The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Green Satin Gown, by Laura E. Richards

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Green Satin Gown

Author: Laura E. Richards

Illustrator: Etheldred B. Barry

Posting Date: August 30, 2012 [EBook #9397]
Release Date: November, 2005
First Posted: September 29, 2003

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREEN SATIN GOWN ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG
Distributed Proofreaders










THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

BY LAURA E. RICHARDS

_Author of_ "Captain January," "Melody," "Three Margarets,"
"Peggy," "Queen Hildegarde," etc., etc.


Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry




THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

Published May, 1903




TO
THE GIRLS OF
The Friday Club of Gardiner, Maine
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED




CONTENTS


THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

BLUE EGYPTIANS

LITTLE BENJAMIN

DON ALONZO

THE SHED CHAMBER

MAINE TO THE RESCUE

THE SCARLET LEAVES




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"THE FIRST TITTER PUT A FIRE IN MY VEINS THAT KEPT ME WARM ALL THE
    EVENING"

"GREGORY POLISHED IT ON HIS SLEEVE, AND HELD IT UP AGAIN"

"'A LONG BASKET WITH SOMETHING WHITE INSIDE; AND--IT'S CRYING!'"

"'FATHER SAYS THE LORD SENT YOU. DID HE?'"

"MAINE HAILED HIM FROM THE TOP OF A GREAT DRIFT"

THE CONFERENCE




THE GREEN SATIN GOWN


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
emotion.

"Dear Miss Persis!" I cried. "What has happened? Have you had bad
news?"

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
gown!

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
yet--

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
birthday.

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.




BLUE EGYPTIANS [1]


A PAPER-MILL STORY

"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
rag-room.

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
found.

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.

[Illustration: "GREGORY 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
me!"

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
jacket."

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
conqueror.

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.]




LITTLE BENJAMIN

     "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
flash.

"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.

[Illustration: "'A LONG BASKET WITH SOMETHING WHITE INSIDE;
AND--IT'S CRYING!'"]

"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
house."

"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
wonderful?"

"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
own."

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
child?"

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!"

"Bill!"

"Richard!"

"Charlie!"

"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
privilege."

"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
family."

"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
Golden.

"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.



_PART II_.

"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
temples.

"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
again--"

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.

"Lemuel!"

"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
faces.

"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! 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 Se�or 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
yelled.

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.




_THE SHED CHAMBER_


"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
this is the right one at last!' You may believe I made up my mind
that I would be the right one, Lottie!

"That kitchen was in a scandalous condition. It was well I had seen
Mrs. Bowles first or I should have wanted to run away that very
minute. The eldest little girl--it seems strange to think that there
ever was a time when I didn't know Barbara's name!--followed me out,--I
think her father told her to,--and rubbed along against the wall,
just exactly as I used to when I felt shy. When I asked her a little
about where things were, and so on--they were everywhere and nowhere;
you never saw such a looking place in your life!--she took her
finger out of her mouth, and pretty soon I told her about our yellow
coon kittens, and after that we got on very well. She said they had
had one girl after another, each worse than the last. The shoe
factory had taken off all the good help and left only the incapable
ones. The last one, Barbara said, had almost starved them, and been
saucy to Mrs. Bowles, and dirty--well, there was no need to tell me
that. It was a shame to see good things so destroyed; for the things
were good, only all dirty and broken, and--oh, well! there's no use
in telling about that part.

"I asked when her mother had had anything to eat, and she said not
since noon; I knew that was no way for an invalid to be taken care of,
so I put the kettle on and hunted about till I found a cup and saucer
I liked, and then I found the bread-box--oh, dear! that bread-box,
girls! But the mold scraped right off, and the bread wasn't really
bad; I made some toast and cut the crust off, and put just a thin
scrape of butter on it; then I sent Barbara in with a little tray
and told her to see that her mother took it all. I thought she'd
feel more like taking it from the child than from a stranger, if she
hadn't much appetite. My dears, the child came out again in a few
minutes, her face all alight.

"'She drank it all, every drop!' she cried. 'And now she's eating
the toast. She said how did you know, and she cried, but now she's
all right. Father 'most cried, too, I think. Say!'

"'Yes, dear.'

"'Father says the Lord sent you. Did he?'"

[Illustration: "'FATHER SAYS THE LORD SENT YOU. DID HE?'"]

"I nodded, for I couldn't say anything that minute. I kissed the
little girl and went on with my cleaning. Girls, don't ever grudge
the time you spend in learning to cook nicely. Food is what keeps the
breath of life in us, and it all depends upon us girls now, and later,
when we are older women, whether it is good or bad. No, Sue, I'm not
going to preach, but I shall never forget how that tired man and
those hungry children enjoyed their supper. 'Twas mother's supper,
every bit of it, from the light biscuit down to the ham omelette; I
found the ham bone in a dark cupboard, all covered with mold, like
the bread, but 'twas good and sweet underneath. I only wish mother
had been there to see them eat. After supper Mr. Bowles came and
shook hands with me. I didn't know then that he never used any more
words than he had to; but I was pleased, if I did think it funny.

"I was tired enough by the time bedtime came, and after I had put
the children to bed and seen that Mrs. Bowles was comfortable, and
had water and crackers and a candle beside her--she was a very poor
sleeper--I was glad enough to go to bed myself. Barbara showed me my
room, a pretty little room with sloping gables and windows down by
the floor. There were two doors, and I asked her where the other led
to. She opened it and said, 'The shed chamber.' I looked over her
shoulder, holding up the candle, and saw a great bare room, with
some large trunks in it, but no other furniture except a high
wardrobe. I liked the look of the place, for it was a little like
our play room in the attic at home; but I was too tired to explore,
and I was asleep in ten minutes from the time I had tucked up
Barbara in her bed, and Rob and Billy in their double crib.

"I should take a week if I tried to tell you all about those first
days; and, after all, it is one particular thing that I started to
tell, only there is so much that comes back to me. In a few days I
felt that I belonged there, almost as much as at home; they were
that kind of people, and made me feel that they cared about me, and
not only about what I did. Mrs. Bowles has always been the best
friend I have in the world after my own folks; it didn't take us a
day to see into each other, and by and by it got to be so that I
knew what she wanted almost before she knew, herself.

"At the end of the week Mr. Bowles said he ought to go away on
business for a few days, and asked her if she would feel safe to
stay with me and the children, or if he should ask his brother to
come and sleep in the house.

"'No, indeed!' said Mrs. Bowles. 'I shall feel as safe with Nora as
if I had a regiment in the house; a good deal safer!' she added, and
laughed.

"So it was settled, and the next day Mr. Bowles went away and I was
left in full charge. I suppose I rather liked the responsibility. I
asked Mrs. Bowles if I might go all over the house to see how
everything fastened, and she said, 'Of course.' The front windows
were just common windows, quite high up from the floor; but in the
shed chamber, as in my room, they opened near the floor, and there
was no very secure way of fastening them, it seemed to me. However, I
wasn't going to say anything to make her nervous, and that was the
way they had always had them. If I had only known!

"After the children went to bed that evening I read to Mrs. Bowles
for an hour, and then I went to warm up a little cocoa for her; she
slept better if she took a drop of something hot the last thing. It
was about nine o'clock. I had just got into the kitchen, and was
going to light the lamp, when I heard the door open softly.

"'Who's there?' I asked.

"'Only me,' said a girl's voice.

"I lighted my lamp, and saw a girl about my own age, pretty, and
showily dressed. She said she was the girl who had left the house a
few days ago; she had forgotten something, and might she go up into
the shed chamber and get it? I told her to wait a minute, and went
and asked Mrs. Bowles. She said yes, Annie might go up. 'Annie was
careless and saucy,' she said, 'but I think she meant no harm. She
can go and get her things.'

"I came back and told the girl, and she smiled and nodded. I did not
like her smile, I could not tell why. I started to go with her, but
she turned on me pretty sharply, and said she had been in the house
three months and didn't need to be shown the way by a stranger. I
didn't want to put myself forward, but no sooner had she run
up-stairs, and I heard her steps in the chamber above me, than
something seemed to be pushing, pushing me toward those stairs,
whether I would or no. I tried to hold back, and tell myself it was
nonsense, and that I was nervous and foolish; it made no difference,
I had to go up-stairs.

"I went softly, my shoes making no noise. My own little room was dark,
for I had closed the blinds when the afternoon sun was pouring in
hot and bright; but a slender line of light lay across the blackness
like a long finger, and I knew the moon was shining in at the
windows of the shed chamber. I did a thing I had never done before
in my life; that silver finger came through the keyhole, and it drew
me to it. I knelt down and looked through.

"The big room shone bare and white in the moonlight; the trunks
looked like great animals crouching along the walls. Annie stood in
the middle of the room, as if she were waiting or listening for
something. Then she slipped off her shoes and went to one of the
windows and opened it. I had fastened it, but the catch was old and
she knew the trick of it, of course. In another moment something
black appeared over the low sill; it was a man's head. My heart
seemed to stand still. She helped him, and he got in without making
a sound. He must have climbed up the big elm-tree which grew close
against the house. They stood whispering together for a few minutes,
but I could not hear a word.

"The man was in stocking feet; he had an evil, coarse face, yet he
was good-looking, too, in a way. I thought the girl seemed frightened,
and yet pleased, too; and he seemed to be praising her, I thought,
and once he put his arms round her and kissed her. She went to the
wardrobe and opened it, but he shook his head; then she opened the
great cedar trunk, and he nodded, and measured it and got into it
and sat down. It was so deep that he could sit quite comfortably
with the cover down. Annie shut it and then opened it again.

"I had seen all I wanted to see. I slipped down-stairs as I heard
her move toward the door; when she came down I was stirring my cocoa
on the stove, with my back to her. She came round and showed me a
bundle she had in her hand, and said she must be going now. I kept
my face in the shadow as well as I could, for I was afraid I might
not be able to look just as usual; but I spoke quietly, and asked
her if she had found everything, and wished her good night as
pleasantly as I knew how. All the while my head was in a whirl and
my heart beat so loud I thought she must have heard it. There was a
good deal of silver in the house, and I knew that Mr. Bowles had
drawn some money from the bank only a day or two before, to pay a
life-insurance premium.

"I never listened to anything as I did to the sound of her footsteps;
even after they had died away, after she had turned the corner, a
good way off, I stood still, listening, not stirring hand or foot.
But when I no longer heard any sound my strength seemed to come back
with a leap, and I knew what I had to do. I told you my shoes made
no noise. I slipped up-stairs, through my own room, and into the shed
chamber. Girls, it lay so peaceful and bare in the white moonlight,
that for a moment I thought I must have dreamed it all.

"It seemed half a mile to the farther end, where the great cedar
trunk stood. As I went a board creaked under my feet, and I
heard--or fancied I heard--a faint rustle inside the trunk. I began
to hum a tune, and moved about among the trunks, raising and
shutting the lids, as if I were looking for something. Now at last I
was beside the dreadful chest, and in another instant I had turned
the key. Then, girls, I flew! I knew the lock was a stout one and
the wood heavy and hard; it would take the man some time to get it
open from the inside, whatever tools he might have. I was
down-stairs in one breath, praying that I might be able to control my
voice so that it would not sound strange to the sick woman.

"'Would you mind if I went out for a few minutes, Mrs. Bowles? The
moonlight is so lovely I thought I would like to take a little walk,
if there is nothing you want.'

"She looked surprised, but said in her kind way, yes, certainly I
might go, only I'd better not go far.

"I thanked her, and walked quietly out to the end of the garden walk;
then I ran! Girls, I had no idea I could run so! Strength seemed
given me, for I never felt my body. I was like a spirit flying or a
wind blowing. The road melted away before me, and all the time I saw
two things before my eyes as plain as I see you now,--the evil-faced
man working away at the lock of the cedar chest, and the sweet lady
sitting in the room below with her Bible on her knee. Yes, I thought
of the children, too, but it seemed to me no one, not even the
wickedest, could wish to hurt a child. So on I ran!

"I reached the first house, but I knew there was no man there, only
two nervous old ladies. At the next house I should find two men,
George Brett and his father.

"Yes, Lottie, my George, but I had never seen him then. He had only
lately come back from college. The first I saw of him was two
minutes later, when I ran almost into his arms as he came out of the
house. I can see him now, in the moonlight, tall and strong, with
his surprised eyes on me. I must have been a wild figure, I suppose.
I could hardly speak, but somehow I made him understand.

"He turned back to the door and shouted to his father, who came
hurrying out; then he looked at me. 'Can you run back?' he asked.

"I nodded. I had no breath for words but plenty for running, I
thought.

"'Come on, then!'

"Girls, it was twice as easy running with that strong figure beside
me. I noticed in all my hurry and distress how easily he ran, and I
felt my feet, that had grown heavy in the last few steps, light as
air again. Once I sobbed for breath, and he took my hand as we ran,
saying, 'Courage, brave girl!' We ran on hand in hand, and I never
failed again. We heard Mr. Brett's feet running, not far behind; he
was a strong, active man, but could not quite keep up with us.

"As we neared the house, 'Quiet,' I said; 'Mrs. Bowles does not know.'"

He nodded, and we slipped in at the back door. In an instant his
shoes were off and he was up the back stairs like a cat, and I after
him. As we entered the shed chamber the lid of the cedar trunk rose.

I saw the gleam of the evil black eyes and the shine of white,
wolfish teeth. Without a sound George Brett sprang past me; without
a sound the robber leaped to meet him. I saw them in the white light
as they clinched and stood locked together; then a mist came before
my eyes and I saw nothing more.

"I did not actually faint, I think; it cannot have been more than a
few minutes before I came to myself. But when I looked again George
was kneeling with his knee on the man's breast, holding him down,
and Father Brett was looking about the chamber and saying, in his
dry way, 'Now where in Tunkett is the clothes-line to tie this fellow?'

"And the girl? Annie? O girls, she was so young! She was just my own
age and she had no mother. I went to see her the next day, and many
days after that. We are fast friends now, and she is a good, steady
girl; and no one knows--no one except our two selves and two
others--that she was ever in the shed chamber."




_MAINE TO THE RESCUE_


"Oh, dear! oh, dear! It's snowing!"

"Hurrah! hurrah! It's snowing!"

Massachusetts looked up from her algebra. She was the head of the
school. She was rosy and placid as the apple she was generally
eating when not in class. Apples and algebra were the things she
cared most about in school life.

"Whence come these varying cries?" she said, taking her feet off the
fender and trying to be interested, though her thoughts went on with
"a 1/6 b =" etc.

"Oh, Virginia is grumbling because it is snowing, and Maine is
feeling happy over it, that's all!" said Rhode Island, the smallest
girl in Miss Wayland's school.

"Poor Virginia! It is rather hard on you to have snow in March, when
you have just got your box of spring clothes from home."

"It is atrocious!" said Virginia, a tall, graceful, languishing girl.
"How could they send me to such a place, where it is winter all the
spring? Why, at home the violets are in blossom, the trees are coming
out, the birds singing--"

"And at home," broke in Maine, who was a tall girl, too, but lithe
and breezy as a young willow, with flyaway hair and dancing brown
eyes, "at home all is winter--white, beautiful, glorious winter,
with ice two or three feet thick on the rivers, and great fields and
fields of snow, all sparkling in the sun, and the sky a vast
sapphire overhead, without a speck. Oh, the glory of it, the
splendor of it! And here--here it is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor
good red herring. A wretched, makeshift season, which they call
winter because they don't know what else to call it."

"Come! come!" said Old New York, who was seventeen years old and had
her own ideas of dignity. "Let us alone, you two outsiders! We are
neither Eskimos nor Hindoos, it is true, but the Empire State would
not change climates with either of you."

"No, indeed!" chimed in Young New York, who always followed her
leader in everything, from opinions down to hair-ribbons.

"No, indeed!" repeated Virginia, with languid scorn. "Because you
couldn't get any one to change with you, my dear."

Young New York reddened. "You are so disagreeable, Virginia!" she
said. "I am sure I am glad I don't have to live with you all the
year round--"

"Personal remarks!" said Massachusetts, looking up calmly. "One cent,
Young New York, for the missionary fund. Thank you! Let me give you
each half an apple, and you will feel better."

She solemnly divided a large red apple, and gave the halves to the
two scowling girls, who took them, laughing in spite of themselves,
and went their separate ways.

"Why didn't you let them have it out, Massachusetts?" said Maine,
laughing. "You never let any one have a good row."

"Slang!" said Massachusetts, looking up again. "One cent for the
missionary fund. You will clothe the heathen at this rate, Maine.
That is the fourth cent to-day."

"'Row' isn't slang!" protested Maine, feeling, however, for her
pocket-book.

"Vulgar colloquial!" returned Massachusetts, quietly. "And perhaps
you would go away now, Maine, or else be quiet. Have you learned--"

"No, I haven't!" said Maine. "I will do it very soon, dear Saint
Apple. I must look at the snow a little more."

Maine went dancing off to her room, where she threw the window open
and looked out with delight. The girl caught up a double handful and
tossed it about, laughing for pure pleasure. Then she leaned out to
feel the beating of the flakes on her face.

"Really quite a respectable little snowstorm!" she said, nodding
approval at the whirling white drift. "Go on, and you will be worth
while, my dear." She went singing to her algebra, which she could not
have done if it had not been snowing.

The snow went on increasing from hour to hour. By noon the wind
began to rise; before night it was blowing a furious gale. Furious
blasts clutched at the windows, and rattled them like castanets. The
wind howled and shrieked and moaned, till it seemed as if the air
were filled with angry demons fighting to possess the square white
house.

Many of the pupils of Miss Wayland's school came to the tea-table
with disturbed faces; but Massachusetts was as calm as usual, and
Maine was jubilant.

"Isn't it a glorious storm?" she cried, exultingly. "I didn't know
there could be such a storm in this part of the country, Miss Wayland.
Will you give me some milk, please?"

"There is no milk, my dear," said Miss Wayland, who looked rather
troubled. "The milkman has not come, and probably will not come
to-night. There has never been such a storm here in my lifetime!"
she added. "Do you have such storms at home, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Maine said, cheerfully. "I don't know that we
often have so much wind as this, but the snow is nothing out of the
way. Why, on Palm Sunday last year our milkman dug through a drift
twenty feet deep to get at his cows. He was the only milkman who
ventured out, and he took me and the minister's wife to church in
his little red pung.

"We were the only women in church, I remember. Miss Betsy Follansbee,
who had not missed going to church in fifteen years, started on foot,
after climbing out of her bedroom window to the shed roof and
sliding down. All her doors were blocked up, and she lived alone, so
there was no one to dig her out. But she got stuck in a drift about
half-way, and had to stay there till one of the neighbors came by
and pulled her out."

All the girls laughed at this, and even Miss Wayland smiled; but
suddenly she looked grave again.

"Hark!" she said, and listened. "Did you not hear something?"

"We hear Boreas, Auster, Eurus, and Zephyrus," answered Old New York.
"Nothing else."

At that moment there was a lull in the screeching of the wind; all
listened intently, and a faint sound was heard from without which
was not that of the blast.

"A child!" said Massachusetts, rising quickly. "It is a child's voice.
I will go, Miss Wayland."

"I cannot permit it, Alice!" cried Miss Wayland, in great distress.
"I cannot allow you to think of it. You are just recovering from a
severe cold, and I am responsible to your parents. What shall we do?
It certainly sounds like a child crying out in the pitiless storm.
Of course it _may_ be a cat--"

Maine had gone to the window at the first alarm, and now turned with
shining eyes.

"It _is_ a child!" she said, quietly. "I have no cold, Miss Wayland.
I am going, of course."

Passing by Massachusetts, who had started out of her usual calm and
stood in some perplexity, she whispered, "If it were freezing, it
wouldn't cry. I shall be in time. Get a ball of stout twine."

She disappeared. In three minutes she returned, dressed in her
blanket coat, reaching half-way below her knees, scarlet leggings
and gaily wrought moccasins; on her head a fur cap, with a band of
sea-otter fur projecting over her eyes. In her hand she held a pair
of snow-shoes. She had had no opportunity to wear her snow-shoeing
suit all winter, and she was quite delighted.

"My child!" said Miss Wayland, faintly. "How can I let you go? My
duty to your parents--what are those strange things, and what use
are you going to make of them?"

By way of answer Maine slipped her feet into the snow-shoes, and,
with Massachusetts' aid, quickly fastened the thongs.

"The twine!" she said. "Yes, that will do; plenty of it. Tie it to
the door-handle, square knot, so! I'm all right, dear; don't worry."
Like a flash the girl was gone out into the howling night.

Miss Wayland wrung her hands and wept, and most of the girls wept
with her. Virginia, who was curled up in a corner, really sick with
fright, beckoned to Massachusetts.

"Is there any chance of her coming back alive?" she asked, in a
whisper. "I wish I had made up with her. But we may all die in this
awful storm."

"Nonsense!" said Massachusetts. "Try to have a little sense, Virginia!
Maine is all right, and can take care of herself; and as for
whimpering at the wind, when you have a good roof over your head, it
is too absurd."

For the first time since she came to school Massachusetts forgot the
study hour, as did every one else; and in spite of her brave efforts
at cheerful conversation, it was a sad and an anxious group that sat
about the fire in the pleasant parlor.

Maine went out quickly, and closed the door behind her; then stood
still a moment, listening for the direction of the cry. She did not
hear it at first, but presently it broke out--a piteous little wail,
sounding louder now in the open air. The girl bent her head to listen.
Where was the child? The voice came from the right, surely! She
would make her way down to the road, and then she could tell better.

Grasping the ball of twine firmly, she stepped forward, planting the
broad snow-shoes lightly in the soft, dry snow. As she turned the
corner of the house an icy blast caught her, as if with furious hands,
shook her like a leaf, and flung her roughly against the wall.

Her forehead struck the corner, and for a moment she was stunned;
but the blood trickling down her face quickly brought her to herself.
She set her teeth, folded her arms tightly, and stooping forward,
measured her strength once more with that of the gale.

This time it seemed as if she were cleaving a wall of ice, which
opened only to close behind her. On she struggled, unrolling her
twine as she went.

The child's cry sounded louder, and she took fresh heart. Pausing,
she clapped her hand to her mouth repeatedly, uttering a shrill,
long call. It was the Indian whoop, which her father had taught her
in their woodland rambles at home.

The childish wail stopped; she repeated the cry louder and longer;
then shouted, at the top of her lungs, "Hold on! Help is coming!"

Again and again the wind buffeted her, and forced her backward a
step or two; but she lowered her head, and wrapped her arms more
tightly about her body, and plodded on.

Once she fell, stumbling over a stump; twice she ran against a tree,
for the white darkness was absolutely blinding, and she saw nothing,
felt nothing but snow, snow. At last her snow-shoe struck something
hard. She stretched out her hands--it was the stone wall. And now,
as she crept along beside it, the child's wail broke out again close
at hand.

"Mother! O mother! mother!"

The girl's heart beat fast.

"Where are you?" she cried. At the same moment she stumbled against
something soft. A mound of snow, was it? No! for it moved. It moved
and cried, and little hands clutched her dress.

She saw nothing, but put her hands down, and touched a little cold
face. She dragged the child out of the snow, which had almost
covered it, and set it on its feet.

"Who are you?" she asked, putting her face down close, while by
vigorous patting and rubbing she tried to give life to the benumbed,
cowering little figure, which staggered along helplessly, clutching
her with half-frozen fingers.

"Benny Withers!" sobbed the child. "Mother sent me for the clothes,
but I can't get 'em!"

"Benny Withers!" cried Maine. "Why, you live close by. Why didn't
you go home, child?"

"I can't!" cried the boy. "I can't see nothing. I tried to get to
the school, an' I tried to get home, an' I can't get nowhere 'cept
against this wall. Let me stay here now! I want to rest me a little."

He would have sunk down again, but Maine caught him up in her strong,
young arms.

"Here, climb up on my back, Benny!" she said, cheerfully. "Hold on
tight round my neck, and you shall rest while I take you home. So!
That's a brave boy! Upsy, now! there you are! Now put your head on
my shoulder--close! and hold on!"

Ah! how Maine blessed the heavy little brother at home, who _would_
ride on his sister's back, long after mamma said he was too big. How
she blessed the carryings up and down stairs, the "horsey rides"
through the garden and down the lane, which had made her shoulders
strong!

Benny Withers was eight years old, but he was small and slender, and
no heavier than six-year-old Philip. No need of telling the child to
hold on, once he was up out of the cruel snow bed. He clung
desperately round the girl's neck, and pressed his head close
against the woollen stuff.

Maine pulled her ball of twine from her pocket--fortunately it was a
large one, and the twine, though strong, was fine, so that there
seemed to be no end to it--and once more lowered her head, and set
her teeth, and moved forward, keeping close to the wall, in the
direction of Mrs. Withers's cottage.

For awhile she saw nothing, when she looked up under the fringe of
otter fur, which, long and soft, kept the snow from blinding her;
nothing but the white, whirling drift which beat with icy, stinging
blows in her face. But at last her eyes caught a faint glimmer of
light, and presently a brighter gleam showed her Mrs. Withers's gray
cottage, now white like the rest of the world.

Bursting open the cottage door, she almost threw the child into the
arms of his mother.

The woman, who had been weeping wildly, could hardly believe her eyes.
She caught the little boy and smothered him with kisses, chafing his
cold hands, and crying over him.

"I didn't know!" she said. "I didn't know till he was gone. I told
him at noon he was to go, never thinking 'twould be like this. I was
sure he was lost and dead, but I couldn't leave my sick baby. Bless
you, whoever you are, man or woman! But stay and get warm, and rest
ye! You're never going out again in this awful storm!"

But Maine was gone.

In Miss Wayland's parlor the suspense was fast becoming unendurable.
They had heard Maine's Indian whoop, and some of them, Miss Wayland
herself among the number, thought it was a cry of distress; but
Massachusetts rightly interpreted the call, and assured them that it
was a call of encouragement to the bewildered child.

Then came silence within the house, and a prolonged clamor--a sort
of witches' chorus, with wailing and shrieking without. Once a heavy
branch was torn from one of the great elms, and came thundering down
on the roof. This proved the finishing touch for poor Virginia. She
went into violent hysterics, and was carried off to bed by Miss Way
land and Old New York.

Massachusetts presently ventured to explore a little. She hastened
through the hall to the front door, opened it a few inches, and put
her hand on the twine which was fastened to the handle. What was her
horror to find that it hung loose, swinging idly in the wind! Sick
at heart, she shut the door, and pressing her hands over her eyes,
tried to think.

Maine must be lost in the howling storm! She must find her; but
where and how?

Oh! if Miss Wayland had only let her go at first! She was older; it
would not have mattered so much.

But now, quick! she would wrap herself warmly, and slip out without
any one knowing.

The girl was turning to fly up-stairs, when suddenly something fell
heavily against the door outside. There was a fumbling for the handle;
the next moment it flew open, and something white stumbled into the
hall, shut the door, and sat down heavily on the floor.

"Personal--rudeness!" gasped Maine, struggling for breath. "You shut
the door in my face! One cent for the missionary fund."

The great storm was over. The sun came up, and looked down on a
strange, white world. No fences, no walls; only a smooth ridge where
one of these had been. Trees which the day before had been quite
tall now looked like dwarfs, spreading their broad arms not far from
the snow carpet beneath them. Road there was none; all was smooth,
save where some huge drift nodded its crest like a billow curling
for its downward rush.

Maine, spite of her scarred face, which showed as many patches as
that of a court lady in King George's times, was jubilant. Tired!
not a bit of it! A little stiff, just enough to need "limbering out,"
as they said at home.

"There is no butter!" she announced at breakfast. "There is no milk,
no meat for dinner. Therefore, I go a-snow-shoeing. Dear Miss Wayland,
let me go! I have learned my algebra, and I shall be discovering
unknown quantities at every step, which will be just as instructive."

Miss Wayland could refuse nothing to the heroine of last night's
adventure. Behold Maine, therefore, triumphant, sallying forth, clad
once more in her blanket suit, and dragging her sled behind her.

There was no struggling now--no hand-to-hand wrestling with
storm-demons. The sun laughed from a sky as blue and deep as her own
sky of Maine, and the girl laughed with him as she walked along, the
powdery snow flying in a cloud from her snow-shoes at every step.

Such a sight had never been seen in Mentor village before. The
people came running to their upper windows--their lower ones were
for the most part buried in snow--and stared with all their eyes at
the strange apparition.

In the street, life was beginning to stir. People had found,
somewhat to their own surprise, that they were alive and well after
the blizzard; and knots of men were clustered here and there,
discussing the storm, while some were already at work tunnelling
through the drifts.

Mr. Perkins, the butcher, had just got his door open, and great was
his amazement when Maine hailed him from the top of a great drift,
and demanded a quarter of mutton with some soup meat.

[Illustration: "MAINE HAILED HIM FROM THE TOP OF A GREAT DRIFT."]

"Yes, miss!" he stammered, open-mouthed with astonishment. "I--I've
got the meat; but I wasn't--my team isn't out this morning. I don't
know about sending it."

"I have a 'team' here!" said Maine, quietly, pulling her sled
alongside. "Give me the mutton, Mr. Perkins; you may charge it to
Miss Wayland, please, and I will take it home."

The butter-man and the grocer were visited in the same way, and Maine,
rather embarrassed by the concentrated observation of the whole
village, turned to pull her laden sled back, when suddenly a window
was thrown open, and a voice exclaimed:

"Young woman! I will give you ten dollars for the use of those
snow-shoes for an hour!"

Maine looked up in amazement, and laughed merrily when she saw the
well-known countenance of the village doctor.

"What! You, my dear young lady?" cried the good man. "This is 'Maine
to the Rescue,' indeed! I might have known it was you. But I repeat
my offer. Make it anything you please, only let me have the
snow-shoes. I cannot get a horse out, and have two patients
dangerously ill. What is your price for the magic shoes?"

"My price, doctor?" repeated Maine, looking up with dancing eyes.
"My price is--one cent. For the Missionary Fund! The snow-shoes are
yours, and I will get home somehow with my sled and the mutton."

So she did, and Doctor Fowler made his calls with the snow-shoes,
and saved a life, and brought cheer and comfort to many. But it was
ten dollars, and not one cent, which he gave to the Missionary Fund.




THE SCARLET LEAVES


"The Committee will please come to order!" said Maine.

"What's up?" asked Massachusetts, pausing in her occupation of
peeling chestnuts.

"Why, you know well enough, Massachusetts. Here it is Wednesday, and
we don't know yet what we are going to do on Friday evening. We must
do something, or go shamed to our graves. Never a senior class has
missed its Frivolous Friday, since the school began."

"Absolutely no hope of the play?"

"None! Alma's part is too important; no one could possibly take it
at two days' notice. Unless--they say Chicago has a real gift for
acting; but somehow, I don't feel as if she were the person."

"I should bar that, positively," put in Tennessee. "In the first
place, Chicago has not been here long enough to be identified with
the class. She is clever, of course, or she could not have entered
junior last year; but--well, it isn't necessary to say anything more;
she is out of the question."

"It is too exasperating!" said Massachusetts. "Alma might have
waited another week before coming down with measles."

"It's harder for her than for any one else, Massachusetts," said
Maine. "Poor dear; she almost cried her eyes out yesterday, when the
spots appeared, and there was no more doubt."

"Yes, I know that; she is a poor, unfortunate Lamb, and I love her,
you know I do; still, a growl may be permitted, Maine. There's
nothing criminal in a growl. The question is, as you were saying,
what shall we do?"

"A dance?"

"We had a dance last week!" said Maine; "at least the sophomores did,
and we don't want to copy them."

"A straw-ride?"

"A candy-pull?"

"A concert?"

"The real question is," said Tennessee, cracking her chestnut
leisurely, "what does Maine intend to do? If she thinks we made her
Class President because we meant to arrange things ourselves, she is
more ignorant than I supposed her. Probably she has the whole thing
settled in her Napoleonic mind. Out with it, Moosetocmaguntic!"

Maine smiled, and looked round her. The Committee was clustered in a
group at the foot of a great chestnut-tree, at the very edge of a
wood. The leaves were still thick on the trees, and the October sun
shone through their golden masses, pouring a flood of warmth and
light down on the greensward, sprinkled with yellow leaves and
half-open chestnut burrs. Massachusetts and Tennessee, sturdy and
four-square as their own hills; Old New York and New Jersey, and
Maine herself, a tall girl with clear, kind eyes, and a color that
came and went as she talked. This was the Committee.

[Illustration: THE CONFERENCE.]

"Well," said Maine, modestly. "I did have an idea, girls. I don't
know whether you will approve or not, but--what do you say to a
fancy ball?"

"A fancy ball! at two days' notice!"

"Penobscot is losing her mind. Pity to see it shattered, for it was
once a fine organ."

"Be quiet, Tennessee! I don't mean anything elaborate, of course.
But I thought we might have an informal frolic, and dress up in--oh,
anything we happened to have. Not call it a dance, but have dancing
all the same; don't you see? There are all kinds of costumes that
can be got up with very little trouble, and no expense to speak of."

"For example!" said Massachusetts. "She has it all arranged, girls;
all we have to do is to sit back and let wisdom flow in our ears."

"Massachusetts, if you tease me any more, _I'll_ sit back, and let
you do it all yourself. Well, then--let me see! Tennessee--to tell
the truth, I didn't sleep very well last night; my head ached; and I
amused myself by planning a few costumes, just in case you should
fancy the idea."

"Quack! quack!" said Massachusetts. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but
you _are_ a duck, and I must just show that I can speak your language.
Go on!"

"Tennessee, I thought you might be an Indian. You must have something
that will show your hair. With my striped shawl for a blanket, and
the cock's feather out of Jersey's hat--what do you think?"

"Perfect!" said Tennessee. "And I can try effects with my new
paint-box, one cheek stripes, the other spots. Hurrah! next!"

"Old New York, you must be a flower of some kind. Or--why not a
basket of flowers? You could have a basket-work bodice, don't you see?
and flowers coming out of it all round your neck--your neck is so
pretty, you ought to show it--"

"Or carrots and turnips!" said the irrepressible Massachusetts.
"Call her a Harvest Hamper, and braid her lovely locks with strings
of onions!"

"Thank you," laughed Old New York, a slender girl whose flower-like
beauty made her a pleasure to look at. "I think I'll keep to the posy,
Massachusetts. Go on, Maine! what shall Massachusetts be, and what
will you be yourself?"

"Massachusetts ought by rights to be an apple, a nice fat rosy apple;
but I don't quite know how that can be managed."

"Then I shall be a codfish!" said Massachusetts, decidedly.
"I am not going to desert Mr. Micawber--I mean the Bay State. I
shall go as a salt codfish. _Dixi_! Pass on to the Pine-Tree!"

"Why, so I might be a pine-tree! I didn't think of that. But still,
I don't think I will; I meant to be October. The leaves at home are
so glorious in October, and I saw some scarlet leaves yesterday that
will be lovely for chaplets and garlands."

"What are they? the maples don't turn red here--too near the sea, I
suppose."

"I don't know what they are. Pointed leaves, rather long and delicate,
and the most splendid color you ever saw. There is just this one
little tree, near the crossroad by the old stone house. I haven't
seen anything like it about here. I found it yesterday, and just
stood and looked at it, it was so beautiful. Yes, I shall be October;
I'll decide on that. What's that rustling in the wood? aren't we all
here? I thought I heard something moving among the trees. I do
believe some one is in there, Massachusetts."

"I was pulling down a branch; don't be imaginative, my dear. Well,
go on! are we to make out all the characters?"

"Why--I thought not. Some of the girls will like better to choose
their own, don't you think? I thought we, as the Committee, might
make out a list of suggestions, though, and then they can do as they
please. But now, I wish some of you others would suggest something;
I don't want to do it all."

"Daisy will have to be her namesake, of course," said Tennessee.

"Jersey can be a mosquito," said Old New York; "she's just the
figure for it."

"Thank you!" said Jersey, who weighed ninety pounds. "Going on that
theory, Pennsylvania ought to go as an elephant, and Rhode Island as
a giraffe."

"And Chicago as a snake--no! I didn't mean that!" cried Maine.

"You said it! you said it!" cried several voices, in triumph.

"The Charitable Organ has called names at last!" said Jersey,
laughing. "And she has hit it exactly. Now, Maine, what is the use
of looking pained? the girl _is_ a snake--or a sneak, which amounts
to the same thing. Let us have truth, I say, at all hazards."

"I am sorry!" said Maine, simply. "I am not fond of Chicago, and
that is the very reason why I should not call her names behind her
back. It slipped out before I knew it; I am sorry and ashamed, and
that is all there is to say. And now, suppose we go home, and tell
the other girls about the party."

The Committee trooped off across the hill, laughing and talking,
Maine alone grave and silent. As their voices died away, the ferns
nodded beside a great pine-tree that stood just within the border of
the wood, not six yards from where they had been sitting. A slender
dark girl rose from the fern-clump in which she had been crouching,
and shook the pine-needles from her dress. Very cautiously she
parted the screen of leaves, and looked after the retreating girls.

"That was worth while!" she said; and her voice, though quiet, was
full of ugly meaning. "Snakes can hear, Miss Oracle, and bite, too.
We'll see about those scarlet leaves!"




PART II


  "Tra la, tra lee,
  I want my tea!"

Sang Tennessee, as she ran up-stairs. "Oh, Maine, is that you? my
dear, my costume is simply too perfect for anything. I've been out
in the woods, practising my war-whoop. Three yelps and a screech; I
flatter myself it is the _most_ blood-curdling screech you ever heard.
I'm going to have a dress-rehearsal now, all by myself. Come and
see--why, what's the matter, Maine? something is wrong with you.
What is it?"

"Oh! nothing serious," said Maine, trying to speak lightly.
"I must get up another costume, that's all, and there isn't much time."

"Why! what has happened?"

"The scarlet leaves are gone."

"Gone! fallen, do you mean?"

"No! some one has cut or broken every branch. There is not one left.
The leaves made the whole costume, you see; it amounts to nothing
without them, merely a yellow gown."

"Oh! my dear, what a shame! Who could have taken them?"

"I cannot imagine. I thought I would get them to-day, and keep them
in water over night, so as to have them all ready to-morrow. Oh, well,
it can't be helped. I can call myself a sunflower, or Black-eyed
Susan, or some other yellow thing. It's absurd to mind, of course,
only--"

"Only, being human, you do mind," said Tennessee, putting her arm
round her friend's waist. "I should think so, dear. We don't care
about having you canonized just yet. But, Maine, there must be more
red leaves somewhere. This comes of living near the sea. Now, in my
mountains, or in your woods, we could just go out and fill our arms
with glory in five minutes, whichever way we turned. These murmuring
pines and--well, I don't know that there are any hemlocks--are all
very splendid, and no one loves them better than I do; but for a
Harvest festival decoration, '_Ils ne sont pas l� dedans_,' as the
French have it."

"Slang, Tennessee! one cent!"

"On the contrary; foreign language, mark of commendation.

"But come now, and see my war-dance. I didn't mean to let any one
see it before-hand, but you are a dear old thing, and you shall. And
then, we can take counsel about your costume. Not that I have the
smallest anxiety about that; I've no doubt you have thought of
something pretty already. I don't see how you do it. When any one
says 'Clothes' to me, I never can think of anything but red flannel
petticoats, if you will excuse my mentioning the article. I think
Black-eyed Susan sounds delightful. How would you dress for it? you
have the pretty yellow dress all ready."

"I should put brown velveteen with it. I have quite a piece left
over from my blouse. I'll get some yellow cr�pe paper, and make a hat,
or cap, with a brown crown, you know, and yellow petals for the brim;
and have a brown bodice laced together over the full yellow waist,
and--"

The two girls passed on, talking cheerfully--it is always soothing
to talk about pretty clothes, especially when one is as clever as
Maine was, and can make, as Massachusetts used to say, a court train
out of a jack-towel.

A few minutes after, Massachusetts came along the same corridor, and
tapped at another door. Hearing "Come in!" she opened the door and
looked in.

"Busy, Chicago? beg pardon! Miss Cram asked me, as I was going by, to
show you the geometry lesson, as you were not in class yesterday."

"Thanks! come in, won't you?" said Chicago, rising ungraciously from
her desk, "I was going to ask Miss Cram, of course, but I'm much
obliged."

Massachusetts pointed out the lesson briefly, and turned to go, when
her eyes fell on a jar set on the ground, behind the door.

"Hallo!" she said, abruptly. "You've got scarlet leaves, too. Where
did you get them?"

"I found them," said Chicago, coldly. "They were growing wild, on
the public highway. I had a perfect right to pick them."

There was a defiant note in her voice, and Massachusetts looked at
her with surprise. The girl's eyes glittered with an uneasy light,
and her dark cheek was flushed.

"I don't question your right," said Massachusetts, bluntly,
"but I do question your sense. I may be mistaken, but I don't
believe those leaves are very good to handle. They look to me
uncommonly like dogwood. I'm not sure; but if I were you, I would
show them to Miss Flower before I touched them again."

She nodded and went out, dismissing the matter from her busy mind.

"Spiteful!" said Chicago, looking after her sullenly.

"She suspects where I got the leaves, and thinks she can frighten me
out of wearing them. I never saw such a hateful set of girls as
there are in this school. Never mind, sweet creatures! The 'snake'
has got the scarlet leaves, and she knows when she has got a good
thing."

She took some of the leaves from the jar, and held them against her
black hair. They were brilliantly beautiful, and became her well.
She looked in the glass and nodded, well pleased with what she saw
there; then she carefully clipped the ends of the branches, and put
fresh water in the jar before replacing them.

"Indian Summer will take the shine out of Black-eyed Susan, I'm
afraid," she said to herself. "Poor Susan, I am sorry for her." She
laughed; it was not a pleasant laugh; and went back to her books.




PART III.


"What a pretty sight!"

It was Miss Wayland who spoke. She and the other teachers were
seated on the raised platform at the end of the gymnasium. The long
room was wreathed with garlands and brilliantly lighted, and they
were watching the girls as they flitted by in their gay dresses, to
the waltz that good Miss Flower was playing.

"How ingenious the children are!" Miss Wayland continued. "Look at
Virginia there, as Queen Elizabeth! Her train is my old party cloak
turned inside out, and her petticoat--you recognize that?"

"I, not!" said Mademoiselle, peering forward. "I am too near of my
sight. What ees it?"

"The piano cover. That Persian silk, you know, that my brother sent
me. I never knew how handsome it was before. The ruff, and those
wonderful puffed sleeves, are mosquito-netting; the whole effect is
superb--at a little distance."

"I thought Virginie not suffeeciently clayver for to effect zis!"
said Mademoiselle. "Of custome, she shows not--what do you
say?--invention."

"Oh, she simply wears the costume, with her own peculiar little air
of dignity. Maine designed it. Maine is costumer in chief. The
Valiant Three, Maine, Massachusetts, and Tennessee, took all the
unpractical girls in hand, and simply--dressed them. _Entre nous_,
Mademoiselle, I wish, in some cases, that they would do it every day."

"_Et moi aussi_!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, nodding eagerly.

"Maine herself is lovely," said Miss Cram. "I think hers is really
the prettiest costume in the room; all that soft brown and yellow is
really charming, and suits her to perfection."

"Yes; and I am so glad of it, for the child was sadly disappointed
about some other costume she had planned, and got this up almost at
the last moment. She is a clever child, and a good one. Do look at
Massachusetts! Massachusetts, my dear child, what do you call
yourself? you are a most singular figure."

"The Codfish, Miss Wayland; straight from Boston State-House. Admire
my tail, please! I got up at five o'clock this morning to finish it,
and I must confess I am proud of it."

She napped her tail, which was a truly astonishing one, made of
newspapers neatly plaited and sewed together, and wriggled her body,
clad in well-fitting scales of silver paper. "Quite a fish, I
flatter myself?" she said, insinuatingly.

"Very like a whale, if not like a codfish," said Miss Wayland,
laughing heartily. "You certainly are one of the successes of the
evening, Massachusetts, and the Mosquito is another, in that filmy
gray. Is that mosquito-netting, too? I congratulate you both on your
skill. By the way, what does Chicago represent? she is very effective,
with all those scarlet leaves. What are they, I wonder!"

Massachusetts turned hastily, and a low whistle came from her lips.
"Whew! I beg pardon, Miss Wayland. It was the codfish whistled, not I;
it's a way they have on Friday evenings. I told that girl to ask
Miss Flower about those leaves; I am afraid they are--oh, here is
Miss Flower!" as the good botany teacher came towards them, rather
out of breath after her playing.

"Miss Flower, what are those leaves, please? those in Chicago's hair,
and on her dress."

Miss Flower looked, and her cheerful face grew grave.

"_Rhus veneneta_" she said; "poison dogwood."

"I was afraid so!" said Massachusetts. "I told her yesterday that I
thought they were dogwood, and advised her to show them to you
before she touched them again."

"Poor child!" said kind Miss Flower. "She has them all about her
face and neck, too. We must get them off at once."

She was starting forward, but Miss Wayland detained her.

"The mischief is done now, is it not?" she said. "And after all,
dogwood does not poison every one. I have had it in my hands, and
never got the smallest injury. Suppose we let her have her evening,
at least till after supper, which will be ready now in a few minutes.
If she is affected by the poison, this is her last taste of the
Harvest Festivities."

They watched the girl. She was receiving compliments on her striking
costume, from one girl and another, and was in high spirits. She
glanced triumphantly about her, her eyes lighting up when they fell
on Maine in her yellow dress. She certainly looked brilliantly
handsome, the flaming scarlet of the leaves setting off her dark
skin and flashing eyes to perfection.

Presently she put her hand up to her cheek, and held it there a
moment.

"Aha!" said Massachusetts, aloud. "She's in for it!"

"In for what?" said Maine, who came up at that moment. Following the
direction of Massachusetts' eyes, she drew her apart, and spoke in a
low tone. "I shall not say anything, Massachusetts, and I hope you
will not. Don't you know?" she added, seeing her friend's look of
inquiry. "Those are my scarlet leaves."

"No!"

"Yes. I have found out all about it. Daisy lingered behind the rest
of us the other day, when I had been telling you all about the leaves,
to pick blackberries. She saw Chicago come out of the wood a few
minutes after we left, looking black as thunder. Don't you remember,
I thought I heard a rustling in the fern, and you laughed at me? She
was hidden there, and heard every word we said. Next day the leaves
were gone, and now they are on Chicago's dress instead of mine."

"And a far better place for them!" exclaimed Massachusetts,
"though I am awfully sorry for her. Oh! you lucky, lucky girl! and
you dear, precious, stupid ignoramus, not to know poison dogwood
when you see it."

"Poison dogwood! those beautiful leaves!"

"Those beautiful leaves. That young woman is in for about two weeks
of as pretty a torture as ever Inquisitor or Iroquois could devise.
I know all about it, though there was a time when I also was ignorant.
Look! she is feeling of her cheek already; it begins to sting.
Tomorrow she will be all over patches, red and white; itching--there
is nothing to describe the itching. It is beyond words. Next day her
face will begin to swell, and in two days more--the School Birthday,
my dear--she will be like nothing human, a mere shapeless lump of
pain and horror. She will not sleep by night or rest by day. She
will go home to her parents, and they will not know her, but will
think we have sent them a smallpox patient by mistake. Her eyes--"

"Oh, hush! hush, Massachusetts!" cried Maine. "Oh! poor thing! poor
thing! what shall I do? I feel as if it were all my fault, somehow."

"Your fault that she sneaked and eavesdropped, and then stole your
decoration? Oh! come, Maine, don't be fantastic!"

"No, Massachusetts, I don't mean that. But if I had only known,
myself, what they were, I should never have spoken of them, and all
this would never have happened."

"The moral of which is, study botany!" said Massachusetts.

"I'll begin to-morrow!" said Maine.

       *       *       *       *       *

"And what is to be the end of the dogwood story, I wonder!" said
Tennessee, meeting Massachusetts in a breathless interval between
two exercises on the School Birthday, the crowning event of the
Harvest Festivities at Miss Wayland's. "Have you heard the last
chapter?"

"No! what is it?"

"Maine is in a dark room with the moaning Thing that was Chicago,
singing to her, and telling her about the speeches and things last
night. She vows she will not come out again to-day, just because she
was at chapel and heard the singing this morning; says that was the
best of it, and she doesn't care much about dancing. Maine! and
Miss Wayland will not let us break in the door and carry her off
bodily; says she will be happier where she is, and will always be
glad of this day. I'll tell you what it is, Massachusetts, if this
is the New England conscience I hear so much about, I'm precious
glad I was born in Tennessee."

"No, you aren't, Old One! you wish you had been born in Maine."

"Well, perhaps I do!" said Tennessee.


THE END.









End of Project Gutenberg's The Green Satin Gown, by Laura E. Richards

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREEN SATIN GOWN ***

***** This file should be named 9397-8.txt or 9397-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/9/3/9/9397/

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG
Distributed Proofreaders


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
  www.gutenberg.org/license.


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.