was a favorite joke of theirs; she had the pleasure of seeing a
smile come into the boy's sad eyes; then, with another of those
motherly touches on his hair, she went away, singing, to her work.

Don Alonzo looked after her. From the way his eyes followed her, she
might have been a glorified saint in robe and crown, instead of a
rosy-cheeked young woman in a calico gown. "There sha'n't nothing
hurt her while I'm round!" he muttered again.

The night fell, dark and cloudy. Mrs. Pitkin went to bed early,
after shaking every door and trying every window to make sure that
all was safe. Don Alonzo went through the same process twice after
she was gone, but he did not feel like sleeping, himself. He lay
down on his bed, but his thoughts seemed dancing from one thing to
another,--to Brother Joe, travelling homeward now, he hoped, after a
week's absence; to Mira's goodness, her patience with his wayward
self, her kindness in letting him mess with chemicals, and turn the
shed into a laboratory, and frighten her with explosions; to Dan'l
Brown and Mis' Pegrum and the burglars.

Ah, the burglars! What could he do, if they should really come to
the house? They were two men, probably well-grown; he--he knew what
he was! How could he carry out his promise to Mira, if she should be
in actual danger? Not by strength, clearly; but there must be some
way; bodily strength was not the only thing in the world. He looked
about him, seeking for inspiration; his eyes, wandering here and
there, lighted upon something, then remained fixed. The room was
dimly lighted by a small lamp, but the corners were dark, and in one
of these dark corners something was shining with a faint, uncertain
light. The phosphorescent match-box! He had made it himself, and had
ornamented it with a grotesque face in luminous paint. This face now
glimmered and glowered at him from the darkness; and Don Alonzo lay
still and looked back at it. Lying so and looking, there crept into
his mind an old story that he had once read; and he laughed to
himself, and then nodded at the glimmering face. "Thank you, old
fellow!" said Don Alonzo.

Was there a noise? Was it his imagination, or did a branch snap, a
twig rustle down the road? The hunchback had ears like a fox, and in
an instant he was at the window, peering out into the darkness. At
first he could see nothing; but gradually the lilac bushes at the
gate came into sight, and the clumps of flowers in the little garden
plot. Not a breath was stirring, yet--hark! Again a twig snapped, a
branch crackled; and now again! and nearer each time. Don Alonzo
strained his eyes to pierce the darkness. Were those bushes, those
two shapes by the gate? They were not there a moment ago. Ha! they
moved; they were coming nearer. Their feet made no sound on the
soft earth, but his sharp ears caught a new sound,--a whisper, faint,
yet harsh, like a hiss. Don Alonzo had seen and heard enough. He
left the window, and the next moment was diving under the bed.

* * * * *

Mira Pitkin usually slept like a child, from the moment her head
touched the pillow till the precise second when something woke in
her brain and said "Five o'clock!" But to-night her sleep was broken.
She tossed and muttered in her dreams; and suddenly she sat up in bed
with eyes wide open and a distinct sense of something wrong. Her
first thought was of fire; she sniffed; the air was pure and clear.
Then, like a cry in her ears, came--"The burglars!" She held her
breath and listened; was the night as still as it was dark? No! a
faint, steady sound came to her ears. A mouse, was it, or--the sound
of a tool?

And then, almost noiselessly, a window was opened, the window of the
upper entry, next her room. Mira was at her own window in an instant,
raising it; that, too, opened silently, for Joe was a carpenter and
detested noisy windows. She peered out into the thick darkness. Black,
black! Was the blackness deeper there, just at the front door?
Surely it was! Surely something, somebody, was busy with the lock of
the door; and then she heard, as Don Alonzo had heard, a low sound
like a hiss, beside the soft scraping of the tool. What should she do?
The windows were fast, there was a bar and chain inside the door,
but what of that? Two desperate men could force an entrance anywhere
in a moment. What could she do, a woman, with only a sickly boy to
help her? And--who had opened that upper window? Was there a third
accomplice--for she thought she could see two spots of deeper
blackness by the door--hidden in the house? Oh, if only Joe had
borrowed his father's old pistol for her, as she had begged him to do!

Mira opened her lips to shout, in the hope of rousing the nearest
neighbors, though they were not very near. Opened her lips--but no
sound came from them. For at that instant something appeared at the
window next her own; something stepped from it, out on to the little
porch over the front door. Mira Pitkin gasped, and felt her heart
fail within her. A skeleton! Every limb outlined in pale fire, the
bony fingers points of wavering flame. What awful portent was this?
The Thing paused and turned, a frightful face gazed at her for an
instant, a hand waved, then the Thing dropped, silent as a shadow, on
that spot of deeper blackness that was stooping at the front door.

Then rose an outcry wild and hideous. The burglar shouted hoarsely,
and tried to shake off the Thing that sat on his shoulders, gripping
his neck with hands of iron, digging his sides with bony knees and
feet; but the second thief, who saw by what his comrade was ridden,
shrieked in pure animal terror, uttering unearthly sounds that cut
the air like a knife. For a moment he could only stand and shriek;
then he turned and fled through the yard, and the other fled after
him, the glimmering phantom clutching him tight. Down the road they
fled. Mira could now see nothing save the riding Thing, apparently
horsed on empty air; but now she saw it, still clutching close with
its left hand, raise the right, holding what looked like a shining
snake, and bring it down hissing and curling. Again, and again! and
with every blow the shrieks grew more and more hideous, till now
they had reached the cluster of houses at the head of the street,
and every window was flung open, and lights appeared, and voices
clamored in terror and amaze. The village was roused; and now--now,
the glimmering skeleton was seen to loose its hold. It dropped from
its perch, and turning that awful face toward her once more, came
loping back, silent as a shadow. But when she saw that, Mira Pitkin,
for the first and last time in her sensible life, fainted away.

When she came to herself, the skeleton was bending over her anxiously,
but its face was no longer frightful; it was white and anxious, and
the eyes that met hers were piteous with distress.

"My, oh!" cried Don Alonzo. "I vowed no one should do her any hurt,
and now I've done it myself."

There was little sleep in the Pitkin house that night. The neighbors
came flocking in with cries and questions; and when all was explained,
Don Alonzo found himself the hero of the hour. For once he did not
hide under the bed, but received everybody--from Deacon Bassett down
to the smallest boy who came running in shirt and trousers,
half-awake, and athirst for marvels--with modest pride, and told
over and over again how it all happened.

'Twas no great thing, he maintained. He had fooled considerable with
phosphorus, and had some of the luminous paint that he had mixed
some time before. Thinking about these fellows, he remembered a
story he read once, where they painted up a dead body to scare away
some murdering robbers. He thought a living person was as good as a
dead one, any day; so he tried it on, and it appeared to succeed. He
didn't think likely those men would stop short of the next township,
from the way they were running when he got down. Oh, the snake? That
was Joe's whip. He presumed likely it hurt some, from the way they

But the best of all was when Joe came home, the very next day, and
when, the three of them sitting about the supper-table, Mira herself
told the great story, from the first moment of Deacon Bassett's
visit down to the triumphant close--"And I see him coming back,
shining like a corpse-candle, and I fell like dead on the floor!"

"There!" she continued, beaming across the table at Joe, as she
handed him his fourth cup of coffee, "you may go away again whenever
you're a mind to; I sha'n't be afraid. You ain't half the man Don
'Lonzo is!"

"I don't expect I be!" said big Joe, beaming back again.

It seemed to Don Alonzo that their smiles made the kitchen warm as
June, though October was falling cold that year.


"Well, I once answered an advertisement in the _Farmer's Friend_,
girls, and I have always been glad I did. It was that summer when
father broke his arm and the potato crop failed, and everything
seemed to be going wrong on the farm. There were plenty of girls to
do the work at home, and I thought I ought to get something outside
to do if I could. I tried here and there, but without success; at
last my eye caught a notice in the _Farmer's Friend_, just the same
kind of notice as that you are speaking of, Lottie: 'Wanted, a
capable, steady girl to assist in housework and take care of children.
Address, with reference, A. B. C., Dashville.' I talked it over with
mother, and she agreed with me; father didn't take so kindly to the
idea, naturally; he likes to have us all at home, especially in
summer. However, he said I might do as I pleased; so I answered the
notice and sent a letter from our pastor, saying what he thought of
me. I was almost ashamed to send it, too; he has always been more
than kind to me, you know; if I'd been his own daughter he couldn't
have said more. Well, they wrote for me to come, and I went.

"Girls, it was pretty hard when it came to that part, leaving the
house, and mother standing in the doorway trying not to look anxious,
and father fretting and saying it was all nonsense, and he shouldn't
have hands enough to pick the apples. Of course he knew I knew better,
but I was glad he didn't want me to go, after all. Sister Nell and
Sister Margie had packed my trunk, and they were as excited as I was,
and almost wished they were going instead, but not quite, I think;
and so Joe whistled to old Senator, and I waved my handkerchief, and
mother and the two girls waved their aprons, and off I went.

"I didn't really feel alone till I was in the train and had lost
sight of Joe standing and smoothing Senator's mane and nodding at me;
then the world seemed very big and Tupham Corner a very small corner
in it. I will not say anything more about this part; you'll find it
out soon enough yourselves, when you go away from home the first time.

"It was a long journey, or it seemed so then; but everything comes
to an end some time, and there was plenty of daylight left for me to
see my new home when I arrived. It was a pleasant-looking house,
long and rambling, painted yellow, too, which made me more homesick
than ever. There were two children standing in the doorway, and
presently Mr. Bowles came out and shook hands with me and helped me
down with my things. He was a kind, sensible-looking man, and he
made the children come and speak to me and shake hands. They were
shy then and hung back, and put their fingers in their mouths; I
knew just how they felt. I wanted to hang back, too, when he took me
into the house to see Mrs. Bowles. She was an invalid, he told me,
and could not leave her room.

"Girls, the minute I saw that sweet, pale face, with the look of
pain and patience in it, I knew what I had come for. I do think we
understood each other from the first minute, Mrs. Bowles and I; for
she held my hand a good while, looking into my face and I into hers,
and she must have seen how sorry I was for her, and how I hoped I
could help her; for when I went into the kitchen I heard her say,
with a little sigh, as she lay back again, 'O John, I do believe

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